autumn.

"and if she wanted to, she could reach into my chest and rip my heart out of my body because it already belongs to her."

/

"Silence" — Harry One Shot

Behind closed doors, Harry and I were anything but innocent. Behind closed doors, Harry and I did dangerous, desirable things. Behind closed doors, it was only the two of us, wrapped in our own little world of silence. 

The sex — that was something I always imagined to be wild and loud, drunken screams and slurs evolving around the room, causing either one of us to arch into the other, the release sexier than everything combined. 

I was wrong. There was something sexier and hotter than the loud, overbearing screams and whimpers. The silence of the sex — a hand cupping around your mouth to muffle your pleads, or your lips against the base of someone’s throat, somewhat silencing the result of pleasure. It was a game the two of us played, as if we were seeing who could be the quietest during our adventures of heated sex, clawing nails and swollen lips. The rules were that neither of us could make anything too loud; the quiet and small whimpers were fine, another thing that could get you aroused, but anything louder would defect the purpose of quiet. 

It started out as a game who could undress one another the fastest; hands would be fumbling, sometimes drunken limbs that tore off beads and ties and dresses. Mouths would be hot on the skin, already sucking and biting and nipping at the neck and arms and thighs. Breathing would already be labored, chocked out breaths of whispers and pleads and need. The silence would nearly almost be in tact, moans and groans and grunts no longer. 

Then, the game ended up in something more aggressive. Usually, it would be my back which was perched against the white sheets, which would soon be laced with the scent of sex and sweat. Harry’s hands would be no longer fumbling, but firm against my wrists where he pinned them to my sides, his head lowering down to me as his curls framed some of my face, tickling my hot skin. He would already be grinding into me, hissing to be quiet and that if I didn’t shut up, I would regret it. 

It was the game where we could be dirty, no longer innocent, as much as we wanted to. We could say things we never would have said in public — the dirtiness was all part of the game. The silent, rough game. And that was okay, because it was something that made me want him even more — want his hands roaming all over me, his mouth low on me, his flesh digging in to me as I raked my fingernails over his sweaty and muscular back. I wanted to bury my mouth in his neck and moan here, his broadness silencing the loudness of the desire. It was all part of the game, my favorite game, his favorite game, our favorite game that we played together, against one another. 

"Sssssh, Lanie," he would hiss roughly, placing his big hand over my mouth so I would be quiet, soon slipping it down to cup my chin and roughly yank me back to him, trapping my face somewhere else so I wouldn’t be heard. 

He seemed so angry with me when I had slipped and made a small moan. It wasn’t an aggressive angry, or an angry where he would purposely try to hurt me. It was an anger that was soon replaced by passion by silencing me with his lips, digging deep into me and rotating his hips so my moans would radiate against his mouth, making his lips vibrate. I knew that to him, he found that hotter than anything else. 

Even Harry, the person who had created this whole game, slipped up every once in a while. His perfectly pink and full shaped lips would part into an ‘o’, his head falling back slightly as he groaned my name, tugging me closer to him as he felt himself let go. He would dig his head into my shoulder then, knowing he had to be quiet in order to get through the rest of the game. He’d sink his teeth into my skin, biting gently in order to muffle his pleads and whimpers — those pleads and whimpers that made my stomach explode from the sound and my hips slam into his. The reason why I found his quiet and muffled noises so hot was because that was when he was the must vulnerable. His breath would hitch and he’d feel like he was losing it all, exploding his sticky substance onto my skin at any moment. The feeling of someone trapped in your power, not being able to speak or make a sound, was hot and pleasurable and erotic. 

Harry’s member was deep in me, his hands pinning my arms above my head as he silenced me again with his lips, his tongue invading my personal space and running over every corner and edge of my mouth. His thrusts were passionate and forceful, dipping into me before slamming again and again, until both of us were out of breath.

I stared into his eyes, knowing he was just as aroused as I was. His broad chest was heaving heavily against mine. His Adam’s Apple bobbed up and down with every gulp he took. A thin line of perspiration dripped from his forehead. His hands were gripping my waist, yanking my lower half back to his one more time, for the final round. 

His breath was hot on my shoulder, a small whimper muffled against my collarbone. He bit down, molding his teeth around my skin and darkening it into a purple to silence his final cry. He slumped against me, wrapping his sticky arms around my waist as he pulled me closer to him. 

"God, you’re so gorgeous like this," he whispered in my ear, placing a delicate and soft kiss below my ear, his eyelashes fanning against my neck, "I love you." 

This was the game we played. The hot, sensual, kinky game that sometimes ended up in a bigger mess of passion and love. Though, the outcome was always the same; we learned how to trust one another. We didn’t need to speak, or to let each other know how good we felt against them.

We learned that actions speak louder than words.  

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