❤️

“Have sex with me-“

“Yeah, I- I heard you the first time, that’s not-“ Dean shakes his head, running a hand over his face. “It’s eight in the fuckin’ morning-“

“It’s eight fifteen.”

That earns you a flat look, and you smile innocently.

“That’s fifteen extra minutes, it matters-“

“Not for this. And- I ain’t even showered yet-“

Your nose wrinkles. “Why haven’t you showered?”

“I shower after coffee,” Dean mutters, turning his mug in his hands. “If I don’t, Sammy’s stinkin’ up the kitchen from his run.”

“Oh- Okay.” You clasp your hands behind your back, peering at his tight jaw, his mussed, soft-looking hair. “Is that… A yes?”

Dean’s eyes widen on yours. You’re worried he’s going to choke on the air this time. “Yes?”

“Are you going to have sex with me,” you clarify, and his mouth falls open.

“I- I’m- You’re-“ His throat bobs, and he starts to look around the room with a worried squint. “Are you fuckin’ with me?”

You frown. “Why would I be fucking with you?”

“’Cause, sweetheart, you can’t just-“ He lets out a sharp breath. “Is it Sam? Did he put you up to this? ‘Cause I told him- That kinda prank, it’s off the table-“

“What kind of prank?” You’re a little lost, and there’s shame starting to burn up your neck.

A prank. He thinks it’s a prank.

It’s not. You’re so serious it’s almost embarrassing. You wouldn’t have asked him if you weren’t. You’d almost talked yourself out of it, after spending too much time convincing yourself into it. Nights of tossing and turning in bed, an insatiable and aching heat between your legs and the sheets bunched around you in a mockery of a body. Weeks of watching the boys slip out of bars with women that seemed to fall into them like magnets while you spun around, alone on a barstool without any prospects.

Months, of watching Dean with a flush he never saw. An adoration written all over your face he didn’t seem capable of noticing. You’d tried to stomp it out. Your stupid, useless little crush. Dean was older. Seasoned and desirable in the way that made you wonder if he was even real sometimes. Out of your reach, tantalizing, and impossible to just forget about. 

You’d neglect your feelings in the hope they’d die, but he’d water them until they were in full bloom and overtaking your heart and mouth and head. He’d buy the snacks you like and let you chose the movie. He’d open doors and let his hand linger on your lower back, he’d smile at you in the dim light of the Impala and make you feel like the only person in the world, he’d call you when he was away on a separate hunt every single night, just to update you. He’d play wrestle you for the remote, and somehow never manage to wonder why he always won when he’d see you take down men closer to Sam’s size with barely a grunt of effort.

“Nice try, sweetheart,” he’d whisper in your ear, when he had you pinned on the floor beneath him, and you’d have to swallow down your moan.

He’d get up, turn on the TV, and leave you on the couch while he went to the bathroom. You’d sit with your knees to your chest and your breathing uneven, unable to focus on anything but the ghost of his body over yours. The heat of him, the way his arms had caged you in, his knee pressed far too close to your neglected core.

If Dean knew how you dreamed about him—how those moments followed you into bed, every single night—you’re so sure he’d never look at you again. He doesn’t see you like that, you’re sure. You’re the kid they took in, the annoying girl who’s got too much mouth on her and not enough experience, in every possible way.

You’ve never done sex. You sort of just missed the window, where it’s supposed to happen, and then it became too big a deal, then you met Dean and you were lost. What was the point of being with anyone else, when you had his shoulder bumping yours in the hallway. When you were so hopelessly in love with him, you think your heart might beat out of your chest like a cartoon every time you see him.

So you made a choice, a few weeks ago. A choice it took a lot of courage to work yourself up to following through on

You just need to have sex. With someone. Anyone. Preferably Dean. It just needs to be done and over with—one time, where he doesn’t know he’s taking your virginity, where he’s peacefully oblivious of your worship of his very existence—and then you can try to move on. Once you’ve had sex, it won’t be this big monster you shy away from anymore. It’ll just be another thing.

So you’re asking Dean. Outside of your alternate motivations, it’s a sound strategic call. You know about his prowess. He’s bragged to you about all his five-star reviews. And maybe that always made you gag over a toilet bowl after, but if it did, that’s none of his fucking business.

Maybe you’re not up to par with his usual partners, but you can do your makeup, or he can turn off the lights, or whatever else makes it easier for him. Anything that makes him touch you. You won’t even cry about it in front of him.

But he thinks it’s a prank. Why would he think it’s a prank.

“You know,” he says, watching you wearily. “Sammy gives you a tenner, you come and ask me for sex, everyone gets a good laugh at Dean. Good joke. Classy.”

You wrap your arms around your stomach, shrinking slightly into yourself. “It’s not a joke,” you mumble. “I- I was serious.”

“You were serious?”

He says it like it’s insane. You shrug, fixing your gaze on the floor. A joke. He thinks fucking you would be a joke.

“Sweetheart-“

“You don’t have to,” you take a step back, trying to sound casual. Like your heart isn’t being torn to ribbons.

You really hadn’t expected him to leap at the opportunity, but this is so close to cruel it hurts. Tears are threatening your eyes, and a lump is forming in your throat. Pathetic, a voice spits in your head. Why the fuck would he ever want to fuck you.

“Wait, just- Hold on-“

You look up, faster than you want to admit. Dean staring at you with pale face and slack jaw, throat working like he’s swallowing his own words every second. You wait, because you’re a fucking useless idiot. Bouncing nervously on your feet—they’re smarter than the rest of you, they want to run—and trying not to melt under his gaze.

“You’re actually askin’ me to fuck you?” He rasps, and you nod.

It’s the tiniest motion of your head. Dean shifts in his seat, staring at you with wide, dark eyes.

“Why?”

“Why?” You frown, saying the first, easiest, least embarrassing reason that pops into your head. “Because- You- You’re good at it?”

“I’m good at it,” Dean repeats. “You wanna fuck me ‘cause you think I’d be good at it?”

You wish he’d stop saying fuck like that. With a harsh ending and low drawl. “I don’t think,” you offer. “You’re the one who said you would be.”

Dean’s lips twitch, but he doesn’t look amused. “I could be lying, sweetheart.”

“I don’t think you are.”

He stares at you. His eyes flick up to the ceiling—maybe he still thinks he’s on a prank show—and he lets out a sharp, slow breath from his nose.

Then he shakes his head, and you feel the echo of your heart as it howls in pain.

“No,” he mutters. “I ain’t- Doin’ that. Not just ‘cause you- No.”

You blink at him, the world blurring a little. You stumble back, and Dean says your name, moving to his feet. You shake your head, moving back another step. Your eyes are stinging with tears, but that’s not his problem. He’s allowed to reject you. You’re also allowed to cry about it.

“Sweetheart-“

“It’s fine.” Your voice is too high. Too wobbly. “It’s- That’s okay.”

“No, just- Fuck-“ He rubs his jaw. “Listen to me, alright-“

“You don’t have to explain,” you shrug weakly. “It’s okay.”

Dean gives you a disbelieving look, but you move further back before he can try to make you feel better about the rejection. It’s not going to help.

“I’ll just-“ You look over your shoulder. To the door, just one more step back.

Dean says your name again. When you look back, he’s reaching to you, trying to beckon you back into the kitchen. You smile, tight and watery.

“Thank you for your consideration.” You say, because you’re a fucking idiot. Dean certainly looks at you like you’re one.

You flee the kitchen. He calls your name again, but this time you don’t look back.

Rejection is fine. You’re fine. You’re so fine, you lock yourself in your room for the rest of the day and eat so much ice cream your stomach hurts. Because it’s fun. It’s fun to cry over something you never even had.

At least you anticipated this. You have a very solid plan B.

If Dean won’t sleep with you, you’re going to find someone who will. You’re going to get it over with. This week.

You’re learning something about yourself.

You are not good at flirting.

The first thing you try is the bars. Sam and Dean slide into a booth, and you go to get the drinks. A guy makes eyes at you, and you smile sweetly in return. When you bring the drinks back, you set the beers down in front of the boys and turn back on your heels to give the bar-guy a shot.

Dean says your name, and you freeze. You always do that for him. It’s a habit you don’t think you’re able to break.

“Where’re you going?” He frowns at you, one arm slung around the back of the seat. Around where you’d usually sit.

“Bar,” you say lamely, and the lines on his face deepen.

“Why, you forget something?”

“No.”

“Then what-“

Dean cuts himself off, his gaze flicking over your shoulder. To the bar. To the man, waiting for you with a smirk, because you promised you’d be back.

Dean grunts your name, low and rough, and if he asked you to stay, you don’t think you’d be able to tell him no.

Things have been strange, since the kitchen. Neither of you have brought it up, and Dean hasn’t stopped treating you the way he always has, but there’s something charged beneath it. A live wire that frays and crackles, every time your fingers brush or your eyes meet. You’ve caught him staring at you with an open mouth a few times. Last week he tried to talk to you, alone in the Impala while Sam got snacks from a gas station. You announced that you had to shit, and scrambled out of the car.

You don’t want to talk about it, and Dean has no right to make you. He’s not the one who got his heart broken. He’s not the one who sort of wants to cry, whenever your eyes meet.

He certainly has no right to glare at you, when he puts together what you’re doing. He said he wasn’t going to sleep with you, and you’re a grown woman. You can, if you so please, have casual sex with a stranger. It is your right.

“You can’t be for real, sweetheart-“

“Dean.” Sam stares at his own beer, looking like he wants to vanish into the floor, and Dean scowls.

“C’mon, Sammy- Tell her she’s being crazy-“

“Crazy?” You snap, and Dean leans back in surprise. “You fuck around all the time, how is it crazy that I’d do the same thing?”

“It’s not- You just- You don’t-“ He swallows. “You don’t do this-“

“I do now.”

“Sweetheart, just- Sit down-“

You flip him off, and march back to the bar before he can ask with a little more conviction. You just need to break out of his orbit. To force yourself to realize that there are plenty of other men, and not having Dean isn’t the end of the universe.

Unfortunately, you sort of just keep proving the opposite.

“What’s a pretty little thing doin’ in a place like this?” The first guy at the bar asks, and you fumble.

You have no idea. You giggle nervously and spin in your chair, speaking words you can’t really hear. He seems into it—no matter how pathetic you must be coming off—until his fingers brush your arm, and you flinch back because his skin is cold. It sends a shiver up your spine that’s not the hot rush of Dean’s touch, but the sliver of a snake.

You go home alone that night, and you don’t look Dean in the eyes. He tries to talk to you, before you retreat to your room. You ignore him, because that’s the only way this is going to work. 

But you try again and again and again, and you never get anywhere. They always touch you, and it all falls apart. You look at them too long, and you can’t manage to squeeze them into a Dean shaped hole in your heart, and there’s no way forward. You try dating apps. That goes worse. Every dick pic you get sent just makes you wonder if sex is even something you want. They’re all worm-shaped and ugly. At least dildos come in nice colors. Maybe you should just buy a dildo.

No. You’ll just pretend it’s Dean all the time, and that’s the opposite of what you’re supposed to be doing here.

So you keep trying. And you keep failing. And Dean’s been looking at you weird—brow pinched and jaw set, every single night—and you’re getting desperate and fuck it.

“Sam.”

Sam hums, not looking up from his book. You clear your throat, leaning further over the table.

“Sam.”

“I’m listening, what’s-“

“Have sex with me.”

Sam, to his credit, doesn’t choke. He just goes very, very still, and looks up at you with an expression close to horror. He says your name slowly, and you shake your head, holding up a single hand.

“Just- Listen-“

“No?” Sam gapes at you. “I’m not- I’m not going to listen to that- Jesus Christ-“

“Come on, we could turn off the lights, and- I wouldn’t make it weird-“

“It’s already weird-“

“You’d be doing me a favor-“

“I’d be making a death wish!” Sam’s voice drops to a hiss. “Dean would fucking kill me.”

 You roll your eyes. “Then don’t tell him, dumbass.”

“No, I- I’m not doing that.” Sam shakes his head, like he’s trying to jolt the image free. “To you. Or him.”

“To him?” You narrow your eyes. “I- What the fuck would this do to Dean?”

Sam gives you a puppy-eyed, hopeless look. “I… Can’t say.”

“Sam Winchester-“

“Why are you asking me?” Sam whines. “I’m not- You’re not even into me-“

“Exactly, there would be no strings attached-“

“That’s not healthy-“

“Fuck off, like you don’t have casual sex-“

“I mean, I do, but I’m not-“ Sam cuts himself off, sighing dramatically. “Just- Why would you even want to have sex with me?”

You flush, but shrug. It’s just Sam. It’s easier to tell him than Dean. “I want to get it over with.”

“Get it over with?” Sam echoes. “It- You mean sex?”

You nod, and Sam blinks.

“Are you a virgin?”

“Maybe.”

“You- You’re-“

“Don’t be an asshole-“

“No, I’m not- I mean- It’s fine. It doesn’t matter. It actually-“ Sam frowns at the air. “It makes sense, I guess.”

That makes you scowl. “It makes sense?”

Sam shrugs, giving you an apologetic smile, and you can’t even think of an argument. You sigh, your shoulders slumping, and Sam clears his throat.

“You know I’m not going to sleep with you, right?”

“Yeah.” You sigh, and he nods slowly.

“Does Dean-“

“No.” You point a stern finger at him, and Sam raises his hands in surrender.

“I think you should-“

“Sam. I’ll cut your balls off.”

“I- Okay.”

You give him one last glare, and go to leave. But before you can go, the question scratches up your throat. You turn around, hands tucked behind your back, and speak softly. “Would you?”

Sam blinks. “What?”

“If you didn’t- Know me,” you mumble. “If we weren’t like- Friends. And you just met me, and I asked you- Would you?”

Sam snorts, and you scowl.

“I’m serious-“

“Yeah, I know you are.” Sam’s lips twitch. “It’s just- Yeah. I would. Of course I would.”

You stand a little taller. “Really?”

“Yeah, I mean- You know you’re attractive, right? If you just didn’t, like, annoy me. I’d be in.”

“I do not annoy you-“

“You’re annoying me right now.”

You laugh despite yourself. Sam smiles, his voice dropping to something gentler.

“Anyone would be lucky to have you,” he says your name slowly. “I just- Don’t want to be lucky.”

You huff in amusement—if Sam isn’t lying, aversion to luck is a family trait—but dip your head. “Thanks. I think.”

“You’re welcome. And-“ Sam pauses, looking you up and down with a strange expression. “I’m sure the whole- Thing will work out for you. There are… People. I think you’re going to figure it out.”

“You need to sleep with her.”

Dean needed to stop drinking coffee when people walked into the kitchen. This was the second shirt he’d ruined in as many months, and it was because everyone kept saying crazy fucking shit.

“Sammy, what the fuck-“

Sam said your name, and Dean’s hands fisted on the table.

Again. Son of a bitch, he was about to go through this again. The first time had been bad enough. You’d looked at him with glossy, hopeful eyes, practically begged for him to fuck you, and Dean had wondered if he’d died in his sleep last night and been dragged back to hell. Forced to experience some new kind of torture Crowley was developing, where everything he’d ever wanted was just a stretch away from his fingertips, and he wasn’t allowed to take it.

He had to be the noble one here. The wise, old asshole who didn’t take advantage of you. Taking you up on that offer would be one of the worst things he’d ever done. It would be selfish, and cruel, and a worse fate than anything else. To get what he wanted, for one night, then never fucking have it again. To get hooked—because he would, he fucking knew he’d never be able to kiss and touch you once then go back to just living—and turn into an addict willing to do anything to get another hit.

Dean would’ve turned into a bigger creep than he already was. Instead of stares and long, shameful showers with his cock in his hand and your name on his lips, he’d stuff your panties in his pocket and press them to his nose while he fucked himself raw. He’d get possessive, he’d snarl at anyone else who got to close, he’d fall to his knees and beg you to stay if you ever decided you had enough of him.

And he knew that last thing was going to happen eventually. You had a whole life ahead of you, and he was stuck here. In this dim bunker with blood on his hands and under his feet and staining his past and future all at once. He swam in a river of it. In front of him, behind him, washing over him all the time, there was just fucking blood. You deserved better than that. Better than Dean. You deserved the fucking world.

So he’d told you no, and you’d looked at him like a wet fucking kitten he’d kicked into the rain, but it had been for your own good. You’d get over it. Dean was the one who had to watch you flirt with douchebags at the bar. Who couldn’t get in another bed anymore, because he kept getting kicked out for moaning your name.

He was the one who was rooted here forever. You’d find something softer. Something good.  He’d accepted that, with a lot of beer pushing it down. You’d find something better, and that was what he wanted.

Sammy knew all that. Dean had gotten drunk once and confessed his stupid, undying feelings, then sworn Sam to secrecy in the morning. He’d kept his word, only shooting Dean sad looks whenever you went off to flirt and smirking whenever Dean called you on a hunt.

But now he was asking Dean to sleep with you. Like he’d lost his damn mind.

“No,” he grunted, and Sam rolled his eyes.

“Look, Dean, I get that you’re being cool and righteous and whatever-“

“I’m not fuckin’ her, Sammy- I shouldn’t.” He shot Sam a glare. “You know why I shouldn’t.“

“Yeah, well, I think your why is pretty stupid.” Sam said flatly. “You’ve never even asked her if she’d be- You know. Open to it-“

“I know she’d be open to it,” Dean scowled at his coffee. “But that’s- I ain’t doing it, Sammy. Never.” Not like that.

Sam was silent for a moment. When Dean looked up, he was staring at him with wide eyes. “She asked you first, didn’t she.”

Dean frowned. “What’d you mean, asked me first-“

“To take her virginity.”

He hadn’t taken a sip of coffee again. This time, he managed to choke on nothing at all. “To- What?”

Sam leaned back slightly. “Did she not ask you to sleep with her?”

“No, she did, I just didn’t fuckin’- She’s a virgin?”

“I guess,” Sam shrugged. “You know that’s not a big deal, right?”

Dean grunted. His head was spinning. Of course it wasn’t a big deal, he didn’t care. He’d wanted you before, he wanted you now, that wasn’t the fucking issue.

But you’d asked him.

You’d asked him to fuck you. You’d wanted him to- Do it. Take it. Pop it, whatever. You’d chosen Dean, to be the guy, and he’d told you no, and then you’d started flirting around with other people, and you could’ve ended up with someone dangerous, someone who took advantage of you, who thought your inexperience was hot for all the wrong reasons and hurt you and-

Dean paused. He looked at Sam. Sam blinked, and Dean’s eyes narrowed.

“How the fuck do you know that.”

Sam swallowed, taking a small step back. “Uh…”

“Sam-“

“She might’ve… Asked me.”

“She what-“

“I said no!” Sam said quickly. “I told her I wouldn’t. But- You know.” Sam cleared his throat. “If you’d said yes to her the first time…”

Sam gave him a pointed look. He was asking to get punched in the fucking face.

“No.”

“Dean, just-“

“No. I’m not takin’ advantage of her, Sammy, I’m not-“

 “It’s not taking advantage of her if she wants it!”

“She doesn’t want it-“

Sam snorted. “Oh, fuck off.”

Dean blinked, leaning back in his chair. Sam turned a little red, wincing at himself, but didn’t back down.

“Wow, Sammy. Big claws, huh.”

Sam sighed, running a hand over his face. “Dean… Just- Think about her, okay?”

Dean almost laughed. “All I fuckin’ do is think about her-“

“Then think a little harder.” Sam said flatly. “Before both of you get actually hurt.”

Dean didn’t have an answer to that. Sam didn’t seem to be asking for one. He turned and walked out of the room, leaving Dean alone. With only his coffee mug and thoughts for company. A dangerous thing to do. Dean could talk himself into and out of almost anything, if the logic police weren’t there to stop him.

He was going to do something really fucking stupid and selfish, and it was all Sam’s fault.

“Come in!” You call to the knock on your door, glancing up from your laptop as the door creaks open.

Dean shuffles into your room with his head bowed. Your face heats, and you slam the laptop closed. He doesn’t need to see you scrolling through hookup websites and think any lower of you. You’re already losing sleep over the worry you’ve fractured something between you beyond repair.

“Hi,” you whisper, and he swallows.

“Uh- Hey.”

“Hi.” What the fuck is wrong with you.

Dean’s lips twitch. “Hey.”

You start to pull the sheets between your fingers, trying not to ogle him too obviously. He’s wearing sweats and a t-shirt, and it’s sexier than all the profile pics you’ve spent hours staring at. His hair is a mess, and there are bags under his eyes, and you don’t think you’ve ever wanted to climb over him more.

“You, uh-“ He glances at your computer. “You busy?”

“No- No.” Never for him. You shove your computer onto your bedstand, moving to sit on your knees. “What’s up?”

Dean’s throat bobs. He runs a hand through his hair, huffing something close to a laugh, and shakes his head. “Jesus.”

“What-“

“Nothin’.” He clears his throat, giving you a strange look. “Did you ask Sam to sleep with you?”

Your mouth falls open. You almost trip sitting down. “I- I didn’t-“

“You didn’t?”

“No, I mean- I- He wasn’t supposed to tell you,” you whine, avoiding Dean’s stare. “I didn’t- Fuck-“

“Hey- It’s- Woah-“

Dean crosses the room in a few strides, grabbing your wrists with firm, warm hands. You’d started to pick at your nails with the anxiety. You hadn’t even realized it.

“Don’t hurt yourself, sweetheart,” he mutters, his thumb dragging a circle on your wrist.

You nod, your voice only a breath. “Okay.”

He’s so close. You can count all his crow’s feet, map his stubble, trace his lips with just your eyes. He’s still frowning at your wrist, so you allow yourself to stare.

Then he looks up. And you freeze in panic, but don’t manage to look away.

Dean’s tongue flicks over his lips. Your breath catches. Neither of you move, and you let yourself have it. For a single second, you imagine that Dean is here, in your room, on your bed, and that means something. You get lost in the warmth of his proximity, the calloused but soft feeling of his touch.

“Sammy told me something else,” Dean mutters, scanning over your slack, flushed features.

“Yeah?” You whisper, and he nods tightly.

“Yeah. Said you’re, uh-“ He clears his throat. “Said you’ve never- You know.” He cringes. “Been fucked.”

Your mouth falls open. You think you’d like to die now. “Dean-“

“Is that why you asked me?” His grip tightens on your wrist. Not allowing you to pull away. “’Cause you just wanted someone to take it?”

You drop your gaze to his crotch. There’s a soft bulge there. You’d drool over it, if you didn’t think you were going to explode any second now. 

Dean says your name, and you shake your head.

“Don’t,” you mumble. “Don’t just- Feel bad for me- You said no, that’s- It’s fine-“

“What if it’s not.”

Your eyes shoot up. You’d think he was joking, if he didn’t look so fucking serious. His jaw is set. His eyes are blown out and fixed on yours. Your mouth hangs stupidly open, and Dean smiles softly.

“Huh?” You manage to choke out, and he almost chuckles.

“What if I wanted to. Help you.”

“But-“ You blink. “You don’t.”

Dean shakes his head. “Wrong, sweetheart. I do-“

“You said you didn’t-“

“I lied.”

You stare at him. He doesn’t back down.

“Would it mean something?” He muttered, reaching up to trace the curve of your cheek. “If I did it?”

You nod weakly, leaning into his touch. It sends violent, hot shivers through your whole body. Almost like a fever. You don’t want the cure. “Would it matter to you?” You ask, and Dean’s eyes flash. His fingers curl on your cheek. He leans an inch forward, then another inch. Your lips brush, the lightest possible touch, and you let out a soft, uncertain whine.

Dean pushes forward, his lips fully crashing into yours, his kiss demanding but certain. He presses over you, pulling you a little further up on your knees. You grab the collar of his shirt for balance, squeezing your eyes shut and trying to kiss him back with as much fervor as he’s offering you.

“De- Dean-“ You gasp against his lips. “Dean-“

He groans, his arm sliding around your back so he can pull you tight to his chest. You melt into his arms, and his kisses turn messy. Open mouthed and rough, his tongue dragging over your teeth as his fingers dig into your hips. You run out of air fast, but don’t try and pull away. You don’t want this to ever end, and you’re afraid that if you dare to break the moment, it will never be repaired.

High gasps start to escape your throat, though, and Dean pulls away. He cups your face between his hands, frowning slightly, and presses his brow against yours. You struggle for air, almost pressing forward to try and kiss him again, but he holds you in place.

“Breathe, sweetheart,” he mutters, rough and thick. It’s the same voice he uses on you during hunts. When he’s giving an order you didn’t ask for.

Usually, you protest or ignore him. Right now you’re putty in his hands. He could tell you to follow him to hell, and you would. You’d do anything, just for him to never let go.

You inhale unevenly, and Dean rubs your upper back. His hand slipped under your shirt, and his palm is broad and warm. It—annoyingly—helps a lot.

“There you go,” he murmurs, watching you under hooded eyes. “That’s a good girl.”

You whine again. “Dean-“

“Sorry. Couldn’t help it.”

He doesn’t fucking look sorry. His lips are twitching, and there’s a smug glint in his eyes that’s almost dangerously intoxicating.

“Better?” He asks, and you nod, slumping closer to his chest. He doesn’t push you away.

This might be real.

“Are you sure, ‘bout this?” Dean rasps, and you almost giggle.

“Yes.”

“I’m old, sweetheart-“

“I like it.”

Dean blinks, and you stutter, so sure you should shut up but not really sure how.

“I- I mean- I like you, so- I don’t care if you’re old- I like you old- I like you-“

Dean smirks, holding your face so firmly against his  you can’t shy away.

“You- Can you- I mean- If it’s just- Just sex- You can forget I said- I think you being old is hot-“

He finally takes mercy, and shuts you up with a long, rough kiss. You hum, pushing further up on your knees, and climb slowly into Dean’s lap. He sucks on your lower lip, angling your head back as your core settles against his bulge, then pulls back with a low sigh.

“Not just sex,” he mutters, dragging his thumb over your swollen lower lip. “Not with you, baby.”

You nod, smiling wider than you probably should. “Cool.”

Dean grins back. “Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

“Cool ‘cause you like me,” he teases, shoving your hips down, right over his crotch. “Of ‘cause I’m old.”

You face burns. All you can do is stare and him and whimper, “You’re spritely.”

Dean huffs, in disbelieving amusement. “Spritely? You think I’m-“

“Youthful,” you babble quickly. “You’ve got a lot of…” You flush as he stares at you, sort of wishing he’d just kiss you and shut you up. “Youth.”

Dean’s mouth curves up. “Youth, huh.”

You nod, and he chuckles, pressing the lightest kiss over your lips.

“Hurts when I bend over now, honey, don’t think that’s very youthful of me.”

“So don’t bend over,” you mumble, and Dean snorts.

“Demanding, aren’t we?”

You shrug, trying not to turn into a puddle and miserably failing. Dean kisses your cheek, then under your eye, tracing his mouth down so he breath tickles your ear.

“Mouthy and demanding,” he rubs your hips, dragging your hips back and forth across his crotch. “Don’t worry. I’m gonna fix that.”

You whimper, and Dean’s grin grows.

“You like that, huh.”

“Dean-“

“Ah,” he kisses the corner of your mouth, moving away before you can chase his lips. “You wanted my help. This is how I’m gonna help, baby. Takin’ real good care of you,” he thrusts his hips up, and you whine as the hard outline of his cock hits your clothed pussy. “Just like this.”

 You nod, pressing your face into the crook of Dean’s neck. You don’t think you’ve ever been this turned on. It’s different, with Dean’s hands wandering your sides and his voice right in your ear. Your heart pounds and everywhere gets slick with sweat and arousal, just his dirty talk reducing you to a heap of confused nerves. Dean’s lips drag over your jaw, and you curl further around him, your nails digging into his shoulders as he nips at your throat.

“Just gotta do what I tell you, alright?” He mutters, squeezing a handful of your ass. “Can you do that, baby? Do it for me?"

You nod quickly, and Dean chuckles against your skin.

“Eager,” he drawls, pushing his fingers slowly under the hem of your shorts. “Eager and soft.”

He squeezes your ass again, his fingers brushing against the edge of your pussy. You grind backwards, trying to push him to where you need him so very desperately. He lets you, teasing his fingers over the lips of your pussy, and you whine in his ear.

“Sit still,” he grunts, and you have to bite your lower lip, but you force your hips to come to a stop.

It earns you a sharp slap of your ass, and a kiss on the side of your head. Worth it.

“That’s right,” he mutters, letting those thick fingers dance back over your cunt.  “Good work, baby girl. You fuckin’ love the attention, don’t you. Eager to please me, eager to make me proud.”

You swallow, hugging him so tight you’re a little worried you’ll choke him. Dean doesn’t even flinch. He dips two fingers into the wetness of your heat and groans right in your ear, spreading the arousal everywhere between your thighs.

“If you’re gonna hide that pretty face,” he grunts in your ear. “At least fuckin’ kiss me.”

Nervously, you wander your lips over the strong curve of his shoulders, the arch of his neck. Dean moans in your ear, his cock jumping in his jeans. His fingers keep wandering near and around your pussy, and you get a little bolder. Kissing up his jaw, over his cheek, the top of his lip. You’re panting, trying to focus on your job as Dean keeps pulling and teasing you with his touch.

“Shit,” he moans your name, tracing around your flutter entrance. “That’s it, baby, just like that-“

 Dean grabs your jaw with his free hand, like he can’t fucking help himself, and slams his lips against yours. You squeak in surprise, but kiss him back, grinding down onto his hand. His fingers dip inside of you for a moment, and you moan. Dean grunts and shoves those fingers inside of you.

Your mouth falls open, your eyes widening at the thick, pleasurable stretch. He feels so good, so fucking right, you’re worried his cock might kill you.

“Look at you,” Dean coos, smirking at your slack face. “Just my fuckin’ fingers, baby. Keep breathin’, or this is all we’re doing tonight.”

You take a deep breath, sharp and sudden, and Dean smirks in approval.

“Good girl,” he pushes his fingers a little deeper, scissoring them and bumping against a spot that makes your whole body jerk.

“Dean-“

“Shh,” he kisses you, crooking his fingers to rub against that hidden button, and you mewl against his lips. “You feel that, baby?”

“Mmm- Mhm.” You press your cheek against his, eyes fluttering as Dean keeps pushing and tickling deep inside you. “Feels good.”

“I know it does, sweet girl,” he wraps his hand back around your neck, guiding your brow to press back against his. “It’s that special little spot, gonna make everything feel good.”

His words are sweet and mocking all at once, and it sends a new gush of arousal between your legs. You watch him with wide, clouded eyes, and Dean’s smile softens for a single second. He kisses you, more gentle than before, and pulls his fingers slowly out of your cunt.

“Lie down,” he whispers before you can protest, and you swallow, but obey.

Dean hums in approval, rubbing a massive hand on your thigh.

“Everything off,” he says, and you go still.

“Everything?”

“Mhm,” he raises his brows at your flushed expression. “That gonna be a problem?”

You shake your head, wrapping your arms around your stomach. You don’t want to disappoint him, but he’s going to see you. Really, fully see you. God, you really don’t want him to see you and change his mind, and-

“Hey,”  Dean takes your hand, squeezing it gently. “You want my help?”

“Yes, please,” you breathe, and that’s all it takes. 

Dean rips off his shirt first—makin’ it even, he says—then makes quick work of his jeans. You don’t get more than a second to marvel him—flushed, tanned chest and thick everything, and heavy cock that does not look like a worm—before he’s touching you. He shimmies your shorts down, then peels your shirt over your head, leaving you in only your underwear. For a moment he just admires you, palming his cock with a tiny grin, and you roll onto your stomach.

Dean laughs, tapping your ass with a single finger. “Gettin’ shy, baby?”

“Shut up-“

“Ah.” He drags that finger down your clothed pussy. “Who tells who what to do?”

Your face burns, and you press your face further into the pillows. Dean chuckles, and you feel the bed shift as he crawls over your body. You can feel the heat coming off of him, feel the drag of his cock somewhere near your ass as he whispers in your ear.

“You were doin’ so well,” he drawls, unhooking your bra with a single hand. “Don’t get shy on me now.”

It doesn’t help. You keep grinding, trying to get some friction with the sheets. Dean’s hand comes down on your pussy with one, sharp smack, and you squeal, pushing back against his hand.

“Needy fuckin’ baby,” he mocks. “Can’t even help it, can you. Still tryin’ to be good for me.”

He hooks two fingers around your panties, pulling them tight so they push against your clit. You push back against his hand, and he smirks against your ear.

“You want a little more?”

You nod, and he snaps the fabric down, sending a tiny shock through your body.

“Say please-“

“Please,” you gasp, moving your arms up to hide your face. “Please, Dean- More- Oooh-“

Dean’s thumb finds your clit, rubbing in slow, tight circles. Your words fall off, and he fists a hand in your hair, tugging your head back to allow him to kiss you again.

He’s not cruel, with how he touches you. He’s generous, but controlled. Every stroke of your clit is deliberate, making your head spin and your mouth fall further open. That seems to be exactly how he wants you, though, because he pushes his tongue further down your throat and flicks his thumb back and forth, working you up into a writhing frenzy.

When his fingers finally push back inside of you, Dean almost seems unwilling to pull back and stop kissing you. You’re bent back and pliant under him, whimpering happily as he feeds his fore and middle finger into your hole.

“Greedy little pussy,” he rasps against your lips. “Know you’re gonna strangle my cock, baby, son of a bitch-"

He groans, like he’s the one being fingered into oblivion. He’s set a harsh pace with his wrist, snapping his fingers in and out of your cunt without relent. His thumb moved away from your clit, replaced by the heel of his palm, rubbing in tight, unrelenting circles on your swollen clit.

Every single time, he hits that spot inside of you, and your head is starting to get light. All the electricity and heat in your body is pushing down into your core, building like a bomb and threatening to explode. You almost sob, with how overwhelming the sensation is. Dean notices, kissing you a little softer.

“Poor girl,” he mutters. “Already like this and I’m not even properly fuckin’ you.”

“Your- Your hands,” you push out the word between sharp breaths. “They’re big.”

Dean grunts, his cock jumping near your ass. “Yeah, sweetheart? You like how fuckin’ big my hands are?”

