odette🎀

And then there’s the stethoscope I just hang round my neck outside on the porch. I almost laugh. I nicked it off the set half as a joke. A souvenir. A stupid little thing from a sketch that should’ve ended when the cameras did. Except it didn’t end there, did it? Not after your texts came through last night while I was still in the hotel, sprawled across white sheets and trying not to imagine the expression on your face while you typed. I can still see the messages lighting my screen.

I need Dr. Styles to examine me.

Then, because you can never let a bit die with dignity:

I need to be tied to an examination bed.

I drag a hand over my mouth now, trying to hide the grin that still threatens every time I think about it. Your wish is my command, my love.

You look up now, and the second your eyes land on me, your whole face changes. It always does. Softens first, then brightens, then goes a little mischievous round the edges, because you’re you and apparently sincerity must always be paired with a bit. “You’re home,” you say, like you didn’t know exactly when my car pulled up.

“I am.”

Your gaze drops to the stethoscope. Sticks there. Then climbs slowly back to my face. “Oh my God,” you murmur, already smirking. “You actually brought it.”

“Course I did.” I leave the bag where it is and start towards you. Slow enough to watch what happens in real time. The way your fingers pinch the edge of the page but don’t turn it. The way your shoulders square, then betray you by drawing back into the cushions. The pulse I can see at the base of your throat from all the way across the room.

You wet your lips. “That’s actually ridiculous,” you say.

“Mm.”

“Like deeply embarrassing behaviour from a grown man.”

I stop in front of the sofa. “And yet you’re the one who asked Dr. Styles to examine you.”

Your eyes flash, giving me that spark, all quick wit and nerves and appetite bundled together into one glorious menace of a woman. You lower the book, fold the page with one finger, and tilt your head back to look up at me. “I don’t remember asking you,” you say lightly. “I asked a medical professional.”

I bark out a laugh, sudden and helpless. God, I’ve missed you. Then I see the tiny shift in your expression when I lean down. Anticipation overtakes the joke. Your breath catches. Not fear. Never that. Just that bright, trembling edge when you know I’ve made my mind up and you’re waiting to find out how far I’ll take it. I slip one arm behind your back, the other under your knees, and lift you before you can even squeal. You do anyway, all startled laughter, the book tumbling uselessly onto the sofa cushion. “What—!”

I don’t answer. I only adjust you against me for a second, long enough to enjoy the instinctive way your hands hold on to my shoulders, then I tip you over mine in one easy movement. You shriek my name, half laughing, half outraged, your hair spilling down my back. “Absolutely not—”

“It’s time for your checkup, Angel,” I say, already carrying you towards the stairs. “Doctor Styles will see you now.”

You make a scandalized noise that means nothing, I know you too well for that. It’s in the way your body gives in after the first second of surprise, how your hand slides between my shoulder blades instead of pushing away, how your voice goes thinner with excitement even when you try to make it bratty. “This is so insane,” you mutter.

“Probably.”

“This is literally HR violation behaviour.”

“You plannin’ to report me?”

You lift your head just enough that I can hear the smile in your voice. “Depends on the quality of care.”

I slap the back of your thigh, and you go quiet. That’s the thing with us. The silliness is real. The teasing is real. But underneath it, there’s a current that changes the air whenever I choose to touch you a certain way. A line I can step over with one look, one grip, one shift in my voice. You feel it as sharply as I do.

By the time I carry you into the bedroom, neither of us is laughing anymore. Not because it isn’t still fun. It is. But now it’s sharpened. Focused. I set you on your feet beside the bed. You stand there a little dazed, cheeks warm, hair tousled, my jumper hanging off one shoulder. The room is dim except for the bedside lamps and the low wash of winter evening through the curtains. Everything looks soft. Expensive. Quiet. You look anything but quiet, though.

“Strip for me,” I say.

Your eyes widen. I nod towards the centre of the bed. “For the examination. I’m just in the bathroom.”

