Wild Love: A Harry Styles One Shot Collection

Love Bite

Harry had been gone for weeks.

And while you knew that would be the case going into the relationship, that didn't mean it was easyand you certainly never got used to it. Of course it was more manageable the longer you'd been together, especially when you kept busy and stuck to your routine, but whenever it got nearer to his return home...that's when it was hardest.

Usually about a week before he was due home, you'd send him a few extra texts throughout the day. Just a couple more 'love you's. A dab of 'I miss you'. Sometimes pictures of the neighbor's cat with its face pressed up against the glass window; 'Boots thought you'd be home by now'.

And your goodnight calls–which were more like good mornings for Harry–grew longer as the time apart grew shorter. Just a few more minor details about your day shared. A hint of 'don't go' before hanging up. Occasional tears dried with 'I'll be home soon, muppet'.

The day before he's due to arrive home has you absolutely jumping out of your skin. It's utter torture waiting for the morning to crawl by, but it's comforting knowing that it's agony for Harry too.

Only 36 more hours, love.

The countdown texts continue throughout the day, and as you both become more restless there's less words and more numbers. The hours are all that matter anyway. And Harry's frustrated and just so ready to be back where he belongs–in your arms in the bed you share–that when you let him know you've made it home for the night, his only response is 25.

Nothing can hold your attention on the last night. You've watched everything you can on Netflix, with the only things being the series you watch with Harry and movies you'd promise to save for him. You don't have enough in you to crack open a book. Your mind wanders too much to follow a mystery. Romance novels leave you insatiable.

Even, somehow, food can't comfort you. Because nothing you eat can fill the emptiness in your belly. And it's not like anything tastes as good as it could if you were able to share it with Harry.

You're too jittery. Too excited and anxious at the same time. Excited because Harry, your Harry, would be home tomorrow evening. Anxious because how the hell were you supposed to make it through another full day with miles between you?

The last night is always the worst.

It only worsens when Harry has stopped responding to your texts, even after you've told him your tired and should probably start thinking about heading to bed. And you can't help but feel a little angry. A tad slighted. A touch forgotten. He's usually so attentive around bedtime because he knows cuddling into bed with nothing but the massive body pillow covered in his cologne and Maurice, the plush turtle who wears glasses that he won for you in one of those claw machines, is when you finally allow yourself break down.

But now it's past midnight with still no response from Harry, and you've actually got things to do tomorrow, Harold. So you send him a saucy text. Guess we'll just talk tomorrow then.

And you're laid in bed as angrily as one can be with a stupid green turtle with stupid suspenders and plastic shoes that actually really hurt when you lay on them. God only knows how long you just lay there, stewing. Cursing your stupid boyfriend and his dumb job that keeps him away from you for just too long too often. It's his job that makes you crazy, really. Spins your emotions like a whirlpool that spits you out a sobbing mess more often than you'd like to admit.

Anger roars through your ears just loud enough to block out the sound of the front door unlocking and closing behind him. You don't hear his heavy bag fall with a thud to the ground or the way his boots bang against the wall when he kicks them off.

And he's in the bedroom doorway, hair disheveled, clothes rumpled from travel.

"Not even a 'goodnight, I love you.'?"

If you had half a mind, you'd be screaming your head off looking for a way to escape the intruder. But this was no intruder, this was Harry. Your Harry.

"Pretty livid wit me, weren't yeh?"

He's pulling his shirt over his head as he makes his way toward you in bed before he's crawling up the length of your body. And you feel like you should say something, perhaps an 'I'm sorry' for your sass. Possibly a 'What are you doing here? Your flight doesn't land until tomorrow night?'. Maybe a squealed, 'you're home!'.

But nothing says 'hi, love' like your lips reuniting for the first time in weeks. Nothing says 'I missed you' like a desperate tug on strong shoulders asking to 'come closer' and 'oh, never leave me again'.

You tangle in each other. You may have been apart for weeks, but being with Harry is like riding a bike–you never forget how.

You never, ahem, forget how to ride Harry, either.

The bed's a mess of turtles and pillows and sheets and shirts. Harry's removed your shirt–it was his first undertaking upon settling atop you–so you're bare save for the soft, yet supportive, t-shirt bra. He's got you trapped underneath him, but is it really trapping if you'd willingly stay forever and more?

The mood has changed. You can both feel it. It always does during the reunion. You're pulled apart, Harry supporting himself above you just enough to get a good look at you. And of course, there's an overwhelming happiness you both feel to finally be back and together, but there's an underlying sadness that you had to be apart at all.

If only there was a way you could be with him always.

"Take yeh everywhere I go, pet. Yeh in my heart."

That was always his response whenever you lamented about separation. But you wanted more, something he could see. That's when the hickies started.

And as you're taking him in, just as he is you, you notice that the imprint of your love on his neck has healed. Vanished. Left only now are the invisible forces of your love that course through him, which is certainly good enough–more than good enough–but physical reminders never hurt anyone.

A wiggle of your hips gets him to turn over, hand firmly on your bum as he brings you on top of him. A push from his elbows straightens him against the headboard. A few kisses are exchanged while your hands twist in his hair.

You've sedated him with your kiss just so that when your lips part, his head lulls to the side inviting you to his neck. A few tentative licks prep the supple flesh at the base of his throat. A couple soft kisses to the divot created by his collar bone to remind him that he's yours.

Sucking the skin of his neck between your lips elicits a low groan from Harry. His eyes close; he enjoys your marking of him almost as much as you do. Gently you pinch with your teeth, alternating between a suck and a lick after every bite.

You've torn the flesh of his neck to pieces and if Harry didn't relish in the glory of being loved on by you, he might have noticed the dull ache. To him, nothing was greater than waking up with purple splotches of your love dotted across his skin. The only thing that even came close was leaving his own welts of affection on you.

So as you come up for air, he takes the opportunity to stretch his neck across the curve of your breast, his lips parting at the point of your pulse. His lips moved in small, soft kisses to the beat of your heart. The tip of his tongue flicks out tentatively to taste your skin.

"Gonna mark yeh so the world knows," he breathes with another soft kiss. "Yeh mine."

And then he bites.