Kismet

Thirty Three [The Photograph]

"Oh god, Harry. Yes-" Your deprived plea chokes out through the creases of a whine, "that's the spot, right there. Don't stop." The pads of his fingers press into a wretched knot in the aching crevice between your spine and your shoulder blade before pausing to allow you a moment to inhale deeply and relax your muscles, "mhm. Mmm... that's it, just go easy on me. It's really-" Your words get lost in a hiss when he pushes upward and expertly rolls the lump under his fingertips, "sore. Fuck, dreamy. Your hands are the reason for my happiness and... my entire existence maybe."

Harry freezes before crunching his face up in playful distaste, "just my hands?"

When Harry arrived at your place well after midnight, his T-shirt still smelling of sweat and bleach from his dinner shift, he tossed his bag onto the ground and told you not to move from the perfectly messy and cozy spot from bed. His heart wrenched when he read your text message hours before, your helpless inquiry for assistance after you'd strained your shoulder on the pole at work and was sent home early. He imagined your pained reaction, your beautiful features twisted in discomfort and couldn't smudge the sight from his mind. He could only imagine the strength involved to gracefully hoist your entire body's weight into the air and part of him couldn't help but wonder how you were a walking paradox of delicacy and fire, but he supposes that was just his intense overprotection talking. You are nothing short of a perpetually exploding ball of fire.

You kick your feet against your mattress and rock your hips in an effort to recreate the stagnant friction on your shoulder, to appease the tingle in your center and to silently motivate him to keep massaging you, "did I say hands? I meant that gigantic sexy brain and unbelievable dick." With Harry, flattery will get you everywhere, "and your mouth and sometimes even your nose when it hits the right spot, you know what I mean? Now please keep going, it feels so good."

You crack a smile when you hear him chuckle quietly above you, your face smashing into the pillow in an effort to wipe the amused expression from your face before he has a chance to see it. The heat and weight of his body pressing into the small of your back feels just as divine as his fingers working your wounded muscle and he knows it, the most evil part of him is eager to make you sweat as he holds your pleasure hostage in his hands.

He digs his thumb further into the knot and feels it slide under your skin, his bare stomach meeting your back in a heated canopy as his mouth tickles the shell of your ear, "what do you say?"

His badgering chide has your stomach flipping in endless loops, "please?" He hums in disapproval at your error and eggs you on when he releases your muscle only to push even harder this time, your pain liquefying and dissolving into relief, "oh god. Mmm, yes. I love you."

His other hand squeezes into the space between your hips and the mattress, the pad of his middle finger brushing against your sparked sensitivity over the fabric of your panties, "I love you so damn much, Nov."

"Nova?"

Your sordid memory bubble pops before absorbing into the pockets of your brain as you turn on your heel and meet eyes with Callista, her feet ambling towards you on the sidewalk with a pleased smile capturing her features. You stand outside of the refurbished warehouse that accommodates hers and Harry's pottery studio space, the stretch and reach of his sacred water tower looming far above your frazzled brain into the sky.

Three days have passed since your life was destroyed and you've been haunted by mixed images ever since; your mouth slotting with Harry's sumptuous pair of soft rose petal lips, feeling his hands smoothing down the length of your legs and your toes sinking past his teeth onto his tongue. Being pushed onto a cold balcony and forced to hear a heartbreaking, premature goodbye and the bloodied, sickening and deadly phantasm of his wounded face pressed into the concrete by an Emissary officer before his consciousness was beaten out of him.