Reign || Harry Styles

31: Goddess*

WARNING: dirty, explicit, mature. the most I can manage to write. please make sure you're older than 14 years old before reading.

The hum of a city still alive at the unholiest hour played in the distant like a background music to a melancholic art film. Hovering above the city of London is our point of view, and we observe the flickering lights here and there, or maybe a few walking people like point particles viewed from this distance. Gradually, our point of view pans closer and closer into the landscape, until we are now focusing on a particular building.

Rows and columns of windows arranged neatly like the black boxes on a chessboard, some exuding light and some not. We pan closer to one of the dark windows. Not intruding, just . . . observing. It seemed to be a bedroom, judging from the apparent furniture—a double-sized bed, lamps on bedside tables, a wardrobe standing tall—though it is hard to tell due to scarce light.

All of a sudden, the door on the left side of the room swung open with a harsh thud, and in came two people with arms linked over each others' bodies. The taller one had a hand blindly crawling on the wall, possibly searching for something. The light switch, perhaps?

Yes, it was the light switch.

The room lit up in a flick, and now we could see better into the room. As the two people reached the edge of the bed, one on top of the other, we were able to recognise who they were.

The two lovers, curly-haired Harry and tawny-haired Elsie, wearing less to no clothes, were fervently making out to each other. His hand on her thigh and her hands on his chiselled jaw. She was now lying against the white sheets. White like a virgin's chastity, about to be stained by two lovers' lust.

It was a particularly silent night, but not so much in that room.

Our point of view moves inside of that room.

The boy with the green eyes parted his lips from the girl's swollen pink ones, and now had himself sucking on the skin on her neck lustfully. He was progressive, making his way down with nothing but his black briefs and dishevelled dark curls. His girlfriend's thighs were spread open with his torso in between, lying on the edge of the bed, fingers tangled between unruly curls. And he felt himself go hard for her.

There was something . . . explosive in the pit of her guts. Something she could not exactly put her finger on.

Everything escalated so quickly.

There was a kiss involved. Intertwined tongues. Fingers between strands of hair, pulling. Hands between fabric and skin, touching. Ragged breaths between two people, exchanging. Hips against the other, grinding.

She could sense that he was hungry. Either that, or he was just unleashing that caged anger she saw in his wordless eyes. She could not decide which one. Sometimes, boundaries were so thin that it became impossible to tear things apart.

There was his tongue gliding down her stomach, hot as a slab of blazing metal.

She squirmed breathlessly.

There were hands grasping her waist, then down her thighs, caressing them in all the right wrong ways.

Her sensitivity to touch seemed to heighten immensely. Now hot and cold at the sensory overload her boyfriend was giving her.