Collection of Prompt-Fics

ex's and oh's

warnings: this is basically just... shameless smut, not even gonna lie.
words: 3,9k
characters: harry styles, emory harris (ofc)


The jukebox plays in the corner. Conversations flow as heavily and freely as the liquor, voices overlapping in a cacophony of shouting and laughing and cheering. A group of lads watching the game boo when the opposing team makes a goal, toast when their own retaliates; a lithe blonde who looks barely old enough to drive a car, big blue eyes and long hair in a silken sheet around her narrow face, cleans out the drunk frat-boys at the dart board. A man does the same to the rest of the fraternity brothers at the pool table.

The bartender slides another mixed drink along the bar, nodding succinctly before moving off to take money from the others gathered around. Emory sighs, sips at her drink, then goes back to people-watching. Tonight isn’t what she wanted, but it’s what she is going to get.

Kimberly is getting married.

Kimberly is getting married tomorrow.

Kimberly ghosted Emory eight months ago, and now Kimberly is moving on with someone else.

Snorting quietly, Emory swallows the rest of her drink in one go and waves for another. Anything to forget Kimberly and the bullshit she put Emory through.

“Make that two.”

Emory barely looks at the man who’s approached, but even the quick glimpse she gets tell her he’s also here to drown out memories of his own. The drinks are poured then passed down. Emory raises her glass in solidarity to the man beside her. He smiles - a broken, haunted thing - before returning the gesture.

“Lemme guess,” he murmurs, leaning over so as not to shout over the other patrons of the bar; his alcohol-stained breath washes over the side of her face, but Emory can detect something more pleasant, less biting, under the stench of whisky. “Relationship problems?”


He nods sagely, swallows another mouthful of his drink. “I know how that feels.”

The liquor is hitting Emory harder than she anticipated; her tongue is loose, uninhibited, as the words tumble free. She tells him about how she’d thought the relationship was going incredibly well, they were happy. They had plans for the future - moving in together. A wedding, maybe. Forever, definitely. They even talked about adopting all the dogs they could from the local shelter and giving the pups a good life.

“We were in love. I thought we were, anyway. Guess I missed all the signs, all the things that told me things weren’t as perfect as I thought. Then one day, I-I went to hers, and she was gone. She wouldn’t answer my calls or texts. She ghosted me. And now she’s getting married.”

“That’s rough.” He peers at her with green eyes painted with pain. “M’ ex did the same. Kind of. We didn’t plan on dogs, but she left suddenly without warning. It was… nine months ago, now. I think she mighta been cheating on me, too.”

“Fuck her.”

“And fuck your ex, too.”

Emory finishes her drink and slides the glass away. The rational part of her brain tells her this is an awful idea, but the liquor encourages her. Tells her at least this mistake will end with a good night’s sleep instead of heartbreak. Turning to the man, she holds out a hand, murmurs her name.

“Harry,” he replies, shaking her hand.

“Well, Harry, what do you say we get out of here?”

“You’re rather forward, aren’t you?” he laughs, but he’s nodding and dropping a bill on the bar-top.

Emory adds a twenty of her own, grabs her phone and wallet, and makes sure Harry is following her as she makes her way to the door. Her stomach flutters with nerves - he’s going to be the first person she’ll have slept with since Kimberly, and the first man in… years. After the last debacle with Colin, she hasn’t wanted to risk no pleasure with a load of headache.

But there is something about Harry that she thinks might be worth the risk of being let down. He’s obviously going through the same thing she is, and Emory is nothing if highly sympathetic to his situation. And maybe he’ll end up being the type of guy who can take critique and instruction without it damaging his ego.

As they make their way down the block, Emory shivers in the cool night air. Harry grins crookedly, slipping his arm around her shoulders, and she leans against him, though her better judgement warns her not to. The aroma of vanilla, linen, and something floral mingles with the smells of the city. She turns her face toward Harry, sniffing daintily.

His arm tightens around her shoulders, and he pulls her to a stop, guides her toward a dimly-lit alley. Emory snorts in amusement and stares up at Harry, right in front of her, boxing her in between his body and the wall. It may be the whisky, but there is nothing alarming about this. It feels natural. Right.

“We’re not fucking in an alley, mister. I have standards. I require a sofa, at the very least.”

“Don’ wanna fuck you here,” he chuckles, but then his eyes darken, gaze dancing over her face. “Jus’ wanna do this first.”

The kiss is… sloppy. There’s no other way to put it. It’s sloppy and uncoordinated, but Emory loses herself in it anyway. He tastes like Jack on her tongue, and her head swims as his hands skim along her sides. She gasps when he rucks up her Pantera T-shirt, her skin erupting in goosebumps at the cold air, and he pulls back to grin sharply at her.

“Please tell me you live close by.”