“Mh- Mhm.”

You try to kiss him again. He pulls back, moving his hand impossibly faster against your cunt.

“Words,” he grunts. “You’re not stupid enough to not speak, not yet.”

“Like it,” you breathe out. “Love- Love it, Dean, oh- Oh my god-“

You moan again, and Dean grunts. His hips are starting to jerk near your ass, making him rut against you as his fingers work.

“Your close,” he mutters, pressing his fingers fully inside and crooking them against that gooey spot. “Cum for me, pretty girl. Now.”

His voice must have some kind of supernatural power over you, because that pressure in your lower tummy bursts, and your orgasm rips through you link a hurricane. Your thighs clench, trapping Dean’s hand between your legs, and he groans, rubbing his fingers harsher and harsher against your g-spot. You’re shaking and rolling beneath him, and he has to grab the back of your neck and pin it down to keep you still.

Dean works you through your orgasm, whispering low praise in your ear as you float back down to earth. Your pussy feels empty, when his fingers finally pull away. Your eyes are slightly crossed, and your smile is dazed and a little stupid.

You don’t even squeak, when Dean grabs your thigh and flips you over. You keen, back arching and body twitching, but you’re mostly just staring stupidly and happily up at him. Dean swallows, his chest rising and falling fast, and leans down to press a soft kiss to your lips. You hum, eyes fluttering shut, and cup the back of his neck to hold him against you.

He drags his fingers lazily through the mess between your thighs, sending pleasurable little shivers up your spine. He drags your panties fully off your body, holding them up to his nose and taking a deep, long whiff before tossing them off to the side. He gathers your arousal on his fingers and slowly pulls away, rising over you with parted lips and gleaming, almost wholly black eyes.

Dean sucks your juices off his fingers, lapping them up with his tongue and a lazy, knowing smirk. Your breath catches. You almost push up to try and grab him, but you’re still foggy and boneless from the orgasm, and he shoves you back down with a broad hand splayed over your tummy.

“Dean-“

You cut yourself off under his stern gaze, swallowing nervously.

“Please?” You try again, and he chuckles.

“You’re cute.”

“I- I am not-“

“Yeah, you are. Cute when you cum for me,” he dips his fingers back into you, smirking lazily. “Cute when I touch you. Cute when you beg.”

“Deeeean-“

“Deeean,” he mocks, squeezing your upper thigh. “Listen to you. Fuckin’ adorable.”

You flush, a new wave of arousal hitting you like a rising tide, and you don’t even understand how you could possibly be ready that fast. Dean watches you pussy tremble and flutter, letting out a slow, rough breath.

“Son of a bitch,” he shakes his head, his hand moving to rub against his cock. “You got no idea what you do to me, baby, no fuckin’ idea.”

You swallow, watching him move against himself, almost enchanted. He really is prettier than is fair, in every possible way. His cock is thick and long, flushed at the head and leaking pre-cum against his thumb. Your tongue flicks over your lips, as you try to mentally measure the girth and length of him. You’ve taken toys before, when you got really curious. He’s bigger.

“You wanna touch, sweetheart?” He prompts, and you nod, your tongue flicking over your lips.

Dean pushes his hips forward, slowly taking your hand and guiding it against his shaft. He’s warm. Warm and hard. You dance your fingers down the length of him and he grunts, a vein ticking in his neck.

“Easy…” He rasps, and you nod nervously.

You find his balls, give them a light squeeze, and Dean catches your wrist.

“That’s enough.” He mutters, twining your fingers together. “Jesus, woman, gonna blow it before I even get inside of you.”

Your eyes widen. You’d almost forgotten about that part.

“That’s not going to fit inside of me.”

Dean chuckles. “Yeah, it will.”

“No, I mean like- It can’t-“

“It can.”

“Dean, I’m serious-“

He shuts you up with a quick rough kiss, and you go embarrassingly limp. His cock rubs between the folds of your pussy, bumping and pressing against your clit, and your breath hitches. Oh, God.

“Just do what I tell ya,” he mutters. “We’re gonna make it fit.”

You do. It is very easy to do what Dean tells you, when he follows through on all his promises. When he gives you such low and certain orders, and you find yourself molding perfectly around his cock.

Because it does fit. Somehow, Dean spreads your legs and kisses your pussy once—as if he can’t help himself—before crawling over you and slowly pushing the head of his cock inside of you. It’s tight at first. He grunts, pressing his brow to you shoulder, and rubs tight circle around your clit with his thumb.

“Open up for me, baby,” he rasps. “C’mon.”

You go limp with every inch he feeds you. The stretch is glorious, pulling you apart with every drag over your fluttering walls, every low grunt of your name from Dean’s lips. His determination to tease you seems to dissolve, by the time he’s fully seated inside of you, his balls pressed against your ass. He pants in your ear, hot and heavy, and cradles your body in his arms like it’s fragile.

“Slow,” he mutters, and it sounds like he’s talking to himself more than you. “Gonna go slow.”

You keen, at the first, lazy thrust of his hips. A lewd, wet sound fills the air, and the head of Dean’s cock pushes right up against that already abused spot inside of you, making stars dance behind your eyes. Every roll of Dean’s hips makes your whole body spark. He kisses all over your face, his own voice thick and wrecked as you clench around him.  

“Takin’ me so well, baby,” he rasps. “Feels good, doesn’t it. Feels so fuckin’ good, bein’ filled up with cock like you deserve-“

His words fall into a moan, his hips snapping forward, and the air gets knocked from your lungs. A sound you’ve never heard escapes you, and Dean chuckles, kissing your open mouth as he repeats the motion.

“Yeah, you like that.” He pulls almost fully out, then slams back forward. “Say it, baby girl, say you like it-“

“I like it,” you gasp out, sounding drunk to your own ears. “Love it, Dean- Fuck- Fuuuck-“

Dean captures your mouth in another kiss, and sets a brutal, drilling pace. You’re split open with every thrust, your every nerve on fire as he fucks you like a machine. He never gets too fast, just hard. Over and over and over again, until you’re gasping for air and clawing at his shoulders. That pressure turns molten and demanding, threatening to burst. Dean’s fingers dig into your hips. He moans in your ear, his own words staring to slur.

“Tight,” he moans. “So fuckin’ tight- I- I can’t- Shit-“

Dean’s hands fumble, dragging over your thighs and as he gropes for your pussy. Two fumbling fingers find it, rubbing tight circles, and you cry out, clenching down on his cock.

“Let go, sweetheart, need you to let for ‘f me- Fuck-“

Your orgasm hits you even harder than before, and your vision goes white. Your pussy flutters and clenches, something hot gushing out as your body trembles with overwhelming pleasure. It’s a strange sensation, but not bad. Not even close. You think you scream with pleasure, but Dean slams his mouth over yours and muffles the sound.

His hips stutter and jerk. You whine his name and he grunts, slamming forward and burying himself at the hilt as his cum spurts deep inside you, mixing with your own release.

You’re almost gone to the world. Dean lies over you, kissing you as you float back down, murmuring praise you can barely hear.

“Gonna clean you up,” he grunts, and you whine when his weight disappears.

“Deeean.” You grab at the air and catch his bicep. “Stay.”

You pout at him, eyes watery and hopeful. He just chuckles, kissing your knuckles before drawing back up, and promising to return.

He better. You really don’t want to let go of him now.

Dean brings a wet, warm towel, and cleans between your thighs. You didn’t realize how sore you were until he touches you with such light hands, but it’s a good kind of sore. When you moan, it’s not even really in pain.

He brings you water. A snack and a fresh shirt, that he bundles you in like a penguin. You somehow end up curled against his chest, half asleep and smiling against his bare, warm chest.

“I like you,” Dean says suddenly, and you beam. You don’t think you’ve ever felt so bubbly in your life.

“I like you too-“

“No,” his jaw works, the words low and tight. “I like like you- Like- Fuck-“

He runs a hand over his face, shaking his head. It’s almost adorable.

“You- You’re just- That really wasn’t nothin’ for me, sweetheart, not even close-“

You take his trick. You push up on his chest, press your lips together, and kiss him until he shuts the fuck up. He kisses you back immediately, cupping your face between shaking hands. You smile against his lips, pulling back just enough to whisper, “I like you too.”

Dean’s eyes snap open, his voice hoarse. “Really?”

“Yeah,” you flush. “A- A lot.”

Dean grins. He smiles wider than you knew he could, and slams a shorter rougher kiss against your lips before pulling back again. Like he can’t stand not to look at you for too long.

“Can I take you out?” He says, and you nod.

“Can we have more sex,” you whisper, and he laughs, pressing another kiss against your lips.

“Any time you want, baby.” He says. “You’re mine now.”

✦End note: drooling for him ✦

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Her body was everything he could have asked for. A wet dream, a work of art, and he knew he was a lucky man for getting access to her in any way. The dip of her waist, the curve of her hips, the swells of her breasts, it was hard to decide where to grab first and where to put his mouth. Harry had been nervous to approach her the first time they’d met because of how gorgeous she was, so getting to have her under him, being allowed to touch her still felt slightly surreal at times.

Before Y/N he would have never described himself as greedy, but when it came to the woman he sank to his knees for, he knew it was the best descriptor for him.

His hands were thick and slightly calloused as they finally made the decision to palm the undersides of her breasts, thumbs swiping over her nipples in a teasing little brush that made her shiver and arch into his touch. The sight of her chest heaving and the peaks hardening under his touch seemed to satisfy something primal in him, a giddy grin spreading across his face before he ducked his head to replace one of his thumbs with his mouth. 

Taking the nipple between his lips, the heat and slick of his mouth enveloping it sent a jolt of pleasure straight to her cunt. A deep groan left him as he tugged at it lightly with his lips, the fingers tugging lightly at his locks making his dick throb against the side of the damn bench, and he knew that he’d have a stain in his trousers before the end of the night. 

It was hard to keep himself in check when it came to getting to touch her.

They’d started slow, and with that meant ample time to memorize her body the best that he could. It also meant more time to find the spots that she liked the most, how she liked herself to be handled, and he had made dozens, if not hundreds of mental notes to make sure every single time he got to touch her that it was an experience she wanted more of. With her pretty, sensitive tits, he knew it was the perfect foreplay for the both of them to ease the new experience in. If he had more time, he’d try to make her cum from it- it had happened twice, and he wanted to feel it happen again. 

Alas, they weren’t the only ones staying in the RV and he knew they had limited time before someone would come back to use the bathroom, change, or interrupt them in whatever fucking way they could. 

Like they hadn’t been hogging all of his girl’s attention the whole festival. 

Being clingy wasn’t something he was ashamed of, though. Since they’d started dating, his friends had known he was likely to be considering he was a hopeless romantic who had become smitten with his girlfriend nearly at first sight. It wasn’t a shock to people who knew him that he’d walk around with hearts floating around his head whenever she was around. 

The decision to have other people in the RV wasn’t his, but he had only pouted about it a little bit. Y/N had borrowed it from an uncle and she had a giant heart, letting their friends crash in the bunks while they’d taken the big bed in the back. 

Unfortunately for him it had meant he had barely any alone time with her and if he did, he had to be quiet. He’d been kissing on her whenever he could but he was aware there were no actual walls separating them from everyone else, and he wasn’t quite sure he was into exhibitionism in that way- so yes, he was biding his time and absorbing every drop of it as he got her alone. 

Pulling back from her left breast with a soft pop, his lips glistened with saliva as they slipped from her nipple. For a moment, that shy, boyish smile he got whenever he was doing something particularly intimate with her peeked through- the one that made him look younger, less like the confident, tattooed man and more so the nervous guy with little experience who had watched her from across the room their first night and couldn't quite believe she'd chosen him. His eyes flickered up to hers, checking, always checking if he was doing okay. "Good? Everything is okay with you, baby?"

She’d never had a partner so attentive before, but it was something she really loved. 

“Mhm. You’re so good.” Y/N’s eyes were glassy as she giggled, carding through his hair again as her head fell back against her shoulders, his hot breath washing over the ultra sensitive skin. 

"Always wanna be good for you," Harry mumbled against her skin, the words vibrating against her as he lightly nuzzled into her chest, letting his lips brush the heated skin underneath him. There was no care about sweat or the body glitter she was sure that lingered, no hesitation as his tongue lapped at the valley between her breasts with a hungry look in his eye. His body was broad between her spread legs, his height aiding him in keeping the right height even on his knees, and it made her feel adored in the most delicious of ways. 

Y/N never would have imagined Harry to be the type of guy to be not only quick but very happy to be on his knees before getting to know him, but it made sense now. Harry loved to provide, to pleasure, to love on her, and he was so eager to do all three that it was adorable. His appearance would fool someone else, she knew, but she liked that he had layers that were slowly being revealed to her. 

She had a hunch there was a side he was hiding. One he obviously hadn’t explored much of, but there was a glint in his eye that he got sometimes, a slightly demanding tone in his voice that would make her toes curl, and she was determined to help him get to a point where it was comfortable for him. It felt harder to breathe as she looked at the man pawing at her tits, looming slightly over her, but she loved feeling him there. All over her, skin to skin. 

Before she could respond to tell him that he was always good, his mouth was on her other nipple, sucking it deep into his mouth. Almost overkill, slightly sloppy, and different from what she had experienced before but he needed it all. It was a hunger that had him pulling as much of her tit as he could get into his mouth, she gasped and gripped his hair harder- which he definitely liked. 

It had all but fallen out of the braids she had put in for him, waves of thick chestnut obstructing her view as it tumbled down towards his shoulders. His hair had been one of the first things she noticed about him, how pretty and long it was. He had it in a bun a lot of the time at the nape of his neck, but since discovering how much he loved it being played with, she had been selfish and got her hands on it as much as possible.

Considering she had found out he liked it in more than a chaste way from the first time he’d gotten hard around her with her fingers in his hair, she didn’t apologize for the tug.

He moaned around her flesh, the vibration sending electric shocks down her spine and making her squirm beneath him. "Want to make you feel good all the time. S’so hard to keep my hands off of you. Wanted to tell everyone to go the fuck away so I could have you to myself today." He mumbled as he released his mouth with another wet pop before diving back in, sucking hard enough for it to hurt just a little bit- in a good way.

It was another peek into that side of him that he hadn’t exposed too much of. A little selfish, a hint dominant, that glint of annoyance in his eye at the reminder of other people stealing her attention, Harry was a needy boyfriend but god, Y/N loved it.

His tongue dragged a slow, deliberate stripe across her pebbled nipple, the flat of it, warm and slick and so thorough. Licking from the very edge of the areola all the way to the other side, he ran the flat of his tongue over the nub as he held the rest in his hand, letting her fill his palms. Y/N let out a whiny sound as he pulled his mouth away for a moment, but it didn’t last long. 

The smile he gave her was slightly smug, like he’d gotten the reaction he wanted before his mouth returned right to where it wanted to be and let his lips curled back around her nipple, tugging gently with his lips while his tongue flicked over her, his pupils blown wide as he looked up at her. That somehow vulnerable but hot and hungry expression made her breathing catch in her throat.

Harry was not at all what someone would assume he is, and she fucking loved getting to have this part all to herself.

 "Like that?" He managed to ask, his voice slightly thick before he placed two kisses over both nipples. It was so quick, but really sweet in a way that made her want to coo at him. “I’ve been starin’ at them all day. Little fuckin’ rave top does nothing t’hide them and I wanted to suck on ‘em all fucking day. You’re so pretty, baby. So gorgeous. I can’t keep my mouth away from you.”

He repeated the motion again, slower this time, making sure she felt every single wet, dedicated drag as if he were trying to memorize the exact texture and taste of her. His tongue was lapping at her like she was water and he’d been dying of thirst, circling around the peak of her nipple before pressing up hard and flat against it while his lips parted to expose as much of her as possible to his mouth again. 

Harry was past trying to hide his neediness from her, and Y/N didn’t mind in the slightest.

He’d always had a pretty mouth, but seeing it on her body always made her feel extraordinarily hot under the collar. The normally deep pink during a sinful red as he pulled at her, humming in his throat as she kept the hair from his face and breathing hard against her skin, there was nothing prettier.

"You said you'd give me whatever I want. I want to make you cum with my tongue, please.” He panted against her breast, pulling back just enough to nose at the skin that he had gotten wet with his mouth and let it drag. “Can I still do that, baby? Been wanting to for a while.”

“Yeah? You really want to?” She had a feeling he truly did, but was also aware of the fact that there were a lot of firsts that she was getting from him lately and she didn’t want him to feel rushed in the slightest. He’d opened up so much and seemed to love anything they’d tried when it came to sex so far, but she didn’t mind taking it slow. 

Thankfully for her aching pussy, he was more than ready to take the next step.

"So fucking bad." He nodded, his face flushing with would probably be both embarrassment and arousal as he basically begged to eat her out like the starving man he was- but he couldn’t take it back and he didn’t want to. He really, really wanted to bury his face between her legs. 

"I just... I wanna see what you taste like. Been dying to feel that pretty pussy on my face while I'm down there worshipping you." He nuzzled into her cleavage desperately, rubbing his nose and lips between both breasts. "Let me make you cum with my tongue, baby? Please?"

“Alright, baby. You’re so fucking cute.” Y/N giggled, sitting up slightly in the sticky booth. The vinyl stuck under her thighs and made her wince, but she would take it all again every time if it meant she got to feel him touching her. “But you need to turn the AC on in this thing. We’re going to do this in the bed in the back, because my back can’t handle the booth for that.” 

She had to bite back a full laugh when he clumsily scrambled to his legs and rushed to turn the temperature control on. He looked like a bit of a baby deer as he steadied himself on the wall, but his eagerness was contagious as she stood on her own shaky knees. 

“Thank you, sweet boy.” 

The giddy smile on his lips was so sweet she wanted to squish his cheeks and kiss them- so she did just that. Harry had always had the strange mixture of utterly adorable and sexy as fucking sin, but feeling his hands grip her ass and pick her up into the air and only breaking said kiss to giggle against her mouth was the perfect example of that. 

The bed in the back was made (likely because Harry notoriously liked a tidy bed- if it was only her it would remain undone), but she was thankful for that considering she knew she could get messy. Being deposited on the bottom of the mattress, she could see the hunger in his eyes as he dropped right back to his knees, picking her leg up and kissing right beside her own knee. “You’re gonna have t’tell me what you do and don’t like, while I do it. I’m so…” The sound of him swallowing made her look down at his face. “I’m desperate for it. I don’t want to be too sloppy or not give you enough. Give me pointers, please.”

God, he melted her fucking heart. 

Everything about her softened as she nodded, reaching for his face and stroking his bottom lip to soothe him. “With a mouth like this, I doubt you could do anything wrong. Just don’t go off and bite me full force, and I think we’re okay.” She teased, adjusting her position for him. “You can experiment. It’s been so long for me… maybe we can figure out what I like together, hm? I have faith in you.”

—

Y/N had known she had nothing to worry about, but she hadn’t anticipated just how good it could be. 

It was a little clumsy at first. That was to be expected with firsts. Considering he spent a little while just staring at her pussy, she had felt slightly awkward and a little giggly herself with him observing her so closely as her bare body was exposed to him. He was like a fucking puppy with his eagerness, only slightly hesitant as his fingers spread her folds open and allowing himself a really good look at her most vulnerable place. 

The awkwardness had faded quickly, though, with his soft praises of how gorgeous she was, how lucky he felt, and the kisses on her inner thighs. What surprised her the most was how he had slipped her panties off and brought them straight to his face, letting himself inhale the scent of her. If it had been anyone else she would have been embarrassed, and for a split second she had wanted to squeal at him to stop- but seeing that raw hunger in his eyes and hearing the guttural groan he let out in response had shut her up real quick. 

It was his first time face first in pussy, but he got the hang of it very quickly. A natural, some could say. 

Y/N would just say she was the luckiest woman on the planet. 

He’d been slow with it, kissing gingerly over her clit to experiment before he’d looked up for her approval- which he got immediately. Her fingers were soft in his hair, encouraging as he looked slightly unsure for a moment before dragging his tongue up the length of her. 

It was after that, she was pretty sure, that he realized that he had nothing to worry about. 

“Oh my fucking god.” Y/N panted, slightly high pitched as she felt him hook her thighs under his arms. Mouth falling open, she felt his tongue drag up again, his body shifting her as he all but nuzzled into her cunt with a primal tinge to his features that made her throb right against his mouth. “Jesus.”

“So fuckin’ sweet. I’m already addicted to this. Want t’smell you every fuckin’ day.” He mumbled into her, running his tongue over her clit. “S’good? I’m doing a good job licking your pussy?” The words were slightly muffled, but it seemed like he couldn’t drag his face from between her thighs. 

“So good.” Her stomach jumped as one of his palms laid across it, thumbing at the sticky skin. The AC was no match for the heat he was bringing to her. “Fuck, just keep doing what you’re doing.” 

Harry didn’t have to be told twice. 

Y/N wouldn’t have considered herself to be a very vocal partner in bed in general, but apparently everything she’d known was challenged when Harry was involved. With green eyes peering up at her through dark lashes and lips wrapped around her clit, sucking in slow, repetitive motions, she was fucking dripping against his chin. She could hear it. Being this wet was a shock to her, but considering he’d been happy to pull off every so often to lap up every drop and moan like he was the one being sucked on, she knew he liked it more than she’d expected.

“Yes, yes, yes.” She hissed the words out through gritted teeth, his soft tongue nudging her clit as he suckled right on it. It wasn’t a move she’d felt before, but it was one she wanted to add into the routine. “That feels so fucking good, holy shit, baby. What the fuck?” Her head lulled back, back arching a bit more as her fingers tugged on his hair. Likely rougher than she meant to, but it got a growl against her poor clit and it was almost enough to make her cum. “Oh fuck, keep going like that. Just like that. H-Harry.” She stuttered, eyes welling up slightly. She could feel the heat burning up low in her stomach as she was pushed closer to the edge, far faster than she’d ever encountered in the past. 

It was notoriously hard to get her off during oral, and she had expected him to have to make her finish with his fingers, but based on what she was feeling… that wasn’t going to be a problem anymore. 

She hadn’t expected to drip onto the sheets, either, but that was his doing. She was drenched, sloppy with both her own arousal- and when he pulled back she had wanted to let those tears out, only to watch his lips purse and a trail of saliva drip down onto her throbbing clit. 

Her sweet Harry spitting on her cunt wasn’t something she’d have predicted, but it made it that much better. 

“You’re so dirty. Shit.” She whined, feeling his tongue drag the spit over her pussy as he chuckled against her. “So fucking hot. Can’t believe you’re gonna make me cum.” 

“You’ll make me cum just tugging at my hair. I love this pretty cunt.” He whispered, nose nudging her clit as he licked from her hole back to her clit to lap up the sweetness she’d been leaking for him. There was not an ounce of shame in how sloppy it was, the shine of them on his chin and lips with no motion to wipe any away, and somehow it made it even hotter. “C’mon. Give it to me. Tell me what to do to make you cum.” 

“Do what you were doing before. It was perfect.” She scrambled to say, yelping slightly as he adjusted her again and pulled her bum close to the edge of the bed. “Just-“

The man didn’t need further instruction. If Y/N didn’t know better, she’d have been suspicious that it wasn’t his first time doing it, but she was just that lucky to get a man with the most blessed mouth of all time. Lips around her clit and tongue stroking the ultra sensitive bud, she went to buck her hips but was kept in place by his bracketed arms, pinning her in place with biceps flexing as he did so.

If she could orgasm from an image alone, it would probably be from the one in front of her. 

Sweat was in her brows as she furrowed them, using the grip on his hair to push him further into her cunt, and he took it happily. Humming against her, her legs shook slightly as he gently moved his head back and forth like he was shaking it, the slick noise of his mouth making her pant as he tugged at her poor clit, returning to the rhythm she needed. 

Feeling her arousal dribble out of her and past her ass should have been more shameful, but with his greedy and hungry mouth, she only clenched around nothing knowing he would clean her up afterwards. There was no way to get him any closer, his nose buried in her soft mound above her cunt and eyes hooded as he stared right up at her. 

“Baby…”  Her mouth felt dry as she could feel it approaching rapidly. “Cumming- M’gonna.” She didn’t mean to sound as frantic as she did, but it was so quick that it made her flush. The large hand pressing on her belly, his steady tongue, the perfection suction, it was the exact recipe she needed as the sting in her eyes returned and the little wail left her lips, orgasm hitting her harder than she’d felt in ages. 

The harsh tug to his hair was unintentional, but the grunt that followed, alongside the whimpers he let out against her dripping, cumming pussy only made it better. She could feel movement, but she couldn’t think straight. 

The only thing on her mind was how good she felt and how perfect Harry was. 

“Harry- Harry.” She gasped, squirming as it came to be too much. “No more. Too- too sensitive.” If she could handle more, she’d have taken it. 

Maybe in a little bit. But right now, her thighs were trembling and it was hard to catch her breath as he finally unlatched from her throbbing clit, a pout on his face as he rested his wet cheek onto her inner thigh. 

“I want t’do it again.” He whispered, turning to kiss the thin, warm skin. “You taste so good, feel so fucking perfect. I can’t believe I waited that long to do it.”

The man obeyed immediately as she wordlessly pulled him up with a motion of her hand, humming in surprise as she kissed him hard. It was returned with matched fervor, a sharp exhale from his nose making her pull back with a giggle from sucking on his tongue. “Who the fuck are you? Are you certain you’ve never eaten pussy before?” 

The words were hushed against his swollen mouth, a shy grin breaking free from him as he nodded. Forehead pressed against hers, it was hard to hide the pride in his eyes as he looked into her own. “Yeah. My first time, and not the last. Yours is the only one I ever wanted. So worth the wait, fucks sake.”  

“Better be the only one. First and last.” Pulling him further up on the bed, she wrapped her legs around his waist and kissed him again, hand sliding down to the front of his trousers before he stopped her. 

Y/N met Niall under very, very embarrassing circumstances.

Being drunk, delirious over exam stress, and angry at your roommate (at the time) for leaving you alone at a random party you didn’t even want to go to was a dangerous combination for someone as worrisome as Y/N. Someone who was normally planned and poised—who had an elaborate calendar and couldn’t function without a to-do list—a state like that was a precursor to bad decisions and inevitable mortification.

It was fall of 2013. The house party she was at was some sort of frat or something (Y/N couldn’t tell you for sure), music thumped through the speakers, loud and booming, vibrating the paper-thin walls. She arrived there with her roommate—they were meant to remain close the whole night because this was a neighbourhood Y/N had never been to, so she was quite apprehensive. But Bella, being the flakiest person Y/N ever knew, disappeared on her within thirty minutes of their arrival.

When Y/N texted her asking what happened and where she was, Bella sent her a snap of the back of a guy's head, which was more than enough information for Y/N to deduce she’d been swept away by her long-running situationship and there was no hope for them reuniting that night. Alas, she was left to herself, where she resigned to angrily scrolling on her phone and sipping a beer to occupy herself until something more interesting came along. 

Things began to go wrong when Y/N felt the beginnings of a headache prickling the edge of her brain (the most common side effect of exam season in the Y/N Handbook of Life), and she made the stupid decision to consume more alcohol hoping it would help her forget about the pain. Of course, that didn’t work, and normally, Y/N liked to say she was a smart girl, but her decisions were anything but that night. Especially when the headache amplified and she reconciled to just carrying a bottle of liquor in her hand, taking occasional swigs and stumbling about in the crowded, weirdly damp and hot hallway (not one of her proudest moments, really).

She remembered bumping into a lean figure, his fingers immediately wrapping around her upper arms to balance her as she lost her footing and almost fell flat on her face. Only she wished she’d fallen through the floor and been swallowed by the earth when she looked up and realised she was drunk and gross and messy in the arms of Niall fucking Horan. 

Her heart stopped and her mouth fell open in what she thought was dismay, but was actually just nausea, because what followed her shocked admission (“Oh my god, you’re Niall Horan.”) was a bucket load of vomit, which she unleashed on his nice-looking button-up. She tried to bury most memories of that night deep in her subconscious, but the one thing she couldn’t rid from her brain was the look on his face when he realised what was happening—when she continued puking on him for thirty more seconds before passing out on his sodden chest.

That was about all she recalled from that night. The next parts were ones that Niall filled her in on when she awoke.

Apparently he ended up dragging her to the couch, where he stuck by her side and asked whoever walked past if they knew the sorry girl covered in puke asleep on his lap. He claimed mostly people just grimaced and walked away (but Y/N thinks he added that part just to toy with her feelings), and he tried getting into her phone to call a friend or something, but it was the age of passcodes—no face identification or fingerprint to unlock her screen—and Y/N was out like a light, so he wound up just taking her to his car.

He was smart enough to know not to leave a passed-out girl just on somebody’s couch (even if that somebody was his cousin’s little brother whose frat he was at). His conscience wouldn’t let him leave Y/N there all alone, and he didn’t know where she lived; all his attempts to wake her and try to get a response only resulted in her slapping her palm against his face, grumbling at him to shut up. 

That was how he found himself where he was the next morning—asleep behind his steering wheel parked up on a random street with Y/N stretched out over his backseat, snoozing. He thought it would be weird to take her back to his hotel room; firstly, he wasn’t sure he wanted the odd girl knowing where he stayed (he was very careful about protecting his location ever since he found out some fans camped outside of his house last year), and secondly, he didn’t want her to wake up and freak out because she was just in some random guy’s hotel room.

However, as much as he tried to delay the freaking out bit, he was sorely mistaken when Y/N woke up and screamed as she spotted a slumbering Niall slouched over the wheel. Poor Niall was shaken to his core and was startled awake only to scream back in her face. The shrieking had to die at some point, which was when Y/N decided to ask Niall what the fuck she was doing in his car and why he had a massive stain on his blue top that was eerily similar to the one on her dress. 

Niall, however, was a fucking saint and a sweetheart.

Y/N learned this about him when he urged her to calm down and carried her through a breathing exercise so she wasn’t hyperventilating like a madman and gently explained to her what happened the night before and why she wasn’t in her bed and in his backseat instead. He saw as she went through several emotions—anger, at her roommate for leaving her alone at the party; embarrassment, for throwing up all over Niall; gratitude, towards the same man for taking care of her when she was abandoned.

The reality of the situation dawned on her as she acknowledged the incessant pounding headache (which never left her last night but only got worse) echoing in her skull; the morbid aftermath of how much she regrettably had to drink. 

To please her own morale, Y/N ended up begging Niall to let her buy him a new shirt and some breakfast as compensation for what she put him through. At first, he was reluctant—told her he was just being a good samaritan and it was his duty as a respectful young man not to leave a drunk girl unconscious at a frat house. It took about fifteen minutes of convincing and Y/N telling him that if he didn’t let her do this, she would hate herself for the rest of her life (dramatic, she knows, but she never claimed to be a reasonable girl) for him to finally agree to go to the mall with her where she’d “clean him right up and get his belly fed,” like he was a cat or summat.

She directed Niall to her dorm for a quick pit stop, where she grabbed a hoodie for him and a change of clothes for herself, making the effort to look at least a little bit presentable before going shopping with an international popstar.

They went to one of those smarmy stores she normally walked right past to get him a new shirt that looked like the one that she ruined. The purchase made a huge dent in Y/N’s dried-up bank account, but she refrained from saying anything at all—no price tag could ever come close to the amount of trauma and embarrassment she suffered the past night.

For breakfast she treated him to an IHOP platter, and it was then that she understood the saying that the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach.

It was over that greasy diner table, with a shopping bag tucked by their feet, when Y/N realised how easy it was to get on Niall’s good side. With a stack of pancakes and about four hash browns in him, Niall was opening up to Y/N like she was his long-lost sister or something of the sort. It wasn't every day Y/N was presented with the opportunity to have breakfast sitting across from the Niall Horan from fucking One Direction, so she used and abused the chance to ask him questions galore.

She started small, asking about life in the spotlight, fame, and whatnot—and when he began giving her long, rambly answers, she took that as her sign to dig a little deeper. Y/N was a nosy bitch, and she was bored—she loved the band; she loved their music—she’d regret it forever if she didn’t get any answers to all the questions she’d been wondering since she was like 18. Like what life on the road was like, what really happens in the bathrooms at the Grammys, were all the presents on the Ellen Show real or not; shit like that.

Niall was funny, and he was unfiltered—who doesn’t love talking about themselves for eons when the other person is a willing listener? He seemed more than happy to satiate her desire, eagerly giving her replies and indulging her in entertaining stories he seldom got to share with other people.

 But he wasn’t going to give all his little thoughts and anecdotes out for nothing in exchange, so he drilled into her brain as well; picked at her psyche; asked her all about her degree, how she ended up in that city, what the fuck she was even doing at the party the past night, etc. Conversation with Niall was easy, and Y/N was a simple girl, so she had answers to all his questions, which entertained him enough to continue gabbing away with her as much as his heart wanted.

Y/N thought that was a one-and-done situation—she’d never see Niall again, and the whole interaction would just become a funny story she’d tell her grandkids one day when she was eighty.

What she didn’t expect was for Niall to ask her number as he dropped her back off at her dorm. Even at that point she thought he was probably just being polite. She didn’t think anything would ever come out of it—what would the Niall Horan from One Direction ever contact Y/N for? Especially considering the circumstances under which they met.

But she was utterly mistaken when the following weekend Niall texted her and asked her if she was free to join him and a few mates at a pub that was doing some sort of game night. To her surprise, Y/N was a hit with his friends (whom, before she met, she was expecting were going to be like David Beckham and Selena Gomez or something, but were actually just his schoolmates Jennie and Fred) and Niall really liked her, if his body glued to her side and his retelling of how they met was anything to go off of.

From then on, she and Niall were inseparable.

According to him, they were besties. When he was in her city, he’d swing her a text and see if she was free to see him, and that slowly progressed into him just showing up at her place unannounced with his overnight bag slung on his shoulder. Sometimes they’d go out—try a new food place or go bar hopping with their other friends—and sometimes they’d stay in and watch a movie, order food, and catch up on everything they missed in their time apart.

That’s precisely how she found herself here tonight; sitting on her living room floor with endless pages and books surrounding her, pen marks smudged all over her fingers as she manically highlighted, with Niall sat across from her on her couch. She was balls deep into exam season once more—the last one she’d ever have to go through, for which she sincerely thanked God.