And I leave before you can answer, because I know you’ll do better with a second to yourself. In the ensuite, I brace both hands on the marble and look at my reflection. I’m grinning like a lunatic. It’s not just the game of it. Not just the stethoscope or the absurd thrill of hearing you call me doctor in those texts. It’s you. The trust of it. The way you hand yourself over in small deliberate pieces and expect me to notice every one. You act wild, mouthy, dramatic, chronically online, all quick jokes and exaggerated despair, but when it matters, you listen with your whole body. You let me lead because you know I’ll hold the line carefully. That matters more than the rest of it combined. I glance at the box on the shelf — a proper little kit I put together a while ago like I’d gone mad on a pharmacy run. Pen light. Tongue depressors. Blood pressure cuff I have no intention of using. A thermometer still in its packaging. Sterile gloves. Things I may or may not use. It’s ridiculous. Overkill. Entirely too much. You’ll love it.

When I walk back in, box in hand, you’re exactly where I told you to be. Naked on the bed. Knees together. Hands folded in your lap. I stop dead. The room goes quieter than before, as though the house itself is holding still to watch. You’ve arranged yourself so prettily it nearly hurts me. Chin slightly lifted, though I can see the nerves in the way your fingers press together. Adrenaline has touched every inch of you now, your skin seems brighter for it. Your eyes lock to mine and don’t move. “Good girl,” I say softly. Your breath catches once.

I set the box on the nightstand and come back to stand in front of you. “From now on, what are you calling me?”

There’s a brief moment where your mouth parts, then closes, and I can practically watch you settle into it. Into me. Into the shape of the game. “Dr. Styles,” you say.

“Again.”

“I’m going to call you Dr. Styles, sir.”

The title lands low in my stomach, heavier than it should. I give a small nod, keeping my face composed because I want you to feel safe inside the seriousness of it. “You understand that if anything feels wrong, anything at all, you tell me.”

“Yes, Dr. Styles.”

“Colour?”

“Green.”

Better than any drug, the way you say it. Steady. Certain. A little breathless, but certain. You’re nervous, yes. So am I, in my own way. First times always have a charge to them. But you’re here with me. All in. “Alright,” I murmur. “Let’s begin.”

I slip the stethoscope from around my neck and warm the diaphragm briefly in my palm, though not enough to take the chill off completely. Then I angle your chin up with two fingers. “Sit up straight for me.”

You obey instantly. There’s a tiny smile threatening at the corners of your mouth, like part of you still can’t believe this is happening. I can’t either, really. Not in a way that translates into language. Desire is a strange architect, it builds altars out of the oddest materials. A sketch. A prop. A text message sent at midnight. I place the cold metal against your chest. You jolt with a sharp inhale, shoulders twitching, and I nearly smile again. “Hold still.”

“Yes, Dr. Styles.”

I listen. Your heart is there, quick and lovely, knocking hard against your ribs. Faster than resting. Faster than calm. I move the diaphragm slightly, following rhythm, listening more than I need to because the intimacy of it is staggering. The permission of standing over you like this, with your body bare and open and your pulse giving you away. “Bit elevated,” I say eventually. Your lashes flutter. I lift my eyes to yours. “I’ll take care of that later.” Colour rises instantly in your face. Good. Message received.

I shift to your back. “Lean forward.”

You do, hair falling over one shoulder, spine long and elegant. I put the stethoscope against your skin between your shoulder blades. Another little flinch. “Deep breath.” You inhale too quickly. “Again. Slow this time.”

I feel you try. Hear the effort of it as your lungs fill, then empty. I move the chest piece lower, then higher, mapping the sound of you. Your breathing is faster than usual, but clear. No rattle, no catch, just excitement making a mess of your rhythm. “Lungs are clear,” I say. “Breathing’s a bit fast.”

“Sorry, Dr. Styles.”

There’s something in the apology, earnest and playful all at once, that makes my mind race. “Nothing to apologize for, Angel.”

I set the stethoscope aside and reach for the pen light. When you turn to look at me, your eyes go straight to it. “Oh my God,” you whisper, and I can’t tell whether you’re thrilled or appalled.

