#oh wow only a week and change left to reblog this post accurately!!

[oh-styles]

Something About an Extraction (Revised)

Wow, is this really happening? I’m updating? What? In what world?

Thank you to everyone who has responded, reblogged, liked this fic over the past year; it really means more to me than you know. Thank you for being on this journey with me, and them, and being the best group of people I could ever have. 

I want to say I am not happy with the ending; I feel like I could make it so much better, but I’m just ready for this to be out. 

This isn’t the end of them, but their story is over. I will continue to write them in the future, but as for now, they’ve got where they tried hard to be. Thank you all, I love you, and I hope you enjoy.

9/10 Update: When I posted this, I was very unpleased with the ending, so I revised the entire thing, added over 1000 more words and maybe like 10 more bad jokes, so I hope you like these results better!

It’s a garbled moan from the backseat of his car, and the sound of a light rustling and an exaggerated groan leaving your lips that, with just a glance in his rearview mirror, he spots your body slumped against the window, your mouth left gaped open.

“Gon’ get blood on your hoodie, missy.” He watches intently at the small dribble begin to trickle over your lower lip.

There isn’t much of a response from you, not when your attention is engrossed deeply on the passing cars and the occasional pedestrian dodging quickly through the downpour of rain. Your mind is stuck in a world elsewhere, in a place curled up between reality and fantasy, where the mundane is captivating, and you think you were born in the royal family.

“We’ll be back to your flat soon, okay?” He diverts his attention back to the road, hearing your muffled hum in acknowledgment. “Probably going to need to change your gauze as soon as we get there… Didn’t think you’d bleed this much, pet.”

Harry is met with unsettling silence, the most daunting of sounds when it came to you; the same girl he can never seem to keep quiet for longer than ten minutes, and considering the number of videos he spent his time watching in the waiting room of people waking up from anesthesia, he expected a more outlandish and whimsical girl talking bat crazy in the backseat, but instead he’s met with a nearly silent woman currently hunched over and bleeding onto her pants.

“Babe – the blood, your—”

“Can I suck you off when we get back?”

Harry nearly slams on the breaks and snaps his neck to divert to the backseat, where he sees you wiping off the excess blood onto your hand, smearing a bit across your lips. Despite your cheeks filled with cotton, and your lower mouth still numb from the surgery, he hears perfectly your request, and remains still behind the wheel as he approached your road.

“Was last night not enough for you, darling?”

Last night, though it was mostly spent with you scrolling through copious webpages about nearly everything that could go wrong in a wisdom tooth extraction surgery, you still found yourself tugging down his pants to find some comfort between his legs, a new activity the two of you discovered only recently when you’d find yourself scuttling into his bed in the late evening, or vice versa.

Where you were his or not – though you two found yourself in this rather strange grey area where some things were passed along as suitable behavior, whereas he hasn’t properly fucked you yet – he had no reason to stop you when you insisted you suck him off before bed. Because, if it was being honest, he sleeps soundly after a nice orgasm, and nothing feels better than the feeling of your warm, wet mouth wrapped around his leaking cock.

The first time you sucked him off, it was a week after the party; the same party where you kissed him in the bathroom and left him trailing behind you like a lost puppy. You had staggered through the crowd saying your quick goodbye’s, before taking one step out the front door before promptly vomiting in the bushes.

He couldn’t put the right word down to describe how eager he was if the following morning you’d have any recollection of the events from the night before, but he was taken by surprise when he caught your hauntingly sullen stare from the other side of the room – your body still clad in your clothes from the night before, hair matted hysterically to his pillow – and all he could hear you mutter was, “I kissed you.”

The kiss – so quick, yet to tender; he remembers the way your breath stuttered against his, and how your lips tasted of fireball, and how you stalled for just a second longer than his, before you fell from your tippy toes and proceeded out the door.

He feels his hands clam up, and he studies your expression for any sign of hesitance, or God forbid regret, but the way you reach out for the cuppa he had left for you, alongside two aspirin and a banana, you brush a hair from your eyes and greet him with a warming smile.

“Indeed you did, pet.”