“A couple blocks away,” she whispers, breathless and craving.

“Then lead the way.”

Something inside of her has woken, emboldened by whisky and heartbreak and what he’s offering. Walking so near to Harry, feeling his body heat, is distracting, but she manages to put one foot in front of the other.

By the time they make it to Emory’s and up the two flights of stairs, the buzz from the alcohol has worn off, replaced by the buzz of her blood as Harry’s hands land on her waist. She knows she’s drunk still - a fifteen-minute walk is hardly enough time for her body to metabolise all she’s drank - but it’s less a swimming-head, tilting-world kind of inebriation. Now, it’s a pleasant warmth under her skin.

Besides, regardless of the whisky, she is very much in her right mind.

And her right mind is telling her that this?

This is what she needs tonight, even if she wasn’t looking for it.

Emory gets the door unlocked, turning to face Harry again, and her fingers clutch at the collar of his shirt. His eyes widen, but he stumbles after her into the flat, slams the door closed behind them. Her shoulders bang against the wall, and she ignores the biting pain to kiss Harry again.

Emory shifts her stance, hooks one leg around the back of his thigh, and tugs him forward. He groans low in his throat but doesn’t stop her as she moves her hips against his. His lips set her skin ablaze as they dance along her cheek, her jaw, down to the skin beneath her ear. Emory exhales harshly at the graze of his teeth against her flesh, nerves lighting up with the contact and screaming that this isn’t enough.

Harry evidently feels the same way. He wrenches himself back, puts some space between them, and a hot tendril of satisfaction seeps through Emory at the sight before her. His lips part, slightly swollen and pinker than they have a right to be, but she doesn’t let him speak. She just drops her phone and wallet on the floor, takes him by the hand, and leads him to her bedroom.

The sound of F U Right Back follows them down the hall, though she ignores it. Kimberly means nothing. Not right now. All that matters is the man in front of her, his gentle hands tugging her shirt over her head, the way his breath stutters from him as her bra falls to the floor. He drags the tips of his fingers along the curves of her breasts, down the plane of her belly to the button of her jeans.

Emory leans against the door-frame, panting heavily as he slides the denim down her legs, leaving searing spots of heat from his lips on the way. Her fingers bury in his hair, her head falls back, when his hands wrap around the backs of her thighs. He kisses a path across her hips then stops, pressing his forehead against her belly for a second.

“Please, for everything that’s holy, tell me you’ve got protection.”

“I-I double up,” she manages to gasp out, staring down at him. “Condoms in the bedside table, birth control pill every morning. Please tell me you’re clean?”

“Took a shower this morning, babe.” He grins mischievously, winking when she scowls. “Yeah, I’m clean. Got tested a few weeks ago. You?”

Emory can only nod, words drying up in her mouth - is she really doing this? Sleeping with a man she’s just met while they both have whisky coursing through their veins? The doubts vanish into dust as his nails scrape along her thighs, and everything disappears at the heat of his breath against her skin, unencumbered by the panties he yanks effortlessly down her legs.

She curses, drapes one leg over his shoulder, as his fingers dance along her core. He looks up through his lashes, light from the street-lamps spilling across his face, before he shifts even closer. Emory gasps and clenches her fingers in his hair, tugs lightly at the strands. His moan vibrates against her. Maybe he won’t need guidance, she thinks as his hands and tongue work inside of her, against her, effortlessly bringing her nearer to the edge.

Piano notes, soft and poignant, fill the room, and Emory whimpers when Harry stills instantly. Two fingers are still inside of her, but they don’t move, they’re not enough when they aren’t stroking her. She drops her head forward, follows his gaze to the phone that lies on the floor next to his knees.

Succubus, across a familiar face.

“Wa-wait, Kimberly?”

His eyes dart to her face. “How do - no. Small fucking world…”

Emory nods, deflating as the desire drains from her within seconds. This is the weirdest, most improbably coincidence of her life. Harry looks between her and the phone, and she wonders what his next move is going to be. Are they done now that their ex is calling him? Is this going to be too awkward, more awkward than being frozen against the wall with her taste on his tongue and his fingers filling her?

“So... Kimberly?”

“Nine months,” he bites out, “it’s been nine months since she dumped me. I haven’t heard from her since.”

Emory sighs, closing her eyes. “You were the other woman.”

“Not a woman, but yes. So were you.”

“What are the odds that - oh, holy shit,” she cries out when he moves back against her, almost manic as he licks and sucks, thrusting his fingers into her with a force that’s just this side of painful.

Waves crash over her, drowning out the discomforting fact that they both dated - and were subsequently destroyed - by the same woman. She can’t even begin to wonder how long Kimberly cheated on her with him; this, what she has right now with this man and his gifted mouth, is far too distracting. It encompasses a desperation born of heartbreak and a craving that burns her through.