Niall knocked on her door about three hours ago, blissfully unaware of her frazzled state. That’s what he got for never checking with her anymore about what she was up to before showing up at her dorm—a formality he didn’t bother to fulfill for the past year or so. While Y/N rubbed her temples fretting about a chart she couldn’t get right no matter how much she redid it, Niall locked his phone and groaned loudly.

“Fucking hell, Y/N, just take a fucking break! I’ve been here f’ages and you won’t even talk to me,” He exclaimed, chucking a pillow in her direction. Already hanging on by a thread, she barely stopped herself from snapping at him, instead resorting to throwing the pillow back at him, hard, “It’s not my fault you show up to my house unannounced! What if I wasn’t home? What if I had a hot date, or something?” She mused aloud. Y/N could only hope for that last bit to hold any truth—she found no time for romance at all in her life.

Of course, Niall knew this and abused it, “I don’t think you’ve been on a date since that bloke Danny, or what was his name? The one who said he can’t eat pussy ‘cause he’s allergic?”

With that, Y/N’s thread snapped, and a stray highlighter went whizzing in the air to hit his chest, “I’m never telling you anything about anything anymore.” This only amused Niall, who chuckled and sat up and tossed the highlighter back into her ocean of pages, “Not true. You tell me everything.”

“Well, I’m going to stop very fucking soon if you don’t let me focus on this chart.”

“Let me help.”

Y/N gave him a look. “No.”

“Why not?” Niall continued persisting. How he could possibly help her draw the logarithmic scale which even she as a fourth year engineering student couldn’t get right, Y/N was unsure—and where he got the confidence to ask her so blatantly was also lost on her.

“Because I'd like to pass.”

He scoffed. “Wow.”

“Contrary to popular belief, my suffering isn't a spectator sport.” Y/N replied, keeping her eyes on the page. Niall sighed, “Fine, then. I’ll leave you alone—as long as you promise we can get Taco Bell after.” 

“Sure.” At that point, she would have agreed to anything if it meant he gave her a couple of minutes to figure out this godforsaken chart which ate away at her brain. They settled into silence after that, the sound of Y/N’s pencil scratching against the page filling her small living room. Niall scrolled on his phone, lying down on her couch with a leg thrown up the back of it like he owned the damn place. 

The quiet lasted about nine minutes before he began talking again. “Have you got many exams left?” he inquired, dropping his phone on his tummy. He reached across to grab a pencil, which he fiddled with mindlessly. “Three.” Y/N hummed.

“And then you're done?”

“Then I'm done.”

“Like completely done?” He repeated. 

Y/N glanced up. “Why are you asking?”

“Just wondering.”

“Niall.” He grinned, like he knew something and he wasn’t going to let up that easily. Y/N was growing more and more wary of him—this cheeky side was one she was very privy to. Enough that she knew nothing good usually came out of it. “What?” He asked innocently.

“You only use that voice when you're about to ask me for something.”

“That's not true.”

“It is.” She said. She set down her pencil so she could give him her undivided attention. Something told her what he had to say wasn’t going to be the easiest pill to swallow. He attempted to sway away from the topic, beating around the bush as he pointed at her. “See? You tell me everything and you know all my habits.” 

Y/N rolled her eyes. “What are you plotting?”

Niall shifted upright. “Okay, so. Hypothetically.”

“Oh, God.” She murmured. Lazily, she rubbed her eye with her knuckle. The tiredness she’d been accumulating for the past two weeks was unfortunately now catching up with her as she geared up for what he had to say.

“Hypothetically, if someone had a few weeks off after exams—”

“Where is this going?” Y/N asked distrustfully.

“—and hypothetically, if that someone was incredibly stressed and desperately needed to leave this room before she merged with her textbooks—”

“Niall.” She stated with her eyebrows furrowed, a pinched expression on her face. “Would they maybe consider coming away for a bit?” He said the last bit without meeting her eyes, the first telltale sign that he was nervous, which was an odd thing for her to see as Niall was hardly ever timid. Y/N blinked, “Away where?”

“With me.”

The words caught her off guard. So off guard, her brain struggled to formulate words, lips shaped a soft ‘o’, dumbfoundedly. “With you where?” She managed to stutter after looking clueless for a few seconds.

“On tour.” Niall continued. He shrugged, like he'd suggested grabbing coffee and didn’t just ask her to come hang out with him across the globe while attending the most coveted and sought-after concerts in the world, “You should come for a few shows.”

“A few shows?”

“Yeah.”

“Niall, that's in, like, actual countries.”

“That's usually how tours work.”

She laughed despite herself. She couldn’t believe the absurdity of the situation. Y/N was half convinced this was all just her crazy, overworked brain trying to trick her into a scenario she desperately wanted to believe was true but wasn’t actually. “I'm serious,” he said. “You finish exams, you celebrate not having to look at another chart for a month, and you come with me.”

“Niall…” Y/N began. Her tummy was already fluttering at the prospect of his request. It was an insane thing to offer someone who was so painfully normal like Y/N, but the thought of it was exciting, no matter how much she tried to convince herself otherwise. She’d always wondered what life on the road was like, and she was a huge fan of the band whom she’d only seen live one time when Niall gifted her tickets for her birthday last year. 

He tended to keep his work and personal life very separate, so although Y/N had heard heaps about the boys and knew more about them than they probably did her, she’d never actually met them. Niall did suggest many times if she wanted a photo or an autograph or anything, but Y/N was always too shy to accept—what if talking to them wasn’t as easy as it was talking to Niall?

Besides, she really valued Niall, and she didn’t want him to think she was using him to meet the other boys and like, get ins, or something—even though the reasonable side of her knows Niall surely wouldn’t think that of her. She’d heard too many horror stories from him about people using him for fame and money, so she was careful about what she said and did around him when it came to things such as this.

“Whaaaat?” He drawled, snapping her out of her thoughts. He came down so he could join her on the carpet. 

“You can't just casually invite me on tour.”

“Why not?”

Y/N’s eyes were wide with disbelief. “Because that's insane!” She exclaimed, hands coming up in exasperation. 

“It isn't.”

“It is for normal people.”

“Maybe. Doesn't change the fact that I want you to come.”

Y/N looked back down at her page, but the chart suddenly seemed a lot less important. Her mind was riddled with hundreds of questions, what if’s and how’s that she had a hard time conveying to Niall.

When she looked at him and the hope on his face, suddenly the idea wasn’t as daunting as it was before. He was her best friend, and he was asking so genuinely; like he really, truly wanted her there with him. Saying ‘no’ to Niall was always a difficult feat for Y/N—if she ever did, he looked at her with so much longing, like a sad kitten on the side of the road—which was exactly how he was watching her now.

“It’ll be like a free, all-expenses-paid holiday. You’ve been working so hard… just think about it,” He said, quietly, setting his lips into a straight line. 

Every second that passed, Y/N felt her resolve shatter more and more. She blamed her exam-driven state for the thoughts spinning in her mind, trying to convince her that the idea wasn’t a bad one, and it might do her some good to get out of the city and far away from the piles of academic books that flooded her bedroom.

Against her better judgement, Y/N agreed to at least think it over. Across from her, Niall looked far too pleased with himself, undoubtedly already filing this away as yet another “argument” he'd won and would gleefully bring up for years to come. 

-

Y/N was fucking nervous.

She kept messing with her dress, seeing how it looked when she tugged it up, then tugging it back down when she decided maybe it was a bit promiscuous. It was a black number with a square neckline that showed off her collarbones and chest, the bodice lacy and hugging her figure in all the right places. This was one of her emergency outfits—one that she could wear any day, any time, and she’d know she looks great in it. 

Her makeup matched—eyeliner smudged strategically and lips painted red—but the more she looked at her reflection, the more her conscience whispered to her that maybe she was doing too much. When she sent a quick photo to Niall asking if she looked proper, he said it was perfect, and she only hoped he was being completely honest with her and wasn’t just saying that so she stopped spamming him with texts.

She paired the outfit with short heels, through which peeked her pedicured toes (which she literally only got done for this occasion) and bits of gold jewellery decorated her skin. Having worn the exact same thing before and gotten compliments galore, Y/N knew she looked good, but again, the nerves got to her, and she was now second guessing even going to this thing.

Four days after Niall made her the offer to join him on tour, Y/N agreed.

She spent those days mulling over the pros and cons, overthinking every bit and playing out imaginary scenarios in her head which were probably way too irrational to ever occur in real life. At the same time, she had to give her exams, and with that stress mixing in with her indecisiveness, her frontal lobe was fucking fried, and maybe that was what led to her finally saying yes to to join him. The decision making part of her brain was so overworked, perhaps it stopped operating entirely.

That was what she told herself—the rational version of her would never agree to something like that on a whim. At least not until considering for at least a month to get her affairs in order. But exam stress brought out another side to her. Someone with a lot less thinking capacity to make good, reasonable choices.

At last, she ended up here; worrying limitlessly about how she looked before she headed out to have drinks with Niall and the rest of the boys, plus some people from their crew. They were due to start the tour next week, and Niall suggested it was a good idea for everyone to go out that weekend to get to know each other a little bit, before Y/N would basically be living with them for the next couple of months.

Absolutely fucking bonkers, she knows—and she hasn’t failed to bring this up with Niall, who told her she’d be great, and everyone was really nice and easy to talk to; that her fears were wholly unnecessary. Hoping that was the case, Y/N gave herself a little pep talk (stupid, maybe, but it was something she saw in an article a few years ago and it surprisingly works) and made her way downstairs where Niall was standing waiting for her by his car.

“Y’look stunning,” He reassured her, leaning against the driver’s side door as she walked over. The cool wind nipped at her exposed legs, making goosebumps pimple on her skin, “It’s weird when you’re nice to me. Aberrant.”

Niall raised his brows, “Would you rather I be mean?” She crossed the hood and settled into the passenger seat, watching him get in soon after. “I rather you be honest.”

“I am being honest.”

“Really?”

He hummed. “Yes.”

“Thank you, Niall, you look lovely yourself,” Y/N plastered on a big, playful smile on her face—one that told the boy she was using humor to cope with her anxiousness for how the night would go. “Mmm. Nah, you’re right. Don’t think the nice thing works when you do it.”

She nudged his shoulder teasingly, trying desperately to act normal and not at all overwrought. Niall gave her a rundown of who would be there as they arrived—Zayn, Louis and Harry—obviously, and then Ben and Paddy who worked closely with them on the road. He kept assuring her that they were all kind and were definitely not going to gag and spit at the sight of her like she thought they would (her brain had no limits when exploring how many ways a situation could go wrong. A curse, really). 

The place they all agreed to meet at had a low profile; so low that Y/N had never heard of it, having lived in the city for nearly six years now. She assumed this was so they could enjoy their time without worrying about getting photographed, which was such a bizarre concept to Y/N—something she never ever had to consider in her entire life, but maybe now was the time to do it. 

And, fuck, it was back. Her mind was reeling again.

What if she got papped with the band while on tour? Would people spread nasty rumours about her? Would they dig into her past and stalk her family, like Niall told her was a real thing that happened? Or would they be kind to her? Y/N was going to lose her mind. No, scratch that—she’d already lost it. She wouldn’t be here if she had even a semblance of logic behind h—

“We’re here!” Niall exclaimed, pulling her out of her thoughts. He parked the car a little ways from a dimly lit building, though Y/N couldn’t see any sign of a bar or anything like that around. Her eyebrows furrowed as she thought he might’ve gotten the wrong address, “You sure, Ni?” She asked, warily stepping out of the car. Niall came around to her side, “Yup.” His lips popped at the end of the word, but he was doing nothing to resolve her confusion—instead, interlocking their arms and walking towards an eery, lone door, “Niall…”

“It’s an underground bar. I told you that,” He stated matter of factly. Niall used the right side of his body to push the heavy door, leading Y/N inside where they went down a narrow staircase. “I didn’t think you meant literally!”

Niall merely rolled his eyes, further guiding them through a small hallway, which opened into a warmly lit room, low music drifting through the air, “Just be yourself,” He murmured softly in her ear, slipping his hand down to her forearm and giving her a comforting squeeze. Y/N was too in awe of the place to acknowledge the gesture, looking around with her lips slightly agape.

The place was charming in a way regular bars weren’t.

The walls were made of wide, beige brick, decorated with numerous posters and photgraphs—some promoting music that Y/N recognised, and some that she didn’t. There was a bar that stretched across the right side of the room, with three bartenders serving customers engaged in lively conversation. The lighting was yellow and cast a golden hue, effortlessly making the space more dreamier as it gave way to a circular platform where several private booths were occupied by various parties.

Situated at the very end of the bar table was the group of five Y/N had (by that point) burned into her memory. Embarrassingly, just from afar she recognised some of their features. There was more purpose in their step now as they walked over, and Y/N was doing everything in her power to not fidget with her fingers like she normally did when intimidated. 

“Niall!” They all collectively yelled, arms out wide. Niall grinned from ear-to-ear, immediately getting swallowed into a series of hugs and shoulder slaps. Y/N lingered half a step behind, smiling politely as the group bickered amongst themselves.

“Look who finally decided to show up.” Zayn’s tone was teasing and sarcastic as he greeted the boy, “You're late.”

“Twenty minutes late,” Louis corrected.

“Twenty-three,” Zayn said.

“Christ, do any of you have jobs?” Naill replied. A dry laugh escaped his lips, clearly enjoying the banter he pretended to be annoyed by.

This was fine. Totally fine.

She could stand here unnoticed for the rest of the evening, and she’s 100% fine with that.

Her gaze jumped from person to person, finally able to put real life faces to names she only heard about. Zayn and Louis were both gorgeous (how could she ever expect anyhing else), dressed casually in jeans and a tee like they were just a bunch of normal lads having normal drinks at a normal bar. Y/N was still struggling to comprehend the sheer reality of the situation.

Ben and Paddy were engrossed in heavy conversation but broke apart to greet Niall—they were both on the older side, but Niall seemed comfortable with them (and also talked about them heaps when they were alone) so she wasn’t as apprehensive as she would usually be around middle aged men at bars. The only person missing from the table was Harry. 

“Oi,” Niall suddenly said, stepping aside. “This is Y/N.”

The group's attention shifted to her all at once, and her worst nightmare was suddenly coming to life. Y/N smiled as authentically as she could without looking crazy, “Hi everyone.”

“Y/N!” Louis greeted her warmly. “Finally. Nice to put a face to the stories.” He reached out a hand for her to shake; firm yet welcoming. Zayn followed the gesture. Her jittery nerves eased a little bit when they all gave her inviting smiles and soft ‘hello’s—perhaps this wasn’t going to be as awful and damning as she was expecting it to be. 

“Niall's told stories?” Y/N asked before she could stop herself.

“Hundreds,” Ben replied.

“Thousands,” Paddy added.

“Mostly good ones, I hope,” She joked. Thankfully, it landed, and the group chuckled, “Never heard a bad thing about you, love,” Zayn comforted. They’d saved two seats for her and Niall right next to each other, and there was an empty one on his other side, which she assumed was Harry’s, though there was no sign of him at the table yet.

If Y/N was being truthful, meeting Harry was the one aspect of tonight that probably scared her the most.

One; because he was a part of the band, and she was anxious about meeting everyone from the start, and two; because she (perchance) already had a small, tiny, little baby crush on him. This was something she kept entirely to herself—a secret that could never see the light of day.

It wasn’t like a massive thing though—she wasn’t in love with him or anything.

He was sort of her favorite member ever since she knew of the band, and this dated way back to before she and Niall first met. She always thought he had a boyish, magnetic appeal to him; pretty green eyes paired with deep dimples that appeared when he flashed his million-dollar smile. She liked his long, curly hair and his raspy voice which she would melt over when watching interviews or listening to the radio. It was very surface level, to be fair. Mostly physical attraction, which she would will herself to keep at ba—

“What’d I miss?” His voice sent chills down her spine as it came from behind her, causing her to turn her neck and find the source.

If you hooked Y/N up to an EKG machine, she’s certain you’d find her heart stopped beating for the second she first saw Harry, in the flesh—in all his glory. Sure, she’d seen countless photos and videos of him performing, caught off guard, smiling intentionally, looking intently at interviewers as they stumbled over their words to ask him a question; but Y/N was discovering something entirely new as she let her eyes drink him in slowly.

He was unfairly beautiful in person. 

There was something devastating in the way his presence outshone everyone else at the table by a thousand miles. He was tall—taller than she expected, actually, but it did something funny to her stomach as it jumped at the sight of him looming over all the boys. He wore black jeans and a leopard print button-up (if she could even call it that; most of the top was undone) which revealed smooth, tattooed skin that Y/N wanted to run her hands over and trace with the tip of her finger. His hair was down and almost went past his shoulders; soft curls that hugged his ears and framed his face. And his face… fuck, if Y/N wasn’t already sitting, she might’ve been on the floor by now. Hary had strong yet pleasing features—green eyes that twinkled beneath the bar’s lighting; a straight nose which led down to plump, pink, and soft-looking lips which curved around a grin. He had broad shoulders and massive hands, decorated with rings on each finger, which Y/N was tempted to pull off and slide on her own, just to gush over how big they were.

“Sorry,” he said, glancing around the table, “Got caught up talking to someone.” His voice was, unsurprisingly, deep—a warm baritone that was somehow even smoother in person. “We were just getting to know Y/N over here,” Ben said, gesturing towards her with his drink in hand. Y/N schooled her expression into one of cool and calm, masking the fact that she was seconds away from forgetting her own name. She met his gaze, “Hi.”

His eyes dragged leisurely over her body, burning a hot line that ran from her face down to the tips of her toes—like he had all the time in the world to memorise her features. She tried to control her fidgeting under his watch, but it was hard to do so when his mouth curled into a cheeky smirk that had her pulse quickening again, “Hi.”

A painfully simple exchange, yet somehow she felt like she’d forgotten how conversations worked.

“Harry,” He said, the same hand she was just oogling at, now stretched towards her for a handshake. She hoped he didn’t sense her nervousness as she returned it. His palm was cool against her warm, flushed skin, a second of solace before he pulled it back. “Nice to meet you,” Y/N was being polite—cordial—the safest bet to ensure he didn’t start secretly hating her guts like her anxiety convinced her he would.

“I’m guessing Niall prepared you for us?” Harry took his seat next to Niall, patting his shoulder in greeting. 

“He mostly told me you’re all normal.”

“Bit generous.” 

She found herself laughing before she realised, and Harry had a pleased expression on his face when he noticed his effect on her. “Okay, don’t scare her off in the first five minutes,” Louis said, glancing at the group, “She’s still new.”

Y/N immediately shook her head. “You’re not scaring me off.”

“Good answer,” Harry said lightly. Her eyes flickered back to him and he winked slyly at her.

The small act made her cheeks go hot, and Y/N thanked herself for putting on more blush than usual that night to balance out her dark outfit. The universe must have it out for her, the way she melted and got flustered at every small thing he did—or maybe she was being delusional (which is actually the truer and more probable thing), thinking too much into the wink and the grins and whatnot. Y/N took a hidden, deep breath to compose herself.

She was grateful the conversation quickly moved on as everyone began ordering drinks and finger foods. Y/N was playing it safe, so she ordered her trademark espresso martini. Niall told her before they left that he was coming out with the intent to get shitfaced that night, so he went all in and ordered everyone shots and the strongest thing on the menu for himself. The only people who weren’t drinking were Zayn and Harry, who both went on some sort of pre-tour cleanse where they didn’t drink or smoke or eat unhealthy for two weeks before getting on the road, which she thought was admirable considering they were literally in the middle of a bar watching as their friends got looser.

As much as she hated to admit it, Niall was right, and everyone was actually really nice and kind to her. They made jokes and filled her in if something came up about which she had no clue. Louis made sure she ate and drank whatever she wanted and told her she shouldn’t be scared to hold back or anything, as management was going to cover the costs. The music was nice and the people were nice—Niall was a steady presence next to her who kept her grounded, though he was slipping away more and more as he consumed drink after drink.

She should’ve seen it coming, really.

When he began leaning on her body, telling her how lucky he was to be her best friend, and then launching into a ten-minute spiel about a new vacuum cleaner he wanted to buy, which he saw on TikTok and thought was pretty nifty. She should’ve seen it coming when he went to the toilet for the seventh time in two hours, actually, only to return and beg her to play with his hair “like she always did.”

Niall was way past being fun drunk—crossing into the dangerous category of messy drunk, with which Y/N, sadly, had a lot of experience. She realised this when he texted her to help him walk back from his eighth trip to the toilet (ifell cabn we go h o me) and Y/N had to excuse herself from the table to go find her friend, who was sitting hunched over on a random chair outside the toilets. He showed off his pearly whites when he caught sight of her, looking far too pleased with himself for someone who had just been defeated by a night out.

“There she is,” he announced, lifting his arms like she was some sort of hero arriving to save him. “My favourite person in the whole world.”

“You say that nearly every time you need something from me.”

“That is not true.”

“Niall,” She warned. He paused, thinking hard. “Okay. Maybe a little true.”

She sighed. “Come on. We’re going home.”

Niall nodded ‘no’ animatedly, “I don’t want to go home.”

“Niall, you’re sitting outside the toilets.”

“Exactly. Look at this place. Memories.” He hiccuped as the last word left his lips and clutched his stomach tightly, all signs pointing towards another unfortunate vomit situation she would do anything to avoid. Her dress was too nice to destroy with the contents of his guts. 

“You’ve been here for ten minutes.”

“And they’ve been the best ten minutes of my life.”

Y/N ignored all protests and leaned down to slide her arm beneath his pits and attempt to hoist him up. The sheer weight of his limp body knocked the breath from her lungs. She was a strong girl, but this was pushing the bounds of her endurance. “Niall,” she groaned. “You’re heavy.”

He hiccuped again, “I’m a man of substance.”

“You’re a man of bad decisions.”

She was halfway to convincing him to take another step, when as she heaved him up, she bumped into a hard body. The scent of vanilla and musk hit her before she even had the chance to look up, and when she did, another wave of silent curses were sent directly to the universe for its impeccable timing. “I’m so sorry,” She hurried to say, still balancing Niall on her arm. 

“S’alright. Let me help,” Harry offered. Before she could protest, he wrapped an arm around Niall’s midsection and helped him upright in one swift motion—like he weighed nothing. “Harry m’buddy… love you, ‘n’ I love your hair,” Niall mumbled. He stuck his face in his curls and inhaled dramatically, “Great smell, mate, wha’ shampoo is that?” He snorted, “Shampoo.”

“I’m so sorry,” Y/N repeated again. She went to Niall’s other side and walked with Harry, who seemed to be going back to the bar. “Y’already said that. Plus, he’s my mate too—think we can share that burden,” He joked, “Takin’ him home?”

Y/N hummed, “For sure. He definitely can’t drive, though.”

Harry only nodded and stopped at the end of the bar that was closest to the exit. “Oi!” He called towards the group. Everyone turned their heads towards the three of them, “M’taking these lot home. Niall’s gone off the rails again.”

The boys yelled their goodbyes from across the room, telling Y/N how nice it was to meet her and how they’d see her again next week for tour. The words made her slightly giddy as she anticipated the weeks to come, but she didn’t dwell on it further—a giggly Niall pulled her from her reverie, “You’re my bestestest friend.”

“You’re my best friend too, Niall,” She replied. Harry used his free arm to push the door open and the cool wind nipped at their skin. Niall always got sweet on her when they drank too much, so she was used to this affectionate side of him. Especially when she reached into his back pocket to grab his keys and he laughed like she was performing the circus before him, “‘least buy me dinner first!”

“C’mon, mate,” Harry mumbled. Y/N quickly unlocked the door and held it open as Harry helped Niall inside the car. Upon the first touch of expensive leather, Niall flopped down across the backseat. “Thank you so much, I love you to the moon and back.”

Harry patted his knee and shut the door gently, “Love you too.”

Once they had him tucked safe and sound in the car, they both sighed. Y/N leaned against the passenger side, “You really don’t have to do this. You deserve to have a good time with your friends.”

Harry looked over at her, “And miss this?”

She followed his gaze to the backseat, where Niall was already half-asleep, completely unaware of the conversation happening around him.

“This?”

“Exactly.”

A laugh slipped out of her before she could stop it. Talking to Harry was easy, she discovered—like it was when she first met Niall. Conversation flowed, and he was funny and witty and dangerously handsome…. the girl had to remind herself to stay in check around him. 

“Let me drive.”

Y/N would have argued with him on that but she was both too tired to do so, and also slightly tipsy herself. Harry was fully sober, and he was offering, so she softly agreed and handed him the car keys. Their fingers brushed and electricity zapped up her arm, flooding her nerves. He got the door for her before rounding the hood and getting in himself, ever the gentleman.

As Y/N settled into the seat, the weight of the situation sunk into her bones. Knowing her, if she dwelled on it too much, she’d probably start hyperventilating (and maybe crying), so she told herself to hold it together, at least until she was alone. A moment later, Harry joined her in the car. He wasted no time in turning it on and Y/N told him which way her flat was. Niall was planning to crash at hers anyways after drinks, so surely he wouldn’t freak out when he woke up on her couch. The soft sound of his snores filled the silence.

So…” Harry continued after a moment. “What’s the verdict?”

“The verdict?”

“On us.”

She smiled. “You mean the band?”

“Yeah.”

She pretended to think about it. “You’re all still normal.”

A quiet laugh left him. He was so fucking cute it drove her insane. She knew this wouldn’t be easy—touring with the band, hanging out with all of them—she expected awkward moments and feeling left out. But this… being in a car with Harry fucking Styles, who looked like a bloody model while doing the simple act of driving, with her cheeks going red and her heart doing sommersaults in her chest… this was something entirely new that she did not account for at all.

“Still sticking with that?”

“Mostly.”

His eyebrows lifted. “Mostly?”

Y/N glanced at him, a little smile on her red-painted lips, “Niall lowers the average.” Harry laughed again (she might be winning in life, actually), shaking his head.

“You asked for my honest opinion.”

“Did I?”

“You asked for the verdict.”

A beat passed. Then he glanced over at her. “Fair enough.”

The rest of the ride was spent with Harry asking her little things about herself—what uni she went to, where she was born, the kind of small talk that came naturally between two people who were still getting to know each other. Somehow, it never felt forced; it was more comfortable—paired with the occasionally loud snore that resounded from the backseat and Harry’s quiet humming of a tune she wasn’t privy to. She didn’t live far from town, so within five or so minutes he was parking up outside her building. 

They worked together to wake Niall enough so he could walk a little bit on his own, and then she guided them inside and up the elevator to her flat. 

It was in that elevator when it hit her—Harry Styles was just about to enter her home.

Suddenly, she couldn’t remember the state that she left it in. When she was getting ready right before going out was generally when it was at it’s messiest, so she knew whatever was waiting behind that door was not going to be easy on the eyes. She prayed he wouldn’t judge her and think her a slob as her key clicked and she pushed the door inwards.

There were a few leftover pages and books scattered on her living room table, accompanied by a candle and an array of highlighters. A stray pair of shorts were on the armrest of her couch, and her TV was still on playing Friends at a low volume (she liked to have something playing in the background while she did mundane things like cleaning, showering, or getting ready. Anything to stop her thoughts from straying into dangerous overthinking territory).

“Sorry about the mess,” she mumbled, moving the mismatched throw pillows from her couch, “Just set him down here.” It took a bit of fumbling, but a minute later Niall was curled up on her couch comfortably, still snoring. Y/N knelt to get his shoes off.

Harry glanced around the room. "Mess?"

Her cheeks warmed. "It's... lived in."

"Looks nice. You’ve a cute place."

She clapped her hands after she was done and tugged her dress down where it had ridden up a bit. “Thank you,” Y/N replied sincerely, “Would you like something to drink?”

Harry hummed, “Water?”

He looked a little odd just standing there in her girly apartment, littered with knickknacks she collected from farmer’s markets, stuff her friends and family brought her from overseas, a polaroid wall of all her favorite moments… it was almost intimate. Y/N pictured this night going a hundred different ways, but this occurring was definitely not on her list.

Slightly jittery, Y/N went into her moderately cluttered kitchen to get him a glass of water. As she walked towards him with the drink, she noted he found a seat on her other couch and was watching her intently—the same heat in his gaze from earlier at the bar when they were first introduced.

“Thanks.”

A beat passed.

“I was curious to meet you,” Harry began.

“Why?” She inquired.

“Niall talks about you enough,” He finished his drink.

“Does he?”

“Constantly,” He set the glass down, and Y/N laid a throw blanket on Niall’s body, biting back a smile as a certain fondness for her slumbering best friend washed over her.

“Hope I didn't disappoint.”

Harry looked at her for a second. “Not even close.” 

Her cheeks fired up again as she took a seat on the opposite end of the couch he was on, and there was this unexpected newfound confidence in here—maybe because he spoke with her so gently, or he made her feel oddly at ease—but she felt like she could share parts of her she seldom did with strangers. “I was very nervous about tonight,” She said softly, pulling her bare knees to her chest. Harry’s eyes flitted towards the smooth expanse of exposed skin for a second before coming back up to her face, “How come?”

“I wanted to make a good impression, y’know? Joining you guys on tour… there’s going to be a lot of me.” Her hands moved animatedly as she talked—another one of her nervous tics she prayed he didn’t notice. “I think having you around will be good.” Harry replied.

Her lips parted slightly. “Yeah?”

He nodded, like it was obvious. “Yeah. Someone who’s nice and easy to talk to,” Y/N smiled shyly, which prompted him to continue. Then, like he hadn’t just made her heart stumble, he added, “Also helps that you’re very pretty.”

Y/N was slightly taken aback—she didn’t expect the conversation to steer in this direction; she always find it hard to take compliments too, so she tried not to stutter over her next words, “Oh. Thank you.”  His expression softened into something teasing, his lips curving into a knowing smile. She was flustered, and somehow he seemed to enjoy this state of her, if the pleased look on his face told her anything. 

“I better get going,” He eventually spoke, saving her from doing something embarrassing, like offering him her life savings or something, for making her feel the way he did. “Do you need a ride?” Y/N asked. Harry stood up and nodded no, Y/N following him as he made his way to her front door, “Thanks, but my hotel’s only a short walk from here.”

Her hands were clasped behind her back when he opened the door, looking down at her, “It was really nice meeting you, Y/N,” He said. There was genuineness in his tone that made a certain warmth spread through her, and she tried to return his sentiment as much as she could, “You too, Harry. Get home safe.”

Once the door closed, the reality of the night finally caught up with her; Harry Styles had been in her flat, called her (very) pretty right to her face, and somehow she was already looking forward to seeing him again. 

-

Y/N was just about the cutest little thing Harry’d seen in a long time.

She was beautiful (of course)—that much was clear to him when he first caught sight of her at the bar that night. He’d ran into an old mate outside the toilet who yapped Harry’s ear off for fifteen minutes when he noticed Y/N and Niall enter the room from afar. How Niall kept such a pretty secret from him for so long, Harry doesn’t know, but he sure grilled his friend about it later when a couple of days passed and the night’s event sobered up.

Niall only shrugged, told him he never really looked at Y/N that way, so didn’t assume anyone else would either, but Harry thought he must be fucking crazy, because who on earth would look at a face like that and not want it all for themselves? It didn’t help that she was timid and soft-spoken, yet smart, considering the impressive engineering degree she was working toward. She was funny too—everyone loved her that night, the boys’ groupchat pinging with texts that chided Niall for keeping her hidden away all this time.

And, fuck, she kept getting all giddy and nervous when he talked to her, and it was doing things to him. Everyone always told him their first impression of him was that he was intimidating, so someone he’s just met being jittery around him wasn’t something new for Harry. Perhaps this time it made a difference to him because it was coming from Y/N—her lips parted and her eyes went round, accompanied by red cheeks when he told her she was very pretty and easy to talk to. Knowing he could make her feel like that with merely his words was a dangerous and addicting rush of adrenaline Harry wouldn’t mind getting used to.

He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t looking forward to having her around on tour. Being on the road was one of Harry’s favorite parts of his career—he always loved travelling, and he loves performing, so being able to do those things together with some of his closest friends meant a lot to him. But they also performed with the same crew, the same exact songs to the same sea of people over fifty times, and although he adored it to no end, at some point, it does get a teensy bit repetitive.

So he hoped a fresh face like Y/N being there would bring something new to the tour—something interesting, which kept him guessing and maybe pining, because if Harry was anything after a performer, it was a fucking flirt—and Y/N had already piqued his curiosity more than he'd care to admit. Suffice to say, he was immediately on board when Niall suggested she'd be joining them for the first few months.

When night one rolled around, the team had already flown down to Sydney, Australia. Y/N was technically Niall’s plus one, so she got to ride with the boys in their private jet. It was lovely seeing her again, and lovely to know that she was even nicer than he remembered. He would have liked to talk to her on the flight if Niall hadn’t hogged her for half of it, and the other half she spent snoozing on the seat next to him.

She looked softer than she did the first time—swimming in a big gray hoodie with matching wide-legged sweatpants. Niall warned him that she wasn’t much of a flier so she might have some nerves, but she played it cool when she greeted him (still bashful, still unable to hold his gaze for longer than four seconds). Y/N stayed in the same hotel as them too, though her room wasn't an executive suite like the rest of the band. She was two floors below him (Harry knew this because Niall just about announced it as they all checked in).

They were due to perform tonight; their first show to kick off the tour. The pre-show stress sunk in when after a couple of hours where they all got to relax and catch up on sleep, they gathered backstage to prepare. The band went through their typical rehearsals, sound checks, mic checks, fittings, and whatnot—a routine he was very familiar with, having done this dozens of times before.

All while Y/N sat in the communal room, watching everything with big, curious eyes. Every now and then someone would check up on her—be it him or Niall or one of the crew—to see if she was doing okay, and she’d nod very excitedly. First timers backstage were always eager to learn and in awe of the gears that turned behind the final show; Harry thought it was adorable.

Ten minutes before they were due on stage, everyone naturally drifted towards the wings. While the band went over the setlist and the final cues with management, Harry caught sight of Y/N lingering just beyond them, watching with the same curiosity she'd had all afternoon. She smiled when she noticed him looking, and he returned it before turning his attention back to work. 

