Handjobs, Hella Bitchy, Heated Arguments

22.7K 870 982

Your eyes spring open at four minutes before seven in the morning, your head pounding from disorientation and fatigue. You yawn and stretch, curling onto your side and squeezing your eyes shut in an attempt to drift back off to sleep. Your mind is spinning with lists and reminders of everything that needs to happen today and when Harry's cotton candy lips and wild chocolate curls flash through your brain, you're kicking your sheets off of your legs and to the floor as you sit up and bury your face in your palms.

You love your roommate to death; he's been your closest friend since high school but you can't help the little inklings of jealousy that swarm in your chest and stomach at the volume and caliber of partners he manages to bring home seemingly often. It's been so long since you've slept with someone or even kissed another person that you're beginning to consider going on a blind date or speed dating or something equally as humiliating just for some action.

You tug a sweatshirt over your head and pull warm socks onto your feet before opening your door as quietly as possible to tip-toe into the kitchen. You're not sure if Harry stayed the night or not, considering you fell asleep almost immediately after crushing half a box of Cheez-It's in your bed last night.

The scent of toast is floating down the hallway and waking up your stomach with a loud grumble; you pass the threshold of the door with a daydream of strawberry jelly winding through your mind when your feet stall and you clap your hand over your mouth at the sight before you.

Harry is fully clothed in what you imagine to be his work outfit: professionally tailored pinstriped trousers and a black button down shirt that's tucked in the back, but pulled out haphazardly in the front. Your roommate has him pinned to the kitchen counter, soft moans are leaking from Harry's throat and his eyes are pinched shut, his head is lulled back and his lips are parted slightly as his chest surges with distraught breath.

His palms clutch the surface behind him as both of your roommate's hands are tucked into the front of his unbuttoned and unzipped fly, Harry's cock is hidden behind the material of his pants but clearly gripped in your roommate's fist as he works him towards release right in the middle of your fucking kitchen. Your core tightens at the sight of Harry so close to orgasm, his strong and angular jaw clenching below his ear and a sturdy vein running from his clavicle to his chin.

You roll your eyes and look at the counter beside you for something to interrupt them with. You spot the spray water bottle for your house plants and grab it before stomping further into the kitchen and squirting both of them rapidly, "get a fucking room, you fuckers! Go grope somewhere else." They both shout and jump away from each other, covering their faces from the onslaught of water, "it's like training cats!"

Your roommate yells and grabs the bottle from your hand, turning the torture around on you as you scream and try to wrestle it out of his hands while simultaneously blocking the nozzle with your palm, "you guys are going to hell! My poor virgin eyes." You manage to rip the bottle from his hands before squirting him and then Harry one last time, "I don't even want breakfast anymore."

Harry tucks the flaps of his shirt into the waist of his trousers and straightens his clothing before brushing water from his face, chest and arms, "that was hella bitchy."

You give him the finger and he holds his middle finger right back up in your face. You step closer and smash your finger against his nose and cheek, "hope you have blue balls all day now."

He laughs and pushes your hand away, "yeah, I'm gonna. Thanks a lot." You turn and plod away before tossing the middle finger over your shoulder again and locking yourself in the bathroom. Your reflection is unappetizing compared to the memory of how Harry looked, his hair a stylized combination of tame and unruly, his wrists and hands adorned with ink and dangling attractively from his dress shirt.

Inclination [H.S.]Where stories live. Discover now