Emory trembles as he slows his movements. Her skin is branded with the imprints of his hands, and she breathes rapidly, struggles to calm down. He presses a gentle kiss to her thigh, pulling away, and Emory barely stifles a whine when he removes his fingers.

He strips quickly as she makes her way across the room on shaking knees to grab a condom from the drawer. When she turns around, he’s already sat on the edge of the mattress, the orange glow from the window striping bars across his back, and she swallows thickly at the sight in front of her.

Harry grins when he catches her staring so unabashedly. “Like what you see?”

“You’re cocky,” she replies breezily, even if her voice sounds a bit strangled.

He gives his lap a pointed look, and Emory’s giggle bubbles up. She crawls across the floor on her knees, coming to a stop in front of him, and his legs fall to the side without word. Emory runs her hands along his thighs, closes her eyes as the hair there scratches at her palms.

It’s so different than Kimberly. She’d gone to the salon to get her legs and bikini area waxed every three weeks, and Emory had plenty of experience with soft, hairless legs wrapped around her head and under her hands. But this… this is different. Better, in a way.

Or maybe it’s the horrible memory of Kimberly that’s skewing her perspective. Either way, Emory doesn’t mind the difference. Sex is sex is sex, no matter who it’s with, and mindless sex is even better.

“You don’t have to,” he whispers above her, fingers carding through her dark hair, when she remains rooted to the spot.

She chews on her lower lip but doesn’t move her gaze to his face. His cock has stolen her attention, and now that she has gotten a good look at it, moving forward is a daunting task. The years of not sleeping with men had almost made her forget what it’s like, and she feels a lot like she did when she was fourteen and giving her first blow-job to David Hornsby on a dare.

Warm fingers grip her chin, tilt her head back with a gentleness that contradicts the storm raging in his eyes. Harry’s lips stretch into a soft smile, and he leans down to brush the faintest kiss to her mouth. Words, quiet and formless as a ghost, but so reassuring as he helps her to her feet, to straddle his lap. His hand buries in her hair, his face to her throat, teeth scraping and dragging and biting sharply into her skin.

“Trust me, if you react as beautifully as you did a few minutes ago, my dick won’t miss your mouth. Much.”

Her hands shake, but she reaches between their bodies, wraps her fingers awkwardly around his cock and strokes a few times. Harry falls backwards to sprawl across the bed, and Emory hisses when his nails catch on her breast as his hand falls next to him. She’s shameless, the way she moves her hips in time with her hand; the pressure of his thighs, so close but not quite there, is almost enough. Harry’s eyes close, hips pushing up into her grip, and Emory decides to bite the bullet, dropping to her knees between his legs.

Gagging slightly at the intrusion, she waits, lapping at the head of his dick, then takes more into her mouth. She had forgotten how uncomfortable it is to have weight, the bitter taste of precum, on her tongue like this. Harry tugs on her hair harshly, his gasps and groans filling the room, and she focuses on that sound, the reactions she’s coaxing from him, instead of remembering how much she dislikes doing this as a general rule.

“‘M not gonna last long if you keep that up,” he breathes a minute later, yanking on her hair again. “Em’ry...”

Thank God. Emory scolds the voice in her head even as she tears open the wrapper, slides the condom on him, and moves to straddle him again. His hands grip her waist, hold her still while his eyes drink in every bare inch of her. Emory squeaks when he pushes against her until she’s the one on her back, her nails digging into his shoulders.

Harry ducks his head to capture her mouth with his, and she squeezes her eyes closed when he starts sliding into her. It’s instinctive, tightening her knees around his waist and pushing against his shoulders, and Emory doesn’t realise she’s done it until Harry stops moving instantly. He pulls his head back, stares down at her with furrowed brows.

“Are you okay?”

“Ye-yeah, just, gotta give me a minute, ‘s’all. It’s, uh, it’s been a while.”

“Don’t use toys?” he asks quietly, but there’s no judgement in his voice. Only curiosity.

“Not really? I mean, vibrators, but that’s about it.”

He nods slowly, and Emory is so thankful for his understanding. “There’s no rush. We’ve got all night.”

She wraps a leg around him, nudging him forward, and Harry inches ever-so-slowly into her, waiting until her face smooths out again before pushing into her further. Eventually, though, he’s fully sheathed, filling and stretching her, and Emory pants heavily, lightheaded and aching far more than she anticipated.

“You’re - fuck, you feel so good,” he murmurs before kissing her again.

He sucks her lower lip between his teeth, nipping sharply, and she doesn’t know what to focus on - the starbursts in her mouth or the stretch of his cock making a home inside her as if it belongs there, as if it’s fate that he’s thrusting into her so steadily. The pain fades away, blossoms into a fiery pleasure. Like floating free-fall in space, with nothing to tether her to the earth.