The four hours they spent on stage always went by in such a blur. It was a mixture of loud, ear-bleeding cheers, an expanse of signs with funny questions and quotes on it, phones pointed in their direction and interesting outfits someone could only wear to a concert such as this one. There were introductions before they started on their first song, and then gradually performed more upbeat and subtly promiscuous ones which had everyone roaring, making the stadium feel like it was vibrating beneath their feet. 

Every two or three songs, they'd pause to chat with the crowd, read signs, or pull someone into the spotlight. It was Harry's favourite part of the night. Anyone could sing songs on a stage, but these moments made the show feel personal. It was where strangers became people with stories—people who got engaged in the front row, celebrated birthdays, confessed their love, or cried through songs that had carried them through the hardest parts of their lives. 

The backstage crew often watched them perform from a small VIP area to the right of the pit. It gave them ample access to the entire stage, and at the very start Harry noticed a giddy Y/N in the small group of people keenly waiting for it to begin. Throughout the show his eyes found hers, and he smiled when he caught her singing along and dancing, cheering them on, chanting Niall’s name with the crowd when the boys dared him to do a handstand as a bit. 

Performing had always left him buzzing. The adrenaline settled into his veins long before he stepped onstage and refused to leave until hours after the encore. There was nothing quite like the feeling of tens of thousands of voices singing back every word, of feeding off a crowd's energy until it became your own. It made everything feel a little brighter, a little lighter—and, if he was being honest, a little bolder. 

As the show ended and they jogged off of the stage, sweaty yet still quite upbeat, a number of crew people swarmed them. Water bottles and towels were shoved their way while simultaneously someone worked on getting their mics and earpieces off of them. 

Y/N emerged from the hoard of people surrounding them. A small lump formed in his throat when she made a beeline for Niall and threw her arms around him without a second thought, not seeming to care that his grey T-shirt was damp. “Oh my god, you were fucking amazing, Ni!” She said, excitedly.

“Yeah? Glad you came?” Niall replied. He let his hands fall from her waist, “Fuck off you gloat! Had to show off and do a handstand too?” She teased. Harry didn’t mean to overhear—he couldn’t help himself when they were right next to him. “F’course I did.” 

Y/N rolled her eyes, “Your need for attention should be studied.”

As if she had only just realised Harry was standing there too, she turned towards him, and the boy found himself oddly grateful to have her full attention. “Enjoy yourself?” He asked, twisting open a water bottle. A towel was thrown over his shoulder as they all walked towards the communal room where they’d be guided to the tour bus. 

She nodded enthusiastically, “That was one of the coolest things I've ever seen.”

“Yeah?”

“You’re so incredible.” Y/N said it so fucking sweetly and sincerely, Harry could have melted at the sight of her all in a tizzy in his presence—face tinged pink and eyes hazy. This little crush was getting out of hand, and he doesn’t know if he can manage himself any longer, “Keep saying things like that, n’I might fall in love,” He said with a playful lilt. The way her face warmed told him he’d gotten the reaction he was looking for, and Harry couldn’t help the small, satisfied grin that pulled at his lips.

She blinked. “Oh. I—”

“Oi! You’re bunking with me,” Niall called, snapping the moment abruptly in half. Y/N’s eyes darted back to Harry for the briefest moment before she turned to her ever-demanding best friend.

Usually, Harry wasn’t one to hold back from a little teasing, but there was something about watching Y/N lose her train of thought that made it dangerously fun. 

-

Getting high was both Y/N’s favorite thing in the world, and yet also the worst thing she could put herself through willingly.

The first hour was always the best. Her face would get warm, and everything was a little bit brighter; a little bit richer; a little bit funnier. Everything she heard sounded ten times nicer than it normally did and everything she ate was yummier. For Y/N, she got chatty when she was high—if someone was smoking with her, she’d yap with them for hours upon hours, topics ranging from the dumbest things she could conjure up, to deep, philosophical questions about the universe (which would no doubt send normal her into a midlife crisis if she thought about them too much).

In particular, she liked getting high with Niall, mainly because he matched her freak—like her, he was talkative and touchy, but for the most part he was fucking hungry. Somehow weed always made Niall starve like a Victorian child, so he’d drag her to get something to eat the moment they got through the first blunt. Plus, all senses were heightened in that state, and food just tasted so much better than it normally did when you have a slight buzz in your system.

Being high always called for messy, handheld food, like burgers, burritos, pizza etc, and Y/N was a sucker for a good meal and company, so who was she to say no to Niall when he whined at her to sneakily get takeout while everyone else settled down in the tour bus?

That’s how she found herself here—an hour after the show ended and Ben introduced the band to their tour bus, Niall pulled Y/N aside and took out a blunt from his back pocket—where he got it from, he refused to disclose, but he all but begged Y/N to smoke it with him before they got something to eat, “‘cause prancing around on stage hollowed out his stomach to no end.”

So, they zipped themselves up in hoodies, walked ten minutes down to the nearest Burger King and shared a joint in the carpark after placing a pickup order. They were there for a good two hours or so, just talking and eating, laughing at stupid things (an oddly shaped piece of lettuce in Niall’s sandwich that he believed looked like a horse) before they finally made their way back to the others.

It was a night well-spent; the concert was phenomenal, her burger altered her persona into a changed woman, and being with Niall was always easy. Y/N never had to worry about saying the wrong thing. She could be herself, which was something she valued more than she could put in words.

It was late into the night by now, so the bus was silent as they entered it. Y/N got a lot of perks being Niall’s best friend, including (but not limited to) riding in the private jet, sleeping on his bus and getting to stay in the same hotels as him. Hence, it was natural for her to bunk right below his own; a tight space which could barely fit two people (not that Y/N was planning on testing that theory out). She had a little pillow and blanket, and a small space to put her little overnight pouch which had her essentials in it.

After bidding her very sleepy best friend goodnight (another side effect of High Niall™), Y/N climbed into her own bed. 

Now that was when the worst parts of getting high kicked in, and her system went into overdrive. 

Unfortunately for Y/N, she wasn’t blessed with the ‘sleepy when high’ gene like Niall. For her, along with the basic five senses that were heightened, another more dangerous one took control of her conscience.

Y/N was horny.

She sort of expected this to happen though—it usually kicked in about three-ish hours after smoking, and her thoughts would always drift somewhere filthy.

As someone who was generally in control of her feelings (she liked to believe this to be true), this was very risky territory. It was especially worse because this time, to her detriment, there was a certain someone on her mind too…

It wouldn’t take an expert to deduce that Y/N had garnered a real crush on Harry in the very short time she’s known him. Maybe it was because she had a bit of a liking towards him from the very start. Or maybe it was because he looked at her like that—an impish glint in his eye, a smirk on his pretty lips. The way he talked to her probably played a part as well; teasing, and constantly saying things that caught her off guard and made her flush beneath his gaze.

She hated playing the role of the shy damsel, but it was hard to conjure real, coherent thoughts when he was around. Her brain just couldn’t get used to the fact that he was there, and he was going to be there for all the shows, constantly around her, essentially living with her. And he had the fucking nerve to call her pretty to her face, threaten her that he’d fall in love with her if she complimented him again, made her feel all sorts of things—all while being on stage and dancing so wantonly—grinding into the mic, literally grabbing his bulge, smiling cheekily as he sang about sex cleverly disguised as a sweet something.

Y/N huffed an annoyed breath. Not only were her thoughts getting more and more sultry as the night went on, the little space she was in felt like it was closing in on her. Even though she was only in a cotton shirt and a pair of lounge shorts, she was too hot to be in here for even a second longer. Trying to make as less noise as possible, Y/N gently slipped out of her bunk and grabbed the small bullet vibrator tucked into her essential pouch just in case.

She was horny and it was getting out of hand—if she didn’t do something about it, she might genuinely go crazy. Also, from what she could see, everyone was still asleep; the bus was eerily quiet. Surely if anything did happen, she’d be able to get away with a little white lie or something (“No, this isn’t a vibrator, silly! Just chapstick!”).

The lighting was switched to red, matching the leather of the couch as she stepped into the big, makeshift living room. Seats lined the sides of the bus in a ‘u’ shape, looking a thousand times more comfortable than her bunk. A massive flatscreen adorned the wall adjacent to it, and a black curtain was there to separate the area from the rest of the bus if needed.

Y/N pulled it shut and flopped down on the couch. Instantly the cool leather felt amazing against her flushed skin. In fact, it felt so good, a little moan left her lips. Sensation was a big thing for her when she was riding her high, so any small thing that touched her that felt even minimally good, was instantly great. 

What would be even greater, though, is a body next to her, maybe—hands sliding all over her, touching, teasing. Someone whispering in her ear, telling her how nice she felt, what they wanted to do to her. He’d kiss her too—and it’d be the best kiss of her life, actually, ‘cause he had soft-looking lips and a sinful tongue that would loop around hers and trace down her neck, and she’d perhaps feel his curls beneath her fingers; gripping a bit tightly, but she thinks he might like that.

Before she knew it, her vibrator was buzzing and she was pulling her shorts down her legs. Fuck, she knew she was taking a huge gamble, but it sort of added to the thrill. It was also way past midnight and no one was awake, so maybe she’d be fine?

All those worries left her head at the first passing of the vibrator over her aching clit. She was already soaked, given she was thinking about this for so long now. Because of this, the device slipped and slided over her pussy as she liked, and her thoughts (sadly) drifted back to Harry. More specifically, his fucking big hands that could rival the size of her face. She thinks maybe if he tried to choke her, he’d be able to cover the whole expanse of her neck. And if he fucked her with his fingers—shit, they’d reach places she never could on her own.

Would he leave his rings on or off, though? She’d like feeling them against her, YN thinks—a coolness against her leaky hole that’d make her arch and moan, scream his nam—

“What’s this?”

Y/N jumped and yelped, opening her eyes to find a very sleepy (a very real) Harry standing at the edge of the room, by the curtain. Her eyes flew open and her face probably resembled a tomato as she stuttered over her words, “Fuck, I—I was just, umm… I couldn’t,” She breathed deep, still holding her vibrator, “I couldn’t sleep.”

“So you were touching yourself to me?” Harry hummed. He looked eerily calm for someone who just caught another pleasing themselves to the thought of him—fuck, was she being loud? She probably moaned his name like the idiot she w—

“Y/N?” He repeated and took a step closer. He wore a plain black shirt and plaid pants slung lazily over his hips. “I… yes,” Y/N replied. Slowly, she shut her legs, vibrator clutched tightly in her hands. Lying was probably not the smartest thing to do in this situation, hence why she stuck with the honest version of events—if she did cry his name unknowingly, lying about it would make things more awkward than they already were.

Harry took another step closer, “What were you thinking about?” His voice was heavy with sleep—a slow and deep timbre that sent shivers down her spine. Y/N hesitated. Her thighs pressed hard against each other when he came nearer, now right by where she was sprawled on the couch, “I’m sorry, I thought everyone was asleep.”

“Not what I asked,” He rested his index finger on her knee, circling once before trailing down her calf, “What were you thinking about, Y/N?” Her breath caught in her throat as Harry took a seat by her feet; if she parted her legs, he’d be tucked right where she was imagining him mere minutes ago.

“Just um… about you.” A warm hand wrapped around her calf, rubbing up and down soothingly. “What about me?” Harry held unwavering eye-contact with the girl—the kind that made her heart flutter and pussy throb at the same time. Y/N couldn’t tell if he was asking because he was disgusted or if he was enjoying this. He was always so forward and always teasing her, so maybe this was going to become another anecdote he’d reference just to toy with her? Yet somehow, she wanted more.

“Your… your fingers,” She swallowed the lump in her throat. At the same time, Harry used his other hand to push her thighs apart, “S’this okay?” He asked her softly. Y/N realised he was asking for her consent to do anything further, and the idea of that made her so incredibly giddy, she hoped she didn’t appear too over-eager when she nodded ‘yes.’

As soon as she did, Harry leaned in and kissed her right knee, “Yeah? Don’t stop on my account.” His hand found hers, the one which was holding her vibrator, and he pressed the little button at the end that brought it to life. Slowly, he used his grip to guide her hand down to her pussy, positioning the toy where she needed it most. Immediately, a soft moan left her lips.

“Naughty minx,” He hummed, pushing his hand so the vibrator throbbed against her clit, hard, “Did you want this to happen? Wanted me to find you here, all needy for my fingers and touching this slutty pussy?” Y/N could only arch her back, crying out a whiney “yes.” No other thoughts were capable of forming in her muddled brain when he continued to move her hand with his, “Already dripping,” Harry tsked. 

He used his fingers to gather her arousal that dripped down to her ass and spread it over her folds as Y/N’s thighs threatened to shut around his body. The feel of his hands on her body was so much nicer than she’d pictured—Y/N was half convinced she was dreaming and her fucked-out mind was living this fantasy she created in her head.

But she was brought back down to earth when Harry suddenly removed the vibrator from her clit, bringing it down to her hole. Now this was something Y/N’d never experienced ever in her fucking life. Her vibrator was barely longer than her finger, but it hit places she’s never felt before when he shoved it deep into her pussy on the lowest setting. She mewled loudly and her back left the sticky couch in a big arch. 

Harry came up and hovered over her body, using his free hand to put his middle and ring finger in her mouth. Both her holes were full as he fucked her lips as well as her pussy, shushing softly, “Don’t want to wake anyone else up, hmm?” He reminded her, stroking her tongue. Y/N could feel herself leaking, and she knows if she checked, she’d be a mess down there. Harry appeared to like it, though, as he cooed, “So fucking wet, Y/N,” He used his thumb to circle her engorged clit while at the same time grinded the toy inside of her.

Y/N was close, and she struggled to keep her body still, writhing underneath him. She had to bite down on his knuckles to hold back her sounds, but Harry didn’t seem to mind—enjoying the way her pussy squelched and wetness pooled around his fingers. “G’na come, g’na come,” She muttered around his fingers, a tad unintelligible. Harry understood, speeding up his pace, “So good, you’re so good, Y/N. Such a pretty girl—come for me,” He encouraged. 

Before long, she was coming around the toy which Harry continued to thrust inside of her, his thumb never letting up on her clit. Her body bent into an impossible position as her chest pushed into his, her thighs tightened and her jaw loosened. When his fingers came out of her mouth, they were spit slicked, however he paid it no mind when he continued to help her ride her orgasm. Her body was on fire—a feeling she hadn’t felt before, ever; coming over her body like a scalding bolt of lightning.

It took her a minute to finally come down, “You’re okay?” Harry asked her as she relaxed beneath him. Apparently she wanted more, because she nodded eagerly and grabbed his hips, pulling him closer, “Yeah, yes. Fuck me, please?” She asked him. Her lips were wet and bitten red; her sensitive pussy rubbing against the fabric of his pants, “Y’sure?” Harry didn’t want her to feel pressured into anything, so he made sure to ask, just in ca—

“Yes, Harry please. Been wanting it for so long, been thinking about this ever since the bar,” Post-orgasm Y/N apparently had no self control over her words, because she was saying things rational Y/N wouldn’t even dream of. Harry was more than pleased, though, helping her take his pants off, “Yeah? Fuck—me too, baby,” He whined. Y/N stuck her hands beneath his shirt, squeezing his pecs and running her hands over his tummy, “Perfect pussy,” He muttered. 

His cock sprung free since he decided to forgo boxers that night, and he wasted no time teasing her as he rubbed it up and down her slit. Y/N slid a hand into his hair and pulled, “Please, I need it.” She was so wet that his cock was soaking instantly, yet Harry didn’t slide in—taking his time circling her clit with his tip, tightly. Y/N had to bite her knuckle to muffle her sounds, her own hips coming up to grind against his dick. She could come just from this, she’s convinced, and Harry didn’t let up until she was panting, almost ready to let go when he suddenly plunged into her.

He was big—that was obvious in the way he nestled right against her g-spot after the first push. Y/N felt tears prickle her eyes—he was so deep, she could almost feel him in her belly, “S’it hurt?” Harry asked, kissing her forehead tenderly. Y/N nodded ‘no’, “Uh-uh. Good. You’re—fuck—you’re so big, Harry,” She whimpered.

Harry rolled his hips slowly, “Oh yeah? Too big for this little pussy?” This was punctuated with a full thrust, where he pulled out until his tip rested against her hole, and slammed into her again. A tear slipped down her cheek, “You can take it,” He kissed the damp spot on her face, continuing a steady pace with his hips that had her toes curling and punched small sounds from her throat. 

A massive hand came to adjust her thighs better over his hips and the position opened her up for him further. Y/N could feel him everywhere; in her tummy, where he nudged against her nerves over and over again; rubbing incessant circles over her abused clit; squeezing her thighs, sliding down to her ass; wet, hot kisses against her neck that made her dig her nails into his back.

The second orgasm always arrived faster, and Harry must’ve noticed this, because he resorted to grinding into her pussy instead, making sure he was stimulating her clit inside and out. A thumb hooked into her mouth to keep her quiet. When he leaned back and spat where their bodies connected, Y/N felt the last string snap and she came again. 

The small pit forming in her stomach snowballed into something spectacular; bursting when he flicked her clit beneath his thumb, and red, hot energy sizzled in her veins. Y/N saw fucking stars around his cock which was nothing short of magic in that moment while she struggled to maintain herself, panting—gasping, as she came down and Harry slipped out to release on her stomach. 

He groaned into her ear and buried his face in her neck to hide the sounds he made, but it made Y/N shudder; her whole body vibrating with his voice. Harry came quite a bit. Some landing on her stomach, where he aimed mainly, and some coming all the way up to her breasts. A few minutes they stayed like that—Harry spent, lying on top of her, both of them collecting themselves and catching their breath.

A moment later he emerged from her neck, a lazy smile on his face, “So,” He started, a playful glint in his eyes, “Been thinking about this since the bar?” 

Y/N blushed, pushing her palm into his annoying face, “Shut up.”

Harry giggled quietly, completely unfazed, “Heeey. You’re the one who was thinking about me.”

“I hate you,” She lied, still unable to hold his gaze after all this time.

“No you don’t, you liar.”

-

The following night they performed their second show in Brisbane.

The crowd sang for Harry—chanting his name, cheering him on, some fainting when he waved and blew them a kiss. But Y/N watched with a knowing smile on her lips—they could have the music, the performances, the version of him that belonged to everyone else.

But only she got the one that came after.

And maybe that was the best part. 

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MASTERLIST

Ko-fi <3

Now, at twenty-six, you were barely scraping by in a tiny apartment, working two jobs just to keep your head above water, and too stubborn to ask your parents for help. They already looked at you with that mixture of pity and disappointment every time you saw them. Calling them now would only confirm what they already believed: that you couldn't handle life without their money and influence.

So you don't call them.

Instead, your thumb hovers over Harry's contact. Harry, your father's friend from the country club, a connection that still feels strange even after two and a half years. Harry is only thirty-four, nearly twenty years younger than your dad, yet the two of them bonded quickly over golf, business talk, and a shared dry sense of humor.

He'd been introduced to you at one of your parents' garden parties when you were twenty-three, fresh out of a bad breakup and feeling painfully out of place among their polished social circle. Harry had been kind to you that night, attentive without being condescending, and over the years he'd become someone you could text casually, someone who always answered. He was successful, charming, and unfairly attractive, with a calm confidence that made every woman look twice.

You'd always harbored a quiet, guilty little crush on him, but you pushed those thoughts away because he was your father's friend.

Tonight, though, pride loses to desperation. You hit call.

Harry answers on the second ring, his voice warm and slightly concerned when he hears the shakiness in yours. He doesn't hesitate. ''Stay in the car with the doors locked. I'm coming to get you.''

Forty minutes later, headlights cut through the darkness. Harry's sleek black car pulls up behind yours. He steps out looking effortlessly put-together despite the late hour: dark sweater, jeans, curls slightly messy. He walks over to your window first, checking that you're okay before inspecting the dead car with a furrowed brow. His presence feels grounding, safe in a way that makes your eyes sting with relief.

''You alright?'' he asks once you're settled in his passenger seat, the heater blasting warm air that slowly thaws your chilled fingers. The scent of his expensive cologne filling the car makes your stomach flutter. He glances over at you as he starts driving, one hand loose on the wheel. ''That car's been on its last legs for a while, huh?''

You nod, sinking deeper into the leather seat, suddenly exhausted. When the city lights grow closer and he pulls up in front of your building, Harry turns off the engine and looks at you properly, worried eyes searching your face in the dim glow of the streetlights.

''Hey, why didn't you call your parents or your sister?'' he asks. ''You know they would've sent someone.''

You hesitate, fingers twisting in your lap.

The weight of the day, the humiliation, the constant feeling of not being enough, it all finally cracks something open. You tell him the truth. About the money troubles. About refusing to lean on your family's name and wealth like your siblings have done your whole life. About how exhausting it is to always be the disappointment, the one who chose independence and is now paying for it in every possible way.

Harry listens without interrupting, his expression unreadable. ''I can help with the car,'' he says softly when you finally fall quiet. ''Cover the repairs. I'd be happy to help out.''

''Are you sure? It might take a while until I'm able to pay you back,'' you say, surprised by his generosity. ''My jobs barely cover the rent.''

''Well,'' he drawls, reaching over and resting his hand gently on your thigh, the touch warm through your jeans. His thumb strokes once, slow and deliberate. ''Maybe you could repay me some other way.''

You sit frozen in the passenger seat, the warm air from the heater suddenly feeling too thick, too heavy against your skin. Harry's hand remains on your thigh, a solid, warm weight that should feel comforting but now carries an entirely different meaning.

Your mind races to catch up, desperately trying to convince yourself that you must have misunderstood him. This is Harry. Your father's friend. He's just offering to help. That's all. Right?

But the way his thumb slowly strokes along the seam of your jeans, the way his green eyes stay fixed on your face with quiet intensity, makes it impossible to deny what he's suggesting.

''I... Harry,'' you start, voice shaky, a nervous laugh bubbling up. ''You can't mean... what I think you mean.''

He doesn't pull his hand away. Instead, he tilts his head slightly, studying you with that calm, measured expression that always makes him seem older and more in control than his thirty-four years. There's quiet hunger in his eyes, though it seems almost gentle, like he's been waiting for the right moment to say this.

''I think you know exactly what I mean,'' he says softly, voice low and smooth. ''You can't tell me you've never thought about it. The way you look at me when you think I'm not paying attention... the way you bend over at those family dinners, wearing those little dresses that ride up your thighs. I notice, sweetheart. I always notice you.''

Heat floods your face. You have thought about it, more times than you'd ever admit. Harry has always been stupidly attractive, with an effortless charm and shoulders that are almost too broad for his shirts. But he's your father's friend. The taboo of it has always kept those thoughts locked away, buried under layers of guilt and denial.

''I give you the money to fix your car,'' he continues, leaning a little closer across the center console, his breath warm against your cheek. ''No strings, no awkward questions from your parents. In return... you give me what I want. Everybody's happy. It'll stay just between us.''

Your heart pounds so hard you can feel it in your throat. Part of you wants to push his hand away and tell him no. But another, much louder part, the one that's been exhausted by money stress, by feeling like a failure, by the quiet, shameful crush you've harbored, stays silent.

Harry seems to sense your internal struggle. He leans in further, lips brushing just below your ear in a feather-light kiss that sends goosebumps racing down your arms. His voice drops to a husky whisper, filthy and coaxing all at once.

''Oh, I'd fuck you so good, baby,'' he murmurs, mouth grazing the sensitive spot just beneath your earlobe. ''I'd take my time with you. Stretch this tight little pussy open with my big cock until you're shaking and full and begging for more. I'd make you feel so good you forget every shitty thing your family says about you. Wouldn't that be nice? Letting someone take care of you for once?''

His hand slides higher up your thigh, dangerously close to where you're already growing shamefully wet. His touch is slow, giving you every chance to pull away. But he doesn't stop talking, painting vivid, tempting pictures with that low, raspy voice.

''You don't have to decide right now,'' he adds gently, pulling back just enough to look into your eyes again. There's real warmth there beneath the desire. ''But think about it. I like you. I've always liked you. This could be... mutually beneficial. And very, very pleasurable.''

Your heart hammers against your ribs as you sit there in the passenger seat of his car, Harry's words heavy in the warm, confined space of the car. His hand remains on your thigh, thumb still tracing those slow, maddening circles that make it impossible to think straight.

Every rational part of your brain screams that this is wrong: he's your father's friend, a little older than you, and this entire situation is steeped in a power imbalance you shouldn't ignore. But the exhaustion of the night, the constant financial stress, and the quiet, shameful attraction you've felt toward him for years all tangle together into a dangerous pull towards him. Your mouth feels dry. Your pulse is everywhere.

Finally, on a shaky exhale, you whisper, ''Okay... What do you want me to do?''

The moment the words leave your lips, something shifts in Harry's expression, a flash of dark satisfaction and genuine heat crossing his face. He doesn't rush. He takes your hand gently in his, almost tenderly, and guides it across the center console until your palm presses against the hard, unmistakable bulge straining in his jeans. The heat of him radiates through the denim, thick and intimidating, and your breath catches sharply at the sheer size of what you're feeling.

''Start here,'' he murmurs, voice low and coaxing as he presses your hand firmer against him, encouraging you to rub slowly up and down the length. ''Just like that, sweetheart. Such a quick learner. Feel how hard I already am for you? That's what you do to me every time I see you.''

Your fingers tremble slightly as you obey, palming him through the fabric, feeling him twitch and thicken under your touch. Harry lets out a quiet groan, letting his head tip back against the seat for a moment, eyes half-lidded. The sight of him like this, usually so composed and in control, sends a forbidden thrill through you despite everything. He's attractive. Dangerously so. And some deep, hidden part of you has wondered what this would feel like for longer than you'd ever admit.

After a few moments, he reaches down with his free hand and unzips his jeans, pulling himself out. His cock is heavy and flushed, curving slightly upward, the tip already glistening. He wraps your fingers around him again, guiding your hand in slow, firm strokes exactly the way he likes it, showing you the rhythm, the pressure, teaching you without words. His breathing grows shallower, and you can't help the way your own thighs press together at the feeling of him hot in your palm.

But Harry wants more.

His hand slides to the back of your head, fingers threading gently but insistently into your hair. He applies steady pressure, guiding your face down toward his lap. You hesitate for half a second, the reality of what's happening hitting you again, but your mouth waters at the thought. You lean over the center console, body bending awkwardly across the gear stick, and take the tip of his cock into your mouth.

Harry groans deeply, the sound vibrating through his chest. ''Fuck, that's good,'' he rasps, pushing your head down a little further, sliding more of his thick length into your mouth. Oh yeah, just like that, sweetheart. Take a little more for me.''

The position is uncomfortable: your body twisted awkwardly over the console, neck strained, the gear stick digging into your ribs. But Harry's grunts compel you to keep going. You shift on your own, crawling carefully over the console despite the cramped space, maneuvering your body into the footwell in front of the driver's seat until you're kneeling between his spread thighs. Your muscles already ache from the awkward angle, knees pressed against the floor mat, but the new position gives you better access.

Harry's eyes darken with lust as he watches you settle there. Both of his hands come to cradle your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks almost tenderly even as he starts thrusting shallowly into your mouth.

''Look at you,'' he groans, voice wrecked and filthy. ''On your knees in my car, sucking my cock like a good little slut. Been thinking about this mouth for so fucking long. That's it, relax your throat, baby. Let me fuck it. You can take it. I know you can.''

He starts thrusting deeper, careful but relentless, the head of his cock bumping the back of your throat with every push. Broken moans fall from his lips as he uses your mouth, hips rolling up to meet you.

''Fuck, your throat feels so tight... such a perfect little cocksucker. You like this, don't you? Letting Daddy's friend use your mouth after he bails you out. So fucking dirty... but you're dripping for it, aren't you?''

His grip on your face tightens slightly as his thrusts grow a little faster, a little more desperate. You can feel him throbbing against your tongue, getting closer, his breathing ragged.

He pulls you off his cock, strings of saliva connecting your swollen lips to the flushed head as you suck in desperate lungfuls of air. Your jaw aches, your eyes are watery, and your chest heaves with the effort of trying to catch your breath. Harry watches you with dark, satisfied eyes, his thumb gently wiping the corner of your mouth before he grips your waist and helps maneuver you into his lap.

The position is cramped in the driver's seat, your knees pressing into the leather on either side of his thighs, but the closeness makes everything feel more intense. You're almost shy suddenly, hands resting tentatively on his shoulders as you straddle him, cheeks burning under his heavy gaze. Harry doesn't rush you. He slides his hands up your sides, slow and soothing, before unzipping your jeans and slipping one hand inside. His fingers rub over the soaked fabric of your underwear, pressing the material against your swollen clit in lazy circles.

''Look at you,'' he murmurs, voice condescendingly sweet as he watches your face. ''Already so wet for me, sweetheart. Been thinking about this tight little pussy for longer than I should admit. You're going to take my cock so well, aren't you?''

You whimper, hips twitching against his hand despite the embarrassment flooding through you. Harry keeps his eyes locked on yours the entire time, intense and unwavering, as he pushes your underwear aside and slides two thick fingers inside you. He curls them perfectly, stroking that sensitive spot while his thumb continues rubbing your clit. The wet sounds of his fingers moving in and out of you fill the car, obscene and loud in the confined space.

''That's it, baby,'' he coos, filthy but tender. ''Ride my fingers like a good girl. You're so fucking tight... going to feel incredible wrapped around my cock. Been dreaming about stretching this pretty pussy open.''

Your head falls forward against his shoulder as the pleasure builds, but Harry catches your chin and tilts your face back up, forcing you to maintain eye contact. ''Don't hide from me,'' he whispers. ''I want to see how desperate you look when I make you come on my fingers first.''

He works you expertly until you're shaking, thighs trembling around his hips. You come with a broken moan, clenching hard around his fingers as pleasure crashes through you. Harry groans at the feeling, kissing you deeply while he rides you through it.

He pulls his fingers out, quickly shoving your jeans and underwear down your thighs as far as the cramped space allows. Then he lines himself up and slams into you in one brutal thrust. You cry out sharply at the sudden stretch, nails digging hard into his shoulders as your walls struggle to accommodate his thick length.

Harry barely gives you any time to adjust. He grips your hips tightly and starts rutting up into you with raw, animalistic need, his thrusts jolting your entire body. Each snap of his hips makes your breasts bounce, and he takes full advantage, yanking your top and bra down roughly to free them. His large hands squeeze and knead your breasts possessively, for his own pleasure more than yours, thumbs brushing roughly over your nipples before he leans in and takes one into his mouth.

He sucks hard, teeth grazing and biting down just enough to make you hiss, the sharp tug intensified by every powerful thrust of his cock. The car rocks slightly with the force of his movements, windows fogging up as your moans and his grunts fill the small space.

Harry reaches between you and rubs your clit again, fast and firm. ''Come on my cock, baby,'' he growls against your breast. ''Want to feel this tight pussy milking me when you fall apart.''

You come hard for the second time, crying out as your walls clamp down around him. Harry follows moments later with a broken moan, burying himself as deep as possible while thick ropes of cum spill inside you. The warmth of it makes you whimper, oversensitive and spent.

He stays inside you for a long moment, panting against your neck. Then he slowly pulls out, watching with dark fascination as his cum starts to dribble from your used pussy. He gathers some on two fingers and brings them to your lips, pushing them inside without warning.

You taste the mix of both of you, dazed and breathless.

Harry smiles, almost gently, as he zips himself back up.

''Okay,'' he says casually, voice still a little rough. ''You go on your way now. I'll wire you the money for the car tomorrow.''

...

thank you so much for reading! i appreciate any and all support so remember to like, comment and reblog. requests are open! 💕

general tag list

@mads3502 @angeldavis777 @run-for-the-hills @postsexfistbump @hobireasns @madilee7802 @spinninc @practistyles @qrapejuices @fangirl509east @sstylezzz @hontpwk @lichi-dunkera @prettygurl-2009 @violinheartxx @gotthecinema @ghstyles @triski73 @chronicallybubbly @makytka @hswriting @withoutluv @feralgayghost @littlenatilda @harrys-only-angell

You lie there staring at the ceiling, jaw clenched so tight it aches. Frustration simmers, hot and vicious, mixing with the bone-deep exhaustion that's been building for weeks. You're not confrontational. You never have been. You smile at neighbors, keep your music low, and mind your business. But something inside you finally snaps.

''Fuck this,'' you mutter, throwing the covers off.

You don't bother changing out of your pajamas, an old shirt and grey cotton shorts, just grab your keys and slam the door shut behind you.

Your socked feet thump against the cool hardwood as you storm out of your apartment, heart pounding with rage. The hallway lights buzz overhead, casting everything in a sickly yellow glow. His door is only ten steps away, but every step fuels the fire higher. The music grows louder the closer you get. You can hear muffled voices, someone laughing too loud. Your fist slams against his door before your brain catches up with your body, three sharp, angry knocks that make your knuckles sting.

The seconds stretch. You're breathing hard, chest rising and falling rapidly, fists still balled at your sides. Part of you hopes he doesn't answer so you can just scream into the void and go back to bed. Another, angrier part wants blood.

Then the door swings open.

And every furious word you prepared dies on your tongue.

Your neighbor is incredibly attractive.

And shirtless.

Sweat glistens on tan skin stretched over lean, toned muscle. Ink covers his chest and arms, tattooed ferns curling around his hipbones that disappear into the waistband of low-slung black sweatpants. His curls are messy, pushed back like he's been running his hands through them. A silver cross necklace rests against his collarbones.

His lips curve in a lazy smirk, his green eyes dragging slowly down your body before flicking back up to your face.

He looks like the poster boy for bad decisions.

The apartment behind him is chaos. Dim lighting, empty bottles and red solo cups scattered across every surface, clothes tossed over the back of a worn-out leather couch, tequila spilled on the kitchen island. The air that wafts out is thick with beer, cigarettes and cologne.

''Well,'' he drawls, voice low and raspy, clearly amused. One tattooed arm braces against the doorframe, making the muscles in his shoulder and bicep flex. ''Can I help you, neighbor?''

The smirk on his face is infuriating. Arrogant. Like he already knows exactly why you're here and finds it cute.

All the rage that carried you across the hallway surges back hotter than before. Your eyes narrow, fists tightening as you glare up at him.

