You flower, you feast

The last couple of days had been filled with nothing but shame. Embarrassment, really.

You'd sort of reached the point now where you were just blaming it on the drinks. You told yourself you would never make such a crass choice like that if you were thinking clearly. It was just a terrible decision clouded from slamming back one (or six) too many vodka crans.

But you could only lie to yourself for so long.

The second you saw the text, the facade fell without asking you first. You were thrown back into the reality that you’d been desperately trying to avoid and even more desperately trying to fill with excuses and carefully cultivated reasonings.

It wasn't just the drinks. And worst of all, you really weren't that regretful.

Like… at all.

It was fucked up. You knew it was. He would think it was too. But there was a certain corner of your brain that wouldn't let you feel a true regret. You dug for it daily, the feeling of wishing you could erase it completely and pretend it never happened.

But it never came.

Not true regret, anyway.

You had regret in the way of shame. In the way of waking up every morning and feeling ill at your actions and the way they framed you as a person. At the betrayal towards someone important in your life.

That was as far as the regret flew. Because honestly, the only true regret you were feeling was deciding to stop at the kiss.

So it made sense why you'd been staring at his text blankly for the last hour.

It was honestly an impossible situation. Completely.

You: hey, yeah i’m f

No. Is the Hey weird?

You: yeah i’m fre

Rude. It almost seems bothered.

You: depends what ur aski

No. Genuinely, why would it be a good idea to come off as flirty?

You: i’m free after 2

Good. Sent.

You: whats up?

Better.

Satisfied enough with your two messages, you shut off your phone and pretended to not be staring at it constantly in the corner of your eye.

You got dressed for the day. You made your bed. Cleaned up a bit. You cut up an apple, then another once the distraction of the first was gone. It was all typical and it was all a bunch of desperate nags at displacing your mind.

By one o'clock, your phone was lit again with the screaming notification you’ve been convincing yourself you weren't waiting for.

Harry: I have some things to talk about with you. I’ll be at your place at 2:15.

You had never felt so uneasy in your entire fucking life.

It wasn't really a question. At all. It was almost just like he was informing you on plans that you had no idea would be a part of your day, but definitely will be.

But you just liked the message, sent him the address to your apartment, and let your head sit in the palms of your hands for as long as it felt necessary.

The next hour was spent through deep cleaning and a desperate attempt to appear as mature as possible. Like maybe if your place looked like it belonged to someone who had their shit together, he’d forget that the girl he was grinding up against was actually a fresh grad who had more job rejection letters than a normal person should.

Your stomach melded into a pit of shame and anxiety and that deep grungy feeling you get every time you know you’re probably about to get scolded. You really weren't expecting anything other than a Hey, I get that you’re so horny that you think it’s okay to tell your dad’s friend you want to touch him, but I think it’s best I never see you again.

But then there were the reminders that slammed into those thoughts just as quick as they came. He kissed you. He went in for the second kiss. He offered to take you home. He was rock solid the second he saw you standing in front of him.

So you’d tell yourself he was the sick one to make yourself feel better. For the time being.

By 2:08 you were slipping your top over your ribs. It was a soft pink cami, sweet and clean and thin enough to keep you cool in the heat of the summer. Your shorts were white and smooth and covered enough to be considered mature. In your opinion, at least.

By 2:13 there were three knocks at your door that had your stomach flipping and your face fading white all at once.

You were fine. This was fine. Normal, even.

More than anything, it was necessary.

So with every little patter of your bare toes against the hardwood, your mind thudded in that reminder. This had to happen. It needs to. And if you end up humiliated and never want to show your face again, the worst thing that'll happen is your life returning to as it was before you cleaned his house.

Which honestly seems more peaceful than anything right now.

“Hi.”

The sight on the other side of the door was…filthy.

There he was, Harry, stood across from you with cut off sleeves and black dri-fit shorts that clung to his quads in a big sweaty mess. His body was glistened in a thin coat of sticky sweat, dripping down his thick muscles and collecting at the damp towel that swung around his neck carelessly.

And suddenly, your stomach didn’t feel so sick anymore.

“Hi,” you repeated, smacked dumb at the sight of him as he peered down onto you. Eyes on yours, flicking side to side.

He walked through the doorway and past your body as if he’d been here countless times, bringing the towel to shake against his damp hair with every stride.

“Sorry for this,” he started, walking further down the entry way. “My gym’s right next to your place. You go there too? Must be nice to be so close.”

Dumbfounded, you slowly shut the door behind you and follow him through your place, peering around the space like something will explain to you if this is normal behavior or not.

“Uh,” you speed to catch up with him, “I do, yeah. It's nice. I usually walk there. Did you, like, walk here from there or something?”

Your eyes gesture towards the sweat on his body and the pant in his breath before he can think about why you’d ask.

“Yeah,” he nods, grinning, “I don't drive to the gym. Not in the summer, anyway. I run.”

You stare blankly like he’s just mentioned something completely out of his mind.

“You run? You’re like 5 miles away from here.”

He pulls a chair from your kitchen counter and spins it to face you, rubbing the towel over his face in a quick pass as his breath continues to catch up with his rest.

“Yeah.”

That's all he says.

So you leave it.

“Here,” you breeze past him and into the kitchen, opening your fridge to grab a water for him. “I can get you some ice if you want.”

He shakes his head, grabbing the bottle from your hand and just…chugging it. Head tilted back and elbow up to the air as every drop floods from the thin plastic into his throat.

It was gone in maybe 8 seconds.

“Do you want another one?” you ask, brow raised as you slowly reach to pick up the somehow empty first bottle.

He nods. “Please.”

So you go to grab him another, passing him the bottle across the counter as if you were his fucking bartender.

“Sooo,” you start, tapping three fingers against the countertop as you wait for him. “What’d you wanna talk about?”

But it was hard to focus on anything he said next when he was…whatever this was. Chest panting, clothes wet in a sweet musk of sweat. Muscles bulging from a pump, hair damp and eyes closing slowly in exhaustion.

Since you didn't know any better, you’d let yourself imagine that this was him after sex. Tired…sweaty…a panting mess. Throat bobbing up and down with every new gulp of water that slides through his pink wet lips.

“Mm,” he nods, like you reminded him of why he was here at all. “Lets sit.”

Then he stands, scrunching the towel through his hair one last time as he slums his way over towards your couch. Head low, legs wobbled.

“Nice place.”

You nearly laugh at the delayed compliment.

“Thank you,” you call, tossing the second water bottle in the recycling before following him to the couch.

“You got a towel I can sit on?” he spins around to ask. “Dont wanna get your cushions all gross.”

You almost frowned. Genuinely.

Was it so bad to want the sweat of an older man to sink into the couch you’d later sit on?

Yes. Yes it was.

“Oh sure, I’ll get you one,” you nodded, turning away from him and heading down towards the hall closet to grab what he needed.

You’d like to say you didn't feel the burning stare on you as you trotted away from him, but if the feeling wasn't enough, the dark stare and sudden tent in the black of his shorts told you anyway.

You folded the towel into a large enough square and let him place it wherever he wanted on the cushions, taking the spot next to him as you tuck a leg beneath yourself and let your elbow rest against the top of the couch. Your cheek fell softly into that palm, peering at him comfortably as you waited for his direction.

“I, uh, I wanted to talk about us. About the bar,” he started, his blinks quickening as the distance between you both shortened.

You were far enough. Granted, your knees would graze against enough every once in a while, but apart from that you felt quite proud at the distance between you both. If it were up to you you'd be crawling in his lap and licking your tongue flat up against his sweaty neck.

He sort of knew that too.

“Ok,” you nod, slow.

“Um,” he let his head fall into his hand for a second, rubbing his temple before bringing his attention back to you in a sort of forced seriousness. Like everything he was about to say next was completely against his will and a complete force of nature.

And then his eyes landed somewhere between the rim of your jaw and line of your waist, locked there in a fuzzy haze that rerouted whatever words were about to slip from deep inside of him.

“I was, um,” he tries again, eyes drifting across the tanned skin of your belly button and up to peaked nipples that pressed through the thin pink cotton. “I was gonna talk about the bar.”

You snicker, pressing your smile together in a firm line at his repetition of what he had just said a mere moment ago.

His eyes jolt back up to your face at the sound, dazed and confused and helplessly trying to land back on his goal.

“It wasn't right,” he begins again, slower this time. “We shouldn't have done it.”

But it wasn't really remorseful as much as it was…lifeless. Like the words held no weight to them at all. If anything, it was as if the only weight to them was the pulling drag of excitement that was laced throughout it.

You nod. “You’re right. We shouldn't have.”

He nods carefully, pupils dilated and eyes swarming across every inch of you in every place he shouldn't. His breath held a short pant to it still, even after rehydration and enough time of rest to reset himself. It was like his mind was fighting against whatever fucked up motive was slamming to escape from him, posioning all logic and replacing it with something else entirely.

“Right,” he takes a slow breath, refocusing his gaze away from your rounded tits and back up to your widened eyes.

He honestly couldn't decide which was worse.

“It was wrong,” he continues, “and I came here to tell you we can't do it again.”

His free hand slid down the slick of his left thigh, like he was grounding himself. Maybe praising himself for finally spitting it out.

But there was something about the way he said it. The breathlessness. The nervousness. The panting and the sweating and the way he just couldn't seem to drag his eyes away from your body. Over the curve of your hips, up through the sweet cleavage with a gold charm resting between it.

Or maybe it was the way his shorts had been tightening since the moment he sat down, pressing upwards in a mouthwatering tent which showed right through whatever facade he’d been practicing to keep up.

“Mhm,” you nod, eyes rounding out as they lift slightly upwards. “It was wrong.”

His jaw tightened into itself as his eyes squeezed shut, sucking in a sharp thread of air through his nose before looking at you again.

“It was. So it can’t happen again, okay?”

And fuck, you were wetter than you’d ever been in your life. Thighs clamped, cheek bitten in between your molars, lashes batting as he spoke to you so carefully.

You nod in easy obedience. “Okay.”

“And no one will know about the first time, right? Can you keep that a secret for me?”

If it wasn't for the deep breath you took and the quick close of your eyes, you wouldn't have noticed the slow slide of his leg towards yours, pressing up against your smooth calves in a gentle push.

“Yes,” you lull your head, “I can.”

And then he’s nodding too, so satisfied with your easy compliance that he nearly doesn't know what to do with himself. He was throbbing against the thin fabric of his shorts, sweaty and helpless and locked onto every inch of skin that he could look at.

“Good.”

The word alone had your thighs rubbing into one another and your heart thumping deep into your ribs, breaths quickening without you even noticing it.

But he noticed.

He watched in awe as your legs shimmied themselves together in a desperate heat. He let himself dream about how wet you’d be between them and the mess that’d be left in your sweet little panties.

He sighed as your breaths heightened, such a nervous little thing sat in front of him with nowhere to relieve herself. And if he wasn't in the same boat as you were, he would've honestly felt pity for you.

The other part of him enjoyed watching you squirm. Pretending that you weren't affected when he knew you really were. When he knew you were folding inside of yourself at the thought of him and his hands and his words. It was a sick little game. He was just happy to be in control of it. In control of you.

His thoughts were silenced as you lifted yourself from the couch, leaning forward towards the coffee table to press on your phone screen. Just to see the time. It was only a quick couple of seconds before you sat back down, but the sight of your ass pressing through those little shorts, so close to his face like that, already felt like enough to throw everything you’ve just discussed out the window.

Not to mention you were suspiciously closer to him by the time you were fully seated back onto the cushions. So close that you could hear the inhales of his breaths and overlap your knee up onto one of his thighs.

“I’ll get going then,” he said, quietly, like if he said it too loud, he might actually have to do it.

You let your eyes fall to his, lids low and lashes fluttered as you sink within them. He was staring back at you with that same sort of dominance he always does, deep and dark and hung in a lazy fashion. It was effortless.

“Okay,” you nod, gaze dropping onto his lips and simmering there for a few moments. “I can show you out.”

“Okay,” he whispers, stuck in a trance as he watches your eyes drift across the plump pink of his bottom lip and the sharp corner of his stubbled jaw.

Then there was this silence. Filled by nothing but the layered breaths between the both of you, fighting against each other like they were both too intense to ever sync as one. You were close. Closer than you should be. Closer than really anyone should be.