You nod softly, as if a shared kiss between the lot of you was normal, acceptable behavior and one not to be questioned, and you lean down to take a sip of your drink. “Was it before or after I puked?”

The transition from the kiss to your lips tugging at his cock was one that left him winded and blindsided in bed, one hand pulling knots in his hair, and the other in a tight grip in yours. All he can regather was receiving a rushed call as you got off work, having picked up an extra shift at the restaurant, and asking to come over – nothing out of the random.

He’s unsure if there are days where the two of you ever sleep alone at your designated houses, and if there are, it’s because he’s out of the country, though after giving you a spare to his place, he’s nearly positive you’ll find yourself wrapped in a burrito in his sheets while he is away.

He had returned from London that morning, having to cut his trip a day short to return to Los Angeles for an impromptu album meeting, which left him scrambling out of bed once your text had gone through about getting cut early, and, “I know you brought me back a surprise… Don’t tell me… Is it a crumpet?”

To your dismay, a crumpet wasn’t part of your hefty giftbag – though he did promise to steal his mother’s recipe and make you some before your surgery – but he did gift you the ‘I Love London’ sweatshirt and Big Ben snow globe, which you proudly placed on your windowsill next to your cactus.

“Proper little tourist, aren’t you, love?”

You snort, pulling the hoodie over your head and giving Harry a quick twirl. “Hardly. I’m like those kids that wear a Harvard sweatshirt they bought off Amazon.”

“A little phony, you are.”

“Such a hypocrite.”

But as he looks back at you, through the rearview mirror of his Range Rover, he notices the glaring wet of your eyes, and an evident blood smear down your chin, and he nearly slams on his breaks when the light abruptly changes to red.

“Sorry, pet.” He turns back around to face you and is still met by your quivering chin and bloody gauze that’s nearly slipping past your lips. “Christ—as soon as we get you home, I’ll change that out, okay? Get you cleaned up—”

“I told Dr. Breathdick I loved him…” You tuck the gauze back into your cheek, wiping your saliva onto your hoodie – the same hoodie he had gifted you nearly two weeks prior. You sniffled deeply and wiped quickly under your nose, glancing back up at him with large, beady eyes. “I told him he was pretty and… I loved him…and I want his sperm babies.”

“Oh,” He might’ve spoken too soon when you hadn’t displayed such erratic behavior before. “I think you mean Bretherick, love—"

“I cheated on you… I cheated—I…I don’t want his sperm babies, Harry—I told him I wanted them, and I lied, and I cheated on you—I’m so sorry—”

“Hey, calm down, you didn’t cheat on me—”

“I don’t want his sperm babies, and now me and Dr. Brickledock are married and I cannot support two husbands—”

“Hey, hey—you’re okay. Pet, look at me—we aren’t married, you didn’t cheat—Oh God, I’m sorry, please stop crying—”

It was going to be a very long afternoon.

*

It was the night before your surgery that Harry found himself shuffling to your apartment with a bag of McDonald’s French fries and large sweet tea, a request of yours after texting him something about your “final meal”. He had to remind you that you weren’t about to be executed, but it steered you none.

“Who knows if I will make it out alive, Harold! A woman needs fries!”

You later scrolled through multiple forums of those discussing their experiences with a wisdom tooth removal, and with every one that had retold their encounter of an easy recovery, there were two that ended in infection and dry socket and projectile vomiting. Those were the ones that sent you slamming your laptop closed and pulling the duvet over your quivering body.

“What if they forget to put me under anesthetics?” Harry stood next to you as he peered down at the lump under the covers, snapping a quick photo to send to his mother.

“I promise they won’t, pet—”

“What if I wake up in the middle of the surgery and I can feel all the pain but can’t move? They made a movie about that, you know—”

“Was that movie even medically accurate?”

“What if I don’t wake up from the anesthetics? That’s why they said I couldn’t wear nail polish – if I’m not breathing, my nails turn blue—”

“Did you even read the pamphlet I gave you?” Harry side-eyes the paper left on your bedside table, untouched for the past few days. “It’s a safe procedure that millions of people—maybe billions, I’m not sure—billions of people have gotten—”

He’s taken aback when you hastily throw the covers from your body, surging up to reach out to the man beside you.