You don't waste another second.

''Are you fucking kidding me?'' you snap, voice sharp enough to cut glass. ''It's two in the morning on a Wednesday. Some of us have actual jobs and need to sleep. Your shitty music has been shaking my walls for weeks. I can feel my bed vibrating. I've had enough.''

Harry leans against the doorframe like he has all the time in the world, the movement making the muscles in his chest and abdomen flex under the ink. His eyes drag over your bare legs again, slow and deliberate, before returning to your face. That lazy, dopey smile stays firmly in place, half-lidded and far too amused.

''Hi to you too, neighbor,'' he quips. ''I get the feeling I'm doing you a favor by making your bed vibrate. Seems like you need it, baby.''

Heat floods your face, and you're so frustrated with this handsome stranger you're pretty sure there's steam coming out of your ears.

''Don't call me baby, you ass. And don't look at me like that,'' you hiss, stepping closer and jabbing a finger into his bare chest. God, his skin is warm. ''I've been polite. I've dealt with the cigarette smoke on my balcony, the random girls giggling in the hallway at 4 a.m., the bass that feels like it's drilling into my skull. Turn. It. Down.''

He glances down at your finger still pressed against his sternum, then back up at you with an even wider smirk.

''Feisty,'' he murmurs, almost impressed. ''I like that. Most people just leave passive aggressive notes. You've got fire. It's cute.''

''Cute?'' You laugh bitterly, but your pulse is hammering. ''I'm trying to sleep. You throw these parties like you own the fucking building. Newsflash: you don't, dipshit. So don't use it as a nightclub.''

Harry bites his lower lip, clearly fighting a grin as he looks down at you. The scent of him, warm skin, cheap cologne, and most of all, alcohol, wraps around you in the small space between your bodies.

''You're really worked up, huh?'' His voice drops lower, teasing. ''You sure you came all the way over here just to complain?''

Your mouth falls open. The audacity makes your blood boil even hotter.

''I can help with that, y'know. That tension.'' He smiles smugly.

''You are unbelievable,'' you spit back, stepping even closer until you're nearly chest to chest and you have to look up at him. ''I want you to shut the fuck up and let me sleep, not fuck me.''

Harry's smile doesn't falter. If anything, it turns filthier. He tilts his head, a stray curl falling messily over his forehead as he studies you like you're the most entertaining thing he's seen all night.

''Who said anything about fucking?'' he points out, pleased with himself. ''I meant that I've got some... herbs you might wanna try. But I'm down for that hook-up as well, since you're clearly thinking about it and I'm feeling charitable tonight. Seems like it's been a while for you.''

You want to punch his smug yet beautiful face.

''God, you're disgusting,'' you shoot back, but your voice wavers just slightly. ''Move your parties somewhere else. I don't care how hot you think you are, I want peace and quiet.''

He pushes off the doorframe, closing the last bit of distance until you have to tilt your head back to keep glaring at him. The hard lines of his bare chest brush against the front of your thin shirt.

You hate that the contact sends electricity racing across your skin. Hate even more that he notices.

''You keep saying that,'' he murmurs, eyes dark, ''but you're standing here yelling at me in your pajamas instead of calling the cops. Makes me think you like coming over here and looking at me half-naked.''

Your breath catches. The hallway feels too small. Too hot. His stupid, perfect mouth is right there, still curved in that condescending little smirk, and the worst part is, you can't stop staring at it.

''Fuck you,'' you whisper venomously.

Harry's gaze drops to your lips.

''Oh yeah?'' he breathes, voice barely above a whisper. ''Well, I'm down if you are.''

The tension snaps.

You grab the silver cross around his neck and yank him down at the same moment he surges forward. Your mouths crash together in a bruising, angry kiss. His large hands immediately grip your waist, fingers digging into your bare skin under the hem of your tank top as he walks you backward until your back hits the wall beside his door.

The kiss is filthy from the start. Hungry. Hateful in the best way.

Your fingers stay fisted around his silver cross, tugging him down harder while his mouth devours yours. Tongues clash. Teeth nip. He tastes like beer and mint, and you hate how addictive it is.

Harry groans into your mouth, low and filthy, and you hate the way your pussy slickens at the sound. His hands slide down to grip your ass, lifting you effortlessly. It's angry, desperate, and messy as hell. Your legs wrap around his waist on instinct as he spins you, slamming the door shut with his foot and pressing your back against it with a dull thud.

''Fuck, you're annoying,'' you gasp between kisses, biting his bottom lip hard enough to make him hiss.

''Uh-huh. Then why are you soaking through these tiny fucking shorts?'' he shoots back, grinding his obvious hard-on right against your core. The friction makes your head spin.

You reach between your bodies and shove his sweatpants down just enough to free his cock. He's rock hard, thick, and flushed dark at the tip. The sight makes your mouth water even as you glare at him.

Harry chuckles darkly, the sound vibrating against your throat. ''Look at you. Stomping over here and yelling at me about my music and now you can't wait to get my cock inside you. Pathetic.''

''Shut up,'' you groan.

He doesn't shut up.

Instead, one of his big hands comes up to wrap lightly around your throat, not squeezing hard, just putting enough pressure on it to make your pulse jump under his fingers. His thumb strokes along your jaw as he yanks your shorts and panties to the side with his other hand.

''No panties under these little things? You really did come over here to get fucked, didn't you?'' he taunts, rubbing the head of his cock through your slick folds. ''Bet you've been touching yourself listening to my music through the wall. Such a desperate little thing.''

You moan despite yourself, hips twitching. ''You're such a fucking asshole.''

''And you're dripping for me,'' he whispers, then pulls out a condom from his back pocket. He rips it open with his teeth, slides it on, and pushes inside you in one rough thrust.

The stretch is intense. He's long, thick, and the position has you gasping, nails digging into his shoulders. Harry doesn't give you time to adjust; he starts fucking you hard and fast against the wall, hips snapping up into you with wet, obscene sounds.

''You're so fucking tight,'' he groans, forehead pressed against yours. His hand stays around your throat, grip tightening just enough to make your head feel blessedly quiet. ''This what you wanted when you came banging on my door? My cock ruining this pretty pussy?''

''Yes, fuck, harder,'' you demand, even as you insult him. ''God, your apartment is disgusting. You're such a pig.''

He laughs breathlessly, the sound breaking into a moan as you clench around him. ''Yeah? Keep talking shit while I'm balls deep in you.''

The door rattles with every brutal thrust. Your shirt is shoved up, his mouth latching onto one of your nipples, sucking hard while he pounds into you. Sweat slicks both your bodies. The cross necklace bounces between your breasts with every movement.

Harry shifts slightly, and the new angle makes you cry out. His hand leaves your throat to hitch your thigh higher, opening you up more as he drives deeper.

''Look at you taking it so well,'' he pants against your ear, voice rough. ''Screaming at me five minutes ago and now you're creaming all over my cock. Say it. Tell me how much you hate me while you cum.''

''I hate you,'' you moan, the words breaking apart as pleasure coils tighter and tighter. ''I fucking hate you, shit—''

''That's it, baby. Louder. Let the whole building hear how much you hate my dick.''

The filthy words push you over the edge. You come hard, clenching around him, thighs shaking as pleasure crashes through you in hot waves. Harry follows right after with a deep, guttural groan, burying himself to the hilt and spilling inside the condom. His hips stutter through it, face buried in your neck as he rides it out.

For a moment, the only sounds are your ragged breathing and the distant bass still playing from the speakers inside.

You stay pressed against the wall, his cock still buried in you, both of you slick with sweat. Slowly, Harry pulls back just enough to look at you, that infuriating smirk already creeping back onto his flushed face.

You narrow your eyes, still catching your breath. ''Are you going to turn the music down now?''

He chuckles, the sound low and raspy, and presses a little kiss to the corner of your mouth.

''I'm not sure yet,'' he murmurs, eyes sparkling with pure trouble. ''Might need to fuck you again just to make sure it's worth it. What do you say, neighbor? Round two, or are you still pretending you hate me?''

You hate how your body clenches around him at the suggestion, hate the shit-eating grin on his infuriatingly handsome face.

''Yes to both.''

...

thank you so much for reading! i appreciate any and all support so remember to like, comment and reblog. requests are open! 💕

general tag list

@mads3502 @angeldavis777 @run-for-the-hills @postsexfistbump @hobireasns @madilee7802 @spinninc @practistyles @qrapejuices @fangirl509east @sstylezzz @hontpwk @lichi-dunkera @prettygurl-2009 @violinheartxx @gotthecinema @ghstyles @triski73 @chronicallybubbly @makytka @hswriting @mema10 @feralgayghost @littlenatilda @harrys-only-angell

Now, at twenty-six, you were barely scraping by in a tiny apartment, working two jobs just to keep your head above water, and too stubborn to ask your parents for help. They already looked at you with that mixture of pity and disappointment every time you saw them. Calling them now would only confirm what they already believed: that you couldn't handle life without their money and influence.

So you don't call them.

Instead, your thumb hovers over Harry's contact. Harry, your father's friend from the country club, a connection that still feels strange even after two and a half years. Harry is only thirty-four, nearly twenty years younger than your dad, yet the two of them bonded quickly over golf, business talk, and a shared dry sense of humor.

He'd been introduced to you at one of your parents' garden parties when you were twenty-three, fresh out of a bad breakup and feeling painfully out of place among their polished social circle. Harry had been kind to you that night, attentive without being condescending, and over the years he'd become someone you could text casually, someone who always answered. He was successful, charming, and unfairly attractive, with a calm confidence that made every woman look twice.

You'd always harbored a quiet, guilty little crush on him, but you pushed those thoughts away because he was your father's friend.

Tonight, though, pride loses to desperation. You hit call.

Harry answers on the second ring, his voice warm and slightly concerned when he hears the shakiness in yours. He doesn't hesitate. ''Stay in the car with the doors locked. I'm coming to get you.''

Forty minutes later, headlights cut through the darkness. Harry's sleek black car pulls up behind yours. He steps out looking effortlessly put-together despite the late hour: dark sweater, jeans, curls slightly messy. He walks over to your window first, checking that you're okay before inspecting the dead car with a furrowed brow. His presence feels grounding, safe in a way that makes your eyes sting with relief.

''You alright?'' he asks once you're settled in his passenger seat, the heater blasting warm air that slowly thaws your chilled fingers. The scent of his expensive cologne filling the car makes your stomach flutter. He glances over at you as he starts driving, one hand loose on the wheel. ''That car's been on its last legs for a while, huh?''

You nod, sinking deeper into the leather seat, suddenly exhausted. When the city lights grow closer and he pulls up in front of your building, Harry turns off the engine and looks at you properly, worried eyes searching your face in the dim glow of the streetlights.

''Hey, why didn't you call your parents or your sister?'' he asks. ''You know they would've sent someone.''

You hesitate, fingers twisting in your lap.

The weight of the day, the humiliation, the constant feeling of not being enough, it all finally cracks something open. You tell him the truth. About the money troubles. About refusing to lean on your family's name and wealth like your siblings have done your whole life. About how exhausting it is to always be the disappointment, the one who chose independence and is now paying for it in every possible way.

Harry listens without interrupting, his expression unreadable. ''I can help with the car,'' he says softly when you finally fall quiet. ''Cover the repairs. I'd be happy to help out.''

''Are you sure? It might take a while until I'm able to pay you back,'' you say, surprised by his generosity. ''My jobs barely cover the rent.''

''Well,'' he drawls, reaching over and resting his hand gently on your thigh, the touch warm through your jeans. His thumb strokes once, slow and deliberate. ''Maybe you could repay me some other way.''

You sit frozen in the passenger seat, the warm air from the heater suddenly feeling too thick, too heavy against your skin. Harry's hand remains on your thigh, a solid, warm weight that should feel comforting but now carries an entirely different meaning.

Your mind races to catch up, desperately trying to convince yourself that you must have misunderstood him. This is Harry. Your father's friend. He's just offering to help. That's all. Right?

But the way his thumb slowly strokes along the seam of your jeans, the way his green eyes stay fixed on your face with quiet intensity, makes it impossible to deny what he's suggesting.

''I... Harry,'' you start, voice shaky, a nervous laugh bubbling up. ''You can't mean... what I think you mean.''

He doesn't pull his hand away. Instead, he tilts his head slightly, studying you with that calm, measured expression that always makes him seem older and more in control than his thirty-four years. There's quiet hunger in his eyes, though it seems almost gentle, like he's been waiting for the right moment to say this.

''I think you know exactly what I mean,'' he says softly, voice low and smooth. ''You can't tell me you've never thought about it. The way you look at me when you think I'm not paying attention... the way you bend over at those family dinners, wearing those little dresses that ride up your thighs. I notice, sweetheart. I always notice you.''

Heat floods your face. You have thought about it, more times than you'd ever admit. Harry has always been stupidly attractive, with an effortless charm and shoulders that are almost too broad for his shirts. But he's your father's friend. The taboo of it has always kept those thoughts locked away, buried under layers of guilt and denial.

''I give you the money to fix your car,'' he continues, leaning a little closer across the center console, his breath warm against your cheek. ''No strings, no awkward questions from your parents. In return... you give me what I want. Everybody's happy. It'll stay just between us.''

Your heart pounds so hard you can feel it in your throat. Part of you wants to push his hand away and tell him no. But another, much louder part, the one that's been exhausted by money stress, by feeling like a failure, by the quiet, shameful crush you've harbored, stays silent.

Harry seems to sense your internal struggle. He leans in further, lips brushing just below your ear in a feather-light kiss that sends goosebumps racing down your arms. His voice drops to a husky whisper, filthy and coaxing all at once.

''Oh, I'd fuck you so good, baby,'' he murmurs, mouth grazing the sensitive spot just beneath your earlobe. ''I'd take my time with you. Stretch this tight little pussy open with my big cock until you're shaking and full and begging for more. I'd make you feel so good you forget every shitty thing your family says about you. Wouldn't that be nice? Letting someone take care of you for once?''

His hand slides higher up your thigh, dangerously close to where you're already growing shamefully wet. His touch is slow, giving you every chance to pull away. But he doesn't stop talking, painting vivid, tempting pictures with that low, raspy voice.

''You don't have to decide right now,'' he adds gently, pulling back just enough to look into your eyes again. There's real warmth there beneath the desire. ''But think about it. I like you. I've always liked you. This could be... mutually beneficial. And very, very pleasurable.''

Your heart hammers against your ribs as you sit there in the passenger seat of his car, Harry's words heavy in the warm, confined space of the car. His hand remains on your thigh, thumb still tracing those slow, maddening circles that make it impossible to think straight.

Every rational part of your brain screams that this is wrong: he's your father's friend, a little older than you, and this entire situation is steeped in a power imbalance you shouldn't ignore. But the exhaustion of the night, the constant financial stress, and the quiet, shameful attraction you've felt toward him for years all tangle together into a dangerous pull towards him. Your mouth feels dry. Your pulse is everywhere.

Finally, on a shaky exhale, you whisper, ''Okay... What do you want me to do?''

The moment the words leave your lips, something shifts in Harry's expression, a flash of dark satisfaction and genuine heat crossing his face. He doesn't rush. He takes your hand gently in his, almost tenderly, and guides it across the center console until your palm presses against the hard, unmistakable bulge straining in his jeans. The heat of him radiates through the denim, thick and intimidating, and your breath catches sharply at the sheer size of what you're feeling.

''Start here,'' he murmurs, voice low and coaxing as he presses your hand firmer against him, encouraging you to rub slowly up and down the length. ''Just like that, sweetheart. Such a quick learner. Feel how hard I already am for you? That's what you do to me every time I see you.''

Your fingers tremble slightly as you obey, palming him through the fabric, feeling him twitch and thicken under your touch. Harry lets out a quiet groan, letting his head tip back against the seat for a moment, eyes half-lidded. The sight of him like this, usually so composed and in control, sends a forbidden thrill through you despite everything. He's attractive. Dangerously so. And some deep, hidden part of you has wondered what this would feel like for longer than you'd ever admit.

After a few moments, he reaches down with his free hand and unzips his jeans, pulling himself out. His cock is heavy and flushed, curving slightly upward, the tip already glistening. He wraps your fingers around him again, guiding your hand in slow, firm strokes exactly the way he likes it, showing you the rhythm, the pressure, teaching you without words. His breathing grows shallower, and you can't help the way your own thighs press together at the feeling of him hot in your palm.

But Harry wants more.

His hand slides to the back of your head, fingers threading gently but insistently into your hair. He applies steady pressure, guiding your face down toward his lap. You hesitate for half a second, the reality of what's happening hitting you again, but your mouth waters at the thought. You lean over the center console, body bending awkwardly across the gear stick, and take the tip of his cock into your mouth.

Harry groans deeply, the sound vibrating through his chest. ''Fuck, that's good,'' he rasps, pushing your head down a little further, sliding more of his thick length into your mouth. Oh yeah, just like that, sweetheart. Take a little more for me.''

The position is uncomfortable: your body twisted awkwardly over the console, neck strained, the gear stick digging into your ribs. But Harry's grunts compel you to keep going. You shift on your own, crawling carefully over the console despite the cramped space, maneuvering your body into the footwell in front of the driver's seat until you're kneeling between his spread thighs. Your muscles already ache from the awkward angle, knees pressed against the floor mat, but the new position gives you better access.

Harry's eyes darken with lust as he watches you settle there. Both of his hands come to cradle your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks almost tenderly even as he starts thrusting shallowly into your mouth.

''Look at you,'' he groans, voice wrecked and filthy. ''On your knees in my car, sucking my cock like a good little slut. Been thinking about this mouth for so fucking long. That's it, relax your throat, baby. Let me fuck it. You can take it. I know you can.''

He starts thrusting deeper, careful but relentless, the head of his cock bumping the back of your throat with every push. Broken moans fall from his lips as he uses your mouth, hips rolling up to meet you.

''Fuck, your throat feels so tight... such a perfect little cocksucker. You like this, don't you? Letting Daddy's friend use your mouth after he bails you out. So fucking dirty... but you're dripping for it, aren't you?''

His grip on your face tightens slightly as his thrusts grow a little faster, a little more desperate. You can feel him throbbing against your tongue, getting closer, his breathing ragged.

He pulls you off his cock, strings of saliva connecting your swollen lips to the flushed head as you suck in desperate lungfuls of air. Your jaw aches, your eyes are watery, and your chest heaves with the effort of trying to catch your breath. Harry watches you with dark, satisfied eyes, his thumb gently wiping the corner of your mouth before he grips your waist and helps maneuver you into his lap.

The position is cramped in the driver's seat, your knees pressing into the leather on either side of his thighs, but the closeness makes everything feel more intense. You're almost shy suddenly, hands resting tentatively on his shoulders as you straddle him, cheeks burning under his heavy gaze. Harry doesn't rush you. He slides his hands up your sides, slow and soothing, before unzipping your jeans and slipping one hand inside. His fingers rub over the soaked fabric of your underwear, pressing the material against your swollen clit in lazy circles.

''Look at you,'' he murmurs, voice condescendingly sweet as he watches your face. ''Already so wet for me, sweetheart. Been thinking about this tight little pussy for longer than I should admit. You're going to take my cock so well, aren't you?''

You whimper, hips twitching against his hand despite the embarrassment flooding through you. Harry keeps his eyes locked on yours the entire time, intense and unwavering, as he pushes your underwear aside and slides two thick fingers inside you. He curls them perfectly, stroking that sensitive spot while his thumb continues rubbing your clit. The wet sounds of his fingers moving in and out of you fill the car, obscene and loud in the confined space.

''That's it, baby,'' he coos, filthy but tender. ''Ride my fingers like a good girl. You're so fucking tight... going to feel incredible wrapped around my cock. Been dreaming about stretching this pretty pussy open.''

Your head falls forward against his shoulder as the pleasure builds, but Harry catches your chin and tilts your face back up, forcing you to maintain eye contact. ''Don't hide from me,'' he whispers. ''I want to see how desperate you look when I make you come on my fingers first.''

He works you expertly until you're shaking, thighs trembling around his hips. You come with a broken moan, clenching hard around his fingers as pleasure crashes through you. Harry groans at the feeling, kissing you deeply while he rides you through it.

He pulls his fingers out, quickly shoving your jeans and underwear down your thighs as far as the cramped space allows. Then he lines himself up and slams into you in one brutal thrust. You cry out sharply at the sudden stretch, nails digging hard into his shoulders as your walls struggle to accommodate his thick length.

Harry barely gives you any time to adjust. He grips your hips tightly and starts rutting up into you with raw, animalistic need, his thrusts jolting your entire body. Each snap of his hips makes your breasts bounce, and he takes full advantage, yanking your top and bra down roughly to free them. His large hands squeeze and knead your breasts possessively, for his own pleasure more than yours, thumbs brushing roughly over your nipples before he leans in and takes one into his mouth.

He sucks hard, teeth grazing and biting down just enough to make you hiss, the sharp tug intensified by every powerful thrust of his cock. The car rocks slightly with the force of his movements, windows fogging up as your moans and his grunts fill the small space.

Harry reaches between you and rubs your clit again, fast and firm. ''Come on my cock, baby,'' he growls against your breast. ''Want to feel this tight pussy milking me when you fall apart.''

You come hard for the second time, crying out as your walls clamp down around him. Harry follows moments later with a broken moan, burying himself as deep as possible while thick ropes of cum spill inside you. The warmth of it makes you whimper, oversensitive and spent.

He stays inside you for a long moment, panting against your neck. Then he slowly pulls out, watching with dark fascination as his cum starts to dribble from your used pussy. He gathers some on two fingers and brings them to your lips, pushing them inside without warning.

You taste the mix of both of you, dazed and breathless.

Harry smiles, almost gently, as he zips himself back up.

''Okay,'' he says casually, voice still a little rough. ''You go on your way now. I'll wire you the money for the car tomorrow.''

...

thank you so much for reading! i appreciate any and all support so remember to like, comment and reblog. requests are open! 💕

general tag list

@mads3502 @angeldavis777 @run-for-the-hills @postsexfistbump @hobireasns @madilee7802 @spinninc @practistyles @qrapejuices @fangirl509east @sstylezzz @hontpwk @lichi-dunkera @prettygurl-2009 @violinheartxx @gotthecinema @ghstyles @triski73 @chronicallybubbly @makytka @hswriting @withoutluv @feralgayghost @littlenatilda @harrys-only-angell

Unlike last time, the look on his face isn't hunger, not exactly. It's... focus. His eyes drink you in like he's assessing a painting he intends to buy, already picturing it mounted on his wall.

You don't smile, don't even nod in acknowledgement.

Instead, you roll your hips into the music, letting the moment stretch. You've learned the value of delay. The men who expect you to rush are always the easiest to unnerve. And Harry especially looks like the kind of man who's never had to wait for anything in his life.

His jaw tightens. You catch it, just barely, the way his tongue presses against the inside of his cheek. His hand lifts, signaling a server, and you watch thick bills change hands with the casual ease of someone whose wealth is just another means to exercise power.

He's bought a lapdance. Yours.

You step off the stage when the song ends, heart steady, slipping seamlessly into the persona you've perfected since working here. Glitter clings to your thighs from your set, stubborn and catching the light.

The walk toward him feels charged, static. Up close, he smells like expensive cologne and something akin to leather or tobacco.

He leans back in his seat, legs spread, gaze dragging over you without shame. It's not hungry, or desperate, like most of your clients. No, Harry's controlled in a way that makes your skin prickle.

You start the music.

The dance is slow, intimate, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off him. You let your body move the way it knows how to, fluid and unhurried, your thigh brushing his knee, your hands skimming his shoulders without quite settling. He just watches, breathing measured, almost indifferent if it weren't for the frustration in his eyes.

When the song ends, you step back, but he's already reaching for his wallet.

Another song.

''You always do this?'' he mutters at one point, eyes tracking your face instead of your body.

''Do what?''

''Make a man work for your attention.''

''I don't make anyone do anything,'' you say lightly, letting your hand skim his thigh just to toy with him, just to remind him you're in charge. ''You chose to come here all on your own.''

His mouth twitches. ''That so?''

The silence hangs between you, almost daring.

The song starts to wind down. You feel it before you hear it, the shift in rhythm, the slow unraveling of the moment, and pull back slightly.

''Wait,'' he says, sharper than before.

You pause, eyebrow lifting. ''That's the song.''

''I want to talk to you,'' he adds, lowering his voice. ''In private.''

You straighten, smoothing your hands down your thighs as the last notes fade out. A server weaves past with a tray of drinks sloshing dangerously close to the edge, muttering hasty apologies.

''You are talking to me,'' you say calmly.

He shakes his head once. ''Not like this. Somewhere quiet.''

Your gaze flicks briefly to the curtained hallway that leads to the private rooms, then back to him. ''That's not included.''

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped like he's negotiating something far more serious than a dance. ''I'll pay.''

You can tell by the way he says it that he's used to money getting him anything he desires, that it has never failed him.

''I'm working,'' you reply, tone even. ''So is everyone else in this room.''

His jaw tightens again. ''I'm not asking you to take a break.''

''No,'' you say, firmer now. ''You're asking me to prioritize you over other paying customers simply because you're... you.''

That seems to land. Something unreadable crosses his face before he smooths it away just as fast. ''I'd make it worth your while.''

You smile then, the kind that you've honed over the years and never quite reaches your eyes. ''Good night, Harry.''

You step back as the song ends, turning on your heel before he can say anything else. For half a second, you think that might be it, that he'll let you go, irritated but intrigued, ego bruised, tail between his legs.

Then you hear it. The soft, decisive sound of another stack of bills hitting the table. ''Again,'' he announces, almost under his breath.

You whip back around, the frustration curling warm in your chest. ''You're monopolizing my time.''

''I'm paying for it.''

''That's not how it works.''

''It is tonight.''

You consider it for a moment, the way his shoulders are set, the way his gaze keeps dropping to your mouth like he's restraining himself from saying something reckless. Realistically, you know you could refuse service, but against your better judgment, you step back into his space once the music starts again. It's slower this time, heavier.

You settle onto his lap with a deliberate lack of urgency, and smile smugly when his breath stutters despite himself.

''What is it you want to talk about so badly?'' you ask.

He hesitates. ''An arrangement.''

Your hands still. ''Meaning?''

He looks at you now like he's laying his cards on the table, like he's unused to doing so and doesn't enjoy it. ''I don't like coming here,'' he says. ''I don't like crowds. Or distractions. I like things... efficient.''

You pull back just enough to look at him. ''You're doing a terrible job of selling this.''

His mouth curves. ''I want someone I can call. When I need to unwind.''

There it is.

You huff out a laugh. ''That's not what I do.''

''I'd pay you well.''

''I don't doubt it.'' You sigh deeply. ''There are services for that, y'know? I could give you the numbers of some friends of mine who—''

''No. I want you.''

You glance down at him then, finally meeting his eyes up close. They're darker than they were from across the room, sharpened by proximity, by the way your body keeps brushing his without ever settling.

The song starts to fade again, the moment fraying at the edges. You rise smoothly, stepping away before he can reach for you. ''That kind of thing feels... a little degrading, don't you think?''

Something flashes in his eyes then: surprise, frustration, maybe even something like respect.

The song fades into the next, but for a beat, neither of you move.

Then he reaches for his wallet again. ''Stay,'' he says, quieter now.

You glance at the thick bills between his index and middle finger, then at him, annoyance and curiosity warring in your chest.

''Last one,'' you say.

He nods, almost too quickly. ''Yeah.''

You don't rush back onto his lap. You stand between his knees, observing him closely. Up close, it's clear his control is fraying.

It's in the way his shoulders are held a fraction too tight, the way his jaw keeps clenching and unclenching like he's grinding his teeth. His hands rest on his thighs, fingers flexing once, twice. When you lean in and a waft of your perfume hits him, his chest rises deeper, faster.

''Last one,'' you remind him, settling onto him at last, careful. Instantly his thigh tenses beneath you like a live wire.

''I know,'' he acquiesces. ''Just hear me out.''

You roll your hips slowly, letting the rhythm carry you. His breath catches when your body slides against his, the friction subtle but relentless. You feel the response, solid and undeniable, but you pretend not to notice, refusing to give him the satisfaction.

''I don't ask for things twice,'' he starts, jaw tightening.

''And yet,'' you say, voice almost amused.

''And yet,'' he concedes.

His gaze drops to your collarbone, the curve of your throat, the slow sway of your body as it moves against him. You feel his restraint like a physical thing, coiled tight beneath your palms when you brace them lightly on his chest. His heart is beating faster than it should be.

''I don't want to own you,'' he says finally, as if correcting himself.

You tilt your head, watching his face. ''Funny. That's exactly how it sounds.''

His eyes flick up to yours, sharp despite the haze. ''It would be mutually beneficial.''

''I'm listening.''

He swallows. You watch his throat work. ''You don't have to deal with... whoever walks through that door,'' he continues. ''No drunk idiots. No surprises. You'd get paid well. Better than this, even.''

''And you?'' you can't help but ask.

''And I... get someone I trust.''

It's the most honest you've seen him since you met.

You lean in closer, close enough that your breath mingles. You note the way his knee twitches when you shift your weight, the way his breathing goes uneven despite his attempt to keep it steady.

''You don't know me,'' you point out.

''I know enough.''

You hum thoughtfully, letting your fingers trail along his shoulder, down his arm, stopping just short of his wrist. The proximity makes his breath hitch again. Predictable. ''You don't,'' you repeat. ''What you're describing isn't an arrangement. It's a shortcut.''

His brow furrows. ''To what?''

''To avoiding discomfort,'' you say like it's obvious. ''You don't like feeling out of control. You don't like wanting something you can't immediately have, so you're trying to buy certainty.''

The words are gentle, observational, not accusatory, and that seems to throw him more than if you'd mocked him.

The song stretches on. Your movements slow, become more intimate, your body sliding against his with deliberate friction that makes his composure crack at the edges.

''You think you've got me all figured out?'' he scoffs, but you can tell it's a weak attempt at a defense.

''I think,'' you reply, rocking your hips once, measured, ''that you're very used to being obeyed. Too much, if you ask me.''

That earns a quiet, breathless sound from him. His fingers digs into his thigh so hard that his knuckles pale, resisting the urge to touch you.

The music begins to fade again, the last notes stretching thin, and you feel the tension spike between you, sharp, electric, unresolved. You rise slowly this time, dragging the moment out until it hurts.

When the song ends, you step back.

For a heartbeat, he doesn't move. Just looks at you like he's memorizing the shape of your mouth, the set of your shoulders, the way you stand your ground without raising your voice.

Then he exhales, long and heavy. Resigned but thoroughly amused.

''Think about it.'' He's not asking.

You glance down at him, offering a small, knowing smile, and wordlessly turn away before he can say anything else, before he can reach for his wallet again.

You feel his gaze burn into your back.

...

It's quieter today.

Not empty, Velvet never really is, but calmer, the early part of the night where the lights feel softer and the bass hasn't set off a headache yet. You're adjusting a strap in the mirror behind the bar when you feel it. That same prickle at the base of your spine, the subtle awareness that tells you someone important has just walked in.

You don't look right away.

You finish what you're doing. Take your time. When you finally glance up, he's already there, tucked into the familiar booth near the curtains, expression unreadable. No blood this time. No visible damage. Just that same coiled energy beneath the surface, quieter but no less intense.

Your lips twitch despite yourself.

He doesn't signal a server. Doesn't need to. Someone's already bringing him a drink, already opening a tab on his name.

When you approach, it feels... different. Less charged with uncertainty, more with recognition. Two opponents meeting a worthy match.

''Round two?'' you huff out a laugh.

''Something like that,'' he says, amused, his eyes almost warm. ''I figured I'd save us the argument.''

You hum. ''Smart man.''

The music starts, and you move for him easily. His hands curl reflexively into the fabric of his trousers as you grind against him.

''So,'' he says quietly, leaning in just enough that his mouth brushes your ear, ''have you made up your mind?''

You don't answer right away. Instead, you shift your weight, noting how quickly his composure falters when you do, his breathing going uneven.

''I have some questions,'' you say.

He pulls back slightly, brows lifting. ''Of course you do.''

You smile to yourself. ''If I say yes, hypothetically, what happens when I'm in the middle of something with another client?''

His jaw tightens. ''I'd... adapt.''

''You don't strike me as the adaptable type.''

He groans, pained. ''Work with me, will you?''

That earns him a quiet laugh, genuine this time. ''Here's the thing,'' you start. ''I won't drop everything when you snap your fingers.''

''I know.''

''And I won't always be available right away.''

''I know that too.''

You glance at him, surprised. He meets your gaze steadily, something earnest there beneath the arrogance.

''But,'' you continue, ''if you come to me, here, I'll make time. You don't get to remove me from my world. You step into it.''

His eyes darken, something like approval flickering across his face. ''A boundary.''

''A compromise,'' you correct him.

He nods once. ''I can work with that.''

The song ends. This time, neither of you moves to separate.

''So,'' he says, placing a large stack of bills on the table with a faint, crooked smile, ''what does this get me?''

You laugh quietly, standing and offering him your hand. ''Follow me and find out.''

The private room you lead him to is the same as last time, red silk, low light. You barely get the door closed before his hands bracket your hips, mouth finding yours with a heat that's been simmering for days.

It's not frantic. Not rushed. His lips move against yours with intent, a slow claiming that makes your knees weaken despite yourself. You tug him closer by his loosened tie, feeling him smile into the kiss.

''Careful,'' he murmurs. ''You're setting a dangerous precedent.''

You press a kiss to his jaw, smirking. ''Relax. This is still very much a trial period.''

You turn toward the bed in the middle of the room, but don't get far.

His hand catches your wrist gently, not stopping you so much as redirecting you, tugging you back into him until your spine meets his chest. He leans down, mouth hovering near your ear, breath warm.

''Is teasing me part of the service,'' he murmurs, ''or did I earn something extra?''

You smile. ''You're paying for the room,'' you say. ''What happens in it depends on how well you behave.''

A low huff of laughter against your neck. ''That doesn't bode well for me.''

You turn in his arms, palms flattening against his chest, feeling the solid heat of him beneath the suit. Close like this, you catch the faintest trace of his cologne, and something darker underneath it, something purely him. His jaw tightens when your fingers curl lightly into his lapels.