“Okay,” you repeat again, barely audible, as your eyes continue to dart around his face and back up to his eyes.

But he wasn't looking at you this time. He was studying your cheek bones, taking in the gentle glow before trailing down to your lips and the thin coat of a deep raspberry lip balm that covered them.

He was in a completely different world.

Zeroed in on every place he wanted, lips slightly parted as hot breaths flowed through them without much of a thought. His face was still shining in the subtle glow of a fresh work out, hair pairing with it as damp brunette strands clung to the space beside his ears and behind his neck.

And thin his finger tip came to move across your forehead, so softly that it was only felt by the peach fuzz that covered your skin. He traced his finger across your skull until he reached a soft section of hair, tucking it behind your ear gently as he continued to keep his gaze on your lips.

“Harry,” you whisper out between you two, “we can’t.”

He didn't move. He just continued to keep his stare on your lips, trailing his finger tip across your face as his eyes fell into one another in a soft failure. Like he didn't hear a word you said.

Your leg had been bouncing in anxiety for so long the cushion beneath you had started to tremble with it, but you didn't want this to stop. Your fingers stayed knotted together in your lap, twisting so tightly they ached, your thumbnail scraping absentmindedly over the same patch of skin again and again.

This was a terrible idea. You knew that. You'd known it the second he stepped through the door. Yet there you sat, waiting anyway, your head spinning so fast you couldn't tell if the feeling blooming in your chest was excitement or pure panic.

The silence only made it worse. It stretched long enough for your imagination to fill every empty corner, replaying every possible version of what could happen next until they all blurred together.

And then–

“I know.”

His lips came pressing into yours soft and firm all at once, splitting the soft cushions apart until the warmth of his tongue found it’s place within you.

It was different from the parking lot. Different from anything. Every thought you'd spent the last week clinging to unraveled.

This was what you'd been trying so desperately to avoid. Every warning, every ounce of common sense, every promise you'd made to yourself dissolved beneath the warmth of him. Somewhere in the back of your mind, a quiet voice still insisted you should pull away—that you should end this before it became something impossible to explain, impossible to undo.

But it was fading, drowned out by the way his hand settled against you, by how careful he was, by how achingly familiar it already felt.

Because how could something that felt this right be the very thing you knew was so wrong?

And as your hand slipped in between the damp curls behind his head, you hated that your first instinct wasn't regret. It was to stay. To memorize the feeling before reality caught up with you.

Because you knew it would. The guilt would come. The questions would come. Tomorrow would come.

But for one impossible, stolen moment, all your mind could think was, This can't happen again, so why can’t we just let it happen?

As if your minds had melded to one and shared the same thought, his hands were at your hips and flipping you onto your back in a quick couple of seconds.

It was rough, confident. A firm grip on the bones of your hips that you’d only ever felt after begging a man to step up in the bedroom. And here he was, doing just as you pleased in the middle of your couch without ever having to ask.

“Harry,” you gasp through his salty sweaty lips, hair sprawled beneath you as he hovered over top. “This isnt right. We can't do this again.”

He groaned into your lips, fingertips pressing deep enough into your hips now that you were sure you’d have 10 grape sized bruises the next morning in prize.

“I know,” he breathed, sliding his palms up your torso and over your ribs with an indescribable need. More than whatever happened between you both outside of the bar. That almost seemed silly in comparison to what this was now. A big mess of panting and sweating and grabbing wherever you both could grab in a disgusting fashion.

The kiss continued like this for…longer than it should. You really weren't sure if it was because of the fear of going further or if it was the mutual obsession with each other's tongues overlapping, but either way, it was clear you were both more than satisfied.

Every new minute that passed was worse than the last. You were completely melded into one another now, your legs spread and wrapped around his waist as he hovered over you and in between them. His hands had landed somewhere in between your waist and your tits, going back and forth in a split decision like he just couldn't tell which was better.

And when his hard cock pressed against your core in accidental passing, that prior satisfaction flipped upside down completely.

You couldn't help the quiet moan that slipped its way up and out of you, a sweet little gasp of air that had Harry's lips curving upwards into a cocky grin in the midst of the kiss.

“Like that?” he asked through deep breaths, pressing himself against you for a second time and pulling back to watch as your face twitched.

“M-Mhm,” you nod, rolling your hips absentmindedly as your eyes squeeze shut.

Then he was back at it purposely, grinding up against your sopping wet core as he let his lips valley down to your neck and against the smooth skin of your collarbone harshly.

You were…a mess.

Panting every time he nudged himself between your legs, basking in the feeling of his rock solid dick pressing into your tight cunt the way you’d been thinking about for weeks. Since the first time it happened back at his place, bent over the dishwasher in an accidental brush.

“Fuck, so noisy, y/n,” he parts from your skin in a breathless pant, “you always so loud? Tell me how good it feels.”

Usually, youd be embarrassed by a comment like that. But from Harry, with his cock against your cunt and his lips suctioned to your collarbone, it was almost like a treat.

“So good,” you breathe, “it feels so good, Harry.”

The sound of his name alone had him shivering against you with a new hunger that he’d been trying to fight against since he got here.

And as much as he would love to act on that hunger and just fuck you the way he wanted, suddenly he had to get the fuck out of here as soon as he could.

Because as much as he’d already fucked up, he couldnt fuck you. Not now, not ever. Never.

“Gonna make you cum,” he whispered, “then I’m gonna leave, and you’re never gonna tell anyone about this. Okay?”

You’ve never nodded so fast in your entire life.

“Good girl,” he cooed, kissing down your chest and over the curve of your tits, sucking gently with every step of the way until blocked by the cotton of your cami.

But he just passes by it, moving down to the open space of your stomach and placing a line of kisses there until he meets your waist band. It was already loose enough, barely clinging to your hips at all and already showing the small hint of the cute black thong that sat beneath it.

His fingers hook into the cotton of the band slowly, eyes peering up at you in a silent ask as you nod your head quickly. The second the nod reaches him and he gets the okay, his lips are back into a sly grin and his eyes deepen into something darker than what you’ve seen before. Hungrier.

Without a second more to waste he’s yanking down on the shorts so quickly that your panties come with it, leaving you bare and spread in front of his face with nowhere to hide.

Naturally, your first instinct was to clamp your legs together and keep yourself hidden from the man who shouldn't be seeing it at all. But the second you peered down and caught the glimpse of his head between your legs, his reaction was too erotic for you to even consider taking the sight away from him. It's like it would be a punishment.

Because the moment he locked eyes on his treat his brows fell into each other and his lips fell apart in a complete surrender. It was like he’d never seen anything so beautiful in his life. You were puffy and swollen and glistening in sweet arousal, so tight and pretty for him in every way he dreamed you to be.

“Fuck,” he whispered, mostly to himself, as his head fell downwards in a moment of regrouping before locking back onto your dripping center.

Your breaths were heavy as you watched him decide his next move, chest pumping up and down within itself in an erratic rhythm that was hard to tame. His hands found their grip on either side of your thighs, locked around the outside as he rubbed small circles into the skin with his thumbs. Like he was locking you open in case you would ever think about closing him off from you.

And then his eyes locked onto yours, flickered up quickly as he brought his face closer and closer to where you needed him most. To where you’d been throbbing, pulsing within yourself as you wettened at the sight before you.

Harry. Head between your legs and inching for a taste.

The second his tongue pressed flat over your entrance and his eyes fell shut in bliss, your back sprung upwards in a wave of pleasure that could only be explained by weeks of tension and the forbiddenness of it all.

He didn't last long in one spot. Before you could even get a chance to think he was lapping you up and down and side to side, basking in the taste of you and the clench around his tongue every time he’d hit a spot you liked.

“Taste so good for me,” he groaned, sucking deep into your clit, “so wet.”

You moan, loud and unforgiving as he suckles harder onto you, nuzzling his stubble into you until you shudder at the feeling.

“Feels–s-so good!”

“Yeah?” he keened, peering up at you and watching your face twist as he pressed the tip of his tongue inside of you, tasting everything before it even got the chance to surface.

“Yes! Yes, god,” your head tossed back against the pillow behind you as your back raised higher off of the cushions, knuckles whitening as you gripped deep into the couch without thinking.

There was no more filtering. No stopping yourself. You were screaming and thrashing and desperately fighting against the hold of his hands at either one of your thighs.

And then his grip fell from your thigh and two of his fingers were shoved inside of you so quickly that your head spun before your body could react at all.

“Ah–fuck!” you yelped, eyes smashing shut as a new wave of pleasure filled your body in a completely different way from before. It was different this time, full.

“Fuck,” he groaned, “so tight.”

You could just whine in response, head thrown back as he pumped his fingers into you again and again until your legs were jelly and your mind was mush. Your walls pulsed around his thick fingers with every stride, gripping at the callouses and tugging him out to the point of having to work to pull out of you.

In the midst of closed eyes and scattered moans, his mouth pulled away from you and he leaned upwards to kiss upon your neck instead, fingers still working beneath you both as he nagged and bit at your skin until your whole body was vibrating in an unexplainable bliss.

The fresh musk of his sweating hair flooded up towards your nose and had your toes curling into themselves, all paired with the heavy pant of his kisses and the thrusting of his hands up inside of you. Deep, where only he could reach.

“Harry, I’m–feels so full,” you whine, gripping your hand onto the back of his head as he continues to suck below your earlobe.

“You like being stuffed?” he growled, “Little pussy can't take anymore, can it?”

His thumb came to press against your throbbing clit before the sentence finished, rubbing slow circles that contrasted so wonderfully with the sharp jabs of his fingers inside of you.

“N-no, please! Want more, please,” you whine, pulling hard at his hair between your fingers without noticing. Your body was on autopilot, reacting whatever way it needed too as you filled in the pleasure of his hands.

He just laughed, low and cynical like you were absolutely full of shit.

“You can't handle more,” he said, curling his fingers deeper into you until your body was rocking against the pillow behind you and your moans were strangled through every new thrust.

“I can! I can, please, let me feel it.”

He rubbed your clit quicker, wettening your neck and nibbling at the end of your earlobe as you felt your stomach start to warm.

“Feel what, y/n? Tell me what you want,” he spurred, pumping into you quicker with each word he spat.

“You! Please, Harry, please.”

You were practically crying for it at this point, one hand still gripped deep into his scalp as the other continued to nag at the threads of your cushion.

He just kept fucking his hand into you like your words meant nothing to him.

“What do you want of me? Just say it.”

“Your cock, Harry, please! Want it in me, please,” you spit out as your legs close in on one another in a slow bloom of pleasure, the small warmth in your tummy building into a boiling heat that’s getting harder to ignore.

You didnt have to look at him to know he was grinning, his fingers working harder and his lips back against your neck in a cocky nature. Like he had no idea this would be going as well as it was.

And god, if he could record one thing only for the rest of hsi life, it would be those 9 words. On repeat.

“Want my cock, dirty girl? Want me to fuck you the way you picture it at night?” he was up to your ear now, whispering filthy nothings until your mouth fell open and moans were rolling you through you with no end in sight.

“Yes, please! Fuck me daddy, please, please!”

And then his head fell into your neck followed by a drawn out groan that was nothing but a cry for help.

“Oh, fuck,” he whispered into your skin, so wound up at the name that he could barely fuck his fingers into you the right way before your noises brought him back to earth.

Your body was mush as he pressed a third finger into you, stretching you out so wide and so tight as the tips of his fingers kissed where you needed them most.

“C’mon, baby, wanna feel this pussy cum,” he said, curling deeper inside of you and rubbing steady circles against your throbbing clit.

“I’m-m so close,” you cry, “fuck, keep going.”

So he did, pumping up inside of you and sucking at your neck until you fell apart beneath him and the heat of your tummy spread throughout your limbs.

You struck completely still under him, body tensed out and vibrated as your legs stretched outwards and clamped in around his hand in a quick snap. Your skin littered itself in goosebumps as your mouth fell open in bliss, silent for a few moments before releasing your pleasure in a long gasp.

“That’s it,” he whispered, still pumping you through it all, “feels good like that on my fingers. That’s right.”

You let your eyes stay shut as you fell down from your orgasm, breaths steadying and limbs buzzing in the sweet release of it all. Of him. Of his thick fingers slowly pulling out of you after gracing you with what you’ve wanted from him for god knows how long.

