Harry Styles One Shots

Part 2 of Harry and Y/N are in the same ballet class, and they hate each other

ii.

"I'm exhausted."

"Well, get over it we need to work on this."

Harry woke up this morning how he always wakes up; his alarm rings in his ear and echoes through his dorm room, so he pats around blindly to turn it off. He sucks in a deep, slow breath before finally cracking his eyes open and trying to make sense of his room, his surroundings, and what day it is. He's never been a hit-the-ground-running guy in the mornings, despite heavily identifying with being a morning person, he always needed a couple of minutes to reorient to the world from his sleepy haze.

So he stretches on his bed, sucks in a breath, and convinces himself that closing his eyes even for a few more minutes wouldn't be the best idea. Harry stands up, stumbles to the bathroom, and takes a piss with his eyes barely squinted. He turns his shower on so the water heats up while he's brushing his teeth, and by then his eyes have opened a considerable amount more, so he was checking the time and scheduling out his day. The non-skid bath mat at the bottom of the tub tickles his feet when he first steps on it, the ridges and bumps slide against his soles while he lets the hot water pelt him.

It was rare Harry had to deal with morning woods anymore, because – well, he was an adult and not a fucking teenager – but within the last few weeks they have become a pertinent problem. Because for some reason, he could not get Y/N out of his head. Rather, he couldn't get what they did out of his head, and that has manifested into stiffies that refuse to flag until he fucks his hand in the shower.

The first time he saw Y/N after the fact, he...in all honesty...had been a little worried. He didn't know what to expect from her, and considering her usually loudmouth didn't care to keep certain personal things quiet (why he knew she was a virgin in the first place) he'd wondered if she'd told the free world yet. Which didn't matter, necessarily, Harry doesn't care if people know. What he cares about is a "scandal" like this taking away from the hard work they're putting forth, how their class would be far more inclined to the gossip over two rivals finally hate fucking rather than noticing their accomplishments. Who cares that they'd mastered such difficult, technique-heavy choreography when they could be discussing how Harry bent Y/N over the barre and fucked her with his fingers?

Not only this, he would hate if Y/N got the wrong idea; this didn't mean he liked her. They weren't going to turn a corner because he had his fingers inside of her – or because he felt her walls squeeze and milk around him in a way too intimate for someone you hate to feel. Harry still disliked her, no matter how the thought of her mewling and whimpering beset his dreams the following nights after. Harry tries desperately to convince himself that this was a normal response to doing something like this with someone after a dry spell of a month or so. He has himself convinced, usually, until after his cum was washed down the drain and he's left wondering why the hell he keeps finishing to the memory of her saying she was going to cum.

So he'd been bracing himself for it; wondering how this would go – if she'd lock eyes with him and her gaze would be full of something other than disdain or irritation.

He heard her before he saw her because of course he did – she's always so fucking loud – and the door opened to the studio where he was stretching before class. Y/N is arm-in-arm with Adam, already pouting about something, whining and complaining, and her eyes flitter over to Harry's, his breath caught in his throat... . .

...and then she looks away. So nonchalantly somebody would think she'd never seen Harry before in her life, let alone had spent the last couple of weeks training tirelessly with him. This was probably the best outcome for him, all things considered, but that didn't stop his brows from knitting inward. It didn't stop the sour taste from building in his mouth, nor the annoyance that had tickled the back of his head. Did she really not care or was this just an act? Would he be able to read her better when they were alone today for their personal practice?