“Eyes on me.” You do. Pupils already blown wider than they ought to be, but still responsive as I shine the light into one eye, then the other. You blink hard, obediently trying not to squirm. “Good.”

Then I pick up a tongue depressor. This, more than anything, changes the atmosphere. You know it too. I see the moment you understand exactly why I’ve chosen this one. Your thighs press together. Your lips part.

“Open.”

You obey. I switch on the pen light and place the depressor on your tongue gently to start with. “Say ah.”

“Ah.”

“Again.”

I lean in a little closer, enough that I can feel your warm breath against my face. Your gaze keeps trying to lift to mine and then dropping away again because the intensity of it is too much. You’re trembling now, faintly but unmistakably. Then I press the depressor further back. Your body reacts instantly. A helpless gag, sudden and sharp. Your hands twitch on your thighs. Tears spring to your eyes so fast it would alarm someone who didn’t know what they were looking at. I know exactly what I’m looking at, though. “Hold still,” I say, calm as anything. “Be good for me.”

You make the tiniest distressed sound and force yourself not to move. That obedience hits me like a blow. I keep the pressure there just long enough to make your eyes shine, just long enough to feel the quiver in your jaw, then draw it away and set it aside with the pen light. You swallow hard, breath breaking, tears caught in your lashes. I thumb one from the corner of your eye before it can fall. “Shh,” I murmur. “You’re okay. Did so well for me.”

Your mouth trembles around a shaky smile. “Th-thank you, Dr. Styles.”

I cradle your jaw for a second, letting the tenderness sit there plain between us. Letting you feel that I’m not lost inside the role, that I’m still reading every flicker across your face. Then my hand slides to your throat. Not squeezing. Just holding. I palpate the glands at the side of your neck with careful professional slowness, though there’s nothing professional about the way your pulse leaps under my fingertips. I know you love my hands. I know exactly what your body hears when my thumb settles just beneath your jaw and my fingers bracket the other side. You whimper. The sound is soft, involuntary, and so telling that my own breathing changes with it. “Any pain?” I ask.

Your eyes are wide. You shake your head. “No pain, Dr. Styles.”

The answer comes fast, almost eager, and I know then what the whimper meant. Not discomfort. Want. You’ve gone molten with it, and the knowledge of that runs hot through me, coiling low in my stomach. I press a little firmer, just enough to make your breath catch. “No pain?” I repeat.

“No, Dr. Styles.”

“Good girl.” Your eyes flutter closed for half a second.

I release you and step back before I’m tempted to abandon the entire premise. There’s still so much I can do with this. So much I want to pace properly. I nod towards the pillows. “Lie down for me.”

You lower yourself at once, stretching out on your back across the bed. Your hair fans over the duvet. Your hands come to rest at your sides like you’re trying very hard not to fidget. I take a moment simply to look at you. The rise and fall of your chest. The anticipation tightening your stomach. The way you wait. Then I place my hand low on your abdomen. “Tell me if anything hurts.”

“Yes, Dr. Styles.”

I begin lightly, pressing in small measured motions. Down the centre first, then off to one side, then the other. A proper examination in form if not entirely in intent. Your stomach tenses under my palm before slowly easing when I smooth my hand over it. “Relax,” I say quietly. “Let me.” You let out a slow breath and soften. “That’s it.”

I press a little deeper just below your navel, watching your face, not because I expect pain but because I want the discipline of your response. The focus. The care in the way you answer me. “Any pain here?”

“No pain, Dr. Styles.”

I move higher, over the line of muscle that jumps every time my fingers sink in. “Here?”

“No pain, Dr. Styles.”

And again, lower on the other side. “Here?”

Your voice catches this time, not with distress but with effort. “No pain, Dr. Styles.”

“Such a good patient.”

You turn your head slightly into the pillow as if the praise embarrasses you, though I can see how much you like it. Feel it in the way your body responds under my hands — more open, more yielding, more mine to guide.