And then he was right back down to your ankles, shimmying your shorts back up your legs until they were propped nicely against the rounds of your hips. Soft and pressureless as he stayed still above you.

“You okay?” he asked, pressing a small kiss to the hand that was just tugging in his hair.

“Mhm,” you nod, eyes still shut as you stay sprawled on the cushions beneath you.

You wait for the guilt to crash into you, convinced it's only a matter of seconds before your stomach twists and your chest fills with regret.

It should. You know it should.

That's what should happen after something like this. Except it doesn't. Instead, you're met with a quietness you weren't prepared for. Your breathing evens out, your heartbeat settles into something slow and steady, and you're left staring at nothing in particular, almost confused by how at ease you feel.

“I have to go in a couple of minutes,” he says, hesitantly. Like it's uncomfortable for him to even suggest. “Is that okay?”

You just smile through lazy eyes. “I know. That’s okay.”

You don't feel ashamed. If anything, the most unsettling part is how right it felt. As if some part of you had stopped fighting a battle it never wanted to win in the first place.

The guilt is there, but only barely. It lingers somewhere deep beneath everything else, small enough that you almost have to search for it. You'll have to face it eventually, and maybe tomorrow it'll be louder. Maybe next week it'll catch up to you.

But right now, you can't bring yourself to care. You should be thinking about how to undo this, how to forget it ever happened. Instead, all you can think about is how impossible it already feels to imagine pretending it didn't.

And most of all, how badly you’ll yearn for it. Like, forever.

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The silk of your wedding gown hung from the wardrobe, catching the pale, mocking beams of the moon. In a few short hours, the sun would rise, and with it, your life would bleed away into the arms of Lord Graves.

The silence of the night was suffocating, heavy with the weight of the morning. Your night had been as restless as the hundreds that had proceeded it. Your feet were almost numb from the pacing, your thoughts blank as you tried to shut out any of sorrow. Unable to bear the sight of the white lace a minute longer, you threw a dark cloak over your shoulders and hurried toward the arched stone window. You swung one leg over the sill, your hands gripping the rough masonry as you prepared to drop to the ledge below. One night with the world at your fingertips. That was all you wanted. A first, and last, foray into a world unknown to you, so close and yet so far out of your reach. You needed to know what lay beyond a horizon entirely covered by a husband's shadow.

The heavy oak door swung open as you glanced around your chamber one last time, and Harry stepped into the room. He had been standing watch in the corridor, as he always did, and he must have known you were plotting an escape, as he always did. His dark eyes locked onto your silhouette, halfway out the window. He didn't rush forward, make any heavy handed attempt to stop you. He just folded his arms, a broad, leather-clad shadow in the moonlight, a knowing smirk playing on his lips.

“Need I remind you that you’re supposed to be sleeping?”

You pulled your leg back inside but didn’t step away from the ledge. “Would you sleep if you knew the rising sun meant the end of your life?”

Harry closed the distance between you, his footsteps heavy in the quiet of the night. “I’ve ridden into battle many times, never knowing if I’ll walk away.”

A bitter, humourless laugh escaped your throat. “Your life has never been in any danger, Ser Harry. Don’t pretend our situations are the same.”

“Your life is not in danger, princess,” he countered smoothly, his tone irritatingly level. “Once you’re wed, you will be safer than ever before.”

You stepped off the window sill then, anger flaring hot in your chest, burning away the cold fear of the night. You edged closer to him, looking up into his face. “Tell me, knight, all you know of the safety of marriage. The safety of childbirth after childbirth, the dagger against my neck if no heir is produced. Tell me of the safety in a life of boredom, things I assume you know much about?”

Harry’s jaw tightened. “I know of the bounty over both our heads if you do not wed the Lord.”

“You cannot answer my question,” you snarled.

“It is your duty to wed, princess, and you and I both know this,” he said, his voice dropping an octave, his words a reminder of the fate you were trying to outrun. “Did you ever think it would be different? Your father will strip you of your titles if you protest. He would sooner see my head on a spike than for this union to fall through.”

You stared at him, hurt and betrayal twisting tight in your gut. “You are selfish.”

“A fact we both know.”

“You will hand me to Lord Graves only to protect yourself.”

Harry stepped even closer, until he was looking down at you with an intensity that made your breath catch in your throat.

“I held no power in this match,” he said softly, the iron returning to his voice, absolute and unyielding. “My duty is to protect you. Seeing you wed is protecting you.”

You looked at him, the desperation of a lifetime condensed into a single, breathless plea. “So come with me, as my protector. Just offer me this one last night of freedom.”

Harry stared down at you, his expression unreadable in the moonlight, though a shadow of weariness passed over his features. “You know nothing of freedom. Your life has only existed within the walls of this castle. When the sun rises, you will exist within the same walls, only within a different castle.”

“Then show me, knight,” you pleaded, your cloak brushing against his clothes. “Show me freedom, if only until tomorrow’s first light.”

For a moment, the only sound was the wind howling outside the stone window. Then with a slow, deliberate sigh laced with defeat, Harry reached for the buckles of his coat.

Piece by piece, he pulled away his outerwear, gentle as he laid it onto the heavy velvet of your armchair. Dressed in only a light tunic and dark leather breeches, he looked smaller, and yet somehow more imposing. He pulled a matching heavy wool cloak over his shoulders, flipping the hood up until his face was swallowed by shadow.

He didn't say a word as he led you down an unused servant’s staircase and out through a low side gate.

The stench of the lower town hit you instantly. Thick with the smell of woodsmoke, roasted meats, and stale ale. It could have been miles away from the sterile, clean scented halls of the castle. Under the clouds of midnight, the cobbled streets were teeming with the kind of people you had only ever looked upon from afar, merchants packing away carts, labourers drowning their days in taverns, and travelers whispering in alleyways. Wrapped in your cloak, you were one of them, if only in appearance.

Harry kept a steady pace, his shoulder occasionally bumping yours to navigate the press of the crowd, keeping you anchored. Eventually, he slowed his stride, looking down at you from beneath his hood.

"Where to?" he asked, his voice low, stripped of its formal stiffness. "What is it you'd like to do, princess?"

You looked around, suddenly overwhelmed by the infinite choices of a world without rules. The town was unfamiliar, the paths unmapped in your mind. The weight of your sudden autonomy paralysed you. "I don't know," you admitted, the confession tasting sad on your tongue. You’d longed for this for so many years, and yet had no idea what to do with your freedom. You looked up at him, trusting the shadow of his profile. "Continue as you usually would on a night like this. I will simply follow.”

You pulled your cloak tighter against the damp air as Harry led you deeper into the labyrinth of the lower town.

He steered you down a set of stone steps into a tavern. The air inside threatened to turn your stomach, thick with the scent of roasted mutton fat, ale, and the unwashed wool of dozens of labourers. It was loud, a chaotic roar of coarse laughter and slamming tankards that made your heart skip a beat.

Harry claimed a scarred wooden bench in the darkest corner, keeping his back to the wall. He ordered two tankards of dark ale without a word to you.

The heavy wooden tankards hit the table with a dull thud. You looked down at yours. The wood was dark, stained by decades of spilled spirits, and a thick, yellowish foam spilled over the brim.

"Don't look at it so closely," Harry murmured, his voice cutting through the din of a nearby table of card players. "Just drink. If anyone looks over here, they need to see a man and his companion sharing a quiet drink, not a lady examining the crockery."

You pulled your hood lower, your hands not quite steady as they tugged at the coarse fabric of your cloak. You knew what he said was true, but you couldn’t help the hesitation as you wrapped both hands around the rough handle of the tankard. The wood felt sticky, warm from the heat of the room, the bodies crammed inside. You lifted it to your lips and took a small sip.

The liquid was thick, bitter, and tasted unlike anything you’d tasted before. It burned the back of your throat, forcing a small gasp from your lips. Harry watched you, the ghost of a smirk playing on his lips, though his eyes remained vigilant, constantly scanning the room over your shoulder.

"Not quite the sweet wine of the high court," he remarked dryly, taking a deep swallow from his own tankard.

"No. It isn’t," you replied, coughing slightly to clear your throat. You took another, larger gulp, determined not to let him see you falter. This time, the warmth spread quickly down your chest, a welcome contrast to the damp chill of uncertainty that had settled into your bones.

The initial revulsion passed, replaced by the strange, intoxicating thrum of invisibility. A group of rough-faced dockworkers at the center table burst into a roaring song, banging their fists against the wood. A serving maid with a grease stained apron navigated the crowd, dodging loose hands with practiced ease. Nobody looked at you. In the shadows, you weren’t a princess, a piece on your father's chessboard, and yet you still had nothing in common with the bodies that surrounded you.

The illusion of safety shattered the moment you stepped back out into the cool night air.

Harry took a shortcut through a narrow, unlit alleyway to avoid the rowdy crowd spilling out of a neighbouring brothel. Halfway through the darkness, three figures stepped out from the shadows of a recessed doorway. One of them held a rusted hunting knife, another carrying an ancient looking axe. Their weapons glinted in the scarce moonlight, their faces mostly hidden by the shadows, but their delighted snarls clear. How fortunate for them, to have stumbled upon an easy mark, for they only saw two cloaked figures, one much smaller than the other.

They weren’t aware of Harry’s skill, or his experience. He was tall and broad even without the armour, but so many men were. And so many would do as they asked, hand over whatever goods they ordered, in favour of fleeing with their lives. They didn’t know that Harry would sooner die than see you injured.

"Hand over the coin purses," the one with the knife hissed.

You instinctively took a step back, your breath catching, but Harry didn't flinch. He moved with a frightening, fluid speed you had never seen in him. Before the man with the knife could even lunge, Harry closed the distance, catching the man's wrist and twisting until the bones cracked between his fingers.

The knife clattered to the stones at his feet, but the thief’s cry was cut short as Harry drove a heavy knee straight into his sternum, knocking the wind out of him and sending him onto the mud splattered cobblestones.

Harry didn’t stop there. He was already pivoting towards the man with the axe before the first thug had fallen. The second thief’s weapon came swinging in desperation, clumsy as it cut through the air, but Harry didn't try to block it. He stepped into the swing, letting the ancient blade graze the top of his shoulder. He jammed the heel of his palm upward into the man’s jaw with a sickening crack. His head snapped back, his eyes rolling upwards as his knees buckled instantly, the heavy axe clanging uselessly alongside the discarded knife.

The third attacker, who had been lingering in the back unarmed, froze. The entire exchange had taken seconds. His two companions were incapacitated on the ground, one groaning and clutching his shattered wrist, the other completely unconscious.

Harry stood between you and the remaining thief, his broad shoulders back, his chest rising and falling in slow, controlled breaths. He didn't have a weapon to draw, didn't even need one. In the dim light, the cold calmness in his eyes far more terrifying than any blade could be.

The last thief swallowed hard, took one last look at Harry, and scrambled backward, tripping over his own boots before turning and sprinting back out into the main street.

The alley fell silent again, save for the distant, muffled noise of the tavern crowd and the heavy groans of the man at Harry's feet. He didn't bother looking down at them. He turned back to you, the intensity vanishing from his face, replaced by brows furrowed in concern. He reached out, his large hand surprisingly gentle as he checked over you.

"Are you harmed?" he asked, his voice low and steady.

You shook your head, still trying to process how quickly the danger had come and then gone. Harry offered a small nod, then reached down to retrieve the fallen hunting knife, tossing it down a nearby storm drain with a sharp clink. “Come," he muttered, guiding you by the shoulder. "Let's not wait around for their friends."

He led you quickly through the remaining maze of side streets, his eyes scanning every dark alcove. As you neared the edge of the settlement where the buildings thinned out, Harry suddenly paused outside the shuttered window of a quiet alehouse. A couple of crates sat on the cobbles, left out for the morning carters. On top of one sat a stray, clay bottle of mead, likely forgotten by a drunkard or a distracted tavern hand.

Without breaking stride, Harry hooked two fingers through the bottle’s ceramic loop, lifting it smoothly into the folds of his cloak. A faint smirk touched his lips. "A tax for our trouble," he murmured.

Leaving the dirt roads behind, he guided you up a winding, grassy path that cut through the foothills. The noise of the town began to muffle, swallowed by the damp night air, until the only sounds left were the rhythmic crunch of your boots and the chirp of insects in the brush.