''You're tense,'' you observe.

''Occupational hazard.''

Your thumbs brush the line of his collarbone, slow, exploratory, feeling almost sad for him. ''You came here to relax.''

His eyes flick down to your mouth. ''I did.''

You kiss him first this time. His hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair, and you feel the shift in him: the careful control giving way to something more primitive.

He backs you toward the couch, one step at a time, as if giving you the chance to stop him. You don't. You let your legs hit the edge, let him follow you as you lay back, crowding the space between your knees.

Your fingers slip under his jacket, smoothing over his shoulders, down his back. He shivers. A tell of his, you've noticed.

His mouth drifts from yours to your jaw, your throat, pausing there with a muffled groan that make your pulse jump.

His thumb traces the inside of your thigh, a feather-light touch that sends heat spiraling upward. He watches your face as he does it, eyes focused, attentive, like he's cataloguing every reaction.

''You think too much,'' he says curtly.

''You talk too little,'' you counter with a smile, a callback to your bickering the first time you were in this room.

A smile curves against your skin. ''I reckon that's why this works.''

His hand slides higher. Yours fists in his shirt. The space between you feels charged, overfull, neither of you releasing the breath you seem to be holding. You pull him back down, kiss him slow this time. His hands tighten, then still, as if he's forcing himself to let you set the pace.

You smile into the kiss when you feel his cock straining in his pants, reveling in the unmistakable hardness pressed between your thighs.

''Fuck,'' he exhales quietly, more to himself than you.

You grind against him, just barely.

His jaw tightens, eyes closing for half a second as he mutters a curse under his breath. When he opens them again, they're dark, intent, fixed on you with something dangerously close to desperation.

Your hands slide under his jacket, palms flattening against his chest, feeling the way his heart races. You let your thumbs trace slow lines there, a soothing gesture. He leans in, his mouth finding your neck, not kissing so much as breathing you in. The drag of his lips, the scrape of his stubble against your skin, the quiet sound he makes when your perfume hits him full-on, it makes heat coil low in your belly.

His hand slips beneath the hem of your corset, longing to feel bare skin.

You shiver, and he notices instantly. Of course he does.

''Sensitive,'' he murmurs, equal amounts observation and tease.

''Shut up.''

He smiles against your throat. You guide him backward, push him down with a gentle firmness that surprises him. He lets it happen, watching you the entire time, pupils blown wide as you straddle his legs.

You lean in, slow, placing your hands on either side of his head. His hands slide up your thighs, thumbs brushing the skin with a reverence that makes your stomach flip. He doesn't pull you closer. Doesn't rush. Just holds you there, like he's memorizing the weight of you.

''Come here,'' he says quietly, not a command, not quite a request.

You bend down, mouths meeting again, and this time there's no pretense of patience. The kiss deepens, turns messy, heated, teeth grazing lips, breaths tangling. His hands roam freely, confident, brushing every inch of your skin. His hard length presses against your thigh, twitching every time you carefully shift your weight. His lips are swollen, his jaw clenched, restraint hanging by a thread.

You smile at the sight of his half-lidded eyes and press a final kiss to his lips. ''That's all you get tonight.''

''Very funny,'' he murmurs absently as he chases your lips, too drunk on you to fully register your words.

You pull back, giving him a deadpan look.

His smile fades instantly. ''You cannot be serious.''

...

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''Emma's told me a lot about you,'' he said, voice measured, shaking your hand like you were an acquaintance from the country club instead of his daughter's best friend. His palm was warm, calloused from whatever project he'd been working on in the garage. ''Welcome.''

His wife, Claire, was the polar opposite. She swept you into a hug, smelled like expensive perfume and immediately declared you part of the family. ''Emma's been raving about you for months. I already feel like I have another daughter.'' She said it with a bright laugh, but you caught the way Harry's jaw tightened just slightly behind her.

That weekend set the tone for the next three years.

Claire invited you to everything: summers at the beach house, weekend trips up the coast, even the annual family ski week in the mountains. She bought you Christmas presents, stocked up on your favorite snacks before you visited, and told anyone who would listen that you were ''the daughter she'd always wished she had.'' You smiled and thanked her because it felt good to be wanted, but you noticed the way Emma's smile faltered every time her mother said it.

You also noticed the way Harry stayed a little more distant. He was polite, protective if need be, but never quite warm. He'd drive you both back to campus after breaks, hands steady on the wheel, asking questions about your classes while Emma chattered in the passenger seat. He never lingered too long. He was just... around.

Emma once confided in you during a whispered conversation on the beach house deck at 2 a.m., wine bottle between you. ''Dad's the one who actually shows up for me, you know? Mum just... picks a favorite and runs with it for a while.'' Her voice had gone flat. ''She can be cruel when she doesn't get what she wants.''

A year ago everything cracked open. The divorce was quiet on the outside, no screaming matches, at least, but Emma told you later that her mum had been chipping away at Harry for years. Cold comments, affairs she didn't even bother hiding, the way she'd pit Emma against him like it was some kind of game. When the papers were signed Emma didn't cry the way most daughters would. She looked relieved. ''I don't have to watch her hurt him anymore,'' she'd said, hugging you tight in the empty hallway of their old house. ''Or me.''

Harry kept the beach house in the settlement. It became the one place that still felt like home for both of them. And you kept getting invited, because Claire might be gone, but the habit of you being part of the family had stuck. Harry never objected. He just nodded when Emma asked if you could come for the summer again, eyes flicking to you for a beat longer than necessary before he looked away.

Which brings you to today.

Another summer, the same beach house with its wide wooden decks and floor-to-ceiling windows that lets the ocean breeze roll straight through the living room. You've been here three days, but Emma's already dragged you to more parties than you care to count.

She's been gushing about a guy she met on the beach yesterday morning, some surf instructor named Andy who's throwing a party at his parents' place further down the coast. She's spent the last hour in front of the mirror in her room, curling her hair and asking you for the third time if her top comes across as ''too eager''.

''You're sure you don't want to come?'' she asks, slipping on her shoes. ''Andy said there's going to be a bonfire and everything.''

You're sprawled on her bed in your bikini top and a pair of denim shorts, lazily scrolling on your phone. The thought of loud music and drunk strangers holds zero appeal tonight. ''I'm good. I've got a book and the pool chairs have my name on them. Go have fun.''

Emma grins, leaning down to kiss your cheek. ''You're the best. Text me if you get bored and I'll come rescue you.'' She pauses at the door. ''Dad's out on the deck if you need anything. He's real broody today, though.''

You nod, waving her off. The front door clicks shut behind her a minute later, and the house settles into that particular kind of quiet that only happens when Emma has left, taking all her chaotic energy with her.

You wander into the kitchen to grab a glass of water. Harry's there, standing at the island in black swim shorts and a faded T-shirt that clings to his shoulders and does absolutely nothing to conceal the way the fabric stretches across his chest. You've caught glimpses of the body he hides underneath, one morning last summer when he came back from a run shirtless, and the memory still makes your stomach flip. He's over forty now, silver threading through the curls at his temples, but the years have only sharpened him: stronger, stubbled jaw, rough hands, a quiet confidence that makes the air feel thicker when he's in a room.

He looks up when you enter, green eyes softening. ''Emma head out?''

''Yeah. She said something about a bonfire.''

He nods, wiping his hands on a dish towel. ''There's a new grill I picked up this morning. The old one finally gave up last week. I was going to set it up on the deck but the instructions are in about twelve languages and none of them make sense. You speak a couple, right? Any chance I can bribe you with a cold drink to help me figure it out?''

You smile before you can stop yourself. ''Only if the bribe includes one of those fancy lemonades you make.''

''Deal.''

The two of you carry the big cardboard box out to the deck together, though Harry does most of the heavy lifting, the late afternoon sun warm on your skin. He's careful to keep a respectable distance, the way he always has, but when you crouch down beside him on the wooden planks, your hands brush once by accident, and you shiver.

You spend the next twenty minutes sorting metal parts and reading badly translated instructions while he tries to keep up. Conversation flows easy at first: your final year of uni, the internship you're hoping to land, how Emma's thinking about taking a year off to travel.

He's quiet for a long moment, turning a bolt between his fingers. ''She seems happy tonight,'' he says, not looking at you. ''That Andy guy... you met him?''

''Briefly. Seems nice.''

Harry hums, unconvinced. ''She's been different since the divorce. Lighter. But I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. I can't help it.'' He glances sideways at you. ''You've been good for her, though.''

The compliment lands warm in your chest. You shrug, suddenly shy. ''She's been good for me too.''

He sets the wrench down, sitting back on his heels. His T-shirt rides up just enough to show a strip of tanned skin above his shorts. You look away fast.

''You know,'' he says, voice lower, ''Claire used to say you were the daughter she wished she had.'' He sounds bitter. ''Emma hated it. I hated it. Not because it's not true— you're great— but she made everything a competition. Truth be told, I think Emma feels like she was never enough for her mother.''

You swallow. ''I know. Emma's told me.''

He nods, eyes on the half-assembled grill. ''Guts me, y'know? To think I let my little girl feel that way for so long. I should've left sooner.''

You reach out without thinking, resting your hand lightly on his forearm. His skin is warm from the sun. ''You shouldn't beat yourself up over that, Harry. She's okay. She's happier. And she's got you.''

He looks up at you then, green eyes searching your face like he's trying to decide whether to believe you. The late afternoon light catches the silver at his temples and the faint lines around his eyes. For a moment the air feels heavier, the ocean sounds dampened.

''I just didn't want her to come from a broken home,'' he admits. He flinches almost immediately, realizing what he's said. Emma's told him that your parents had a messy, ugly divorce when you were twelve, and that you still don't talk about much.

''Shit,'' he mutters, rubbing a hand over his jaw. ''That was insensitive. I'm sorry.''

You shake your head, offering a small smile. ''It's okay. Really. I understand. And I really do think Emma's better off. She doesn't have to walk on eggshells anymore. Neither do you.''

He holds your gaze a second longer, then nods once, slow. Something in his shoulders loosens. The two of you go back to the grill in companionable silence for a while, passing tools, reading instructions, occasionally brushing fingers when you hand him a bolt. Every small touch feels bigger than it should. By the time the last piece clicks into place, the sun has lowered, painting the deck in warm gold.

Harry steps back, wiping his hands on his shorts, and surveys the finished grill with a satisfied nod. ''Not bad.''

You laugh softly. ''We make a decent team.''

His eyes flick to you, something unreadable flickering across his face before he clears his throat. ''I owe you that lemonade.''

Inside the kitchen the air is cooler. You perch on one of the tall barstools at the island counter, stretching your sore back.

Harry moves around the space with easy familiarity, pulling lemons from the bowl, slicing them with quick, precise strokes. You watch the way his arms flex under the thin white T-shirt, the way the fabric shifts across his shoulders when he reaches for the sugar.

He catches you staring.

For a beat his hands still on the cutting board. His eyes meet yours across the counter, dark and knowing. He doesn't say anything. Just holds the look for a second too long before going back to squeezing lemons into the pitcher. The silence stretches, thick and charged.

When he finally slides the glass toward you, condensation beading on the sides, you just take it with a quiet ''thank you.'' Your fingers brush.

You lift the glass. ''To... beach houses and finished grills.''

He clinks his own glass against yours, the sound bright in the quiet kitchen. ''To finished grills,'' he huffs, a reluctant smile pulling at his lips.

You both sip. The lemonade is perfect, tart, sweet, ice-cold. But the air between you feels anything but refreshing. Harry leans against the opposite counter, watching you over the rim of his glass. The space between you feels smaller than it ever has.

''Your birthday's soon, isn't it?'' he asks eventually, voice low.

Your heart stutters. ''Yeah. I usually celebrate with Emma at the beach, but she might be too preoccupied with Andy this year.''

Harry hums, reaching past you for the pitcher of lemonade he'd set on the counter earlier. His arm brushes your shoulder as he does it, innocent, accidental, but for a second you're trapped in that small pocket of space between his body and the island, the scent of sunscreen and salt and him filling your lungs.

You're close enough to see the way his throat works when he swallows, the way his eyes flick down to your mouth subconciously.

The silence stretches, thick and heavy.

You lean in imperceptibly closer. ''Harry...''

He exhales sharply, like the sound of his name on your lips hurts him.

But he doesn't move away.

So you rise up on your toes and kiss him.

For one terrible second he stays completely still. Then a low, broken sound escapes him and he kisses you back, hungry, desperate, like he's been holding it in for years. His hands finally leave the counter to grip your waist, pulling you flush against him. The kiss turns messy fast: tongues sliding, teeth grazing, breaths shared in short, ragged gasps.

He pulls away as if your lips burned him, and steps back until his hips hit the opposite counter, hands coming up between you like he's trying to physically hold the distance. ''You're a beautiful woman,'' he says, voice rough and strained. ''God, you are. But I can't do this. You're Emma's best friend. My daughter's best friend. I can't—''

''I know,'' you whisper, stepping into the space he just tried to create. ''I didn't even know you felt... You've been avoiding me for years.''

He laughs once, short, almost frustrated. ''Because I feel it. This is exactly why I've always steered clear of you. Every time you walked into the house, every summer, every time you visited... I had to keep my distance. Because if I let myself look at you the way I wanted to—''

The confession hangs between you, raw and desperate. His chest rises and falls faster now, restraint visibly fraying.

You reach up slowly, fingers brushing his jaw. ''Would it really be so terrible?''

He catches your wrist, but doesn't pull your hand away. ''We can't. This is wrong. Emma trusts me. She trusts you. I'm her father, for fuck's sake.''

''I know it's wrong,'' you breathe, leaning in until your lips are inches from his. ''But I can't pretend anymore. And neither can you.''

He makes a low, pained sound, and then his restraint finally snaps.

He kisses you like he's starving.

It's not soft. It's hungry, aggressive, years of carefully buried want crashing out all at once. His mouth claims yours, tongue sliding deep, teeth nipping at your bottom lip hard enough to make you gasp. His hands drop to your waist, gripping hard as he walks you backward until your back hits the island counter. You moan into his mouth and he swallows it greedily, one hand sliding up to cup the back of your neck, the other yanking your denim shorts down your legs in one rough motion.

''Fuck,'' he groans against your lips, barely pulling back enough to speak. ''We shouldn't be doing this. Not here. Not like this.''

But he doesn't stop.

You shove his T-shirt up and he rips it off in one impatient movement, tossing it somewhere behind him. Your hands roam over his chest, nails dragging down his stomach as he yanks your bikini top loose. The moment your breasts are bare he groans, mouth descending to suck one nipple into his mouth, teeth grazing, tongue flicking until you're arching against him with a broken whimper.

''Harry, please.''

He curses again, pained and wrecked, but his hands are already desperately pushing your bikini bottoms down your legs. The fabric pools on the floor. He lifts you onto the counter in one smooth motion, stepping between your spread thighs, then reaches between you to shove his own shorts down just enough.

He's hard, thick, flushed dark at the tip. You reach for him but he catches your wrist, breathing ragged.

''Condom,'' he rasps. ''In my wallet.''

His wallet is on the counter barely two feet away from you, and you fish a condom out of it with shaking fingers. He rolls it on quickly, jaw tight, eyes never leaving your face. When he lines himself up at your entrance he pauses, forehead pressed to yours.

''Last chance,'' he rasps, voice wrecked. ''Tell me to stop. Tell me this is a mistake.''

You wrap your legs around his waist and pull him closer. ''It's a big fucking mistake. But don't you dare stop.''

''Fuck it,'' he breathes out and thrusts into you in one hard, deep stroke.

The stretch is intense, bordering on too much, but the burn feels perfect. He buries his face in your neck with a guttural groan, hips already snapping forward in rough, desperate thrusts that rock the barstool. One hand grips the counter behind you for leverage, the other digs into your hip, holding you exactly where he needs you.

''God, you're so fucking wet,'' he pants against your skin. ''My daughter's best friend and you're dripping down my cock. What the hell are we doing?''

You moan loudly; he slaps a hand over your mouth, eyes flashing with panic and lust.

''Quiet,'' he hisses, rutting into you. ''Do you want the entire beach to know you're getting fucked by your best friend's father?''

The words only make you clench harder around him. He fucks you faster, deeper, the wet slap of skin on skin loud in the quiet kitchen. The barstool you'd been sitting on earlier gets kicked over in the frenzy, clattering to the floor, but he doesn't even slow down.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes wild. ''This is so wrong. Emma will never forgive us if she finds out.''

''I know,'' you gasp against his palm, tears of overwhelming pleasure pricking your eyes. ''But it feels so good. Don't fucking stop.''

He curses viciously, hips slamming into you harder, the force making the counter creak. He fucks you like he's punishing both of you for wanting this, for finally giving in.

You come first, hard and sudden, walls fluttering around him as pleasure crashes through you in waves. You cry out against his hand, and he follows right after with a choked, broken groan, burying himself deep as he spills into the condom, hips jerking through every pulse.

For several long seconds you stay locked together, panting, foreheads pressed together, his cock still twitching inside you.

''We can't ever do that again,'' he whispers.

Neither of you believes it, but you nod anyway, even as your fingers stay curled in his hair.

Then headlights sweep across the front windows.

A car pulls into the driveway.

''Shit. Emma,'' you whisper, panic slicing through the haze.

Harry pulls out quickly, both of you moving in frantic, uncoordinated bursts. He yanks his shorts up, disposes of the condom in the bin under the sink, and grabs his T-shirt from the floor. You slide off the counter on shaky legs, pulling your bikini top back into place and scrambling for your shorts and bottoms. You both smooth your hair, wipe sweat from your skin, and try to look normal.

Harry puts some distance between you just as the front door opens.

Emma bursts in, cheeks flushed, eyes bright with excitement, completely oblivious.

''Oh my god, you guys missed the best party!'' she exclaims, kicking off her shoes. ''Andy's so funny. You should've heard his stories tonight!'' She pauses, tilting her head. ''Why is there a barstool on the ground?''

You and Harry share a look, the reality of what just happened settling over both of you like cold water, and you subtly shake your head.

Never again.

...

thank you so much for reading! i appreciate any and all support so remember to like, comment and reblog. requests are open! 💕

general tag list

@mads3502 @angeldavis777 @run-for-the-hills @postsexfistbump @hobireasns @madilee7802 @spinninc @practistyles @qrapejuices @fangirl509east @sstylezzz @hontpwk @lichi-dunkera @prettygurl-2009 @violinheartxx @gotthecinema @ghstyles @triski73 @chronicallybubbly @makytka @hswriting @mema10 @feralgayghost @littlenatilda

You love this job in a way that surprises you sometimes. Not the glamour; there isn't much of that when you're triple-checking rider lists at 3 a.m. or chasing down a missing guitar pedal five minutes before doors. It's the way no two days are ever the same. One minute you're translating a tech rider into three languages, the next you're standing in a loading dock at dawn watching semis pull away while the city wakes up around you. The chaos is grounding.

The crew trusts you with the big things. The schedule, the crises, the thousand tiny details that keep Harry's world from spinning off its axis, and they like you. That matters more to you than you'd expected.

And you honestly believe your boss is God's gift to mankind. When Harry walks into a production meeting, he listens intently, chin on his fist, eyes flicking between faces. When he thanks you, it's never perfunctory. He says your name, looks you in the eye, and you feel it land somewhere deep. Like he sees the hours you've put in, the small fires you've put out before anyone else noticed. It makes you want to do better, not because it's your job, but because he deserves people who show up for him the way he shows up for everyone else.

There have been moments that you've tried not to read too much into. The late-night coffees on the bus when the rest of the crew is asleep, just the two of you in the lounge area, talking about everything and nothing until the sky starts to lighten. The way he always asks your opinion first, even when there are ten other people in the room who've been doing this way longer than you have. The soft ''thank you'' he says when you hand him his in-ear pack before a show. And once or twice, when you've turned around too fast, you've caught him looking at you longer than necessary. You've told yourself it's nothing. He's tired. You're tired. Touring does strange things to perception.

Tonight, though, the tour is over, and you're already thinking about the flight home, the laundry, the sleep you owe your body.

Then the radios crackle.

''Crew bus is dead. Alternator's gone. We're not going anywhere tonight.''

A collective groan ripples through the hallway. People start pulling out phones, checking train schedules, cursing the rain that's now hammering the arena roof. You're already mentally rerouting, calculating how many Ubers it'll take, who needs to be at the airport first, when Harry appears at the end of the corridor.

He's in a black hoodie, sleeves pushed to his elbows, revealing the tattoos littering his forearms. His hair is still damp from the post-show shower, curls sticking to his forehead. He looks exhausted, yet calm.

He spots you, lifts his chin in that small way he does when he wants your attention without making a scene.

You walk over, dodging a tech carrying a coiled cable.

''Bus is fucked,'' he says simply, voice low under the noise.

''Yeah. I heard.''

He glances toward the loading dock doors where rain is pelting down. Then back at you.

''Come on,'' he says. ''You're riding with me tonight.''

You blink. ''What?''

''My bus is fuelled and ready. There's room.'' He shrugs like it's the most obvious thing in the world. ''I'm not letting you wait for a cab in the rain.''

You open your mouth to argue, something about not wanting to impose, but he's already turned around, hoodie pulled up, heading toward the private exit.

''Grab your bag,'' he calls over his shoulder. ''I'll wait by the door.''

You begrudgingly sling your backpack over one shoulder, heart doing a strange little flip you pretend is just leftover adrenaline. You walk toward Harry's bus, the sleek black one parked at the far end of the dock, engine idling, lights soft behind tinted windows.

Harry's waiting under the overhang, hands in his pockets. When you reach him he doesn't say anything, just opens the door and gestures for you to go first.

You step up into the warmth of the coach, and the door hisses shut behind you, sealing out the rain and the chaos of the loading dock. For a second you just stand there at the top of the steps, backpack still slung over one shoulder, taking it in.

The engine buzzes steadily beneath your feet, a constant rumble that travels up through the floor. The interior is all sleek dark leather, seats the colour of midnight, polished wood accents catching the soft amber glow from recessed lights along the ceiling. There's a small lounge area up front with a curved sofa facing a low table, a flat-screen mounted on the wall, and a mini-fridge beside it.

Beyond that, a narrow hallway leads to the back: a tiny galley kitchenette, a closed door that must be the bathroom, and then the bedroom. Everything feels expensive but lived-in: Harry's black hoodie draped over the arm of the sofa, the faint scent of his cologne mixing with brewed coffee, and, of course, the guitar on the couch.

The driver (Marco, you think his name is) glances back from the cockpit and gives a small nod before sliding the partition door almost all the way closed. It doesn't latch fully; there's still a thin strip of light and the occasional crackle of his radio filtering through.

Harry steps up behind you, close enough that you feel his hoodie brush your arm as he reaches past to flip a switch. The main lights dim to a softer gold, leaving just enough to see by without feeling clinical.

''Make yourself at home,'' he says, settling into the long night ahead. He shrugs off his wet hoodie and hangs it on a hook by the door, revealing a plain black tee underneath, sleeves stretched from wear. ''Bathroom's back there if you want to change. Towels are in the cabinet.''

You nod, suddenly aware of how damp your own clothes are from the dash through the rain. ''Thanks.''

The bathroom is tiny, barely enough room to turn around, but spotless. Marble-look counter, a proper shower stall you've never actually seen him use (he prefers hotel showers, always says the bus shower makes him feel claustrophobic), and a stack of fresh towels.

You dig through your backpack for the change of clothes you keep for nights like this: grey sleep shorts and a black oversized hoodie you stole from wardrobe months ago, with the tour logo faded across the chest. You pull it on, the sleeves hanging past your knuckles.

When you step back out, Harry's already in the bedroom at the far end. The door is open, and you can see him sprawled across the bed on his back, legs stretched out, one arm behind his head, phone glowing against his face. He's changed too: grey sweats, white tee. The bed is bigger than you expected, king-sized, built into the back wall with dark sheets and a couple of mismatched pillows. There's a window above the headboard, rain streaking the glass in small rivers.

He glances up when you appear in the doorway, eyes flicking over you in the tour hoodie, and something softens in his expression.

''Looks good on you,'' he says, casual.

You feel your face warm. ''I'll give it back. Eventually.''

He laughs and pats the space beside him. ''Come on. Couch is too small for a proper sleep, and you've been on your feet since soundcheck.''

You hesitate in the doorway. ''I'm fine on the sofa out there. Really. I don't want to—''

''Don't be ridiculous.'' He cuts you off gently, but there's that tone underneath, the one he uses when he's made up his mind and isn't arguing, just stating facts. ''Bed's huge. We're friends. It's twelve hours. You need sleep more than I need space.''

You open your mouth to protest again, about professionalism, about boundaries, about the fact that sharing a bed with your boss probably crosses at least three lines, but he's already shifting to make room, pulling back the duvet like it's the most normal thing in the world.

And honestly, you're exhausted. The adrenaline from the show is crashing hard now, leaving your limbs heavy and your eyes burning. The couch out there is leather and narrow and probably cold. This bed looks warm.

You sigh, giving in. ''Fine. But if I snore, don't take a video and send it to the group chat like you did on that red-eye flight to Barcelona.''

He grins crookedly. ''Deal.''

You climb in carefully, keeping to the edge at first. The mattress dips under your weight, the sheets cool against your bare legs. You pull the duvet up to your chin, trying to make yourself small. Harry reaches over and dims the last light with a switch by the headboard until the room is almost dark, just the faint glow from the window and the soft red numbers on the clock radio: 1:47 a.m.

''Goodnight,'' he says quietly, rolling onto his side to face away from you.

''Goodnight,'' you echo, voice barely above a whisper.

The bus hums along the motorway, a steady vibration that travels up through the frame and into your bones. Rain taps the roof in irregular bursts. You lie there, staring at the ceiling, trying to breathe normally. You can hear him breathing, slow, even, but not quite asleep yet. Every time the bus sways around a curve, the mattress shifts and your bodies inch closer. Your shoulder brushes his back once. You both freeze for half a second before pretending it didn't happen.

Minutes stretch. The partition door stays cracked just enough that you can hear the occasional crackle of Marco's radio up front, the swish of tyres on wet asphalt, the occasional whoosh of a passing lorry cutting through the rain. It's intimate in a way that feels dangerous, like the whole world has narrowed to this metal tube hurtling through the night, and the only two people in it are you and him.

Your eyes trace shadows on the ceiling, body hyper-aware of every inch of space between you and him. The mattress is too soft, the sheets too warm, the air too thick with the scent of his cologne.

You shift again, trying to find a comfortable position. Your knee brushes the back of his thigh. He doesn't move away.

Neither do you.

Then he exhales, slow, shaky, and rolls onto his back, one arm bent behind his head, the other resting on his stomach. His chest rises and falls a little faster than it should.

His eyes are open in the dark, green catching the faint light from the window. Close enough that you can see the individual lashes, the small scar above his eyebrow from some old stage mishap.

''Can't sleep?'' he whispers, voice so quiet it barely carries over the engine.

You shake your head against the pillow. ''Too wired. Show high, I guess.''

He doesn't say anything else. Just looks at you like he's been waiting for this exact moment for months and is finally allowing himself to admit it.

You let the silence stretch for a moment, then speak again, softer. ''You were incredible tonight. The way you held the room during the encore... I've never seen a crowd go that quiet and then explode like that.''

He turns his head toward you. ''You were incredible this whole leg,'' he says. ''Not just tonight. Every night. Every crisis, every missed flight, every time someone lost their shit, you were there to pick up the slack. Thank you, truly. I don't think I've said it enough.''

Your throat tightens. ''You say thank you all the time.''

''Not enough.'' He rolls onto his side now, facing you fully. The mattress dips; your bodies are closer, the duvet brushing between you. ''I couldn't have done this without you.''

You feel the words settle somewhere deep in your chest.

''You would've figured it out,'' you murmur. ''You always do.''

''Maybe. But it wouldn't have been the same.'' His voice drops lower. ''Wouldn't have felt the same without you.''

The bus sways around a long curve, and your body slides toward him. You don't correct it. Neither does he.

His hand moves first, slowly, until the backs of his fingers brush the back of yours where it rests on the sheet between you. The contact is light, almost accidental, but neither of you pulls away. Your pinky curls slightly, hooking over his. His breath catches just a fraction.

He doesn't speak right away, just lets his fingers slide between yours until your hands are laced together on the mattress. His palm is warm, calloused from guitar strings and years of holding mics, and when he squeezes once, gentle, testing, you squeeze back.

The air shifts.

He rolls closer, closing the last of the distance until his forehead nearly touches yours. You can feel the heat radiating off him, the barely audible tremor in his exhale.

''Tell me to stop,'' he whispers, voice rough.

You don't.

Your eyes flutter shut. His nose brushes yours, once, twice, then his lips find yours in the dark.

It starts slow. Agonizingly slow. His lips are warm, tentative, learning the shape of you, and you part for him without thinking. His tongue slides against yours in a lazy, exploratory stroke that tears a quiet sound out of contentment, and he swallows it, kissing you deeper, hungrier.

His free hand comes up to cup your jaw, thumb stroking along your cheekbone as he angles your head just right. You arch toward him instinctively, pressing your body along the length of his. The kiss turns messy: teeth grazing lips, tongues sliding, breaths shared in short, desperate pants. Your joined hands tighten, his fingers flexing and releasing like he's trying to anchor himself to you.

He breaks away only long enough to drag his mouth along your jaw, down the side of your neck. His teeth scrape over your pulse point, and you gasp, head tipping back against the pillow. His tongue soothes the spot, then he sucks, marking you in a place only he will see.

''Quiet,'' he murmurs against your skin, voice wrecked. ''Marco's right there.''

The reminder sends a fresh wave of heat through you. The risk, the forbidden edge of it... You have to bite your lip to stifle another sound as his hand slips under the hem of your hoodie, palm flat and warm against your stomach. His fingers splay wide, then slide higher, tracing the underside of your breast through the fabric of your bra.

You arch into his touch. He groans low in his throat and pushes the hoodie up, exposing your skin to the cool air. His mouth follows his hand, kissing along your collarbone, then lower, closing over your nipple through lace. The wet heat of his tongue makes you tremble, and you thread your fingers into his hair, holding him there.

He switches sides, sucking harder now, teeth grazing just enough to pull a muffled whimper from you. His hand roams down your side, over your hip, slipping under the waistband of your shorts. He pauses there, thumb stroking the sensitive skin just above your pubic bone.

''Tell me if it's too much,'' he breathes against your chest.

''It's not,'' you whisper back. ''Don't stop.''

His fingers dip lower, finding you already wet. He groans again, quiet, strangled, and circles your clit with slow, deliberate pressure. Your hips buck, but he presses you down gently with his forearm across your stomach, keeping you still while he works you open.

The bus sways. The engine vibrates. Every small sound feels amplified: the wet slide of his fingers, your ragged breathing, the faint creak of the mattress. You turn your face into his neck, muffling your moans against his skin as he slips one finger inside you, then two, curling them just right.

He kisses you again, deep, claiming, while his thumb draws steady circles on your clit. Pleasure coils tight and fast, your thighs trembling around his hand. He pulls back just enough to watch your face.

''Come for me,'' he whispers. ''Quietly.''

You do, hard and sudden, back arching off the bed, his name caught in your throat. He works you through it until you're trembling and boneless against him, his fingers gradually slowing.

He kisses your forehead, your temple, your mouth, soft, almost reverent. His fingers stay inside you for a long moment, curling in a way that draws out the aftershocks until your thighs are trembling. When he finally slips them free you feel the cool air against your slick skin and bite your lip to keep from whimpering at the loss.

He brings his hand to his mouth, tasting you with a low, satisfied hum that vibrates against your temple.

''Fuck,'' he breathes, barely audible. ''You taste so good.''

Your face burns. You turn it into his neck, hiding, but he just chuckles and rolls you both so your back is to his chest. The bed is just wide enough for this. The mattress is twin-sized, built into the wall with dark sheets and enough space that you're not crammed together, but he still pulls you flush against him, like he needs every inch of contact.

His arm snakes around your waist, hand splaying wide over your stomach under the hoodie. His cock is hard against the small of your back, separated only by the thin fabric of his sweats. You can feel every pulse of him, every twitch when you shift.

He presses his mouth to the nape of your neck. ''Gonna fuck you now,'' he whispers, voice gravel-rough. ''But you have to stay quiet for me. Driver's right up front, remember? One sound too loud and he'll know exactly what I'm doing to you.''

The words send a fresh rush of heat between your legs. You nod frantically, already reaching back to tug at his waistband.

He helps, shoving his sweats down just enough, then reaching for the nightstand drawer. The crinkle of the condom wrapper is loud in the quiet, and you both freeze for half a second, listening. Nothing from the front. Just the droning of the engine and rain tapping the roof.

He rolls it on with quick, practiced movements, then presses himself behind you again. One hand slides between your thighs, guiding himself to your entrance. The head nudges you and he pauses.

''Tell me if it's too much,'' he murmurs against your ear.

You shake your head. ''Please.''

He pushes in slowly so you feel every inch stretching you open. The angle is perfect in this position: deep, intimate, pressing against places that make your eyes roll back. When he's fully seated he stills, letting you adjust, his chest heaving against your back.

''Fuck,'' he groans into your hair, so quiet it's barely audible. ''So tight. So perfect.''

The bus vibrations travel up through the mattress, adding a new sensation to every long, rolling thrust that drags against every sensitive spot inside you. His hand comes up to cover your mouth, gentle but firm, palm warm over your lips, fingers splayed across your cheek. When a moan tries to escape he tightens his grip just enough to muffle it.

''Shh,'' he whispers, breath hot on your neck. ''Be a good girl and take it.''

You whimper desperately against his palm, and he rewards you with a harder thrust, grinding deep. His other arm stays locked around your waist, holding you exactly where he wants you. The rhythm builds: slow and filthy at first, then deeper, more insistent. Every time the bus hits a bump or sways, his cock jolts inside you, making stars burst behind your eyelids.

His rings are cold against your skin, cool metal pressing into your hip where his hand grips you, anchoring you while he fucks you steady and relentless. His mouth moves to your ear, teeth grazing the lobe.