“Lay with me, please.”

It’s an innocent request, and Harry doesn’t bat an eye before he climbs over your limbs – nearly taking a knee to the groin – before he settles himself beside you just long enough for you to swing your legs over his, your fingers finding his belt buckle like tiny magnets.

And that’s how it normally went.

Now, he lays contently beneath you, watching with darting eyes as you adjust your body over his cock, your hand reaching beneath his pants to hastily shimmy them down passed his hips. You don’t say much – you never have; you have a way with him, and he gladly enjoys sitting back and watch you take control that sends him into a spiraling ascent to bliss.

He knows you had a lot on your mind, like the surgery you were going under in some odd hours, and the paper that was due the following day, and there was always something about having his cock in your mouth that put your mind at ease just for a little while, and if everyone was comfortable with it, he had no complaints.

He helps you pull the rest of his pants down, and watches as his cock springs up from his underwear, falling on the base of his stomach, cum already leaking gracelessly from the tip. Each time he finds himself in this position – literally, sometimes figurately – he wants – begs – himself to at least ask if you would want to have sex. He still had condoms left, hidden in the back of his bedside drawer at his home, and the last time you were aware, your roommate had some stashed in her dresser. He doesn’t want to push your buttons though; he’s happy if all you want to give him is a nice blowie for now, but an animalistic urge pulses through his veins, wanting more than anything to sink himself as deep as he can inside you.

As he looks back up at you, sitting politely between his legs, you meet his hazed glance with a warm smile.

“Sorry… Just sometimes can’t get over how big you are.”

You really were too much sometimes.

A part of him – the same part that is too scared to bring up sex – wants to see if you would be willing to get off on his thigh, or his covered cock. He’s unsure how aroused you get by getting him off, but the wouldn’t be against the idea of helping you just as you have been with him.

Your tongue dances around his tip, licking up the pebbles of cum that bead from the head, just the way you’ve learned he likes it, and you slowly start to sink down, feeling his body quiver under your warm touch as soft whimpers begin to escape through his bitten ruby lips. He’s never too sure where to put his hands; sometimes he keeps them by his side, tightly gripping the sheets until his knuckles are white, and other times he pulls and tugs at his hair while the other gently caresses your arm.

You might admit one day, but you like it when he knows that slight bit of affection when your mouth is filled with his cock, especially when he spits out doting admiration such as, “Such a pretty little thing, aren’t you?”; “Doing so well, gorgeous,” and, “Going to make me cum, pet… Fuck, I’m—“, and you never have a moment to register before he’s spurting thick sheets down your throat, his hips arching and cock twitching, trying to push the orgasm as much as he could.

Over time you’ve learned small things that get a quick reaction out of him, like sucking deeply at his tip, your tongue flicking and massaging and licking the beads of cum that dribble down his head, and massaging his balls, just as he taught you. You’ve caught yourself plenty of times peeking an eye open to watch his head knocked back, and mouth parted in a deep, satisfied moan. You’ve even tested waters, trailing your lips down to suck lightly, letting your tongue flicker over the sensitive skin, humming in satisfaction as Harry let’s out a muffled “Fuck!” into his sleeve.

You’ve also learned that he unknowingly gives away subtle hints for when he starts getting close, whether it’s his moans increasing in intensity, his legs squirming and thrashing around the sheets, the way he starts being a little more demanding in his requests, asking to suck harder, go deeper, and even acting a little brave and clutching your hair, just so he has something to hold onto when his clenched knot releases, and he falls back onto the bed, slipping profanities and groans of your name, and his thick release coats your tongue, and down passed your chin.

You never would have expected how clingy he would be after an orgasm, but you’ve gotten used to him reaching out and pulling you on top of him, holding to you close as he regains his breath. With your ear splayed on his chest, you listen to his breathing eradicate, and how his heart is slamming like fists against his ribs, and often times when he would remain conscious afterwards, whispering in your ear how good you  made him feel, how no one has ever made him cum that hard – and that quick, shamelessly – when his schedule has been sporadic and chaotic, it’s normal for him to fall into a deep sleep, you still stuck underneath his grip.