At the crest of the hill, the world opened up beneath you. The dark silhouette of the castle loomed imposing and silent just a half mile away, its high stone walls catching the pale moonlight. Below you, the town looked small, its lanterns twinkling like dying embers. Up there, the wind was clean and cool, completely free of the crowded streets stench.

Harry found a flat, dry stretch of grass and gestured for you to take a seat before settling down heavily beside you. His long legs stretched out in front of him, and he popped the wooden cork out of the mead bottle with his teeth, spitting it into the grass. He wiped the rim with his sleeve and extended it to you first.

You took a sip, nerves still on fire, before turning to face, your mind whirring under the quiet of the stars. You let your eyes gaze over Harry as he sat unmoving, perfectly composed, as controlled as he always was.

“Why is it that I know nothing of your life?” You asked, your question cut through the stillness, your voice louder than you had intended.

He didn't turn to you immediately, his gaze remaining fixed on the dark horizon as he reached out to take the bottle from your hand. When he finally did look at you, his expression held nothing.

“Have you ever cared to find out?”

His words had no venom. They were spoken with a flat, empty calmness. The silence that followed was heavier than before. It pressed into the space between you both, forcing you to look at the years behind you. Years where he had anticipated your every need, shielded your vulnerabilities, and carried your secrets, while you had never once even paused to ask where he went when he was dismissed for the night.

You opened your mouth to offer a defence, but the excuse died on your tongue. The burn of alcohol in your throat felt bitter, an unearned comfort provided by hands whos history you had ignored.

“It’s easy to forget that you are more than your service to me.”

His lips curved into a mocking smile as a cloud rolled away from the moon, the pale light pulling his face out of the shadows. “And yet you call me selfish.”

"I grew up in a village three days ride north of here," Harry continued quietly, his gaze fixed on the stars. "My mother died when I was young, and my father was a blacksmith. I thought I'd spend my life hammering horseshoes. I never dreamed I’d succeed as a knight, let alone live to see the end of the training." He let out a soft, humourless laugh. “They take boys from the dirt and break them until there's nothing left but compliance and callouses. I watched stronger boys than me bleed out on the training grounds or break under the winter frost before we were even old enough to hold a real broadsword."

You looked away from him, your fingers tight as they grasped the fabric of your cloak. His words left a cold, hollow ache in your chest. You knew his life would not have been easy, but he carried it so close to his chest. Your misery seemed small in comparison, and yet it still clawed at the very fibres of your being.

The sky wasn't turning grey yet, but you could feel the morning crouching just beyond the hills, waiting to spring.

"Harry," you said, your voice barely louder than the wind rustling the pines below you.

He didn't reply, but he turned to you, leaning back on palms pressed into the dirt behind him.

You swallowed hard, the words tasting like ash against your tongue. “What am I to expect from bedding the Lord?”

Harry’s profile hardened in the moonlight. You wondered if you had crossed a line, if the rigid boundaries of knight and princess would snap back into place as fast as you had broken them down.

When he finally spoke, his voice had lost its steadiness. It was rougher, grounded in honesty.

"Lord Graves is a soldier's son, raised on duty and conquest," Harry said, his gaze remaining fixed on your face. "He will look at your marriage as a campaign to be won. Do not expect gentleness, princess. Men like him take what they believe is owed to them by right of law and blood."

You shivered, pulling the cloak tighter around your shoulders, though the chill was coming from inside of your body.

"But he is not a monster," Harry continued quietly, his features softening just slightly. "He is a man bound by the same cage you are. He needs an heir to secure his house, just as your father needs this alliance to secure his borders. It will be a transaction. Quick, most likely cold. But you will show him no fear. You must hold your ground as I know you can. You are far stronger than you think.”

You stared down at the distant, flickering torches of the town, his words settling over you. The cold of the earth seemed to seep right through your clothes, chilling you to the bone.

“It sounds as though I will never feel pleasure in the ways I’ve heard about,” you said, the confession slipping out quietly, a lament for a part of your life that was being given away before it could even begin.

Harry shifted beside you, sitting up fully to face you, honesty etched across his features. “Your union isn’t seated in love,” he replied, his voice flat, devoid of comfort but entirely earnest. “So few are.”

You turned your body then, looking at him fully, studying the sharp lines of his jaw and the shadow that hid his eyes. A sudden, daring curiosity sparked through your dread.

“You have never wed, Ser,” you whispered, a steely edge to your voice. “Yet something tells me that you have experienced that pleasure.”

He didn't answer immediately. He looked down at his calloused hands, flexing his fingers as if remembering the feel of something far away from the cold confines of the castle. The wind whipped a strand of hair across your face, but you didn't move your eyes from his profile.

“A man finds comfort where he can,” he said quietly, his voice dropping into a register so low it was almost swallowed by the valley breeze. “With people who expect nothing from you tomorrow, because neither of you is guaranteed to see it.”

“But that is not the pleasure you are mourning,” he continued, his gaze unwavering. “You know little of what you speak of.”

“Do not mistake my lack of a ring for freedom,” he murmured, looking back out at the pale, bleeding edge of the sky. “We all serve someone. We all give up our bodies to a master. I give mine to your father’s wars. Tomorrow, you give yours to his peace.”

The distant torches flickered in the breeze like dying stars, while the town huddled in darkness, a vast world spread out beneath your feet. You could feel the minutes slipping away, courage rising in your chest as the morning drew ever closer. Turning your head away from the sprawling view, you fixed your eyes back on the dark profile of Harry’s face, the cold wind whipping around you.

“Your duty is to serve me, is it not?” you asked, your voice barely a whisper against the wind.

“It is,” Harry replied instantly, his gaze remaining fixed on you, though his posture stiffened.

“Your loyalty is to me?”

“It is.”

You shifted closer on the grass, the fabric of your heavy wool cloak brushing against his, swallowing the final inches of distance between you on the hilltop. “Then I order you to kiss me. Show me the passion you grant to those who will be gone in the morning light, seeing as I will wake in another’s body. Consider me a stranger, Ser.”

Harry’s entire body went rigid. The wind seemed to die in the trees below, leaving behind another suffocating silence. He didn't blink, didn't move away. He just stared at you, his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths as the weight of your command hung between you.

"You play a perilous game, princess," he whispered, his voice dangerously low, rougher than you had ever heard it. He didn't move toward you, but the tension radiating from his frame bridged the inches between your bodies. "You command me as my sovereign, yet you ask me to treat you like a stranger. A common woman in a tavern. You cannot have both."

You didn't back down. You kept your chin tilted up, your eyes determined as they bore into his face. “I am bored of being told of things I cannot have.”

Slowly, Harry reached up. His calloused fingers, stained with the iron of his sword, brushed against the edge of your jaw. His touch was firm, almost bruising, tilting your face up to meet his gaze fully. His eyes were dark, almost threatening in the way they searched your features.

"If I do this," he murmured, his breath warm against your mouth, "if I cross this line, there is no turning back. When the sun rises, it will rise with the images of tonight plaguing your mind. Can your pride bear that when you walk down the aisle?"

You stared at him, the desperation in your voice cutting through the damp air, leaving your heart bare between you.

“My pride will not be a part of me when I wed the Lord. I believe that after tonight, someone else entirely will inhabit my body.”

Harry’s hand tightened on your jaw, his thumb pressing firmly against your skin, but his expression remained a mask of tortured restraint. “That is a poet's tragedy, princess, not an answer. You speak of tomorrow as a death, but you will still have to look me in the eye knowing that you have laid yourself before me.”

“Do I not deserve to feel passion, if only once?” you argued, moving into his touch, your breathing matching the ragged rhythm of his.

“You do not know yet what the Lord can give you,” Harry countered, his voice straining against its own bounds. “You may grow to love him, to feel the pleasure you seek.”

“But it isn’t sure,” you whispered, leaning into his space, your lips a breath away from his. “I may give myself to a life of emptiness.”

With a low, defeated growl, Harry closed the final fraction of an inch between you. He didn't kiss you with the gentle, reverent patience you expected from a knight doing an unfeeling favour for his princess. He kissed you exactly as you had commanded, like you were a stranger. His mouth was hard and hot, heavy with a pent up hunger.

His hands tangled themselves in the thick wool of your cloak, pulling you on top of his legs. Your knees fell either side of his hips, any other feeling ebbing away as he anchored you to him.

The solid wall of his chest pressed against you, and the heat radiating from him was intoxicating, cutting through the chill of the night. It was a bruising collision of teeth and breath, tasting faintly of dark ale and the wild, open air. Your hands found the edges of his cloak, gripping the fabric tightly as his fingers pushed into the underneath of your hair, tilting your head upwards, giving him more space to slip his tongue between your lips.

You traced it with yours, curious and hesitant as you took whatever Harry would give you, copying his movements whenever he relented for a moment. You were dizzy, lost in the crushing grip of his arm around you, the rough friction of his calloused hands against the nape of your neck, intoxicated by the grip of a passion you never truly expected to feel.

Your cloaks had both been pushed off at one point, though you had no idea when. The soft linen of your chemise did little to hide your body from Harry, and his giant hand was tight against the curve of your waist, his heat searing through the thin layer of fabric.

His tunic hung open, the collar pulled towards one shoulder by the hold you had on the back of it, his chest heaving as his lips moved across your jaw, tracing a trail of fire down the column of your neck.

He pressed impossibly closer as a ragged breath escaped you, his calloused hand tracing the shape of your ass, fingers splayed across the curve.

And then it all stopped as suddenly as it had begun. Harry’s hands wrapped around your shoulders, pushing you away slightly as he stiffened, his lips pulling back from the gentle skin of your neck.

His forehead rested against yours, both of you panting in the quiet air, his hands still trembling slightly where they gripped you, your fingers still clutching at his tunic.

You looked up at him, the moonlight catching the sharp, tense lines of his face. He was a masterpiece, in a way you’d never noticed before. You should have heeded his warnings. A single kiss had not been enough, it had only lit a fire within you that would never be put out.

A panic coiled itself around your ribs, your heart hammering. You were overcome with a sudden, violent grief for the person you had been before your brush with freedom. You had spent the weeks leading up to tonight dreading what the morning would bring, but there, with the heat of Harry’s body still warming you, the taste of him still fresh on your tongue, you couldn’t breathe. You were in half a mind to ask him to fetch his sword, to end your life in one brutal blow just so that you never had to know what it felt like to try and go on, knowing the blazing fire of passion and yet never being free to feel it again.

He stared down at you, dark eyes simmering somewhere between fire and ice, passion and longing mixed with the weight of what you had made him do. You couldn’t take it. Your body felt much too fragile for the depths of your need, and yet it wasn’t nearly enough.

“Take me to my chamber,” you whispered, your voice steady despite the trembling in your hands.

“Princess,” Harry murmured, a final, desperate plea for sanity in his tone.

“I know what I am asking of you, and I pray you will forgive me for it,” you continued, reaching up to brush a loose hair from his face. “But if the Gods are watching, they are already displeased. If punishment will come, it is better to feel that it is truly deserved, is it not?”

Harry stayed silent. His jaw was clenched tightly, a muscle twitching in his cheek, his eyes burning into yours, clouded in agony.

“If I am to mourn a life that was never mine, I will only get by with the memories of what you have given me tonight,” you pressed on, refusing to let the cold reality reclaim you just yet.

“You shouldn’t have to bear the image of another as you bed your husband,” he said, the words sounding heavy, like a sentence he was passing onto himself.

“I shouldn’t, and yet I will.”

Harry let out a ragged, defeated breath, looking up at the moon. “My oath is already broken. Punishment will seek me, as it often does.”

“Who will tell?” you countered, a fierce defiance rising within you. “Will you speak with my father in the morning, share with him that you defiled his daughter on the eve of her marriage? Do you expect me to share with the Lord that his bride is sullied?”

“We cannot count on the prayers that we haven’t been recognised tonight,” he reminded you grimly, though his gaze drifted down to your lips.

“So take me to my chamber, my Lord. There we will find no prying eyes.”

He looked at you for a long, breathless moment, his final defences crumbling to dust. “You are certain of what you ask of me?”

You nodded, your fingers steady as your thumb brushed across his cheek, tracing an old scar that wrapped around his jawline.

“I am certain.”

