Inclination

Bedroom Routine, Bickering, Bad Shoes

You glance down at your shoes as you pull your hair into a ponytail, "I think I forgot them at home, I couldn't find them in my bag." You two stare at each other for a tick and when Harry licks his lips to speak you laugh and shake your head, "don't doctor out on me."

Harry rises to his feet and takes his sunglasses off to let his gaze burn into yours, his eyebrow quirking as his eyes roam across your face, his voice smooth and careful as he attempts to give you advice without being controlling, "I don't think those are a good idea-"

You shake your head once your hair is off your neck, pulling your racket out from its hold from between your knees and stepping forward to seal your lips to his, "don't worry. I've played in these before."

You tap his crotch with the head of your racket and he bends over and groans, rubbing his palm over his center and whining before flicking his middle finger in your face and walking onto the court with you, "fine. Whatever you say, pretty."

Harry looks flawless in the sun, his skin picking up a bit of color over the past few weeks as the weather warms up and the days spread longer. You're learning that his hair grows quickly - within a few months it's already begun to curl around his ears and his cheekbones again and now that it's coming back you're beginning to realize just how much you had missed it.

He decided to cut it off before the two of you began your romance and you cursed the missed opportunity to tug on it while he fucks you or kisses your neck or stomach. You've thought about what it would feel like to dig your fingers into the mess of curls while he eats you out or even how sexy it would be for him to pull it back into a bun to keep it out of his face while he pleasures you. You've dropped hints and praises about how gorgeous you think he looks with it a bit longer and you're hoping that he will choose to grow it out before you drop to your knees and beg him to.

The broadening muscles in Harry's shoulders and thighs are incredibly distracting; each time he serves you take advantage of the pause to watch the way his arm extends over his head, the way his torso twists with the follow through and then how his legs and feet brace the ground for your return. You think for a moment that you should have taken more interest in his suggestion to stay home and shower and then make out in bed, but you convince yourself it'll feel even better once you've got a good sweat out in the sunshine first.

Harry backhands a ball that you were certain was going out of bounds and as it hurdles back to you, you weren't expecting to have to go after it again. He shouts at you to let it go, the ball soaring far enough over your head that you have to jump in order to attempt to reach it.

You swing and miss and when you land back on the ground, your weight shifts to the outside of your ankle as it twists beneath you and gives out. A sharp, incinerating pain radiates from the sole of your foot up your calf to your knee as if your entire leg is being pierced by nails and then the echo of a loud, internal pop burns your eardrums. You cry out as you fall to your knees and then roll onto your seat, your ankle throbbing in pain as if everything inside of it has been shredded to bits.

Harry sees the entire incident occur in slow motion; you landing on your feet just an inch too far to the side, the platform sole of your shoe easily rolling your ankle and bringing you to the ground like a rag doll. His ears ring when he hears you yelp in pain and then he hears nothing aside from his heavy breaths as his scalp prickles and his skin breaks out in quills, his tennis racket dropping to the ground with a clatter as he sprints across the court to you as fast as he can.

His knees sting when he drops to the ground beside you, his heart and mind wrestling between physical and emotional care. He has treated more people in crisis than he can count, but he can't remember a time when it's hit so close to home. A time when he's had to react to an emergency with someone that he regards so deeply, someone who he would do almost anything to avoid seeing get hurt, including feeling the burden of the pain himself instead.

His medical training takes over before he has much of a chance to overthink, his hands cupping your jaw and looking into your teary eyes to check in with your wellbeing first, "shh, it's okay. It's gonna be okay, is it your ankle?" His thumbs swipe tears as they cascade down your cheeks and his heart pinches when you sob and nod, your gaze pulling away from him to look down at your ankle for injury.

He carefully removes your shoe and shushes you when you hiss, his hands gentle and nurturing as he holds the back of your knee and the sole of your foot, turning your leg to the side to inspect your ankle. His breath catches when he notices swelling and instant bruising along the side of your foot and the outside of your ankle, his gaze drawing to your face and holding your cheek to receive your attention again, "did you hear a pop?"

You nod and he curses internally but remains completely outwardly calm and composed, his sense of peace naturally quieting your heart rate and anxiety as you watch him examine your affliction. He rubs your thighs and kisses the back of your hand and your forehead before sitting back on his haunches and laying your leg flat.

"This might hurt but I'm just going to feel around a bit, okay pretty?" You nod and wipe the endless streams of silent tears that are pouring down your face. He kisses your knuckles and tugs on your fingers until you look at him again, "you're gonna be just fine. I'll take care of you, I promise. Just tell me where it hurts."

You nod again and he tenderly presses his fingers into the side of your foot where it's swollen, checking to see which ligaments are injured before gripping your foot gingerly and attempting to move it up and down and side to side. He looks at you each time you hiss, whine or cry out, asking you every now and again in a whisper if a certain position is more painful than another before covering your foot with his warm palms and leaning close, "do you think you can walk on it?"

You shrug and then shake your head, speaking for the first time since you've fallen and Harry's stomach is in a giant knot at the broken timbre of your voice, "I don't know - don't think so. Harry, it hurts-" Your words are halted by a loud sob cutting through and his heart is in his throat and making it hard to swallow.

He stands first and tells you not to put any weight on it as he grabs your hands and pulls you to your feet, your toes pointing to the ground as you hover it delicately and hold onto him with a firm grip. His arms snake under your seat and your shoulders before he scoops you off of the ground bridal style and hushes you again when you whimper, your arms curling around his neck as you hold him tightly.

He walks you to his car and slides you into the passenger seat, kissing your forehead and your mouth before wiping your tears from your reddened face, his voice soft and completely devoid of any bass, "mm gonna go get our stuff that we left on the court and then take you to my office. We need to bandage and ice that and I'm going to call an x-ray tech to come meet us so that we don't have to go to the ER. Are you okay, pretty?"

You shake your head, "no - yeah I'm okay... I don't wanna go there, I don't need x-rays. Can we just go home? Please?" You cry again and his insides twist, "please? We can bandage and ice it at home."

He nods sternly, "yes, you don't have a choice here. I promise you'll be okay, pretty sure s'just a sprain but we're gonna check out a few things and get you some pain medicine. I'll take care of you - I got you, yeah? I'll make you feel better. Try to breathe?"

He pulls in a deep breath through his nose and exhales out of his mouth, tapping your hip as a signal for you to follow his lead. When he directs you through a few breaths and notices your chest calming, he kisses your mouth again and mutters, "be right back." He reaches across your body to put his key in the ignition and start the car, rolling down the windows and kissing you one last time before jogging back to the court to collect your belongings.

He presses his hand to his chest when he's gained enough distance from you, pulling his sunglasses from his face before finally allowing the sting of tears to take over, his arm lifting to wipe the wetness from his cheeks with the back of his wrist. Seeing and hearing you in that much pain was worse than he had ever imagined and he hopes that he can compose himself before he has to return back to the car and promise you of your eventual prosperity once again.

Poor baby Ace.
Xxx Mama B