*

The next morning, after being put under strict rules the day before to not eat anything 8 hours prior to surgery, you were sent into a mild panic when you realized you ingested Harry’s semen like a soft drink only six hours before.

“Does cum count?! Should I tell them?!”

No Google searches would give you an answer.

Harry pulls on a dark hoodie and beanie, watching from your living room as you paced anxiously around the kitchen, your phone shoved so far into your face he’s moments away from calling a Optometrist appointment.

“Okay, it says here…okay big words. It says, when you’re put under anesthetics, your body’s reflexes are temporarily stopped, and if my stomach has food in it, there’s a risk of vomiting or re..gurgitation… Harry, what’s ‘regurgitation’?”

“So, worst case scenario pet, you will vomit my semen during surgery. Are you ready to go?”

No, you weren’t. He nearly had to drag you out of the house like a child refusing to go to school. For the remainder of the drive you stayed silent, ignoring Harry’s attempts at failed comic relief, joking about all the dumb shit you would be saying once you came to after surgery, and how he is going to tape it all and send it to Niall, and his family.

“Don’t say anything about the semen in your stomach, love.” He whispers in your direction, knocking his arm lightly against yours. “It’d be funny if you did, but please don’t.”

After what felt close to an eternity waiting in the waiting room, a nurse peeks her head out of the door and calls your name. You hand over your hoodie to Harry and hesitantly lean in, his arms pulling you tightly to his chest.

“I’ll be there when you wake up, darling.” His voice felt comforting and warm, and you held onto it as you walked back with the nurse down the hall and into an unsettling dim lit room. You were greeted with a warm smile and put in a chair; you weren’t seated for no longer than three minutes before you felt a poke at the crease of your forearm, and you were instantly pulled under.

*

He never intended on being your caregiver for the duration of your recovery, hoping highly your roommate would plan her trip home for any other week, but there’s only so much you can do what all other flights are booked.

If he wasn’t in the studio, he was hand-feeding you pudding and mashed potatoes, hoping your stomach would settle enough to accept the food so you could take your pain killers, but with the limited food you could eat – on top of the powerful narcotics – it was no surprise to him when you barely made it to the bathroom in time to vomit the few things you had in your system.

You had mentioned it to him before about your bottom two teeth being impacted and laying close to a nerve, and the odds of the nerve being fiddled with during surgery were high, which left you with a throbbing, agonizing pain that ran up your ears, and a dwindling appetite.

You needed to eat to take medicine, but the medicine made you nauseous, so you didn’t want to eat, which caused you to run to the bathroom at least once a day. You had decided to forgo the pain meds, saying you will “handle it like the men do”, but that only resulted in you sobbing into your pillow, begging for anything to take the pain away.

“This is what the surgeon meant by mild discomfort, hm?” He brushed your hair back as you rested in his lap, sipping on a protein smoothie he had made. “Wasn’t joking about hitting those impacted nerves. Only would happen to you pet.”

It was a long week nevertheless, and it was another before the throbbing finally subsided, and you were finally back on your feet by the time Harry was packing his bags for Jamaica.

“It’s only two months,” he grins from the foot of his bed, stuffing his suitcase with shorts. “Won’t even notice I’m gone.”

“Two months, Harold. Months. 60 days. What am I supposed to do in those 60 days, huh? Work? School?”

“I’d hope so, pet.” He peeks up to see you lying face down in his bed, ass sticking straight up like a toddler. “I’ll bring you some souvenirs. How about an I Love Jamaica hoodie that’ll go well with your blood-stained London one?”

He hears a mumble coming from his sheets, and he can already picture the deep pout that’s settling on your face.

“What’d you say?”

“I said, you’ll probably find some cute Jamaican girl to suck you off while you’re away.”

It takes everything in him to not snort at your remark. If that’s what has you so worked up, he doesn’t know what he’s going to do with you.

“And what’s wrong with the pretty little American I have right now?” He goes back and forth between his closet and bag, watching as you peek from your peripheral with your eyebrows knotted tightly. “Going to be too busy working to even consider finding someone else, and if I’m being honest, pet… Nobody’s lips can compare to yours.”