He wrapped his arms around you with a fierce tenderness, lifting you with him as he stood, placing you gently back on the grass. He reached for your fallen cloak and wrapped it around your shoulders, his fingers steady as he tied the leather laces at your collar. Before pulling the heavy hood up over your hair, he leaned down, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple.

Harry pulled his own cloak on, snapping the hood up to hide his face in shadow. He paused then, giving you one last look in the moonlight, his dark eyes searching yours as if asking one final time if you had changed your mind. You hadn't. Your jaw remained set, your gaze unwavering.

Accepting your silent resolve, he took your hand in a grip that was tight enough to bruise the flesh, leading you back down the steep slope of the hill. The town below was nearly empty. The few still awake were either deep into their tankards inside the smoky taverns or long home and in bed, but Harry took no chances. He kept his large body positioned between you and the few stragglers who stumbled through the streets, his eyes constantly scanning the dark, careful not to lead you into danger again.

He pulled you along with a reckless speed, your legs barely keeping up with his long strides, only letting go of your hand when you reached the servant's gate at the base of the castle wall.

He paused, his eyes scanning the battlements above you, but the castle was still quiet. The guard shift wouldn't change for another hour. Slipping through the gate, he pulled you in front of him as you reached the bottom of the winding stone stairwell, letting you go ahead into the dark. As you neared the top, he moved close, his breath warm against your ear as he murmured for you to check the hallway before stepping out.

You peered around the stone archway, heart pounding, but it was completely silent. No one ever came to this part of the castle at night, save for you and Harry. The torches were burning low as you crept along the corridor, casting long, flickering shadows across either wall.

Harry pushed open the heavy oak door of your room, stepping aside for you to enter first, then followed you closely into the dim, familiar space, the latch clicking shut as he closed the door.

You pulled off your cloak with shaking hands. Whether it was from fear or how badly you wanted this, you couldn’t tell. Harry turned away from you, his shoulders tense as he went to throw his heavy cloak over the armchair, still holding the outerwear he’d stripped out of before you left.

While his back was turned, you were struck with a fresh wave of courage. You didn’t have the time to hesitate, to wonder if you were making the right decision. You wanted him, you were sure of it. Your heart was flint and tinder, and Harry had struck it with his steel. You were burning from the inside out, thoughts hazy under the smoke of your desire. He had awoken something inside you that could not, and would not, ever leave you.

You grabbed the hem of your linen chemise with trembling fingers and pulled it over your head in a clumsy motion, letting the fabric fall from your hands onto the stone under your feet. You had to commit, and you could not go back once you had bared yourself to him.

Harry turned back around to face you, the room completely still as you stood bare before him.

He stopped dead in his tracks, his hands half raised as if he were still trying to smooth out his discarded cloak. In the dim, silver moonlight slicing through your window, his eyes traced the line of your collarbone, the curve of your waist, down to the fabric pooled by your feet.

"Princess," he breathed, desperation lacing the word. He tore his eyes away, forcing his gaze upward to the stone ceiling, his jaw clenched so tightly the muscles in his neck strained. "It’s not too late to change your mind."

"You are trying your hardest to resist me," you said, your voice remarkably steady despite the pulse roaring in your ears. You took a slow step forward, the cold biting at the soles of your bare feet. "And yet I stand bare before you, clearly having decided my fate."

A low, tortured sound escaped his throat. When he looked back down at you, the conflict in his eyes was almost frightening.

"You think you are breaking your chains," he whispered, his voice dropping into a rough, gravelly register. He took a single, slow step toward you, almost the distance. "But you are only forging new ones for me. If I touch you like this, I will never be able to stand at the back of your court and watch his hands on you."

"Then don't watch," you whispered, reaching out to close the remaining space.

Your bare hand pressed against his chest, right over his heart. Beneath the thin linen of his tunic, it was thumping wildly, like a trapped bird desperately flapping its wings. Harry closed his eyes at the touch of your skin, his chest heaving as his hands came up, hovering just an inch away from your bare hips, trembling with the effort to restrain himself.

"Gods forgive me," he muttered.

His hands clamped down on your waist, his palms scorching against your bare skin. He pulled you flush against him, the rough linen of his shirt scraping beautifully against the sensitive peaks of your breasts as his mouth crashed down onto yours. He lifted you easily, your legs wrapping around his hips as he walked you both backward toward the heavy velvet hangings of your bed, his mouth never leaving your lips.

You stayed like that for a moment, the kiss less terrifying now that you had some grasp on what you ought to do, before Harry laid you atop the sheets. But instead of climbing over you as you’d expected, he stayed standing at the foot of your bed. He didn't move an inch. His dark eyes moved over every inch of your body, tracing your skin from your ankles, up the curve of your thighs, to your waist, and up to the frantic rise and fall of your chest. Up and down, up and down, over and over again, his gaze so intense and unblinking that the scrutiny began to feel torturous, sending a painful ache coiling through your lower stomach.

Only when your fingers curled into the blankets did he finally move. Harry reached down to pull his tunic over his head in one fluid, impatient motion, throwing it blindly to the floor and leaving only his dark breeches on.

The mattress shifted under his weight as he got onto the bed, his calloused hands on your body as he climbed over you. His fingers found your ankles first, and then they began to roam, sliding up your calves, tracing the backs of your thighs, and smoothing over your hips. He moved slow, as if he were memorising the shape of you, determined not to leave a single part of your body untouched.

"Not one word of this to anyone," he breathed, his voice dropping into a rough, gravelly rasp as his attention shifted toward your chest, his large hand dwarfing you as it cupped the curve of your breast.

All you could do was nod, your throat tight, suffocated by the fear that nothing coherent would come out if you parted your lips to speak.

Satisfied by your silent compliance, his lips met the sensitive skin of your neck again. His mouth was hungry, rough with pent up passion, yet he was careful, his teeth tracing your pulse point but never biting hard enough to leave a mark that would betray you both.

His fingers on the other hand, you were sure would leave bruises. He seemed to forget his own strength at the best of times, but his touch was firm, so firm as he groped at your breast.

Suddenly, he stilled. He pulled back from your neck, just enough to look you directly in the eye, his breathing ragged, heat simmering in his blown out pupils.

"You have to tell me," he commanded, his hand sliding up to frame your jaw, his thumb pressing into your cheek. "If it's too much, you must tell me."

You nodded again, a fierce certainty overtaking the panic in your chest, before leaning up and catching his lips in a deep, all consuming kiss.

Harry pulled back after a moment, catching your bottom lip between his teeth. One hand wedged itself between your thighs, coaxing them open for him. With his other hand, he pressed his thumb past your lips, wetting it with your spit before moving down the bed, seating himself between your legs.

A hint of amazement was etched into his features as he stared down at you, his lips slightly parted, watching your expression as he ran his thumb lightly over your clit.

Your hips jerked upwards, your body betraying your confident mask, and you felt your cheeks redden instantly. How silly and immature you must look to someone as experienced as him, unable to keep a hold of yourself after just one touch.

But he chuckled, a low, rumbling vibration against your thighs, clearly pleased in some way by your reaction.

Harry placed a firm hand on your stomach, holding you in place, before running his thumb over you again, his lips spreading into a grin as you body reacted exactly the same way, only slightly held back by his firm touch.

"You are magnificent, princess," he murmured, his voice thicker than before. He leaned down, pressing his forehead against yours so you had no choice but to drown in the heat of his gaze. "I’ve spent years watching men boast of their conquests, but I would wager that not one of them ever looked at a woman the way I am looking at you right now.”

As if to prove his words, he shifted his weight, removing his hand from your stomach and sliding it beneath your lower back, tilting your hips up to meet his touch more fully. He ran his fingertip through your slit, collecting your slick, eyes locked onto your face as he pushed his finger inside you. Slow and careful as your brows knitted together, your mouth falling open. Your sharp, breathless gasp cut through the quiet when he curled and twisted his finger, just once. Your hands flew up, nails digging into the muscle of his bare shoulders as the heat inside you began to feel unbearable.

He stilled for a moment, waiting for the tension in your features to relax slightly, before pulling his digit from you, then pushing it back in, picking up the pace as the hint of a smile grew on your lips, your eyes screwing shut.

"Look at me," he commanded softly, his own breathing fractured as he traced the inside of you with a precision that showed how many times he had done this before. “Don't hide your face. I want to see exactly what I am doing to you."

You forced your eyes open, blinking through a haze of sudden, overwhelming sensation. Harry’s grin had faded, replaced by a expression of pure concentration. His eyes flitted between your face, and his hand between your legs. Every tiny shudder of your frame, every catch in your throat, was reflected in the tightening of his jaw. He looked as completely undone as you felt.

He slid another finger inside, then another, the fullness stretching you open and drawing a sharp, high pitched whimper from your lips. Your hips rolled upward against his hand entirely on instinct, desperate for the pressure, your fingers clawing at his skin as the friction began to burn.

"Harry," you breathed, his name a broken plea.

"I have you," he rasped, his thumb slurring over your dripping centre in perfect rhythm with the deep, steady movements of his fingers. He leaned down, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his hot breath branding your skin as his pace quickened.

The heat inside you coiled tighter and tighter until it became an unbearable, unrelenting ache. You looked at him through a blurred gaze, seeing the way his teeth were gritted, his brow furrowed in what looked almost like pain. He was hanging onto his control by a single thread, driven mad by the tight, slick heat of you wrapping around his hand.

Then, his thumb pressed hard against your clit while his fingers hooked deep inside you, and your vision went dark around the edges, a pleasure and a pain so intense and so unlike anything you had ever felt before.

A violent wave of pleasure crashed over you, so pure and intense that your back arched completely off the mattress. You could feel your muscles clenching around him in tight, frantic pulses. You cried out, the sound muffled against his bare shoulder as you thrashed beneath him, completely unravelled by the rush of the release.

Harry let out a ragged groan as he felt you break, the tight clamping of your walls nearly driving him over the edge right then. He pulled his hand away, slick and glistening in the silver moonlight, pushing his fingers past his lips, collecting your juices on his tongue before instantly reaching for the fastening of his breeches. His breathing was entirely ruined, his chest heaving as he pushed the fabric down and hovered over you, the hot, heavy tip of his length leaking as it pressed against the throbbing pulse of your cunt.

Harry sank the tip of his cock into you, drawing a long, trembling cry from somewhere deep in your chest, your knuckles white as you gripped the blanket. He stilled, giving you time to adjust to the stretch of him, reaching up to pin your wrists to the bed, locking his fingers with yours. His eyes were hard and yet fiercely tender as he stared down at you, a low, pained groan escaping his throat.

"If we had forever," Harry rasped, "I would take my time. I would spend hours letting you get used to me. But we only have tonight."

He swallowed hard, his jaw clenching so tightly the muscle jumped beneath his skin. His fingers tightened around yours, anchoring you to the mattress.

"I am going to ruin you for him, princess," he whispered, a fierce, possessive heat at the edges of his words. "You are going to wake up tomorrow sore and completely exhausted, and every single ache in your body is going to remind you of me. Tell me to stop now, or I swear to the gods I will not leave a single part of you unbroken."

Your response was a desperate arch of your hips against his, silently begging him for all he had to give.

With a low, animalistic growl, Harry began to move. As if he couldn’t hold himself back a second longer, he sank into you in one deep push, burying himself to the hilt.

Your legs tried to close around his body as the pain tore through you, his fingers having done nothing to prepare you for the size of his cock. Tears pricked at your eyes, your hands straining at their restraints.

He pressed a kiss to your cheek, his voice soft and laced with regret as he whispered apologies against your skin.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Is it too much?”

You shook your head, the searing pain in your core slowly giving way to something much more tolerable as your body reluctantly yielded to his size. The burning dulled into a deep, stretching ache that throbbed in perfect sync with the frantic hammering of your heart.

Harry let out a ragged breath against your temple, his forehead resting against yours as he stayed perfectly still inside you. He granted you every second you needed to adjust, though the violent trembling in his biceps showed exactly how much it cost him to hold back.

"Keep looking at me," he ordered, his voice thick and strained.

When you blinked away the tears, you found his dark eyes searching yours for any lingering trace of pain. "Tell me you're not hurt. I need to hear it."

"I can take it," you breathed, the words a little choked, but the desperate tilt of your pelvis up into his heavy warmth proved it. You untangled your fingers from his grip, reaching up instead to wrap your arms securely around his neck, pulling him down closer. "I don’t want to stop."