Emory clings to Harry, moans and cries slipping from her lips, and he steals the breath from her lungs as he moves, pushing into her with a tender force that belies the trembling of his body. She drags her nails across his shoulders, his chest, down the swallows inked in his skin. Their shaky breathing and soft grunts fill the room, take up the spaces left behind by silence and loneliness, and it’s perfect. Everything collides into one when Harry pulls back, pushes her knees to her chest, and adjusts the angle of his thrusts.

She curses as his cock hits just right, her back arching on instinct, and she slides a hand between her thighs. They move in tandem, and Emory can’t drag in enough oxygen. Her breath is punched out of her with each shove of his hips, a chorus of praise falling from her lips; sweat beads and slips along her skin, sending shivers down her spine that go unnoticed.

It doesn’t take long. Between the heat and the pace and how amazing he feels as he fucks roughly into her, Emory is coming undone within moments. Harry grins sharply down at her, his fingernails digging arcs into her thighs, even as his thrusts grow unsteady. She reaches up with one shaky hand, presses her fingertips into the hollow of his collarbone, lets her fingers trail along his arm. His lower lip disappears between his teeth, then he’s spilling his release, a quiet hiss escaping him.

His movements slow, stop, and his knuckles brush against her as he reaches between them. Emory jolts at the sensation, stifles a whimper when sparks flare to life in her blood. Harry murmurs an apology, gingerly slipping out of her, and she shudders as cold washes over her. Without him, she feels emptier. Not just physically, related to sex. That sense of connection has vanished, leaving behind the void she’d tried drowning with whisky and, now, mindless, mind-blowing sex.

Pivoting, Harry sits on the mattress beside her. “Well, that was... something.”

“I don’t know if I can move,” she admits, and it’s not a lie - she aches, no matter how pleasantly, and minute tremors still course through her. “Stop laughing at me.”

Harry doesn’t, though he does lean down to nuzzle his nose against her jaw. “Sorry. Anywhere specific to put this?”

“Bin in the corner ‘s’fine.”

Emory closes her eyes as he moves across the room. The used condom rustles the bin bag, and the door squeaks slightly. She pays little attention to the sounds going on around her.

She is exhausted; the alcohol had started doing its job of easing her to sleep, and Harry had finished it. Unfortunately, he’s back before she can fall asleep completely, nudging her until she gets up and obeys his order to use the toilet. She makes quick work of doing her business and washing her hands, pads sluggishly into the bedroom.

“Do... do you want me to leave?”

Frowning, Emory meets Harry’s eye. Does she? Her bed has been empty for so long, too large and cold without someone taking up the other half, but Harry is essentially a stranger. Granted, a stranger whose cock she’s had in her mouth, who gave her two world-shattering orgasms in a row, but still. A stranger. She’s just... so tired of being alone.

“That’s up to you, I guess. But I, uh, I would like it if you stayed.”

“So would I. And in the morning, I’m making waffles.”

The awkwardness of the situation is broken, shattered by her laughter. Harry looks incredibly pleased at her reaction to his - oddly spot-on - impersonation of Eddie Murphy’s line from Shrek. Emory shakes her head and sets about her nighttime routine of locking the front door and drinking a glass of water. When she reaches her bedroom, she comes to a stop in the doorway.

Harry is stretched out on the bed, one arm tucked under his head and the other draped over his waist. He looks as if he belongs there - or maybe it’s just Emory’s longing for a relationship that’s saying that. She bites down on her lower lip as she stares at him, her eyes drinking in the view.

Eventually, though, she remembers she can’t stand here forever, so she makes her way to the bed, crawling carefully over him, squeaking when his hand slaps at her ass. She sticks her tongue out at him but settles in next to him. Though she leaves space between them, Harry seems to find that unacceptable.

He reaches for her, drags her closer, and Emory goes easily. The jagged edges of loneliness fade away as she breathes in the scents that cling to Harry’s skin. Liquor, cologne, and sex make for an interesting combination, one that soothes the storm in her heart.

She hadn’t expected the night to turn out like this. All she wanted when she showed up at the pub was to drink until she could barely remember her name, come home, and sleep all through tomorrow so she wouldn’t have to think about Kimberly’s wedding.

Instead, she found Harry who was struggling with his own pain caused by the same woman, and she got some amazing sex out of the deal. Emory presses a soft kiss to his chest, sighing quietly, and snuggles impossibly closer.

“Hey, Em’ry?” he murmurs after a few minutes, voice slurred with sleep.


“Welcome to the ‘Kimberly sucks and not in the good way’ Club.”

She giggles and shakes her head. “Well, if all the meetings are like this, I’ll be at every single one.”