He’d be the dumbest piece of shit if he ever even considered finding someone else while he was away, and he knows it.

“Harry, you’re going to miss my birthday.”

That’s when he stops, because…she’s right. September 30th. He’ll be bunkered down in a studio while she drowns in text books and waitress tips.

“Shit, I—”

“The big 2-1—”

“I didn’t forget, don’t think I forgot—I just, there’s been a lot of deadlines and things keep slipping—”

“We’ll just have to celebrate extra hard when you get back, right?” She attempts a smile, but he can see the hurt lingering. “The roomy will be here anyway, so we’ll go out and get a few drinks or something.”

Harry doesn’t know where it comes from – some stored up courageous boost that simmers before igniting – and he jerks his head up to see you settled on your back, looking up at him perturbed in question at his expression, but he’s finally hit his breaking point. He has psyched himself up God knows how many fucking times, spinning between taking the shot or spending another night alone in question on why he hasn’t mucked up the sodding courage, so he can stop saying “what if”.

This isn’t how he wanted to do this, but judging by the somber look in your eye, and the way you fiddle with the strings of his Randy’s Donuts hoodie, he finally, after months, just lets it all free.

“After these two grueling months, if you haven’t found some other bloke, I want to take you out.”

Finally, he can breathe again.

“Take me out where?--”

“On a date, you doorknob.” He chuckles, flinging his suitcase closed and crawling over to you. “Been wanting that shitty date you were telling me about?”

He hasn’t seen you look at him this way before, and it both soothes and unsettles him. You reach out and take a hold of his hand, your fingers twisting his ruby ring in circles, and he watches you intrigued, but your silence fed him doubt that maybe this was all something you didn’t want, that maybe a blowie every few days was the path you felt safe, and anything passed that was skipping through boundary that you were keeping hidden and locked, out of sight and out of mind.

“This is probably the nicest way anyone has asked me out before,” you giggle, pulling off his ring and slipping it onto your thumb. Still too big. “I’d like that, yeah.”

He feels his heart begin to beat again and lets out a breath before twisting his hand back and taking a hold of yours.

“Yeah?”

“Been kind of waiting but…didn’t want to seem eager.”

Of course not.

*

He couldn’t keep you away the night before his early flight, but you were stubborn when it came to getting your way, but Harry had to admit that you had a pretty compelling way about yourself, and with every passing day, you grew harder and harder to say no to.

Although, he truly couldn’t think of a better way to spend his last night in LA with someone other than you.

Once it neared midnight, the two of you found each other back in his room, and you watched as he doubtfully went through his bags once more because, “Watch me, I’m going to land and text you that I forgot my toothbrush.”

“You can always share with Mitch,” you joke from his side of the bed. “I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.”

“Y’think so, pet? I can always knick yours—”

“No! This isn’t about me, don’t bring me into this!”

He eventually discarded his bag and crawled up beside you in bed, dramatically pushing you to your designated side with a sigh of, “Can’t wait for a whole two months without a bed hog.”

“You say that but by night three you’re going not be calling me telling me you miss me.”

“By night three I’ll probably have found myself cuddled up in bed with Mitch.”

You began to retort, but you knew nothing in the world could stand in the way of his love for Mitchell Rowland.

*

“Harry…are you awake?”

You poke the lump beside you, a gentle tap nonetheless, but you feel his body squirm and slowly turn to fall over on his back.

“The real question, pet, is why aren’t you being the big spoon like you promised?” He expels a sigh and dramatically swings his head around to find you through the dark, sitting up on your elbow. “How long have you been watching me? Have you been watching Twilight again?”

“No, the movies are shit compared to the books and you know that.”

You sidle up next to him, resting your head on his shoulder and feeling him pull his arm around yours, holding you closer his warmth. His breathing was even, and he gently rubbed up and down your arm with his fingers and kissed the side of your head.

“You ready to sleep now—”

“Harry,” it was nothing above a whisper, but it punched through the darkness and wrapped itself around his mouth and kissed him quietly. He laid there with you, feeling your hand trickle down passed his stomach and hang over the waistband of his underwear, before you let a finger tickle the dark hairs on his hips, and hesitantly slip inside. You felt his breath hitch, but he didn’t move to stop you. “You’re going to be gone for a while,” and the aching desire pulled at his heart, and just by the simple mutter of his name, the two of you shared the same alike thought that skimmed your fingertips over his softened length “If it’s okay with you.”