A twisted sound escaped his throat at your compliance, not unlike the wolves that howled in the distance.

He began to move again, pulling back slowly before driving deep into you once more, establishing a hard, relentless rhythm that threatened to make the heavy bed frame groan against the floor. Every thrust was deep, and punishingly thorough. He was a man possessed, his calloused hands sliding down to anchor your hips against him, guiding your body to meet his brutal, beautiful pace.

The heat inside the room grew stifling, the quiet of the night entirely swallowed by the slick sounds of skin against skin and the pained, needy cries escaping your parted lips. You were entirely undone beneath him, your mind fixed only on the absolute fullness of him breaking you apart, and the terrifying certainty that he was marking your body in ways that would never truly heal.

He kept his large hand splayed wide across the high curve of your hip, the weight of his palm anchoring you firmly against his rhythm, while his other hand roamed back up the flushed, sweat-slicked skin of your stomach and chest. It came to rest at the base of your throat, his long fingers stretching wide to squeeze lightly around your neck.

“You are a goddess,” he murmured against your skin, the words muffled and dark as he leaned down to take the aching peak of your breast into his mouth. His tongue swirled over your nipple with a slow, tormenting heat, tugging gently until the sensation set you completely alight, electricity sparking at the point of contact, shockwaves rippling through your core.

“You should not speak the Gods names in vain,” you breathed. The voice that came out of you sounded faint and distant, as if it belonged to someone else entirely. The thick haze of pleasure was clouding your mind, heavy and sweet, making the solid stone walls of your bedchamber feel like they were dissolving into the dark.

Harry paused for a single fraction of a second, his finger tightening just a fraction against your throat, his blown out eyes lifting to lock onto yours with a pure devotion that made your heart feel as though it had fallen off its perch.

“They could strike me down right now and I would not complain,” he whispered, his voice a rough rasp. He drove into you again, a deep, bruising stroke that filled you to your absolute limits and drew a broken whimper from your lips. “What more could there be in life than this?”

The question hung in the air between you, answered only by the frantic slapping sound of your bodies colliding. Harry’s pace turned fierce, every thrust growing deeper, harder, his gritted teeth catching the silver moonlight as his head tilted back, a low growl tearing from his chest with every punishing drive.

You were entirely blind to the rest of the world, anything but him in total darkness, your hands clawing wildly at the muscles of his back, your legs locked high around his waist to pull him closer, deeper, until there was no space left between you. The coiling heat inside your stomach tangled into a violent knot. With a shattered cry of his name, your body fractured, your muscles clamping down around him.

That tight, pulsing squeeze was the final blow. Harry let out a ragged, strangled noise, and drove into you one last time. His body stiffening, his hand clamping tight around your throat, every muscle in his back locking like iron as he came inside you, a hot, heavy release that seemed to shudder through his entire frame. He collapsed over you, his chest heaving not unlike a dying man's, his face buried deep in the crook of your neck as he held you so tight it stole the air from your lungs.

But he didn't pull away. Even as the wild adrenaline began to cool and the heavy, aching reality settled back over your skin, Harry remained buried completely inside you. His weight comforting and solid, the pressure of his body against your front, his length still thick and nestled deep in your slick.

Minutes bled into the dark, and still, he didn't move. He simply shifted his arms, wrapping them securely around your waist to pull you flush against him, closing his eyes as if he could freeze time by sheer force of will. He savoured the heavy, melting sensation of being joined to you, feeling the faint, fading aftershocks of your pleasure pulsing gently around him.

"Harry," you whispered into the quiet, your voice small, your fingers idly tracing the line of his spine.

"Just a moment more," he rasped into your skin, his voice thick with a profound, aching sorrow. He nudged his face closer into your neck, inhaling the scent of your skin, his fingers tightening against your hip. "Let me have just a moment more of pretending you belong to me."

When he finally pulled out, the sudden absence of his heat left a cold, hollow frost over your body. But he didn’t move away. He shifted his heavy frame onto the mattress beside you, his breathing slowly calming from ragged gasps into deep, steadier breaths.

For a few quiet moments, the space between you felt vast, as if the spell of it all had broken the second your bodies parted.

Until Harry reached out. His large, rough hand slid gently beneath your neck, lifting you slightly so he could tuck you into the warm curve of his chest. His other arm wrapped securely around your waist, his fingers splaying flat against your lower back, pulling you in until your thighs tangled together and your forehead rested right against the hollow of his collarbone.

It was a quiet and unhurried, even with the threat of dawn just behind the clouds. It felt entirely more intimate than anything that had proceeded it.

He had been a man possessed, driven by a desperate need. But his movements then were tender and soft. You could hear the slow, rhythmic thudding of his heart right against your ear.

His thumb began to trace slow, soothing circles into the bare skin of your lower back, a gentle, repetitive motion that seemed designed to soothe the lingering tremors in your muscles. Every now and then, he would lean his head down just an inch, his lips brushing softly against the crown of your head, inhaling the scent of your hair as if he were trying to anchor it deep into his memories.

You let your hand rest against his ribs, feeling the smooth rise and fall of his chest, craning your neck slightly to see his face, the reality of what you had done beginning to take shape.

"How can you know that I won’t be with child?" you whispered suddenly, the vulnerability in your voice cutting through the silence.

Harry let out a low, wry laugh. "There is no way I can assure you of that, my sweet girl. Only time will tell."

“But the Lord-"

"The Lord would never know the babe wasn’t his," Harry interrupted, his voice rough and low. His arm tightened around your waist, his palm pressing flat against your stomach. "Only you and I would know that the swell of your body was holding our secret."

You watched the steady, unblinking focus in his eyes. "You’d like that?"

A dark, primitive spark flickered in his gaze. "If I wasn’t pleased by the idea of sowing my seed so deeply inside of you that it grew into a babe, I would not be a man."

You didn't reply. The sheer gravity of what he was admitting, the danger of the thrill, left you entirely speechless. You simply stared at him, your breath hitching in your throat.

Harry studied your silence, his thumb tracing a slow line over your cheekbone. "Does that frighten you?"

"I don’t believe you know what you’re saying," you whispered, shifting slightly against his chest.

"Have you ever known me to speak words I don’t mean?" he countered.

"No, my Lord."

"Then trust that I know what I’m saying."

After that, Harry’s breathing finally shifted into the heavy, rhythmic cadence of sleep. Even then, his body refused to fully let you go. His large arm remained draped securely over your waist, the heavy warmth of his palm anchoring you to his side as if he could keep the morning at bay by sheer force of will.

You stared at the dark canopy above you, listening to the steady thud of his heartbeat against your shoulder. As desperately as you wanted to sink into sleep, to bury yourself in the rare, fragile tenderness of his embrace, that old, suffocating weight began to press down on your chest.

The night was an island. Tomorrow, when the castle woke, the wedding preparations would be finalised, the white silk gown would be laced up your spine, and you would be handed over to a Lord whos touch would hold none of the tenderness Harry had offered you. The future stretched out before you, bleak and devoid of the very warmth you were currently wrapped in. Remaining in his arms felt less like a comfort and more like a mocking rehearsal for a life that would never be yours. The walls of the bedchamber suddenly felt too close, the heavy velvet blankets too hot. You were suffocating underneath it all.

Carefully, breath by breath, you began to pull yourself out from Harry’s grip. You lifted his heavy forearm with trembling hands, easing out from beneath his weight so slowly that he merely murmured something incoherent in his sleep, his fingers twitching against the mattress as he rolled onto his side, searching for the lost warmth of you.

Shivering against the sudden chill of the room, you swung your legs over the side of the mattress. As your feet touched the cold stone of the floor, a sharp, deep ache flared through your stomach and thighs. Your body was sore, so sore, bruised and tender, a physical manifestation of the promise he had made to ruin you.

You drew a thin, discarded linen sheet around your bare shoulders, walking with stiff, careful steps to the heavy stone alcove of the window.

Sinking onto the wooden bench, you rested your chin against your knees and stared out into the darkness. The town below was still completely dead, wrapped in the thick, grey mist that rolled off the river before dawn. You sat perfectly still, watching the shadows slowly shift, the physical ache in your core acting as a constant reminder of what you had done. It would hurt so much more to let go of passion now that you had experienced it, more than you ever expected it to. The idea of never feeling the unbridled throes of pleasure had threatened to destroy you in the weeks leading up to that night, but you hadn’t realised how much harder it would be to leave it behind once you knew of the thrill.

You watched the horizon for hours, your mind completely blank yet entirely overwhelmed, until the very first, pale grey rays of the sun began to bleed through the mist, catching the tops of the trees below.

Behind you, the mattress shifted heavily. The low rustle of sheets broke the quiet, followed by the sound of a sharp, sudden intake of breath as Harry’s eyes opened to an empty bed that wasn’t his own.

"I cannot be found here," Harry murmured, his voice a gravelly rasp.

His steps were heavy as he crossed the floor. You didn't turn around, but you could hear the rushed, clumsy sounds of him dressing in the shadows, the slide of linen, the heavy pull of leather.

You knew it couldn’t last, that you only had until the sunrise, but you still couldn’t bear to watch Harry leave. To watch him to carry your heart and your virtue with him as he stole away before anyone realised where he had spent the night. You were foolish in brushing off his warnings, in insisting that you could handle having him in the corner of your eye, just out of reach, for however long he stayed at your side.

It wasn’t until he finally approached the window alcove, bringing a gentle breeze with him, that you felt the wetness coating your cheeks. You hadn’t realised you were crying.

Dropping his boots, Harry knelt at your feet. He reached up, his rough hands framing your face with a desperate, crushing gentleness, forcing your eyes away from the dawn breaking outside. When you looked down at him, his own eyes were dark, shadowed with an exhaustion that had little to do with his lack of sleep.

"I don't want to ever let go of what you have given me," you whispered.

"You must, sweet girl," he muttered, his thumbs coming up to wipe the tears from your cheekbones.

"Take me as your wife," you begged suddenly, the words tumbling out of you recklessly. "Run with me. We have time to leave before the castle wakes."

"You know that I can't," he replied softly, his jaw clenching. The kingdom, your family, his own sacred vows. The cage around you both was too strong, too suffocating, and both of you knew it.

“My heart will never be his.”

“It was never his to take,” Harry whispered, pushing a stray hair from your face. “It is mine, as is the entirety of you.”

You wanted him to kiss you. You felt entirely raw, empty and hollowed out from the inside. You had tried so hard to fight off the dread that had washed over you the moment he fell asleep, but it had consumed you anyway. The fire he had set aflame within you had burned itself out, leaving nothing but cold ashes and an emptiness behind. You needed him to spark it back to life, as much as you thought it could physically pain you to feel his mouth on yours for the final time.

And when his lips finally met yours, it did nothing to soothe the ache set deep in your bones.

His kiss wasn't anything like it had been in the dark. He was devastatingly soft, and kind. The weight of the pity he must have felt for you bled entirely into his movements. The eagerness of a lover’s touch had been replaced with a bleak, heartbreaking goodbye.

He pulled back, searching your empty eyes for a fraction of a second, and then he kissed you again. One final, lingering time, his lips pressing against yours with the quiet solemnity of a prayer.

Then without another word, he stepped back into the shadows of the room, pausing by the door to slip on and lace his boots. The clock across the room ticked loudly in the silence, a sharp death knell announcing the end. When the last buckle was fastened, he turned toward the heavy oak door.

"Harry," you called, the sound fractured and desperate as you turned to face him.

He paused, his hand gripping the iron latch of the door. His shoulders tensed beneath the weight of his leather coat, but he didn't turn back. The door opened and shut, taking him with it, leaving you entirely alone in the pale, unforgiving light of the dawn.

hope u enjoyed!!!!! please please please let me know what you think, and interact with this post if you’d like to join my taglist!!!! i have more ideas for this pairing and i will write them if even one person asks me to

“I’ll just take another vodka cran please!” You called, two nice rows of teeth practically falling out of your mouth at this point.

With a short smile of amusement, “Sure.”

And then you were carefully working your way back through the crowd, one hand wrapped around your fresh drink while the other steadied yourself against the occasional shoulder you had to squeeze past.