''You feel that?'' he breathes. ''How deep I am? That's all for you. Been thinking about this for months. About bending you over a flight case, fucking you in a green room, making you come so hard you forget your own name. But this... this is better.''

You clench around him at the words, and he curses under his breath, hips stuttering once before he regains control.

''Fuck, do that again,'' he whispers. ''Squeeze me like that. Good girl. Just like that.''

You do, over and over, until the pleasure coils so tight you're shaking. He feels it, slows his thrusts to long, grinding rolls that drag against your g-spot and press his pelvis to your ass on every inward stroke.

''Come again for me,'' he murmurs, hand still over your mouth. ''Quiet. Come on my cock. Let me feel it.''

You shatter harder than the first time, back arching against his chest, thighs trembling, a muffled cry vibrating against his palm. Your walls pulse around him in rhythmic waves; he groans low in his throat, the sound rumbling through you, and keeps moving, slow, deep, working you through every aftershock until you're boneless and gasping.

He doesn't stop.

He pulls out gently, rolls you onto your back, then turns you so you're facing him, sideways, legs tangled, chests pressed together. The position is intimate, almost too close, noses brushing, breaths mingling. He hooks your top leg over his hip, lines himself up again, and slides back in with one smooth thrust.

This time it's slower, deeper, his eyes locked on yours in the dark. His hand finds yours between your bodies, fingers lacing tight on your hip. The other cups your face, thumb stroking your cheek.

''Look at me,'' he whispers. ''Want to see you when you come again.''

You're already close, too sensitive, too full. He feels it, adjusts the angle slightly until he's brushing against your clit with every thrust.

The bus sways, and his cock rams into you, making you gasp his name against his lips.

''That's it,'' he breathes. ''Come for me one more time. Be my good girl. Let go.''

You do, quiet this time, just a broken whimper swallowed by his mouth as he kisses you through it. Your walls flutter around him, and he follows seconds later, hips stuttering, letting out a choked groan against your neck as he spills into the condom. He works you through it, milking every last pulse until you're both trembling and spent.

For a long moment neither of you moves. His forehead is pressed to yours, hands still laced together, bodies slick with sweat.

He kisses you softly, then carefully pulls out, ties off the condom, and disposes of it in the small bin by the bed. His fingers thread into your hair, stroking slow and soothing. You tuck your face into the crook of his neck, listening to his heartbeat steady.

''We can't tell anyone,'' you whisper eventually.

''I know.'' Harry's arm tightens around you. ''But I don't regret it. Not even a little.''

You lift your head enough to look at him. ''How long have you...?''

He exhales a soft laugh. ''Months. Since that night in Berlin when you stayed up with me until dawn changing up the setlist. I wanted to kiss you right then. Been fighting it ever since.''

Your chest aches, sweet and sharp. ''Me too.''

He kisses your forehead, lingering. ''We'll figure it out, y'know.''

You nod, curling closer. His hand resumes its slow strokes through your hair.

The bus keeps moving, steady, endless, until the sky outside the small window starts to lighten and the rain has stopped.

Marco's voice crackles faintly through the overhead speaker: ''We arrive at the airport in ten, Mr. Styles.''

Harry sighs and presses one last kiss to your temple. ''Time to pretend nothing happened.''

You laugh, quiet and breathless. ''Think we can pull it off?''

He grins against your skin. ''We've been pretending for months. One more morning won't kill us.''

The bus slows and pulls off the motorway. You both dress in the dim light with quick, quiet movements. He steals one more kiss before you leave the bedroom. It's deep, claiming, promising.

When the door opens to the parking lot, the crew is already spilling out of replacement vans and Ubers. Jeff waves, bleary-eyed. Pauli calls your name, asking if you survived the night.

You flash a tired smile. ''Barely.''

Harry steps out behind you, hoodie up, sunglasses on even though it's barely dawn. He nods at the group like nothing's changed, but when he passes you to grab his bag from the undercarriage, his hand brushes yours, deliberate, hidden, and his eyes meet yours for half a second.

He smiles softly, just for you.

The crew piles toward the airport shuttle. You fall into step beside him, shoulders almost touching.

No one notices, but it's safe to say that everything has changed.

...

thank you so much for reading! i appreciate any and all support so remember to like, comment and reblog. requests are open! 💕

general tag list

@mads3502 @angeldavis777 @run-for-the-hills @postsexfistbump @hobireasns @madilee7802 @spinninc @practistyles @qrapejuices @fangirl509east @sstylezzz @hontpwk @lichi-dunkera @prettygurl-2009 @violinheartxx @gotthecinema @ghstyles @triski73 @chronicallybubbly @makytka @hswriting @mema10 @feralgayghost @littlenatilda

The possessiveness flares hotter in your chest and you can't help yourself. ''Exactly. You're mine,'' you whisper, turning your head slightly to press a hot, open-mouthed kiss against his jaw.

The words barely leave your mouth before Harry's grip on your waist turns firmer, pulling you tighter against his chest. A low, approving hum vibrates through his body and into your back.

''That's my girl,'' he whispers, lips brushing the shell of your ear. One of his hands slides down your stomach and slips under the waistband of your tiny shorts, fingers finding you already warm and slick. ''Fuck, you're soaked just from reading thirsty comments about my dick?''

You gasp softly as his long fingers glide through your folds, teasing your entrance before circling your clit with slow, deliberate strokes. His other arm stays wrapped around you, holding you securely against his chest while he starts rocking your hips gently against his growing hardness. The friction is delicious, the soft fabric of his sweats doing nothing to hide how quickly he's getting hard beneath you.

''All those girls wishing they could have me,'' he continues, voice rough and possessive in your ear, ''and here you are, sitting pretty on my lap with my hand in your shorts. And you fucking love it, don't you? You love that this cock is yours whenever you want it.''

His fingers dip lower, sliding one thick digit inside you slowly, then another, curling just right as he pumps them lazily. You moan quietly, head falling back against his shoulder, and Harry takes full advantage, attaching his mouth to your neck and sucking a mark there while his hips roll up to meet your movements. ''That's it, baby. Ride my fingers like you're gonna ride me later,” he murmurs, nipping at your earlobe. ''Bet all those fans would lose their minds if they knew how filthy you get for me. How wet you are right now just thinking about bouncing on my cock. God, I fucking love you. Your pussy feels like heaven.''

The dirty words combined with the steady rhythm of his fingers have you whimpering, rolling your hips harder against his hand. Harry chuckles darkly, the sound sending shivers down your spine. His free hand slips under your hoodie, palming your breast and pinching your nipple as his fingers stroke that spot inside of you. ''So fucking tight around my fingers, baby. Can't wait to feel you stretching around me.''

You turn around in his lap, maneuvering quickly so you're facing him properly, knees on either side of his thighs. It's a little clumsy, your legs tangling briefly in the process, but neither of you cares. The second you're turned around Harry's mouth crashes into yours, kissing you hard and deep, tongue sliding against yours with urgent hunger.

His hands grab fistfuls of your ass, pulling you down against his hard cock as you make out messily, hot breaths mingling together. You grind down on him, hands buried in his curls, moaning into his mouth while he groans against yours, the kiss turning wet and filthy.

The kiss breaks only long enough for Harry to trail his mouth down the side of your neck and across your shoulder, open-mouthed and hungry, sucking lightly at your skin while his hands grip your ass firmly. He tugs your tiny shorts down your thighs with impatient fingers, groaning deeply when he feels just how soaked you are.

''Fuck, baby, you're dripping for me,'' he rasps, eyes dark as he pushes against your hips so you sit up on your knees, and dips his head like he wants to taste you right there on the couch.

His breath is hot against your abdomen, but you thread your fingers through his curls and gently tug him back up.

''Not yet,'' you whisper, voice breathy but determined. ''I need you inside me right now, H. Please.''

Harry's eyes flash with heat and he nods, kissing your ear softly. ''Yeah? Greedy tonight, aren't you?'' He nips at your earlobe. ''That's okay, love. I'll eat this pretty pussy so fucking good later tonight. Gonna have you sitting on my face for as long as you can take it, I promise.''

You reach down between you, tugging at the waistband of his grey sweats and his boxers until his cock springs free, thick and hard and flushed. Harry groans as you wrap your hand around him, pumping him slowly a few times, feeling him throb in your palm.

He helps you shift, lining himself up at your entrance. The head of his cock slides through your slick folds, teasing your clit before he finally pushes in slowly, inch by inch, stretching you open so perfectly that you both moan loudly into the quiet living room.

''Shit, so tight,'' he breathes, forehead pressed to yours as you sink down onto him. Once he's fully seated inside you, you don't waste any time. You start moving, bouncing on his cock with steady, needy rolls of your hips, the wet sounds of your bodies meeting filling the space between you. Harry's hands stay on your hips, guiding you, helping you keep your balance while you ride him. ''That's it, baby. Bounce on it.''

You're still wearing his oversized hoodie, the hem falling around your thighs and occasionally blocking his view, so he gathers the fabric in one fist and holds it up against your stomach, eyes locked on the sight of his cock disappearing inside you again and again.

''Look at that,'' he murmurs, voice wrecked. ''So fucking pretty stretching around my cock. All mine.'' One of his hands slips under the hoodie, palming your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple as you ride him harder, grinding down deep on every bounce.

You squeeze around him deliberately on the next downstroke and Harry chokes out a broken moan, hips stuttering up into you. ''Do that again,'' he begs, voice hoarse. ''Fuck, squeeze me, baby. Just like that.''

''Yeah?'' you ask, a cocky little smile tugging at your lips even as pleasure makes your voice shake. You clench around him again, watching his eyes flutter and his head tip back against the couch. ''You like that? Knowing I'm the only one who makes you feel this good?''

Harry's grip on your hip tightens as he whimpers a desperate little yes, baby, thrusting up to meet your bounces. ''I'm all yours,'' he promises. ''No one else. Just you, riding me so fucking perfect. My good girl. I'm gonna make you my wife one day, you know that?''

When you start trembling, thighs burning and pleasure coiling tight in your belly, Harry brings his thumb to your clit, rubbing tight, slick circles. ''Come on, baby. Come for me. Want to feel you falling apart.''

You shatter with a loud cry of his name, clenching hard around him as your orgasm crashes through you. Harry follows right behind, groaning deeply as he spills inside you, hips jerking up with every pulse. He keeps you on him through the aftershocks, arms wrapped tight around your waist, face buried in your neck as you both catch your breath.

Then Harry pulls back just enough to look at you, a lazy, satisfied smirk on his flushed face. He brushes a damp strand of hair from your cheek.

''Congratulations, baby'' he murmurs, voice warm and teasing, eyes sparkling with that familiar mischief. ''Looks like you won the lottery.''

...

thank you so much for reading! i appreciate any and all support so remember to like, comment and reblog. requests are open! 💕

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You don’t jus’ get to say that!” Harry yelled, his short, brown hair disheveled as he ran his fingers through it once more. A vow of frustration for him, wide eyed and utterly amused by his girlfriend's behavior.

“Well, I said it — so,” she stood there, defiant and all. Harry almost laughed as her arms crossed, standing her ground in an obvious desperate attempt to gain some control. She was testing him, being a brat. She did it the whole day, the whole fucking day she’d been nipping and poking at him. If it wasn’t something he didn’t do, then it was something he did. Harry was beginning to feel useless, angry at the world for breaking them apart and even angerier at her for letting them.

Harry let his eyes melt over her figure, taking in the way her hip popped out, arms crossed against her chest, marking her cleavage up. Despite his fued of desire and frustration, his determination won the battle. He took a small step back, in utter disbelief.

“Delete it,” Harry barked.

“No, I’m not deleting it,” she challenged. “Your fans can’t just say whatever they want and get away with it, Harry.”

“Yes, they can. It’s Twitter, not the government.”

“You’re just gonna let them think that?” She asked in disbelief.

“I told you not to look at it,” Harry argued. “You’re better than that. Y’know how this goes,” he barked out, attempting to place blame on her. “I have commitments, a contract. Media training, for fuck sakes. You understand this, don’t make it seem like you don’t,” Harry accused.

“And that’s always priority, right?” She argued back, rolling her eyes.

“Yes,” he admitted, letting his shoulder drop. “Yes, it is. Y’know why, love?” The term of endearment held no sweetness, just all bitter and salt to the wound. “I have a responsibility, a job to do. Something more meaningful than sitting and watching fucking love island on the the telly!” Harry let out a breath, placing his hands on his hips. “Why did you have to look at it? I told you not to from the beginning.”

“It’s kinda impossible not to when it comes up as a fucking Google notification on my phone!”

“Fucking ignore it!” Harry yelled, frustrated. “I brought you here because I miss you and now, it’s all useless drama, shit that could’ve been avoided.”

“You’re so inconsiderate, you know that?” She judged, moving to grab her things and pack them into her small purse, barely fitting in her rushed attempt. “It’s only about how you feel.”

“I’m inconsiderate?” Harry nearly lost it, he felt the heat rise from his core. Not the good kind, all bubbly and hot. “Was I inconsiderate when I booked you a trip to the Caribbean for your little friend getaway? Or all the bloody, useless shit I bought you that you barely even touch? Is that inconsiderate?” He stepped forward, voice raised. “If you haven’t fucking noticed, you haven’t spend a dime since were together. Why is that?” He questioned rhetorically.

“Okay, big deal. You can buy things, congratulations. I’d figure you wouldn’t care if you spent pennies of your millionaire pound salary, Harry.” She scoffed, “I’m talking about emotions, do you have them?”

“I work hard for that!” He yelled, at his wits ends. “And emotions? It’s just some stupid rumor.“

“It still hurts me,” she admitted. “ And you don’t say anything to me,” she argued. “or them!”

“What am I supposed to say? I’m not allowed to just say shit and neither are you. I have to stick to the schedule, stick to the contract. I can’t be out here just saying whatever I feel like with no consequences. I have an image to —,” he began but she interrupted, hand placed in the air.

“Oh, God. Don’t start me on your fucking image! Just say it, Harry.” She coerced. “I’m not good for you, I’m not good for your image.”

“For fuck sakes, would you listen to yourself?” He said, turning his back on her. “It’s all that self doubt that is breaking us,” he muttered more to himself, a reflection that was too spot on and too late to make a difference.

“No. We had cracks long before,” she argued. “All I wanted, Harry, was a bit of your time.”

“Time is precious,” Harry turned, stepping forwards. His frame towered over hers. “I have to be wise about my time and you know that. So, sorry I can’t be where you want me to be or… or say exactly what you want me to say,” Harry dropped his arms in defense. “I flew you from Roma to London in hopes of making you happy but every single second has just been miserable.”

“Oh, so it’s miserable now? Can you barely bear it, Harry?” She challenged, staring up at him.

“Jesus Christ, that’s not what I meant,” he ran his fingers through his coarse hair, his eyes jumping to wear his phone buzzed on the nightstand — lighting up with notifications.

“See, that’s what I mean. Every second we have together is so… tainted by someone or something! I’m tired of it,” she admitted, selfishly telling him the truth.

“Well, I’m tired too. Tired of trying to be fucking perfect for you, for the media, for Jeff! I’m over it,” he sighed, “nothing is ever good enough and I just fucking got back,” Harry grumbled, closing his eyes shut in defeat. He was determined not to make his tears visible to her, she didn’t deserve that amount of vulnerability from him now. “Listen,” he breathed out. “I have to get ready for the show but if you’re here when I get back —,” he started.

“You don’t want me at the show?” It came out accusingly and in disbelief.

“It’s not that I don’t want y’there,” Harry argued, walking a few steps to retrieve his phone. “Jeff advised against it for now.” His voice was firm, devoid of any emotion and feeling about how he felt.

“And you’re just going to let the puppy master tell you what to do?”

God, fuck. That hurt. It fucking burned and she’d knew it.

“Real rich,” Harry replied, snarky as he grabbed his belongings. “It wasn’t me who tweeted out some dumb shit but now, I have to pay for the consequences. I’ll be lucky if fans even show up tonight after what you said!”

“It needed to be said, Harry! I’m tired of it, I’m tired of fans thinking they know shit when they don’t! I was defending us, our relationship!”

Harry sniffled, for once in agreement with her.

“The way you went about it was all wrong and that’s final. Next time, don’t invite a whole bunch of strangers into our relationship. It’s our relationship, not theirs.” Harry walked towards the door, utterly exhausted. “Sit this one out and if you’re here when I come back, we can talk.”

“Think we talked enough,” she rushed out, pushing past him. Harry stood by the door, watching her pull at the handle and disappear down the corridor.

“Fuck!” He yelled, his frustration boiling over into a puddle of want and need for her to understand that their was no use in defending themselves, people would think what they wanted. He learned it the hard way, trying to fit himself in a box wherever he could. That only ruined him and now, he was trying to be his most authentic self and that was hard enough, vulnerable but still not enough.

It was different now. Crowds demanded more of him, the media accused him, accused her and always spread rumors about what they thought— he said, she said bullshit. It was an endless battle of control that broke his confidence and rained on any conviction of hope.

Maybe I just needed to be alone, he thought to himself. His buzzing phone hissed in his hand, reality was calling and it wasn’t pretty.

“Yeah, I’m on my way.” Harry answered quickly and ended the call, shutting his door. He crept down the corridor of his home, eyeing the blacked out Range Rover that idled in his private driveway. It was unmistakably his girlfriend. He let out a sigh, watching it as he pulled away before he could even think of calling the car to stop.

This is what they wanted — the media, the fans, the public who think they know me. Harry thought, mentally preparing myself for the outlash from all sides. Harry blindly drove to the stadium, distraught and lost in his thoughts.

Harry schooled his face just as he pulled up to the stadium, he got a sneak peek of a few fans waiting outside the entrance and felt whole again for a few seconds. The routine began — hair, makeup, last minute song changes, double checking everything, and endless amounts of rundowns. His manager caught him once he’s all dressed, a neutral look on his face.

“How you feeling?” His manager questioned.

“Like shit,” Harry sighed, narrowing his focus. “But I’ll be fine for the show,” he ran his fingers through hair, needing to busy his hands.

“I wasn’t going to say anything but,” Harry already knew it was coming, the lecture. “You need to talk to your girlfriend about media training,” Jeff said, “she can’t just blow up on her story and think it’s —,” Harry interrupted.

“It won’t be a problem anymore,” his tone was firm but the anger shined through. “It’s not like she said shit that wasn’t true,” he stuttered, “it’s just — all fucked up,” Harry rolled his eyes.

“Fiix it, Harry. Go out there and have the best fucking show of your life and make fans forget it, okay?” He demanded firmly. “That’s your job, your responsibility. Not airing out your relationship drama that’s —,” Harry stood from his chair abruptly.

“For fucks sakes,” he cursed, “please, just be quiet. I know what to do, okay? I’ve been doing this shit for years. I got it, Jeff. Now, can you leave so I can take a fucking piss?” Harry wanted to scream, to yell, to cry but he couldn’t. Jeff was right, he had to put on the best show ever — make the drama irrelevant. Harry had to put on a brave face, go perform and make them all happy when he was the saddest and angriest he’s ever felt.

When he went to do his small ritual of high fives before the show, his heart dropped when he realized his girlfriend wouldn’t be there. He promised himself he’d apologize, smooth it over and fix it as soon as he was off stage. As big as their argument was, his girlfriend was right even if she went about it the wrong way.

The show went smoothly, Harry loosened up within a few songs and nobody noticed a thing, or so he thought. He joked, talked with fans and sang his heart out, pouring his emotions into every song. When the crowd roared one last time, he did a few bows — thankful that he got to make so many happy at his job.

“Thank you, thank you,” he mouthed as he walked around the stage before disappearing into the back. His adrenaline was so high that when he rounded the corner, he almost missed her. His eyes did a double take as he walked and glanced at a familiar figure.

“You came,” a small smile crept to his lips as he instinctively hugged her. His heart raced against her chest, pulling her in before grabbing her hand. He walked her back to his dressing room, only asking her one simple question.

“When did you get here?” He asked a little breathless as he closed the door behind them.

“Just now,” she stood in front of him with an expression he couldn’t really make out. “Harry, I —“

“Wait, let me say that I’m so, so sorry. I fucked up…” Harry cupped his palms around her cheeks. “You have to forgive me. I’m just so stressed and I don’t know what I was thinking. I was just worried about what the public might think and not —,” she cut him off.

“Harry, I’m just —,” he knew that expression, he knew it well. She wasn’t angry, she certainly wasn’t happy — she was sad. Which, he could understand, he accepted sadness but selfishly — he couldn’t handle it. Before he could stop himself, his lips moved against her frown, kissing her softly.

“I’m so sorry, I’m so, so sorry love.” He repeated as he kissed her. “Forgive me, forgive me please.” His lips went to her neck, his nose inhaling her sweet scent that calmed his nerves and brought him home.

“Harry, I —,” she started, gripping onto the side of his sweaty shirt. “I can’t do this anymore,” she breathed out.

“No, baby no. You can, you can do this.” Harry begged.

“I just came to say… goodbye, I have a flight soon and I —,” Harry let out a weak cry.

“No. You have to forgive me. I’ll release a statement about… about privacy, I’ll do anything.”

She broke free from his embrace, shaking her head — tears falling down her cheeks. The same cheeks he’d pinch and munch on. Harry let his own tears fall.

I did this, I broke her, I broke us. Harry thought, his mind racing.

“Baby, please.” Harry begged, trying one last time.

“I can’t, Harry. I’ll never be perfect for them, perfect for you.”

“You are perfect,” Harry fought, “you’re perfect for me, angel.”

“Please, just let me go.”

“No, I can’t. Not now,” he struggled, voice breaking as he went to hug her again. “I love you so much,” he held her as she didn’t reciprocate the embrace.

“We both know that’s not enough.”

Harry let his arms fall at his sides, taking a step away from her.

“If that’s what you want,” he started, shaking his head. “It’s just gonna prove that they're right, y’know.”

“I just… I can’t do it anymore. It was easy, so easy to love you when you were just…” she started.

“Just what?”

“Just Harry,” she sighed, revealing what he already knew. Harry could sense it from the moment he came back to the public and started to do promotion for his debut album. The time together wasn’t the same, stressed and short. The luxury of privacy was quickly ruined once they were spotted together. He worried that it would be too much to handle and it easily became too big, too much, too fast.

Harry had no choice but to let her go, he was at the height of his career and understood if she was overwhelmed, he was overwhelmed.

“Ok.” Was all he could say back, his vision blurred again and he felt so defeated. He knew there was a fine line between himself and his persona but he never expected their relationship to end due to the imbalance.

Months went by, time was non-existent as he traveled from country to country, performing in venues larger than life itself. He was hurt, broken even for a long time and deeply missed his ex-girlfriend. Rumors spread quickly but died out fast, fans happy that he was once again single. Work, music, and sex were an easy distraction from his mental state. The depression crept in and stayed but writing and performing helped.

One late evening in London, Harry decided to go out. Harry stayed connected with friends of his ex-girlfriend, they were all close. “Harry!” Amelia beamed, pulling him into a warm hug. “So glad you could make it, missed your sweet face.”

“It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” Harry chuckled, eyeing the intimate party space filled with all their friends. Harry had a small break in between his tour and was using the time to record his second album, Fine Line. With only a few songs left to complete, he allowed himself a night out.

“Oh, uhm. I forgot to mention,” Amelia voice trailed off, whispering into his ear. “she’s here… Chloe invited her and I didn’t get the chance to tell her you're coming either and now, well… it’s a true reunion.”

Harry let out a loud sigh, carefully looking around the room but never finding her. “It’s fine,” Harry shrugged, playing it off. “We’re cordial,” Harry lied. He barely had time to recover because when he rounded the corridor into the kitchen, they nearly bumped into each other.

“Shit,” Harry cursed, his drink spilling all over his white shirt.

“Oh sorry —,” she started before her eyes went wide, “Harry? What… What are you doing here?”

“Getting drinks spilled on me, I guess.” He chuckled, flicking his wrist and reaching for a napkin. He wiped over his shirt, the napkin doing nothing to save it. His butterfly tattoo peaked through his stained shirt. “Amelia invited me,” Harry revealed.

“Didn’t think you’d still talk to her,” Harry watched as she played defense immediately. The way her arms crossed, cleavaged pushed up. It was a fever dream, a bit too familiar.

“Well, I do.” He let out a sigh, “we’re all friends,” Harry added.

“Well, we’re not all friends, Harry.” Her voice turned sinister and cold, Harry chose to ignore it. He stepped around her, grabbing a bottle of water. He felt like he needed to wash down the bad taste in his mouth and the thoughts he had about her.

Fuck, she looked so gorgeous. More gorgeous than he’d ever seen.

Throughout the night, the tension grew with small side comments and a lot of eye rolling — Harry’s personal favorite.

While their group of friends played games together and let the night turn into morning, the tension became very apparent to everyone else.

“So, what happened between you two? Harry said, "You were cordial.” Amelia stated.

“Cordial?” She chuckled, sipping her drink. “Far from that,” she told the group. Harry’s gaze dropped and he felt everyone’s eyes shift from him back to his ex-girlfriend.

“We just… “ Harry shrugged, “fell out,” Harry swallowed hard, avoiding eye contact.

“Fell out?” He heard her scoff, shaking her head. “You are so arrogant, Harry.”

“Arrogant?” He questioned with disgust. “How am I arrogant?”

“Okay, Amelia… Chloe, should we check on those desserts,” Tom practically pulled the group of girls away to give them a more private moment.

“Harry, I don’t want to do this here.” She argued, stepping closer to him. “We’re with friends and remember, it doesn’t matter what I think.”

“Is that what this is?” Harry questioned, blinking as he tried to connect the dots. His tired eyes shifted to the group of friends that were listening behind the panel. As the tension grew, Harry stood and grabbed his ex-girlfriends hand. “I’m not doing this in front of an audience,” leaving her no choice but to follow. He led her into a guest bedroom down the hall and shut the door.

“Tell me,” he demanded. “Tell me how I’m arrogant,” he needed to know. Harry usually prided himself on not having bad breakups. He’d do whatever to make the other person happy or at least on better terms.

“You didn’t listen to me! It was all about you and your image, how you felt!” She yelled, her frustration boiling over. “We didn’t fall out, Harry. You stopped caring!”

“Stopped caring?” Harry’s voice raised, “I was trying to protect you!”

“I didn’t need your protection, I needed your support!”

“No,” Harry took a half step closer. “Nothing I did was ever good enough for you,” he exclaimed. “I gave you my everything when I was struggling the most and asked you to please, please not do one thing and you did it!”

She crossed her arms in defense.

“So what, that’s what you think of me? I’m some arrogant son of a bitch who only cares about himself?” The words were harsh but he had to know.

“Pretty much, yeah.” She deadpanned, standing there with her arms crossed over her.

Harry scoffed, shaking his head in disbelief as he turned his back towards her. He needed a minute to breathe, feeling his chest burn with hatred and hurt. When he turned around, he stepped towards her — slowly.

“That’s how you want to leave it? Like this?” Harry asked, defeated.

“I don't know what else you expect,” she replied, her eyes dropping to his lips then back up again.

“I don’t expect anything but,” he stopped, letting his head fall. “I walked into this party tonight hoping I’d see you, hoping that I’d get to see you again and know that you’re okay.” Harry admitted, “I’ve missed you and this,” Harry gave a tight lipped smile. “Is not what I was expecting.”

He saw her expression soften just a little, her eyes running over his face.

“I… I missed you too but it won’t work,” she fronted, “we don’t work.”

Harry let out a sigh, “we don’t have to work, we just have to be… together.”

“Harry, I — ,” Harry hesitantly cupped her cheeks, invading her space.

“Look at me,” he whispered, drowning into her eyes. “I’m so sorry, I’m so… so sorry, for everything. I never wanted to break us,” he said. “I just wish we didn’t have to end our love like this” he added, a small sad smile coated his face. His gaze dropped to her lips, his thumb brushed gently over the corner of her smile lines.

“I… I don’t want to end things like this either,” she admitted. “I just.. I miss feeling your love, your warmth… “

“Let me… love you again,” Harry whispered, his heart felt so heavy, stuck on making things right with her. “Can I, please? Even if it’s jus’ this once,” he begged, his thumb rubbing the side of his face.

“Okay,” she nodded her head, “just one last time,” she said, sadly. She closed the distance between them, pressing her lips softly against his.

Home. She felt like home. Harry thought, instantly kissing her back. He took his time, parting his lips, exploring her mouth. The kiss was gentle but all consuming, felt everywhere.

“God, I missed this, missed you,” he mumbled against her lips, his hand reaching around and down to the small of her waist. He pulled her closer, keeping their lips connected. He followed her lead, the moment she added tongue, he added his — not fighting for dominance but moving together. He felt the vibration when she moaned into the kiss, pulling him even closer. They stumbled back towards the bed, Harry groaned in relief.

“Need to feel you,” he begged, his fingers skimming the hem of her top, pulling it over her head.

“Take it off,” she pleaded. Her hands went to his trousers, undoing the button as Harry pulled his own shirt over his head. They rushed for skin to skin contact, craving the feeling of warmth and solitude.

Harry shrugged out of his trousers and briefs as she pulled down her skirt and underwear. His hands immediately went to her hips, pulling her flush against him. Harry sat on the edge of the mattress, her straddling his waist. His lips connected to her neck, kissing down her skin, all over her collarbone.

“Oh baby,” she moaned once he reached over the curve of her breast. Harry flinched at the familiar nickname but kept kissing her. His hand cupped her, angling his head to taste her. His tongue was hot against her peaked nipple as he licked and sucked down on the bud. Simultaneously, her hips rolled in a circular motion, allowing for sweet friction between them. His shaft rubbed against her vulva, feeling her wet arousal.

“Oh shit,” he cursed, nipping her skin as his hands gripped her waist, “feels so good when y’do that.”

“I missed your cock,” she moaned, moving faster to stimulate her clit.

“Yeah?” Harry asked. “Miss the way I fuck’d you?” Harry thrusted up, grazing against her entrance. She nodded in response, moaning. “Please, baby.”

Harry didn’t hesitate any longer, his hand reached between them holding his shaft so she could easily sink down against him. They both let out a gasp, Harry’s eyes shutting in overwhelming relief mixed with a dangerous feeling of pleasure.

“Fuck,” he cursed out. He leaned back a little, watching as she took him all the way. “You’re so fucking beautiful like this, sitting pretty on my cock.”

She moaned in response, moving her hips slowly. “Oh, Harry,” her lips found his again, kissing hungrily as they began to move together. He felt the way she gripped his shoulders, using them as leverage to ride him. The feeling was surreal, so familiar that Harry wondered how he’d been away from her for so long.

“That’s it, jus’ like that. Doing s’good,” His hands gripped her hips, guiding her as she moved.

“Oh, Har, fuck me please.” She begged, Harry shifted their position, placing her back against the mattress without breaking contact.

“Whatever you want, sweet girl.” Harry pushed into her with long, deep strokes — fucking her just how she liked. His eyes watched her face as she moaned out, his necklace swinging like a pendulum between them.

“Shit, ‘m not gonna last.. “ Harry forced out, already feeling the tight, warm feeling built deep in his abdomen. “So good, so, so perfect f’me.” Harry groaned into the crook of her neck, his hand spread against the bottom of her thigh as his pace increased.

“I’m close,” she breathed out, gripping onto him.

“I know, I know, angel.” Harry panted above her, watching her face as she clenched around him, covering her mouth as she cried out. He followed seconds later, spilling into her with one last thrust. “Fuck,” he cursed, breathless against her skin as his body weight evened out over her. He did move right away, pressing a kiss to the corner of her jaw.

“Thank you,” he muttered, pulling himself up a little to look at her face. His lips pressed one last soft kiss before he pulled away, distancing his body from her. The reality instantly hit him, goosebump rose against his skin. He looked out of the corner of his eye, watching as she sat up and grabbed her scattered clothes.

“Guess… this is it.” She said quietly, reclothing herself.

“Yeah,” Harry sighed, all the energy drained from his body. He didn’t pretend to be happy, he was just… there. Feeling incredibly satisfied but thoroughly numb.

“Take care of yourself, Harry.” His ex-girlfriend said once she was fully dressed, heading for the door.

“You too,” he muttered out, swallowing hard. He didn’t watch her go, just gathered his things quietly. He didn’t say anything to their friends when he slipped out the front door after a few minutes. He couldn’t stay, it would hurt too much.

Harry forced himself not to think about that night much until he was back at the studio, desperate for inspiration.

“Don't blame me for falling, I was just a little boy, don’t blame the drunk calling, wasn’t ready for it all.”

Harry wrote, humming the melody.

“You can’t blame me, darling.” He said, writing the lyrics down in his notebook. “Not even a little bit.”

Harry mouthed the lyrics over again, finding the flow. He chuckled when he thought of the next line,

“I was away and I'm just an arrogant son of a bitch who can't admit when he's sorry.”

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Even after the first couple of hookups—you both, drunk after a party, or him calling you at two in the morning—you would answer, tell him yes, come over, and the justification would be that you weren’t the one who caved and called, so you were still winning. And when he left the next morning, sometimes without a word, you told yourself this was the trade. This was the cost. Stubborn was both of you bringing dates to a party, then ditching them to fuck in a spare room, then coming back as if nothing had happened, the press of him still lingering between your thighs, because nobody else knew how to fill you like that, how to fuck you just the way you wanted. 

Because you had tried. Had done the hook-up thing with randoms you met on whatever dating app you were using that week, cycling through them, each a reflection of just where you were with yourself mentally, though that was what you would figure out later. But in the moment, in the thick of it, they were all the same. You were trying to force yourself to get over the one guy who kept coming back in some way or another. Fun fact: it never worked. 

They all sucked; most of them were only out for themselves. Their talk was always better than when they would put it into action, and truthfully, it was fucking boring—always the same shit. Some even brought the size but didn’t know how to use it. Not like Harry, who could bring both. Who could fuck you any way you wanted, could have you coming in minutes, sometimes for hours when you guys were really deep into it all. 

But it wasn’t just the sex. You guys were good at that. That was a no-brainer. It was everything else about him. He was your person, the one who would let you talk his ear off. You could spill your mind, your dreams, your thoughts at his feet, and he would just get it. He cared; he wanted to know. He wanted a future, so your breakup was a shock to both of you. It just happened, and now you don’t even know how or for what? Because the only thing you remembered now was how much you missed him, not just now but then. There always seemed to be so much distance, your job seeming to create the divide you guys thought you could navigate, something you thought you were strong enough for.