I continue the examination with maddening thoroughness, one hand pressing, the other steadying your hip. Every so often I pause for your answer, and every time you give it to me exactly right. Breathless but obedient.

No pain, Dr. Styles.

No pain, Dr. Styles.

Each repetition seems to settle you deeper into the role, into submission, until the room itself feels transformed — not a bedroom exactly, not anymore, but a private place built between trust and performance and heat. Something ours.

At last I ease my hands away and let my gaze travel slowly upward. Your chest rises with a quicker breath when you realize where I’m looking. I rest my palm just above your ribs, anchoring you there, and meet your eyes. “Alright,” I say, voice low and steady. “I’m going to examine your breasts now.”

You nod, your trusting eyes giving me permission to take this further and my heart pounds with excitement now. I love leading you like this, watching you submit. It's a beautiful sight to behold. “Right then, Angel,” I say, as I reach over to the box on the nightstand and slip on a pair of latex gloves with a snap that makes you jump a little. “Dr. Styles is going to give you a proper examination now. You’re going to be a good girl, aren't you?” I lean over you now, my gloved fingers hovering just above your skin, not touching yet. Your nipples are already pebbled, begging for attention, and I can smell your arousal faintly in the air — sweet and musky.

You nod again, biting your lip, your wit briefly flickering in your eyes even as nervousness dances there. “Yes, Doctor Styles. I'll be really good.” Your voice is breathy, submissive, and it sends a rush of heat straight to my groin. I smile, confident and caring all at once, because this is us — always respectful, even though in the bedroom, I'm your Dom, and I know you love it just as much as I do. “That's my girl. Let's start with your breasts now then, shall we? I need to check for any irregularities.” My gloved hands finally make contact, cupping your breasts gently at first, thumbs tracing the undersides. You're so responsive, your body arches slightly into my touch. I knead them slowly, methodically, like a real exam, but I brush my thumbs over your nipples on purpose, lightly at first, then firmer, rolling them gently between my fingers until a soft whimper escapes your lips. I watch your face intently, loving how your cheeks flush pink. “Look at you, squirming already. Does that feel good, Angel? Tell Dr. Styles what's happening.”

'It... it tingles, Harry — uh, Dr. Styles,” you gasp, hands fisting the sheets.

“Good,” I murmur, pinching your nipples just enough to make you gasp louder.

My own arousal builds, cock hardening as I imagine what's next. You're mine to explore, and I want this to be thorough, to build you up slowly until you're begging. I continue palpating, squeezing the soft flesh, watching every reaction: your eyes fluttering shut, your breaths coming faster. It's intimate, this power, and I feel a surge of affection for your trust.

After a few minutes of this teasing torment, I pull back slightly, my hands trailing down your sides. “Now, love, I need you to spread your legs for me. Feet flat on the bed, knees up. Let me see you properly.”

You hesitate for a split second, excitement mixed with that nervous edge, but you obey, parting your thighs wide. Your pussy is already glistening, lips swollen and pink, clit peeking out like it's aching for me. I settle between your legs on the bed, my breath ghosting over your inner thighs. “Beautiful,” I mutter, my voice low and a little hoarse. “You're so wet already, Angel. Is this because of your doctor?”

“Yes,” you whisper, voice trembling. “You make me like this.”

I start with the outer exam, gloved fingers parting your labia majora gently, inspecting every fold methodically. You're slick, arousal coating my fingers as I trace the edges, deliberate and slow. “Everything looks healthy here,” I say clinically, but my tone drips with hunger. I brush over your clit lightly, circling it with my fingertip, and you buck your hips involuntarily.

“Harry—oh God,” you moan, your hands reaching for me.

“Easy, love,” I command softly, pressing your thigh down with my free hand. “Let me work.”

I lean in closer, my tongue flicking out to taste your clit — just a quick lap, salty and sweet — before pulling back to continue with my fingers. I spread you wider, examining your entrance, dipping one finger in shallowly to check your wetness. You're dripping on the sheets now, and I add a second finger, sliding them in slowly, feeling your walls immediately clench around me.