Your friends were exactly where you'd left them, huddled around one of the tall cocktail tables just off the open floor. They barely noticed your return before making room for you without thinking, instinctively shifting their drinks and elbows to give you a place to lean.

"There she is," one of them laughed, eyeing the glass in your hand. "I was starting to think the bartender kidnapped you."

You rolled your eyes, bringing the rim of the glass to your lips. "He almost did. There were, like, twelve people trying to order at once."

"Mm," another friend hummed knowingly. "Translation: she got distracted."

Your mouth fell open as if it was a ridiculous and totally not true accusation. "I did not."

"You absolutely did."

"I literally just stood there."

"You stare into space a lot," someone teased. "It's very believable."

You laughed, nudging her shoulder with yours. "You're all dramatic. I was gone for maybe 7 minutes."

The conversation drifted effortlessly after that, bouncing from whatever song was playing to the couple making out far too aggressively near the jukebox, then to complaints about work schedules and someone's horrific attempt at online dating.

You chimed in here and there, smiling into your drink as the warmth of the alcohol continued blanketing over you. Everything felt easy. Easy that only happened on nights where nobody cared what time it was and everyone had silently agreed tomorrow wasn't worth worrying about yet.

Your attention wandered past your friends' shoulders, following nothing in particular as your eyes skimmed over the crowded room. People blurred together beneath the low amber lights, faces coming and going as servers slipped between tables carrying trays of drinks.

Then, as if the crowd had shifted just enough to clear your view, your eyes landed on two unmistakably familiar figures sitting toward the back of the bar.

Your breath caught before you could stop it.

No.

There was really no way.

You blinked once, convinced the alcohol had gotten the better of you.

It hadn't.

Your dad sat facing the room, in the midst of conversation, completely oblivious to you standing across the bar. Beside him, leaning comfortably back in his chair with a drink in hand, was Harry.

You felt yourself go completely still.

"...Hello?" your friend beside you laughed. "Earth to y/n?"

You didn't answer right away. Your mind had suddenly become far too loud. You hadn't seen him in weeks, and the realization hit you all at once. The way he spoke to you at the party. The way he was leaned up against the side of the wall with a sickening smirk and a deep husk in his words. The way you two hadn't spoken a word to each other since.

Your first instinct was immediate excitement. It was your dad afterall, and seeing him unexpectedly made something loosen inside of you. It felt natural to walk over, hug him, ask how he was doing. That part was easy.

It also wasn't totally uncommon to see your dad out and about like this. He had you young, and even with a daughter your age he still found time to have his fun. To go out with his friends every once in a while and share a couple of drinks. With you moving closer to home after graduation, it was even more common.

Harry complicated everything.

The excitement twisted itself into something far more difficult to name the second your eyes settled on him. Your stomach tightened in a weird way that you couldnt quite explain, every bit of liquid courage you'd built up over the evening suddenly deciding to pull you in two completely opposite directions.

Half of you wanted to pretend you hadn't seen them at all. Stay exactly where you were. Finish your drink. Leave before they ever noticed you.

The other half knew that not saying hello to your dad would drown you in guilt for the rest of your night.

The real other half was already wondering what Harry would look like when he realized you were here.

Your pulse quickened despite yourself.

It was ridiculous, really. You'd only met him twice now. Two times. One, two. A handful of lingering glances that neither of you had ever acknowledged out loud. Nothing substantial had happened between you. There was no reason your chest should tighten the way it did whenever you thought about him, no reason seeing him across a crowded bar should make your thoughts dissolve into complete chaos.

And yet it did.

Maybe it was the alcohol making you bolder than usual. Maybe it was because you hadn't expected to see him here, and the surprise had sent your brain into overdrive. Whatever the reason, your emotions refused to cooperate. It was all just colliding at once until you couldn't tell whether you wanted to march confidently across the room or hide behind your friends until he left.

"You okay?" one of your friends asked, quietly as to not bring too much attention.

You tore your eyes away from the table long enough to nod, though your attention drifted right back almost immediately.

"My dad’s over there," you admitted, almost absently.

Your friend's head turned, following your line of sight. "The guys in the corner?"

You nodded.

"The curly haired one?"

"That’s his friend," you said. "Harry.”

"And...?"

"And..." You let out a small, breathless laugh, shaking your head more at yourself than anything else. "It's complicated."

Your friends exchanged the kind of knowing look that made you sink into yourself in shame.

"Oh," another friend grinned. "You like him. Your dad’s friend.”

You pulled your brows together as if it was the most insane thing you’d ever heard. “I do not! That's disgusting.”

"Oh my god,” another friend joins in now, squinting at you like he’s got you all figured out. “You’re actually crushing on your dads friend?”

“Guys,” you roll your eyes to the back of your head, “I’m not.”

“He’s hot, I get it,” another friend shrugs, and now the entire group is head turned towards the pair. As if it couldnt get obvious enough.

"He is, yeah,” and now the whole group is agreeing, nodding and folding their arms into eachother as they peer to the distance.

You smiled to yourself, unable to stop another glance from slipping across the room. The distance between you suddenly felt much shorter than it had a minute ago, and before you could even decide whether walking over was a good idea, your feet already felt halfway committed. The alcohol buzzing softly through your veins wasn't helping your judgment in the slightest.

If anything, it was whispering that maybe jumping his bones was a totally normal greeting.

The crowd parted just enough to let you through, and by the time you reached their table, your dad was already looking up. Recognition spread across his face immediately, followed by an easy grin that made the knot in your stomach loosen.

"Well, this is a surprise," he said as he stood to greet you.

You laughed, the sound coming easier than you'd expected. "Hi."

He pulled you into a quick hug, warm and familiar, and you returned it without a second thought.

"What are you doing here?" you asked as you stepped back, your hands still loosely wrapped around your drink.

"What am I doing here?" he scoffed. "What are you doing here?"

"I was here first."

"Were you?"

"I'm choosing to believe I was."

“I’ll choose to believe you too.”

You gestured vaguely over your shoulder with the hand holding your glass. "I'm here with some friends. They convinced me to come out for a few drinks after dinner." Your eyes flicked briefly across the room, a group with an exaggerated way to pretend not to stare. "They're over there."

He followed your gaze before nodding. "Nice. We just ended up here after grabbing something to eat. Didn't really have a plan beyond that."

"I feel like those are always the best nights."

"For me, yes. For your mom trying to catch a grasp on when I’ll be home, no."

The conversation carried on effortlessly, bouncing between questions about work, family, and all things that were usually discussed when you’d catch up with your dad. It was easy, almost enough to make you forget why your heart had been racing ever since you spotted their table.

Almost.

Because the entire time you were talking, there was another presence sitting only a few inches away that seemed to occupy far more of your attention than it should have.

You hadn't looked at Harry once. Not intentionally, anyway. You didn't need to. You could feel him watching you.

It wasn't an uncomfortable feeling, exactly. If anything, it was worse than that. It was consuming you in a way that had you hyperaware of every smile that slipped onto your face, every laugh that came a little louder than intended, every absentminded gesture you made with your hands while you spoke.

You suddenly became conscious of the way you were standing, of the warmth in your cheeks that couldn't entirely be blamed on the drinks, of the fact that you'd probably been talking a little faster than usual ever since you'd walked over.

Eventually your curiosity got the better of you.

Your eyes drifted toward him almost against your own will. He was already looking back. Its not like he was pretending not to.

He sat comfortably in his chair, one arm resting along the back, drink balanced loosely between his fingers. His posture was so relaxed it bordered on lazy, as if he didn't have a single reason in the world to feel self conscious.

There was a small smile resting at the corner of his mouth—not a grin, not even something really obvious, just the faintest hint of amusement that softened his expression a bit. His eyes lingered on yours for a minute before slowly traveling back across your face, unhurried, almost thoughtful.

It was impossible to tell what he was thinking. If anything, he looked entertained.

Like he was quietly enjoying the sight of you, cheeks a little flushed, smiling a little too much, talking with the looseness of someone who'd had just enough to drink to stop overthinking every word. There was no judgment in his expression. No teasing, even. Just that sickening little smirk that made it seem as though he knew something you didn't.

And then you realized you still hadn't acknowledged him properly.

Turning toward him fully, you offered a shy smile. "Hi."

His expression barely changed, though the smile tugged just slightly wider.

"Hi."

His voice was low and even, calm in a way that immediately contrasted your own buzzing nerves.

"It's good to see you," he said.

"You too."

The words came out a touch quicker than you'd intended, and you found yourself smiling again because you didn't know what else to do with yourself. He, meanwhile, seemed perfectly content sitting in the silence that followed, his gaze never wavering long enough to make you think he'd lost interest.

"I didn't know you came here," you said, filling the quiet.

"Every now and then."

You nodded, taking a sip of your drink mostly to occupy yourself. "I've never seen you here before."

"I could say the same about you."

There it was again—that tiny smile. Not cocky. Not flirtatious enough for your dad to call him out on. Just quietly confident enough to show you that he was as steady as anyone could be. Like every word he spoke had already been considered before it left his mouth.

You laughed softly, more out of nervousness than anything else. "Guess we've just been missing each other."

"Seems that way."

The conversation flowed from there.

His answers were short, almost frustratingly so, but something about it felt so intriguing that you couldn't end it. He gave you his full attention every time you spoke, listening with an intensity that made you feel like the only conversation worth having in the room.

The contrast between the two of you couldn't have been more obvious. You stood there with your drink in hand, smiling almost every time you looked at him, the growing buzz in your system making every emotion just a little easier to wear on your face.

Harry remained impossibly composed, his expression changing only in the smallest ways. A corner of his mouth lifting, the slightest raise of an eyebrow, a quiet chuckle whenever you said something that amused him. Somehow that restraint made him infinitely harder to read, and infinitely more intimidating.

It was infuriating.

And, if you were being honest with yourself, exactly what made it so difficult to look away.

You didn't care how crazy it sounded to say you were addicted to the essence of him. To the way he held himself and the way he spoke and the way he did it with so much certainty. Part of you knew it was probably unrealistic.

The other part of you knew it was what you needed. You couldn't help but let yourself drift into thoughts you shouldn't. You were a strong woman, sure. Independent and sure of yourself and all the things.

But was it a crime to daydream of a big tall man to handle you the way you wanted in the bedroom? To take care of you and not let you think at all? Leave you dumb and thoughtless on the mattress while he made all the decisions for you?

It only got worse the more you spoke. You were sitting now, in between you and your dad and stuck on Harry and Harry only. You really weren't even sure if your dad was there anymore. You preferred it that way.

But the longer the conversation went, the sicker your thoughts got. You let your eyes fall a short few inches to where they shouldn't. His open chest. Littered in thick dark hairs that coated the ink that swirled through his skin. It was mouth watering. You actually felt smacked stupid the second your eyes made contact.

You thought about what it’d feel like to run your fingers across the skin. Letting your nails trail softly through the short hairs, drifting across the tanned space that had to be as smooth as silk. You even let your eyes fall further down his shirt, your brain creating an image as to what could be beneath the rest of the fabric. A solid set of abs, rock hard and defined and maybe even covered with more ink. If you were lucky.

“Still in there somewhere?”

Shit.

Your eyes drift back up to the source, his face, and suddenly you’ve never felt more frozen.

“Hm?”

The grin that followed was infuriatingly satisfied.

“Seems like you might've gotten lost for a bit.”

If there was any time in your life where you needed an escape to an alternate dimension, it would be now.

“No, no sorry. Sorry. I was listening.”

“Right.”

He just nodded. Slow. Like he was expecting nothing more than your denial. He didnt seem frustrated. If anything, your refusal to admit anything to him just made you even more interesting. You were sucking him into you without even trying at all.

“Hey,” a tap on your shoulder dragged you away from the conversation. “I hate to interrupt.”

So you turned, slightly surprised to find a boy on the receiving end. He looked about your age, drink in hand, dressed well enough that it was obvious he'd come out with the same intentions as everyone else. He smiled like he'd been debating whether to walk over for a while.

You also noticed the empty chair where your dad once sat. With no idea as to how long it’d been bare.

"I just..." He laughed to himself, rubbing the back of his neck. "I've seen you from across the bar a couple times tonight, and I figured I'd regret not saying something."

You blinked.

"Oh."

"So..." He shrugged. "Can I get your number? Or at least buy you your next drink?"

It made you smile before you could think much of it. It was a nice gesture at the end of the day. Regardless of the fact that unfortunately for him, there was no charm that could get you as long as he was standing next to Harry.

"That's really nice," you said, genuinely flattered. "I just..."

For the first time since he'd walked over, your eyes instinctively drifted toward Harry. He hadn't moved.

He was still sitting back in his chair exactly as before, one hand wrapped loosely around his glass. His expression remained almost calm, but his attention had moved entirely to the conversation unfolding in front of him. Low green eyes moved between you and the stranger without hurry, his face giving away next to nothing.

If you didn't know better, you'd think he wasn't bothered in the slightest.

But there was something about the way his jaw had settled, the way his thumb slowly traced the rim of his glass, that suggested he was listening far more closely than he cared to admit.

You looked back at the stranger with an apologetic smile.

"I'm really flattered," you repeated. "I’m just not looking for anything right now."

He accepted it graciously enough, lifting his free hand in surrender.

"Can't blame me for trying."

You give him another sweet smile. "Not at all."

"I hope you have a good night."

"You too."

He disappeared back into the crowd almost as quickly as he'd arrived, leaving behind only a brief silence.

Harry was the first to break it.

He tilted his head the slightest bit. "So..." he said evenly, as though nothing particularly interesting had just happened. "You get that a lot?"

The question was casual. Too casual.

Now you knew his unbothered persona was a bunch of bullshit.

“I don't know,” you shrug. “Just as much as any other 24 year old at a bar I guess.”

“Hm,” he nods, shifting in his seat a pinch until his knee brushes against yours. “Which is?”

“Umm,” you look up to the ceiling, pretending to think innocently. “What’s it to you?”

His grin deepened at the question, squinting down on you like he was trying to think of the right words to say for the first time in his life.

“Just curious.”

So you dropped it. The conversation drifted elsewhere from there. Talk of life after graduation, the stress of job hunting while still trying to make rent. He told you about the struggle that comes along with divorce and the way his married friends thought less of him.

Before you knew it, you’d shared two drinks together and the bar was starting to empty. Including your friends. And pretty much every other person that was within a couple feet of you both.

“Hey, you’re still here? Is everything okay?” It was your dad. Planted right in between you and Harry with a look of pure concern for his daughter who had spent the entire night at the bar with his friend.

Could you blame him?

Harry's leg pushed away from yours quicker than anything you’ve ever seen from him. Panicked, almost. It honestly exposed his intentions with you in more ways than one.

“We were just chatting,” you shrug, “my friends left. Probably to another bar.”

“Oh,” your dad nods, “well it’s getting to that time. I'm gonna go home to your mom. If you want to spend the night at home tonight you’re more than welcome to come?”

Your head shook quickly. “That’s okay. I’ll uber back to my place.”

“I can drop you off.”

Your head snapped towards Harry like he just suggested something absolutely insane.

“Yeah? I’d prefer you over an uber for her,” you dad stepped in, shrugging as he looked between the both of you in quiet patience.

“Sure,” you nod, “sure, that’d be great. Thank you.”

That was that. Your dad left, the tab closed, and before you knew it you were on the way out of the bar, shoulder to shoulder with the same man you’d spent the entire night with.

As soon as the noise of the bar gave way to the cool night air, the silence hit you harder than you expected.

The door swung shut behind you, muffling the music into nothing more than a dull thump inside the building. A breeze brushed against your arms, carrying away some of the warmth that had settled into your skin over the course of the evening, but it did very little to quiet the thoughts ricocheting around your head.

You glanced sideways at Harry as the two of you started down the sidewalk toward the parking lot. His hands were tucked comfortably into the pockets of his pants, his pace calm, as if offering to take you home had been the simplest thing in the world.

He didn't seem awkward about it. He didn't seem nervous. If anything, he looked exactly the same as he had all evening. Composed and quietly self assured.

Meanwhile, your own brain had become more than impossible to manage.

Maybe this was just what he did. Maybe he would've offered anyone a ride if they'd had a few drinks. Maybe he felt pressure from your dad.

There were a hundred perfectly logical explanations for why you were walking beside him right now, and yet your mind refused to settle on any of them. Instead, it insisted on drifting toward the one explanation you knew better than to entertain.

The small possibility that maybe he wanted you alone as badly as you wanted him alone.

The thought appeared so suddenly you almost laughed at yourself.

Don't.

Seriously, don't.

You'd met him twice before tonight. Three times now, if this counted. Nothing had happened. Nothing had even come close to happening. There had been lingering eye contact and conversations that somehow ended up longer than they were supposed to be, but that was it. You couldn't start inventing feelings because a handsome man had offered to make sure you got home safely.

“You think a lot,” his voice cut through your brain before you could get too far.

“Hard not to,” you start, staring down at your strutting feet through your blurry vision.

He slowed by a black SUV, broad and sleek and rich. You knew it was his. You saw it in his driveway the first time you met him.

“What’s on your mind?” he asked, pausing by the passenger side and waiting patiently for a response. You were faced towards him, back resting gently against the slick black exterior as your arms rested absently at your sides.

You thought about telling him. Letting him know how consumed you felt by his presence and the sick thoughts that barged through you against your will. You wondered if he’d feel the same way for you. If he also felt the heat that your brain may or may not be imagining.

But to be completely real, you knew you wouldn't. Not without a little push, anyway.

“Not totally sure,” you say instead, “Bit hard to explain. Complicated.”

Your eyes peered up at him in a silent obedience through the dark night, pupils wide and waiting to follow his lead without really thinking too hard. He was tall in front of you, hands still firm in his pockets and lids hung low as they looked down on you.

“I want you to tell me what you’re thinking.”

And shit, suddenly, you did too.

You're not sure what it was. Maybe the way he said it. The control.

Maybe they need to please him. You never wanted to disappoint someone, especially someone who’s been as generous to you as Harry has. Especially not someone who looks at you the way Harry does.

In reality it was the six drinks. But you’d realize that some time tomorrow.

“I just…” you let your eyes shut and your head fall towards the pavement beneath you, digging to the back of your brain to try to find the right words. Appropriate words. Mature words. Something that can actually encapsulate what’s been swirling through your head for weeks on end.

“C’mon,” his hand comes to press up underneath your chin, raising your gaze back to his. “Look at me. Wanna know what’s going on in there.”

And then his finger tip tapped twice against your forehead and a little smirk smacked itself back onto his face.

“It’s hard,” you say, smiling despite yourself at his little taps.

“You’re a big girl,” he cooed, “tell me.”

You stare back up at him with a thick smile at his words, flickering your eyes back and forth between his own like you couldn't decide which to land on.

You were close. Closer than you’d ever really been in the past. So close that you knew that once you started to speak he would get the vodka from your tongue and he’d catch the heat on your cheeks.

“I don't know…” you start, slow and careful. “It’s just…I just have a lot…on my mind.”

His smile deepens with an amused nod. “We’ve covered that.”

“Right,” you laugh, shaking your head and taking a quick breath as you reassess.

He spent the entire night with you. Only you. He picked you apart until you were forced to stop the conversation. He offered to drive you home. You're smart enough to know that he flirts with you every time he’s with you.

Oh, and if he’s not staring at your eyes he’s staring at your tits or your ass or anywhere in between.

So when you refocused this time, everything seemed a lot less scary than it did before.

“I’m gonna sound sort of totally crazy when I say this, so if I say something incredibly uncalled for or inappropriate I’ll just say that I’m drunk and blame it on that and we’ll never talk about it again, yeah?”

With a loose grin and a nod of his head, you took one last final breath and pressed harder back into his car behind you.

“I don't know how to explain this the right way, and I know it sounds completely delusional. I guess I just…lately…I don't know. You and me. I just feel like you’re…you intrigue me. The way you hold yourself. It’s like there's something about you that my mind just…clings too.”

He bites into the inside of his cheek as you take a brief pause, biting back his smile before it gets too wide and cuts you off before you finish.

He wanted you to say it all. To lay it all out on the table in front of him until you were vulnerable and small and waiting for him to pick you up.

“I think about you a lot. All the time. I know it’s ridiculously inappropriate and honestly just disturbing of me to even tell you this because, well, you’re my dads friend and I’m not stupid. I’m young. Very young. Too young for you. I just feel…I don't know, Harry.”

He nudged his head towards you in one quick nod, pushing you to continue as his lids lowered and his feet stepped closer.

“I’m curious. I can't get away from you. And I know I shouldn't but…for some reason that just makes me want it more and want you more and…I don't know. I think you’d take care of me. Not let me think. I just think it’d be fun to, like…touch you. Let you touch me. Touch eachother, feel eachother, I don't know, I’m rambling now it just sounds stupid but–”

His lips pressed into yours before you could continue to belittle it all. Soft, firm, cautious.

You didn't kiss him back at first. He didn't move at first either. You just stood there, frozen against the door of his car with your hands at your side and your heart thudding deep in your ribs.

But then you moved. You let your lips fall into the kiss in a slow rhythm of half sure and half wondering. He moved too. Letting himself taste you how he pleased and slip his tongue wherever his mind told it to go. Tasting you, feeling you out.

It went slow like this for a brief couple of moments. The nerves and the impending stress of both of your lives flipping upside down if anyone were to see you.

And then it switched into a raw animal magnetism that was nothing but fucking disgusting for outside of the local dive bar.

His hands were grasping at anything they could, from your hips and up towards your ribs and over the cusp of your breasts. He was nagging and tugging at every inch of you, breathing heavy into your open mouth as his tongue swiped along the insides of your cheeks.

“Fuck, y/n,” he breathed, “this isnt right.”

But he kept kissing you anyway. Harder, if anything.

It didn't stop you either. Your hands pawed at his open chest and pulled down on the silky material of his button up, practically moaning at the wealth of the fabric alone.

He was thick and buffed out in every aspect, biceps pressing tight against the fabric and abs hard underneath your dainty nails.

“I know,” you whispered back through his wet mouth, fisting at his shirt and stretching your neck back as he pressed closer into you.

Every nervous thought that followed you outside of the bar disappeared completely as his hands threaded up behind your scalp. His fingers twirled through your hair desperately, nagging at you in a way that almost seemed like a test of sorts. To see how you’d react. And so far, everything was going quite swimmingly for him.

Just as he’d imagined for weeks on end. Repeatedly. All the time. His tongue in your mouth and his hands grasping at any part of you he wanted, all while you stood there and took it all and more. Touching him wherever you pleased, unapologetically.

“We have to stop,” his breath slipped through to yours again.

You nodded through the mess of a kiss, “Ok, let’s stop.”

And you did. You pulled back and let your heads rest against each other, heavy breaths meshing into each other as his hands pulled out of your hair and your fingers released their grasp on his shirt.

Then there was this silence.

This heaviness that settled between you both as you stood there and regained composure. It was a weird feeling–hard to describe, really. You could tell you both felt it. The feeling of something unfinished. Unsatisfied.

Like your vibrator dying on you right before your climax. Truly sickening.

You just breathed. Unsteady. Together. Like somehow catching your breath together was enough of a replacement for anything else.

But then it wasn't.

“Fuck it,” his lips were back on yours just as heavy as they were before, parting you open and groaning into the warm taste of your tongue, sweet and tangy in a mix of you and vodka.

There was no more pretending. No more ignoring it. You were practically clipped undone at just the feeling of his lips as if you were back in junior high.

It’d be embarrassing if he wasn't acting the same way.

You couldn't help but let your thoughts drift as the kiss deepened back into what is was, hands wandering again and eyes clamping shut in a pit of need. You thought about if anything where to happen after this. You thought about what his face would like once he finally saw the tits he’d been gawking at for weeks now.

But the main thing was him. His hands. His fingers. His cock, which had been throbbing and aching against the zip of his pants since the moment you saw him tonight. He knew you noticed hours ago. He also knew that you noticed it never fixed itself.

And now it was bulging. Pressing up against the insides of your thighs messily as gentle murmurs fell through his lips in total bliss. Like rubbing up against the inside of your legs was enough for him to cum right there.

His palm came to grip softly around the outside of your neck, thumb pressing firm against your throat as the rest of his fingers wrapped gently around it.

And once the chill of his rings reached your skin and a soft sigh of pleasure echoed from your mouth to his, you both knew you were absolutely and totally fucked.

u guys..im excited. who’s fucking excited.

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