What if Harry went really rough on YN last night and she keeps saying she's fine but the wobbles and marks say otherwise
Harry would be so fucking smug about it.
The next morning she swings her legs off the bed, rubbing at her eyes with the palms of her hands and stifling a huge yawn, thumbing over the deep purple bite marks scattered across her thighs and smoothing her fingertips over the bruises on her hips, remembering how hard he’d gripped them.
There’s a dull, satisfying throbbing in between Y/N’s legs, pulsing so deep it laps at the pit of her stomach. It’s like he’s still balls deep inside her, tucked up into her tummy with his sweaty hips spreading her fleshy thighs open, slamming her into another dimension. It paints a small, fulfilled smile across her tinted lips, making her feel all warm and bubbly inside.
“Y'look hot like that.”
Harry’s voice startles her, resulting in her body jumping in shock. She casts an annoyed glance over her shoulder, eyes narrowing at his face.
He’s spread out on his stomach, creme cotton sheets low on his hips, just barely covering the swell of his bum. His broad back rises and falls with his easy breathing, muscles shifting and flexing under his tanned, scratch-mark-covered skin. Her nails had left behind a pretty harsh story, the entire expanse of his tight back littered with red stripes that are slightly swollen, but he lives for the way the cool air makes them sting.
Harry has the left side of his face pressed against a big pillow, fluffy bedhead spread out in a wild halo across the surface, some pieces curling here and there. His lean arms are tucked under cushion, the way they’re bending causing his biceps to flex alluringly, which Y/N is sure he’s doing on purpose. The eye that is not against the pillow is cracked open lazily, mossy green iris twinkling with mischievous amusement as the light from the window hits his face just right. A single dimple is carved into his cheek, the edge of his lips curled up into a sleepy, cocky grin.
He looks so fucking good, laying there looking all pretty and tempting and borderline angelic, with his stupid, smug, handsome face and his distracting muscles and wow, Y/N can’t believe how whipped he has her without even trying.
While she, on the other hand, can feel her hair standing up against her scalp, tangled in a rat’s nest of a mess and she probably has drool dried across her jaw, if she knows her sleeping habits well.
His deep, throaty morning voice breaks her from her thoughts, the raspy croak sending a shot of lightning coursing from the bottom of her feet to the tips of her ears. “Did y'hear me, pet? Said y'look fucking hot.”
Y/N watches with watery eyes as Harry draws one of his hands from underneath the pillow, reaching over and dragging his warm fingers down the center of her back to rest at the dip of her spine. His words thrum out from his throat thick and heavy, a subtle groan under them. “So sexy fo’ me.”
She can’t help the flush that crawls across her skin, weak at the way his thumb caresses across the curve just above her ass. He turns his body to face her completely, flipping onto his back and stretching grandly, hips lifting off the mattress as his bones creak and crack into place. He settles himself back down, sheets dangerously low across his waist (low enough that she can see his happy trail expanding into his curly pubes), arms folded behind his head as he tilts it to the side, two front teeth worrying his plump bottom lip as he gives her bare body a slow once-over. “Don’t get dressed on my account. Love to wake up to such a pretty sight.”
Y/N scowls at him mockingly, tugging at the duvet to pull it over her frame. At first, Harry pouts, refusing to move off the comforter. But after a few shoves at his shoulder and pinching his ear, he reluctantly rolls off.
“You’re no fun in the mornings.” He grumbles, massaging over the irritated shell of his ear and furrowing his eyebrows in spite.
“Not all of us are born as perfect as you are,” she quips back sarcastically, wrapping the thick blanket around herself, focusing on covering the front more than anything.
It slides off her hip, exposing half her ass and the back of her bruised thighs but hanging loosely around her calves. She doesn’t pay it much mind, taking a step towards where her kitty-printed panties are hanging off the stand where their flatscreen TV is propped.
Harry’s voice chases after her tauntingly. “Careful, love. Went real rough last night. Y'might just collapse.”
“I’m fine.” She deadpans, ignoring the way her center pulses, taking a confident stride forward.
Apparently, she’s really not fine at all.
Y/N’s knees begin to quake, thighs clenching sorely as her legs seem to mold into Jello. She wobbles to the left, almost falling over the bedpost but managing to keep herself upright by pressing her hand down against a corner of the mattress. She closes her eyes in embarrassment, cheeks simmering as she hears him snickering over her shoulder.
“Oh, yeah. Totally fine. Who needs walking, anyways?”
She turns to face him, managing to keep herself from toppling over. Harry is sporting a condescending simper across his ruby lips, one arm behind his head as the other is propped up by its elbow on the stack of pillows, his index and middle finger covering his mouth so that she can only see the edges of his grin under the digits. He blinks at her slowly, eyebrows quirking up in question as his bare chest swoons her, dark tattoos causing the pit of her stomach to tingle. “Am I right?”
“You’re an ass, is what you are.” Y/N corrects, hiking the duvet further up her thighs and readjusting the arm covering her chest. “Last night wasn’t even that good– barely rough at all.”
Harry outright cackles, tilting his chin up arrogantly to watch her over the tops of his cheeks.
“No? Say that to the four hundred hickeys on your neck and all the ring marks across that perky little ass.”