The internal vaginal exam is thorough, I curl my fingers inside you, stroking your G-spot while my thumb rubs your clit in firm circles. Your breathy moans fill the room now, body writhing as I turn you on purposely, building that fire. “You're responding so well,” I praise, my cock throbbing painfully against my zipper. “Soft and wet, just how I like you. Does it feel good, Angel? My fingers deep inside you?”

'Yes, Dr. Styles. Please... more,” you beg, voice rough and sweet, that raspy edge making your pleas even hotter. I work you like that for what feels like ages, twisting my fingers, thrusting slowly, watching you climb higher. Your breaths are ragged now, hips grinding against my hand, but I don't let you come, not yet. We're not done with the exam. This is just the warmup.

Finally, I withdraw my fingers, your pussy pulsing around nothing, as a desperate whine escapes you. “Patience, love. Next is your temperature. Rectal, to be precise.” I grab the thermometer and lube from the table, coating its tip generously. You've never had anything up there before, I know that, and I see the flicker of hesitation and nervousness in your eyes.

“Harry... I, uhm, it's my first time,” you say softly, shy but trusting. “Be gentle?”

“Always, Angel,” I assure you, my voice compassionate as I position you with your knees up higher, ass slightly lifted. I squeeze more lube onto my gloved finger, circling your tight rear entrance first, massaging the puckered hole until you relax. “Breathe for me. In and out.” You do, and I press the tip of my finger in slowly, just the pad, feeling you tense.

“It feels weird,” you murmur, squirming a bit.

“I know, love. But you're doing so well. Trust me, yeah?” I withdraw my finger, and the thermometer follows only a second later, lubed and careful, sliding in with ease. Your body clenches around the intrusion, and I hold it still, stroking your thigh as we wait for the results of the measurement. Finally the device beeps. “Temperature's normal. Good girl.” The praise makes you relax a fraction, and I feel a swell of pride — and arousal — at your submission as I remove the thermometer.

“Now, a rectal exam. I need to check inside.” Your eyes widen, body tensing again as I add more lube and work my finger in properly this time, probing gently. “Relax, Angel. Let me in.”

You whimper, but nod. “Okay… green.”

I push deeper, my finger brushing along your inner walls, examining, testing, teasing. I add a second finger after a while, scissoring gently to stretch you further. Your breaths come in pants now, a mix of discomfort and budding pleasure. To help, I reach down with my free hand, fingers finding your clit again, rubbing in tandem. The dual sensation makes you moan louder, your body relaxing bit by bit. “That's it,” I praise, “opening up so nicely for your doctor.”

You're clenching and releasing now, the weirdness giving way to something hotter, and I can feel my cock throbbing, desperate to replace my fingers. You squirm, hands clutching the sheets. “It's too much,” you gasp, but don't use the safeword.

“You're taking it like a champ, love,” I say, my fingers continuing to rub your clit in slow, measured circles, distracting you with pleasure. The sensation makes you moan, body loosening further around my fingers in your ass. But you keep fidgeting, so carefully pull my fingers out and grab the stethoscope from around my neck. “Hold still, love. Let me tie these wrists so you don't hurt yourself.” My voice comes rough now, stern enough to make you still in an instant as you obediently hold your wrists out towards me. I loop the stethoscope around your wrists, binding them loosely above your head to the headboard — not tight, just enough to hold you in place. You test it, eyes wide with excitement. “Harry…”

"You good?" I check.

“Green.”

That's all I wanted to hear.

“I need to taste you properly.”

You nod, bound and beautiful, and I settle between your legs, spreading your cheeks again. My tongue flicks out, tracing the rim tentatively, then firmer, lapping at the lubed skin. You gasp, body jolting. “Oh god, Harry…” I delve deeper, tongue probing, rimming you with slow, wet circles while my fingers return to your pussy, thrusting in rhythm.

The taste of you on my tongue drives me insane, and your moans turn desperate, hips pushing back. “So good for me,” I murmur against your skin, alternating licks with finger stretches. You're relaxed finally, begging softly, and I add more clit stimulation until you're trembling on the edge again.