God, it was all so crazy now. In the bad moments, all you could think about was the fights, the distance you felt, even when he was lying next to you in bed. All you could think about was: I miss you, I want you—just be with me. Right here, right now, I don’t want to fight anymore. But fuck, you guys were so fucking stubborn—you to a fault. Because when it was bad. Whenyou guys couldn’t even get through one day without fighting, all it took was him saying, “We’ll maybe this isn’t working…” at your breaking point for you to just run with it. 

Stubborn—was you latching on to that one thing and throwing it back in his face, telling him, “Well, if that’s how you feel, then let’s end this.” And the truth was, in that moment, it felt good to say it. It felt good to see the stunned look on his face. To finally say what you thought you both were thinking. Because to you, if he wasn’t thinking it, he would never have said what he said in the first place. Yet he was the one who said you were being ridiculous, twisting his words, and that he meant that how you guys were handling the situation wasn’t working. And you, god. You were persistent in that stubbornness, stood your ground, and told him it was over, and maybe even that tired, defeated side of you who just wanted everything back to normal meant it—that you could admit to yourself now. 

Still, the part of you that only wanted normal was lying to yourself. What was normal anymore without him? He had been so deeply woven into every aspect of your life that you couldn’t even go to the same coffee shop without them asking if you were getting his drink too that morning. It had been almost a year since you had been apart. Still, there were days when you saw him, when you would be walking and spot him across the street, then you would stall at the crosswalk until he walked in the direction where “home” used to be for you both. But that was another source of stubbornness where your restless heart could stew, your downfall, because the coffee shop was yours, the neighborhood was yours. You had chosen it, and he had put up a fight, and now he was still there.

To make it worse, if you thought you knew the distance before, the distance now was a fucking endless black hole that opened the day you left. Because you couldn’t even remember what light felt like, you couldn’t remember the clarity of a single, defining thought. To start down a path and think, yes, this is exactly where I need to be, you’re on the right track, it’s only up from here. Because now your path was changing, and all it took was two pink lines appearing on a piss-soaked strip for you to really put all your wreckage into focus. 

Pregnant. That’s what the plastic stick in your hand said. That was your reality, alone at one in the morning on a Saturday night. You knew who the father would be. Knew the exact moment it happened. Could remember lying there afterward, the one night Harry decided he wanted to sleep over because it had been a while. It seemed the more you hooked up, the more casual it became, and the more distance he wanted to keep between you. You thought, okay, two can play this game. So you went with it. But that night felt different; he wanted to hold you. It was like he didn’t want to let go. It wasn’t the horny clash of bodies that night. He made love to you slowly, like all the times in the past when you guys didn’t want to leave your bed.

He stayed the night, and you thought, I want this, I want him back. So you went with it, letting him set the tone, not wanting to rock the boat. You wanted to savor every moment until he had to go. When you woke the next morning, he was still there. He stayed until breakfast, then made you both a late lunch after hours of being inside you, still slow, still taking his time over every inch of your skin. It felt like a fever dream. It felt like you could slip back into your old life, and all you would have to do was wait for him to say it. 

When he stayed another night, you thought, okay, this is it, but when you woke that next morning, he was gone, his only communication a note that said:

 “Thought I could do this, sorry, H.”

That was it. That was how he left it—him leaving that time. You didn’t even know it was happening, didn’t even know there might have been a choice, a discussion to have. It didn’t feel fair. It was the first time he left you in the dark, like all the other times were a mutual smorgasbord, a game you were in on too, but to just leave without even saying why he was there in the first place left you empty, left you fucking discarded like the condoms you swore by with every hookup outside of him. It’s not like he wasn’t doing the same, except that for him, it was only two other people. One, he fucked right after you broke up to get back out there, and the other, who was on and off, someone he talked to regularly. Which should have been a fucking red flag, the sign that he was moving on.

And now here was the breaking point, fucking snapping, because you were searching for his name on your phone. You were going to call. For the first time since the breakup, you were going to fucking cave and call. You were already shaking, but as soon as the first ring sounded, panic seized your throat, choking the breath you were taking. You felt sick, like you were going to throw up. Sick like all the nights you had spent heaving over the toilet, which you could now finally fucking name. Why did they even call it morning sickness if you could be sick any time of the day?

You were sitting on the edge of the tub, listening to each ring as your hand went to the band of your bra, hooking a finger under the wire where it had been digging in all week. You thought, maybe this should have been another sign, because it was so obvious now. Your boobs hadn’t fit in anything for weeks. They were sore and spilling out of the cups, and for some reason, you had been telling yourself it was PMS, that your period was late because you were a mess. Because everything that was supposed to be your life was fucking messy, and you believed it because you wanted to. That was the truth. There were no other options; your delusion said there were none.

By the third ring, you were looking down at your stomach, at the way the waistband of your leggings was being sandwiched between two rolls at your middle, the stretch already pushed past its limits, and you sat up straight. You didn’t even think about it. You just sat up, and then you realized what you had done, and that was when it hit you. Not the fucking test you just took. Not the math you had just done on your phone, as if the answer would change. It was that. This gut should have been a sign; this wasn’t your normal bloat. In fact, you weren’t even sure if you had ever been this bloated in your life.

When the phone rang again, you were scared in a way you had never been scared in your life. Not scared of anything happening—but scared like it already had, and there was no version of your life now where it hadn’t. And you were alone, god, you were so alone. You were doing this by yourself, sitting with not just the grief of losing the love of your life, but with this. With what you both had created, and it wasn’t just the mess of your lives. No, because this was the consequence. That was the part you kept coming back to. 

It was almost two in the morning on a Saturday, and there was only one person you wanted to call, and you hadn’t seen or talked to him in two months. What did this look like? What would he think this was, you being pathetic, calling him drunk somewhere? This had been the longest silence you guys had ever had. Even when you broke up, you somehow saw him more. What was the point of any of this? The silence. Why was there ever any distance? Because now all of the other bullshit felt silly compared to the life that you were holding in your fucking body. 

You had to stop thinking about it. The thought had to go away, and when the fourth ring sounded, you almost hung up, because you didn’t think you could do it. You could barely convince yourself, and you had the proof sitting face down on the bathroom counter. Maybe you weren’t ready to admit it. Because here’s where your emotions were spiraling again, because maybe if he didn’t answer, you could still be the same person who wouldn’t have to ask for anything. But just when you had almost talked yourself out of this call, his voice rasped through the phone—

“Hey...” He whispered. He sounded like he had been sleeping, like you had woken him up, which was strange, because it was Saturday, and it wasn’t like his world had fallen apart yet; he was still free. 

Your words were lodged in your throat, burning like coal as tears pricked at your eyes. “Hey…” Was all you could say.

“I’m not sure I can get away… It’s kind of late.” He told you, which hurt even worse, because he was already assuming, and now you really did feel pathetic. But worse, he was being quiet, and that had your gears turning more.

“Can you come over?

Harry was silent for a long breath, and then you tried again, “Well, can I come there, then?” You asked, feeling frustration surge beyond your control. You were already bursting at the seams of your mind with everything you were trying to hold to yourself, and he was giving you nothing.

When he didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. You knew why, and your heart sank with the thought. That sickness that had been looming was threatening to stir into something more, and you were holding your breath, trying to fight the tears and your stomach from turning. But the tears were already silently falling. 

“Is there someone else there?” You questioned, although you already knew the answer.

“Yeah…” He breathed.

God, and then you really started crying. Not for any particular reason, not even for him—it was all just hitting you, your emotions coming like tidal waves, like they had for the last two months. Except this time, he could hear it, and you pressed your hand over your mouth, but it didn’t help. Because this was ugly, and broken, and you were falling apart, and you had no one. There was no one. There was no one you wanted more than him, because you wanted him so badly, you wanted every single thing—the good and the bad. You wanted him to come over and make everything better, to tell you that everything would be okay. To tell you that you were in this together.

“Please, H.” You whimpered out, like it was life or death, and to you in that moment it was. Because you didn’t think you would survive this—if you could survive the rejection from someone who once told you you were the only thing he loved on this earth.

“Can you just please come over, please H—please.”

You were begging. You knew you were begging, and you did it anyway, because being the one who never called didn’t mean anything anymore. None of it mattered anymore. Not when everything was on the line—

“Just this one time,” you pleaded. “Please—just this one time, I swear. I’ll never call again. I haven’t called this whole time—just this one time.” He was quiet for too long. Long enough that your body was already reacting to the answer no, every inch of you trembling.

“Just this one time. I’ll be there soon.” He snapped, then hung up the phone, and you sat there with the phone still against your ear. He didn’t live far, especially if he walked fast, and since he was mad, you knew he really would be there in no time. 

Adrenaline jumped through you then, not relief, as every emotion shifted again. You took the test off the sink, put it in the trash, then stood there looking at the trash like it could rewrite your whole life story. And then you took the whole bag out, tied it off, and put a new one in. You knew he wasn’t going to look in your trash, but you did it anyway. Because more than anything, even though you were an adult, your body kept reacting to the sight of that pregnancy test with an adolescent fear all over again, hitting you with a strange shame that only ripped open the reckless guilt you felt pressing at your chest.

You brushed your teeth because your mouth tasted like shit, and honestly, you couldn’t remember the last time you brushed them. Tonight was the first night you had gotten out of bed in days, still wearing the same clothes from when you called out to work on Wednesday. Then you brushed them again, feeling more shame and more guilt, and sat down on the bathroom floor with your back against the tub after you were done. You needed some kind of guidance, needed to Google ‘how to tell your ex you’re pregnant’ just to have some kind of base. But you only got past the first two lines of the first thing you clicked, and put the phone face down on the tile. 

The words were too calm for what this was. Everything on that page felt written by someone calm and clear-minded, and you were none of those things. You sure as hell knew he wasn’t calm by the way he hung up the fucking phone. Your emotions were churning into rage because nothing about the two of you had ever been calm or easy; this wasn’t something you could say without ruining someone else’s life. It didn’t feel fair that you were the one who had to sit with it all. Why you? Why now?

Because truly, how were you supposed to say it? That was the whole mindfuck of it all. Did you say it at the door, before he even got inside, just say it and let it hit him like it hit you, fast and devastating? Did you sit him down first? Did you wait? But wait for what? There was no good timing for any of this. There was never going to be a good time to say it, was there? There would be no moment when everything was fine, and he would be open and receptive to what you needed to tell him. Because he had no clue why he was even coming over here.

God, and then there was the topic of whether he would even want to keep it. You didn’t know. You honestly didn’t know, and you had known this man for years. The one who had said he wanted a future with you, but also the same man who left a five-word note. Somehow, they were the same person, and you didn’t know which one was walking over.

Did you want to keep it? That question hit you like a bullet to the chest. You could hardly keep the thought straight in your mind. It kept circling, slipping in and out of focus—your mind still unable to grasp what it actually meant to be pregnant. Weren’t you supposed to know this kind of shit? Women were supposed to know, right? Your like-nature-born instinct, or whatever. You were looking down at your stomach again, and yet you still didn’t know anything. Then you took your hand away, trying to search your mind for the answer. For a few minutes, it became a vicious cycle. You would put it back, then take it away.

Still nothing.

And beneath everything, and the time it was taking Harry to get there, there was something else gnawing at the surface of your mind: who was at his place? Was it just some random, another body that didn’t matter—or was it her? The one who had become the on-and-off hookup. The one he talked to. You had known about her for months and had decided she wasn’t a threat, because he was still seeing you. But now she was probably at your old apartment, sleeping in your bed. Why did he even pick up in the first place? God, he was whispering because of her, and fuck, you knew it shouldn’t have mattered, but tonight, of all nights, it fucking mattered. The thought was suffocating you, and now you could hardly breathe around the thought of her.

You forced yourself into the living room, waiting by the door because you felt that if you sat down again, you would never get back up. When the knock sounded, you lurched forward and opened the door, surprised by your sudden burst of energy. Harry looked like a wreck—his T-shirt was inside out, the seams showing at the shoulders. He must’ve dressed in the dark so he wouldn’t wake her. You could see it all as you took him in. 

You knew what it meant, and you let him in anyway. As soon as he took a step forward, you were on him before he could even get the door shut all the way—arms around his neck, face against his throat. You felt like it was the first time you could breathe since you had taken the test. It was that fast. After two months of neglecting your body, doing everything wrong, it only took one second against his neck, and you were alive again.

At first, his arms stayed at his sides, standing there like a statue carved from stone. Your stomach dropped, but you didn’t let go; you refused to let go. The seconds ticked by, but your grip stayed firm, his scent the only thing keeping you tethered in that moment. Then you felt him move; he was deciding. You could feel it in the shift of his breath, and when your bottom lip dragged against the pulse of his neck, his hand came up to the back of your head, fingers in your hair, drawing you closer as his other arm wrapped around you. He let out a heavy breath into your hair and held on as if he meant it.

You grazed his neck with your mouth again, your entire body pulsing with the energy of new life. Everything about this felt right, so fucking natural that you weren’t going to stop. Your mouth moved against the heat of his neck, because it was there, because he had come to you, and there was nothing else but him and you. That’s the truth of it. In that moment, he had chosen you; he was yours. Because in that moment, the delusion was a fact. 

Because his skin was so warm, and he was right there, and your mouth was just doing what it knew best when it pressed to the heated hollow of his neck. This was what you guys did, as natural as breathing, what your body was designed for when you were in his arms. Then he made a low sound in his throat, and the door clicked shut as your feet lifted off the floor. He picked you up, and your legs went around him without a thought, your mouth sucking hard into his skin. Your mouth moved to his as he carried you across the living room, your mind going blank.

Maybe you knew this wasn’t supposed to happen, that you needed to stop it—or maybe you knew it was happening the entire time, and maybe both things were true at once, but neither one was slowing anything down. It was all happening so fast. It was fast and confusing, and it all seemed to carry new weight, like something rolling downhill. Like if you tried to catch the mistake while it was happening, you would lose the only thread you had keeping you sane in that breath.

Somewhere in you, there was a version of you, deep down, still holding the plan, all the words you had meant to say first. But the longer your mouth pressed to his, tasting him, wanting him more, that voice that should have been there grew quieter and quieter, and then you couldn’t hear anything at all except for your breath mixing. You couldn’t even remember why you had asked him to come. Because you had asked him to come, and here he was, and wasn’t that good enough? Couldn’t you just have this first? This was what you needed. That was all. To be here, just like this, just for now.

As soon as he laid you down on the couch, he lifted your shirt, and it came off in one fluid motion. He moved his face to your neck as his hands gripped your hips and tugged you down the couch, pulling back to get a look at you. His eyes were wild, and maybe you would have felt that insecure ping that had haunted you in the bathroom earlier, but you were too distracted by how different he looked, by the wild rushing through his gaze. Then he started talking—

“You’re so beautiful.” He rasped as his mouth moved to your jaw, then to your neck again. “God— baby, look at you.” He continued as a hand slid up from your hip and settled flat and warm against your ribs. “Your body—” He pulled back again. 

“Fuck— You look so good.” He cooed, his mouth inching down your body, his hands squeezing you tight. “So fucking good, love—”

He kept saying it over and over, ‘You look so good.’ And every time he said it, something in you flinched because he could see it. The changes. The difference was being gripped and handled like meat, his touch explorative and untamed, as if he had never seen you like this. Part of you wanted him to slow down so he could see it, but he didn’t know what he was looking at, and you did. He was saying it like it was good news, like all along this was what he wanted. 

Yet all the while he sounded confused, because that was the other thing—he kept saying it like he hadn’t planned to, like the words were coming out of him the same way everything else had been happening since you opened that door, or maybe even when you called. None of this had been decided because the choice was still there to be made.

But maybe the truth was that the choice had been made months ago, both of you unknowingly making it, without a conscious thought, or that’s what you wanted to believe. Maybe that should have made this easier. But it didn’t, it wasn’t, because you were so fucking scared, and the only choice you felt you had was to offer your body, whether you wanted this or not, you knew this was the only way you could make him yours, that you could have him a little longer. This is what he thought this was, right? Why else would you call him this late?

You wanted him to look at you, at your face, not just your body. But already he was distant. In that moment, you were just a body to him, because that’s what it felt like. This was the choice you were making with yourself, not with him, with you. This was the tone you had set with him the second you said “yes,” the first time he called you after your breakup, and every time after, when you found yourself beneath him, whenever he had been inside you. What did this even mean for him anymore? What did it mean to you? What had you guys let this become?

He pulled the cup of your bra down and put his hot mouth on your nipple, and you jerked underneath him, hard, because it hurt. Because everything was hurting, bearing down on you tenfold. The harder he sucked, the more you moaned. Your boobs had been tender for weeks, which is partly why you had found yourself standing in your bathroom earlier. His mouth was overwhelming—a little too much, and yet just right. When he sensed you flinch, he lifted his head and smiled.

“So sensitive for me,” he said, thinking it was him, and you let him because what was the alternative? You were going to have this no matter how it felt afterward. He wanted you; you could feel the hunger in his grasp, the way his eyes were locked on your tits spilling heavy out of your bra as he unhooked it with ease.

Then he was working your leggings down, stopping halfway down your thighs, just enough to drag two fingers up your slick center. You knew you were already wet, that your body was fucking vibrating to be touched, your clit so thick it hurt every time it pulsed. Harry breathed the word“fuck” against your neck, faintly, the way he always did, and slid two fingers inside you, and your hips came up to meet his hand as you shuddered in a deep breath.

It was so fucking good, but it wasn’t enough, because his fingers were leaving too much room for thought. Too much room for reality to creep back in. Room for the trash bag and the test and fucking Google search to loop in your head, and you didn’t want to think about any of it. You wanted there to be no room in you for anything but him, and the press of his big dick inside you.

“Fuck me,” you demanded, right into his mouth. “I want you inside me, right now—I need you.”

He didn’t make you say it twice. In seconds, he was shoving down the front of his sweatpants. There was no time to make this official by taking everything off. He was just as greedy, his thumbs hooking back into the band of your yoga pants, dragging them down and off one leg with a brutality you knew would leave marks later, your ankle still caught in the other. Then he pushed into you, his tip catching on your opening and making you wince. In one long stroke, you both were making the same sound at the same time as he stretched his way into you.

Fuck, it hurt so fucking good. You hadn’t had sex since him. It was good, exactly what you knew it would be, because it was never not good with him; that had always been the problem with you two. For a long, halting breath, you both stayed like that. His dick buried to the hilt deep—him waiting as your pussy walls spasmed around the girth of his thick cock. 

You were already on the verge of coming, your body so turned on that you could probably even come just like this. But then he was pulling out slowly, thrusting against the tightness, your body tensing as he pushed back in just as hard as the first thrust. You knew this was going to be fast for both of you when he kept saying “fuck” over and over, as if he was already trying to hold on.

Then he was fucking you fast and hard with one knee braced into the cushion, the couch scraping across the floor a notch every time he thrust back in. He kept talking—so good, you feel so good, so beautiful as your sore tits bounced and you spread yourself wider for him. 

He was falling apart the same way everything else was. Every time you felt yourself slipping toward that realm of thought, ready to let it take you, you would come back to the feeling of him inside you. To the weight of him, to the stretch of him, his mouth at your jaw. But then the creak of the couch would echo, and you would try to look him in the eye, but he was looking everywhere else but at you. 

You were in and out of these pockets, dragging yourself back down into your body every time, because this was the last time. You knew it was the last time. You didn’t know how you knew, but you knew, and you were going to be here for it, and maybe somewhere underneath all of it, that whole time, you kept telling yourself, “he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know.”

Then all at once you were coming with no warning, no build that you could track—your fucking body just locked down around him and let go, the wave hitting like a hand twisting inside you as you gripped at his inside-out shirt. He followed, just as quick, your moaning release echoing through the space, spurring him on, as you repeated his name over and over. In a few more strokes, he was pressing a guttural groan into your neck, sucking and biting into your skin. He was coming inside you; there was no thought about it. He always came inside you, so it made no difference now. That was how it had always been with him, and it didn’t matter anymore. It couldn’t do anything that hadn’t already been done. 

Neither of you moved. Then, suddenly, the room was too quiet, the air thick and still, humming with the rush of what had just happened. He stayed heavy against you, face buried in the crook of your neck, his breathing rough and ragged in your ear. You were stunned, lying there, staring at the ceiling fan spinning, wondering how the hell you were supposed to tell him now.

There had been a plan; there were supposed to be words first. But now, anything you said would sound like it came from someone wrapped up in whatever you had just done. It would sound like a lie or an afterthought; it wouldn’t sound like everything you had wanted to say since you read that note or saw the two pink strips on that plastic stick. What were you supposed to do now? How were you supposed to tell him? Every syllable you could say would be tarnished by the sweat and heat of what had just happened. You had those two words right there, but you couldn’t say them now, not on this couch, pinned under his weight while he was still inside you. There was just no way.

When he finally moved, it happened all at once. When he pulled back and pulled out, you felt the wet, sliding friction as he left you, the sudden gush as the air hit the mess spilling out with him. He didn’t even look at you. He tucked himself back into his pants, yanked the waistband of his sweats back up, and slumped onto the edge of the cushion. He was stone again, a statue sitting there with his elbows digging into his knees and his eyes cast to the floor, his own shame probably eating at him, everything about him unreadable. But you already knew what he was thinking. You didn’t need words to translate the distance you had felt since the moment he walked through that door. You sat up, shivering, and reached for your leggings, the bridge of your nose burning as you fought back tears.

You had never felt this way with him. Getting dressed while someone watches is one thing, but doing it while they’re pointedly not looking is worse. The whole time that you fumbled, he stayed silent as if he had nothing else to say. You had to lift your hips off the couch to squirm into the too-tight material, your body limp and clumsy, hands shaking in a frantic motion that felt pathetic and disgusting. 

You felt exposed, you felt used—all the while your stomach twisting as the skin of your thighs stuck to the fabric, the smell of him still heavy on your skin. You kept trying to catch his eye, desperate for a hook, but he wouldn’t let you in. He was three feet away and already gone—you could practically see the regret settling over him like ash. There was nothing to grab onto, no way to bridge the gap, because he was already buried in his head, face hidden in his hands.

“This was a mistake,” he said, words you knew were coming.

A mistake. You had just had him inside you, and now you were just a mistake. It felt cruel, a slow-twisting knife of a realization that had been buzzing in the background since the moment he walked in. You had felt it then, in the way he didn’t hug you right away—the hesitation, the stiff distance in his arms that told you he was already questioning why he was there. He had known it was a mistake before he even touched you, and yet he had stayed. Why? Had he only come here for this? Had your tears on the phone not suggested more?

Now, the silence in the room was confirming the worst of it: he hadn’t come for you, or for the words you needed to say. Had he come here just to take what he wanted? Was his opinion of you really that low? Were you another body being added to his list—the ones he had discarded, the ones that didn’t matter? Because more than anything, it felt like he had just used you to drown out any indecision he might have had, and now all that was left was the cold, gritty reality of what you guys had done. Maybe you weren’t a person to him anymore; maybe you were just going to be the body where he left his regret.

When he didn’t say anything else, you waited, the silence stretching with the sharp ache of suffering that was already settling in, “Why did you leave?” you asked, because in the moment, that was the only thing you could think about.

“That morning. I woke up—and you were just gone, Harry. You stayed for two days. You even held me, and it felt like—I don’t know—like maybe you wanted more… And then you were gone, and you left a fucking note—a note, Harry, what was that?”

He stood up fast, took a few steps away, then turned around. “Because you didn’t want it—” He rasped out fast, like he had been waiting to say it for months. “Because you ended things. You. And then that whole time you never called—not once, not one time, not ever. How could I know if I was the only one who ever called or took any initiative?”

In a way, it was true, you knew it, but tonight you had called him. Tonight you had begged him even. You wanted to say that. You wanted to ask if it counted, if it could redeem the foolish game you had made this into. Harry was looking you in the eyes now, his gaze intent on searching for the truth. His green eyes were piercing you, stunting the words in your chest. You opened your mouth to tell him what tonight’s call was, what it was actually for, but nothing came out, and you shook your head, not feeling strong enough to convince him. The words you wanted to say were getting lost, adding pressure to every second stretching by, and he was still going, still slipping, barely a tether to reach for—

“I shouldn’t have come.” He snapped, already frustrated by your lack of words, and dragged both hands down his face. “You know what—I’m fucking seeing someone. She’s at my place right now. I knew this was going to happen. Why else would you call me? What else have we been—the two of us? This fucking game we’ve made it into—”

“You mean our old place.” You answered, your voice coming out flat, already feeling the loss of him all over again, his words only confirming what you felt was coming the second he said someone was there. “That was our place—And now you’re fucking her in our bed.”

“Oh—don’t give me that shit now. It stopped being “our” place the day you decided to leave.”

Now you were getting up, your own frustration rising with your tone, “What do you mean, don’t give you that shit? Harry, you didn’t even fight me on it. You just let me leave—”

“Yeah—And what was I supposed to say?” he said, matching your anger. “It was your choice. Your decision, and you made it for both of us—What is this fucking game? I never wanted it to end. You did that. Not me. So don’t you dare throw that back on me. I was the one who never stopped calling.”

“Give me a fucking break—” you scoffed, “It’s funny how none of that seemed to matter when you were still getting what you wanted, did it—All that fucking sex—”

He laughed, a sharp, bitter laugh that sliced right through you, “Oh, please—Like you weren’t benefiting from that too. Like, I didn’t see the game from the start. How stupid do you think I am? It’s like you give me no credit for anything,”

God, it was all true. That was the sting of it—the worst things he said were the things you couldn’t argue with, the parts you had both lived through and even enjoyed. But the truth felt useless now; it didn’t fit, it was only adding more devastation. You were shaking so hard you could feel your pulse in your teeth. When you finally spoke, your voice didn’t even feel like yours. It was someone else inhabiting your body, your throat. That frustration was turning mean, colder. You didn’t give a shit about the consequences; you were ready to let it rip. 

Part of you didn’t care anymore. You were ready to have this out, and maybe it was the hormones—you had been Googling it in the bathroom, trying to flesh out every symptom that you had been feeling in that sudden panic—but knowing the science didn’t make the wreckage any less real. Nothing was stopping the downfall you knew was coming. You could tell you were about to burn the bridge by the way your anger was flashing red. You were still standing right in the middle of it; it was going to hurt you, too, but you needed him to hurt, needed him to feel the emptiness that you were becoming

“And the last time?” you asked, your voice breaking in the middle. “You could have said something—anything. But you didn’t. You just left. Why did you just leave? If you had been putting so much effort into it—why did you just walk away like a fucking coward? You want to talk about games—well then what the fuck was that?”

He shook his head, his gaze dropping to the floor. When he finally spoke, all the fight was gone from his voice. That was the part that hit harder than anything else. It wasn’t a roar you were still ready to combat, the defense he was holding; it was empty, it was him finally revealing the hollow of his own sunken emptiness. The sound of his breaking stole your breath. You knew how to survive a screaming match, how to hold your ground when things were heated and loud, but you didn’t know how to exist in the silence you had made of him. You didn’t know how to be in the ruins once the fire had gone out, once you really saw what your damage had done—what it was still doing.

“Because I thought if I stayed, we’d end up right back where we started. And I wasn’t sure I could survive it… Losing you all over again—if you didn’t want the same thing.” He answered.

And when he went quiet, the silence pressed around you, sucking the air out of the room until the breath in your lungs was thin and useless. It wasn’t just quiet—it was the fucking finale, a dense, strangling stillness that made the space between you feel like a grave opening up. You stood there staring at him, waiting for a breath or a blink, but there was nothing left to say and nowhere left to go. His stillness was stripping you bare, turning the memory of his flesh pressed to yours into remorse, leaving you both sitting in the collapse of a life that had ended the second he pulled out of you.

That was your moment, you felt it. You could have said it then. He was being honest, and you could have been honest back, and the words were right there, but standing there, knowing he was defeated, all you could say was—

“And now?”

“I’m with her. We’ve talked about everything. We’re together.”

He was with someone else; Harry had promised himself to somebody else. That was his truth, that was the reality of all of this, and all you could do was stand there. You didn’t collapse and cry like you thought you would; you were going to stand there and take it—you deserved this blow, and now you were bracing against his stare because there was no other version of you left to be, but unlike him, there was still that one reason to hang on—

“But you’re here.” You forced.

Harry closed his eyes and let out a long, shuddering breath. “Yeah… And I think you know as much as I do that this was a mistake—and now I have to go.” Then he turned away, walking toward the door, and you went after him, not missing a step as your heart jumped to your throat, pounding so hard you felt dizzy.

“But Harry—”

“Listen,” He said, halting you in place as his hand came up between you. “This can’t happen again, okay? I’m with her. I can’t have you call me again. We’re over, okay? We have to be over this time. I can’t do this anymore.”

“But I—I’m—”

God, it was right fucking there. It was in your mouth, you could feel it, you could hear the words playing on repeat in your head.

“I can’t hear anymore—I have to go.” He forced, already standing at the door, patting his pockets for his keys, his phone. “I have to fucking leave. God—fuck—what was I fucking thinking?”

His eyes were everywhere but on you, he wasn’t even talking to you anymore, his panic thick and grating in the tension between you, and when his hand closed around the doorknob, you grabbed his arm. You were gripping hard, but he didn’t pull away. He just stood there and let you hold on, and somehow that felt more painful than if he had shaken you off.

“Harry, please, baby—wait—okay, please.”

When he turned to look at you, his eyes were filling with tears. “What else could you want from me?” he asked as they spilled over and ran down his flushed cheeks. 

As you searched his face, your eyes drifted to his neck. There was a mark. You had left a small dark spot of evidence, a reminder that he was yours first, and now someone else was going to find it. How could you keep him? What could you say to keep him from walking through that door? What could you give him that was just as true as the truth waiting to be revealed?

“What else can I give that you haven’t already taken? I’m begging you—can we please just end it? Let me go… so I can let you go. I need to move on. I want to move on, okay? I want to. I deserve to see where this goes with her.”

When he said “I want to” twice, the first for you, the second for him. He wasn’t saying it to you anymore; that much was clear. Maybe this was even the first time he had said it out loud to himself, and you watched it hit its mark in his mind and settle into his features, pulling him completely away from you.

Standing there, your hand trembling on his arm, the realization settled in like ice. You knew the card you could play. One sentence, two words, and his hand would drop from that doorknob. He would stay, but he wouldn’t be staying for you. He would be staying because he was trapped, and for the rest of your life, you would never know if he was there because he wanted to be or because you had shackled him to you with another selfish line. 

As you took him in, your eyes roamed over him, and something in you knew you couldn’t do it. It was the set of his shoulders and the way he wouldn’t meet your eyes. He wasn’t just leaving; he really was begging you to let him go with every fiber of his being. He was pleading with his whole body for an exit, and you were the only thing standing in the way of his escape.

So you buried it. You felt the shift deep inside, a stony, tectonic slide of emotions as you took the heaviest thing you had ever carried and shoved it down into the darkest crevice of yourself, its weight settling in your gut, knowing it would stay there, decaying. You let go of the truth that would have shattered him even more, and instead, you reached for the only other honest thing you had left, that one other truth—

“But I love you.”

Under your touch, he went still, his muscles locking tight as if he were bracing for a blow that would never come, but that was your last one. When he finally answered, his voice was soft and level, worse almost kind. That was the part that actually destroyed you—the kindness. His tone was gentle, like he was already standing on the other side of the door, like someone who had already stopped loving you enough to just stay angry—stage two of the grieving process playing out in real time. The kind of soft you heard people use for the dead—

“Well. Sometimes love isn’t enough,” he said. Then his arm slid out from under your fingers, easy as water. The door opened, and then it clicked shut, and he was gone. He did it quietly. Even now, even as he was ending you, he couldn’t even be bothered doing it with his chest, with more sound, because then at least it would feel real.

But this was the part you didn’t remember, because later, when you tried to play this part over in your head, it was blank every time. All you remembered was standing there, listening to the hollow thud of his footsteps down the stairs until the numb silence in your head swallowed it all. A piece of you waited for the footsteps to stutter, for the door downstairs to stay shut, for him to realize he couldn’t just walk away—but he didn’t come back. 

You remembered sliding down the door’s wood until you hit the floor, your knees pulling toward your chest as your hand moved to your stomach instinctively. You had let the only person you had ever wanted just disappear into the night, and now you were left with the darkness of your mind, with a secret that was growing larger with every second. It was strange, the thoughts that followed—that in all of the terrifying ache of this, the thought of the baby seemed dull, seemed doable compared to the unknown. Because in that stifled breath, the vast, empty stretch of a life without him felt like a void that was going to consume you entirely. 

The strange clarity was that even though your heart was breaking, you knew the answer you had been searching for. As you pressed your hand into your belly, you felt your answer prickle across your skin and up your spine, and as a sob burst from your chest, the answer was yes. The answer was that this was your baby, the universe had given you this, and what that meant, you still weren’t sure—the why. But you didn’t need to know that right now. 

Now it was just the two of you, and that was the reality you needed to face. 

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Birthday’s were always so strange for her. The direct attention on her for the day, friends reaching out and sending birthday messages that she hadn’t heard from them the better half of the year and of course, the celebratory, annual birthday cry. Whatever happened, birthdays were emotional and most of the time, didn’t go exactly how she planned. So, she simply stopped celebrating her birthday. No celebration meant no disappointment by making it some sort of special day. She went to work like normal. Not drawing any attention to herself throughout the morning and was grateful when nobody commented about the date. When lunch came around she made her usual routine lunch order, added a cookie for dessert. She sat in the same corner, facing the sunlight and began to eat her mundane turkey sandwich and sip on her Diet Coke as she checked her Instagram feed.

Everything was completely normal and routine, just how she liked it.

“Hey, I heard it’s your birthday today!” Harry, her friendly co-worker, grinned from ear to ear. He held up the line in the middle of the cafeteria. Harry was a colleague on her floor and did his best to make everyone feel welcomed. He was like sunshine, always warm and positive.

He’d been advocating for employees rights like extra time off, adequate wages and even staying the extra hour to help pick up slack wherever was needed. