"So that's it then?" he spoke, voice low and timid.
The look of dejection on his face broke you. Hair messier than normal, his fingers aggressively running through it. His typically bright eyes looked tired and worn, much like your own.
It hurt.
It had been hurting, though. For much longer than you let on. From the start? Maybe that was part of the problem. You didn't say anything, but neither did he. Both of you floating through the motions, ignoring the signs, blissful ignorance in the tiny bubble you created.
"I think it has to be," you murmured.
"What do you want?" he tried, grasping at nothing but air and broken promises. "I'll do whatever-- I can try--"
"You can't give me what I want, Harry."
It was blunt, and you saw the way it pierced him. He would have stumbled back had he not been leaning against the wall of your entry hallway. A tear slipped from the corner of your eye at the sight of his red rimmed lashes and nose, wanting to reach for him but purposefully keeping your hands to yourself.
***
- one year earlier -
"Oh my god." His grunt into your hair spiked fire through you. His voice caressed your ear, the low timbre of his moans a sort of music you hadn't heard before.
His hands gripped your hips tighter, effectively pulling you back with each and every one of his somewhat sloppy yet perfectly placed thrusts.
"Yeah," he breathed, encouragement laced in the simple word.
Your eyes pulled up to meet his in the mirror, knowing that he was watching your every movement over your shoulder. Your fingers glided over your clit in time with the pump of his hips, his cock reaching... everything.
Bruised hips, a bitten shoulder, disheveled hair, clothing still intact except where it was important.
The fingers of your other hand gripped the counters ledge, and you faltered. But he caught you -- a large, ring clad hand quickly finding the center of your chest to pull you up and closer to him. The change of angle had you gasping, your shoulder blades colliding with his chest.
You never experienced anything like it. His eyes held yours in a trance. Every time you glanced at the rest of his features -- a furrowed brow, puffy lips, a sharp jaw -- his eyes pulled you back in.
He was charming, to say the least. And he was something, to say the most. Charisma or what have you, that's what got him in that bathroom.
"Fuck," you moaned softly, watching his face as he watched you come undone around him. He couldn't have been pressed any tighter to you, pumping his length into you as if it was his life's mission. Maybe it was, after all.
He choked on a moan as his own release hit him, his mouth hanging open in the most intoxicating pleasure. And then he was burying his face in your neck, a misplaced kiss being pressed into your hot skin.
You hummed a soft, subtle giggle as the grip on your hip loosened, his breath still staggering. Wiggling out of his grasp, it was then him who was gripping the counter as he struggled to breathe.
"That was fun," you chuckled unironically as you cleaned yourself up, watching as he just stood there leaning against the counter, pants around the tops of his thighs, the edge of a tattoo poking out of his slacks. His delay was worrisome and endearing all at once.