"Please... I need you,” you plead, voice already wrecked and I can't hold myself back any longer.

I pull back, stripping off my clothes quickly. My shirt goes first, followed by the gloves, then trousers, boxers, and my thick cock springs free, veined and aching. “Time for your medicine, love,” I say, voice dominant but laced with care. “Going to treat you like a proper gentleman now.” I coat my cock generously with the lube, stroking myself as I position at your entrance, your rear still stretched from my fingers. You look at me, bound and bare, eyes trusting. “Please, Harry. I want it.”

“Slowly, love,” I murmur, pressing the head against your tight hole. It resists at first, but I push gently, inch by inch, feeling you clench involuntarily. “Breathe... Colour?”

“Green,” you whisper, wincing but pushing back eventually.

Halfway in, I pause, hand on your clit, rubbing firm circles to help you relax. “You're doing amazing, Angel. Taking my cock so well. Such a good girl for your doctor.”

Your moans mix pain and pleasure, body adjusting as I finally bottom out, balls against your ass cheeks. I hold still, letting you acclimate, my own control fraying. God, you feel incredible, gripping me like a vice. “How's that feel?”

“Full... so full. But good. Gentle, please.”

I start slow, rolling hips, shallow thrusts, building rhythm while my fingers work your clit relentlessly. Your bound hands tug at the stethoscope, body arching. The room fills with the sounds — wet slaps, your gasps, my grunts. Emotion swells in me, this is intimate, your submission a gift, and I praise you through it. “That's it, love. Ride it out. You're taking me so well.”

You climax first, sudden and forcefully and beautiful in a way I've never seen you before. Your walls flutter around my cock in your ass and you cry my name as pleasure crashes over you in hot waves. The clench milks me, and I follow only seconds after with a guttural moan while I spill deep inside you, my “medicine” flooding you with hot spurts. “Fuck, Angel— yes, take it all.”

We ride the waves together, my thrusts slowing as aftershocks pulse. Carefully, I pull out, your hole winking shut, my cum leaking. For a second, neither of us says anything. The room is thick with heat and the aftermath of effort, the air close around us, sheets rucked and twisted beneath our bodies. My own breathing is still rough, not yet steady, and yours is softer but no less spent, every inhale shivering faintly on the way in. There’s a sheen to your skin that catches the light. Your hair is a mess against the pillows. Your wrists are still lifted above your head, loosely held in place by the stethoscope where I left it fastened to the headboard, and something about that sight tugs at me all over again. Desire, yes, but also a rush of protectiveness so strong it nearly aches.

You blink at the ceiling, dazed and boneless, lips parted, too far gone for words. “Hey,” I murmur, my voice lower now, the hard edge of the role as a Dom slipping away. “I’ve got you.”

Your eyes move to me at once. That matters. It always does. Even now, in the thick blur after everything, you find me immediately, like I’m the one fixed point in the room. There’s trust in that look so naked it strips me cleaner than anything else could. I lean up and unloop the stethoscope from the headboard first, taking care not to jostle you more than I have to. The tubing has gone warm from where it’s been caught between skin and wood. Then I free one wrist, then the other, rubbing my thumbs lightly over the places where the pressure sat. Not because there are marks worth worrying over — there aren’t, really, just the faintest impressions — but because I want to. Because touch can say what language sometimes can’t. You let your arms fall heavily to the mattress. “So good for me,” I say, almost under my breath.

Your mouth twitches. You are too gone to properly smile, but the attempt is there. I toss the stethoscope aside onto the carpet where it lands with a soft thud, ridiculous and harmless again now that the moment has shifted. Then I reach for the bedside drawer, pulling it open one-handed until I find the packet of water-based wipes I put there weeks ago, thinking ahead in that practical way I always do when it comes to you. When I look back, you’re watching me through heavy lashes. There’s a tiny trace of shyness in your face now the adrenaline is ebbing. That gets me every time, the way you can be all bravado and dramatics one minute, then soft as anything the next, letting me care for you without performing around it. I peel open the packet and make my voice as easy as I can. “Gonna clean you up a bit, Angel.”

You nod. I keep it gentle. Efficient, but gentle. No fuss, no sense of hurry, just the kind of quiet care that belongs to the part after. You hiss once, more from sensitivity than discomfort, and I pause straightaway, hand smoothing over your thigh. “Too much?”

You shake your head. “No. Just sensitive.”

“Okay.” I brush my knuckles over your knee. “Tell me if you need a minute.”

You don’t, in the end. You only breathe through it, pliant and trusting, and let me finish. When I’m done, I fold the used wipes away and set them aside, then pull the blanket up over you without really thinking about it. It’s not cold in the room, not particularly, but I know this part too. The drop after intensity. The way your body sometimes feels everything at once before it settles. The second I lie down beside you, you turn towards me on instinct. I open my arm and you fold into it like you belong there, which you do. Completely lax, all the fight and tension wrung out of you. Your cheek lands against my chest. One of your legs drapes over mine with absent, exhausted trust. I tuck the duvet around us and draw you closer until there’s no space left to doubt.

For a while I just hold you. My hand moves slowly up and down your back. Over your spine. Across your shoulder. Small strokes, easy patterns, nothing demanding. I press a kiss to your forehead, then another to your temple where your skin is still damp. Your breathing begins, bit by bit, to even out against me. It’s always this part I love most, in its own way. Not more than the rest. Just differently. Anyone can want. Want is simple. Bright. Immediate. But this — the comedown, the tenderness, the responsibility of having taken someone somewhere intense and making sure they land softly — this feels sacred to me. Especially with you. You make a sleepy little noise and burrow closer. I smile into your hair. “There she is.”

“Shut up,” you mumble, voice wrecked.

I laugh quietly. “That alive, are you?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Mm. Brave.”

You shift just enough to tip your face up at me. Your expression is still wrecked in that beautiful, thoroughly fucked way, but there’s more awareness in your eyes now. More you. I smooth a strand of hair off your forehead. “You with me?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

Another pause settles. Comfortable. Warm. The sort of silence that doesn’t ask to be filled. Then I feel the question rising in me, not from anxiety exactly, but from care. From knowing first times can feel brilliant and strange in equal measure once the rush fades. I tip your chin up properly. “You good?”

This time you don’t answer right away. Not because you aren’t. Because you’re actually checking. Your gaze goes distant for a second, scanning inward. I can practically see you replaying it in flashes, sorting sensation from feeling, adrenaline from meaning. That, too, I love about you. For all your chaos, when it matters, you’re honest. Eventually you nod, slow and sure. “Yeah. I’m good.”

“Yeah?”

A softer smile pulls at your mouth. “Yeah.”

Relief loosens in my chest I hadn’t admitted was tight. I brush my thumb over your cheekbone. “Any part of it sit wrong with you?”

“No.”

“Anything feel like too much after the fact?”

You shake your head against my chest. “No. It was intense.” A tiny laugh slips out of you, incredulous and worn thin. “Like… objectively insane. But not bad insane.”

I huff out a quiet laugh. “That’s a very you review.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know.” I kiss your forehead again. “Tell me.”

You take a breath, then another, still tracing the experience in your mind as you speak. “I was nervous. More nervous than I thought I’d be.” Your fingers trace lightly along my ribs. “Not because I didn’t trust you. I did. I do. It was just new. And I didn’t know how I was going to feel once it stopped being hypothetical and turned into, you know. Real.”

My hand stills briefly on your back, giving you my full attention. You glance up at me. “But every time I started floating too far into my head, you kept checking. And that made it easier to stay in it.”

“Good,” I say quietly. “That’s what I wanted.”

“I know.”

I hesitate, then ask the thing I most need answered plainly. “I didn’t push past anywhere you didn’t want to go?”

Your expression changes, softening. “No.”

“No?”

“Harry.” You roll your eyes but your voice is gentler now, more deliberate. “No. You didn’t.”