He’s astonished you would even think you would need his permission.

“We don’t have to do anything, pet. I’m fine right here.” And he is; he isn’t here to rush things. Hell, it took him close to two months to ask you out on a date. The last thing he knows to do with you is rush things.

“I brought condoms.”

It takes everything in him not to dart up and go running and rummaging through your overnight bag.

“I want to…before you leave. Won’t see you and…”

“Just because I’m leaving doesn’t mean we have to—”

“I want to, my goodness you’re stubborn sometimes—calling me stubborn, jeez.” He cracks a smirk at your minor outbreak. That’s his girl. “I’ve seen your…I think I got the right condoms. I swear I stood in that aisle for twenty minutes contemplating every brand but… My hand is still down your pants, I’m sorry.”

“So talkative tonight, aren’t you, love?” The thudding in his chest shakes his breath, and he watches you intently through the dark for any sign of hesitance. “I want to if you want to, but I don’t need to.”

But boy does he want to.

“I want to, yeah.”

He’s imagined this moment far too many times, more times than he’s proud of, thinking out each detail and every touch and every sound and how from the beginning to the end would be so incredibly perfect, but now that he’s here with you, bare, beneath him, he realizes nothing could be more perfect than it is now. Any fantasy he’s manipulated in his fucked out mind can’t compare to actually holding on to you, and brushing his lips gently over yours, before the two of you finally give in and lock together.

Ever way he imagined you to taste, it was somehow better, and more.

He’s tender, and he doesn’t let his hold of you loosen. One hand rests behind your neck while the other holds your cheek, deepening his kiss as he feels you squirm beneath him. You press your hips up to meet his, begging for some relief between your legs.

“We can stop, if you’re unsure—”

“I’m okay, please I’m okay.” You bring your hand up to caress his forearm. “I want this, please.”

It’s in this moment, you reach up and clasp your hand around his neck, pulling him back down to seal his lips with yours, your hips impatiently rutting against his. And it’s with one more kiss, you feel his tip grace your entrance, and with a small thrust forward he begins to stretch you open, his lips never leaving yours. It burns, not like any burn from any previous male in your life, though you can say confidently most guys previously weren’t as well endowed as the man before you. He’s slow and gradual with his movements, learning you and all the ways he can make you quiver and gasp and cling onto him until you feel your body finally give in and let everything out in a wave of bliss, just like all the times you’ve done with him.

“You okay, love?—Christ, you feel good.” He loses himself for a moment, lost in the euphoria of your warmth. You’re tight, and fuck does it send him straight to heaven. He holds tight to your hips as he ruts harder into you, his head falling back as a deepened moan fell from his lips. “Shit, babe…You feel so good.”

Out of all the hands of men you have fallen into you, there was something about Harry that felt like a safe home. His words cascaded a dome of protection, and you knew in that moment when he thrusted once more into you, falling lightly and stifling his moans into your neck, that not an inch of his soul could do you any harm. You held him against your chest, your fingers wrapping tightly in his hair, and you threw your leg over his backside and held him as tight as you could as he pushed himself as far as he could into you, because not even chest to chest was close enough – and you wonder now how long he had been waiting for this.

“I-I’m close, baby—I’m close.” His voice is rough, and he wants so much to hold out, but he’s at the point of no return. “H-how many condoms were in the box?”

“Three—I think it came with thr—”

“You want to go again?” He’s choking on air, his lip falling between his teeth and before you have a chance to answer, his nails dig crescent moons into your hips, and his thrusts stall as his mouth falls open and he heaves one last groan before falling forward and filling the condom. “Fuck…Shit, fuck…I’m sorry…Go again?”

And he has the nerve to call you eager.

“Get me off first and I’ll take you up on the offer.” You lightly chuckle, untangling your legs from his. “You feel good, too, by the way. I like it.”

He huffs, kissing your shoulder. “It’s gonna be a long two months.”

He was right, but at least you had him for now.