The sound of my own name in your mouth after all that nearly undoes me for an entirely different reason. “You asked,” you go on. “You kept asking. And I kept telling you green because I meant green.” One corner of your mouth lifts. “Multiple times. Very enthusiastically, for the record.”

That gets a laugh out of me despite everything. “I did notice.”

“Thought you might.”

I brush my fingertips up and down your arm. “First time trying something like that properly together. Wanted to be sure I wasn’t getting carried away.”

“You did get carried away,” you say, deadpan.

I raise my brows. You snuggle in closer before delivering the verdict: “Respectfully.”

I laugh properly then, helpless and warm, and you smile against my skin like that was the exact reaction you were after. When it quiets, I ask, “And the rest of it? The roleplay?”

At that, your whole face lights from the inside out with embarrassed delight. “Oh, well, um, that was—” You break off and hide briefly in my chest, groaning. “God. So humiliating.”

“Humiliating,” I repeat.

“In the best way,” you admit. “Like, I hated how much I liked it.”

“Didn’t look like you hated it.”

You squint up at me. “Don’t be smug.”

“Can’t help it.”

You trace a lazy circle over one of my swallow tattoos, voice gone quieter. “It was the way you committed to it.”

“To the bit?”

“To being in charge,” you correct. “You get this voice.” Your cheeks pink, but you keep going. “And this look. Like you’ve already decided exactly what’s happening and I don’t need to think anymore.”

My fingers flex against your back. I know the look you mean. I know the feeling of it from the inside. “And you liked that?”

You make a face like I’m being deliberately obtuse. “Obviously.”

“Obviously?”

“Yes, Dr. Styles,” you mumble into my chest, and I have to bite back a grin. That's my girl. I tip your chin up again. “Still calling me that, are you?”

“Well, I need to know whether my care provider considers this follow-up satisfactory.”

“Mm. Do you?”

“I think,” you say with exaggerated seriousness, “the bedside manner was excellent. Very attentive. Thorough. Slightly unhinged.”

“Only slightly?”

“At points, alarmingly so.”

I nod as if receiving a formal evaluation. “Anything you’d recommend improving for future appointments?”

Your eyes sparkle then, the heaviness finally giving way to something brighter, more playful. “Maybe fewer surprise moments where I briefly ascend to another plane and have to file an internal complaint.”

“Internal complaint?”

“Yeah. Privately,” you say. “To myself. Because HR is useless in this institution.”

I laugh so hard I have to pull you tighter when you wiggle in triumph. “Right,” I say. “And would the patient be returning?”

You pretend to consider it, lips pursed. Then you reach up, run one finger lazily along my jaw, and say, “Annoyingly, yes.”

“Annoyingly?”

“You’re very booked and busy, Doctor. Hard to get an appointment.”

“I’ll make room.”

“You’d better.”

I kiss your forehead once more, then the tip of your nose just because it makes you scrunch it. “For the record,” I murmur, “I liked it too.”

The playfulness in your face softens. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” I don’t look away. “Not just because it was hot. Though it was. Because you trusted me with it. Because you were brave with me. Because it felt like we found another language we both speak.”

You go quiet in that deep way you do when something reaches you cleanly. Then you press your mouth to my chest, a small absent kiss over my heart. “That’s disgustingly sweet,” you whisper.

“I know.”

“I’m gonna tweet about it.”

“You absolutely are not.”

You laugh, small and sleepy and real, and the sound loosens the last of the intensity from the room. The house settles around us again, old and familiar, as if nothing extraordinary has happened here at all. But something has. Not in a dramatic way. Not in the way you’d narrate online for effect. In a quieter one. The kind that lodges itself in the structure of a relationship and makes a new room inside it. I hold you there a little longer, hand moving slowly over your back, until your body grows heavier with the first pull of sleep.

Just before your eyes close, you mumble, “Dr. Styles?”

“Mm?”

“Think I’m cured.”

I smile into your hair. “No, Angel,” I say smugly. “I think you’re gonna need another appointment.”

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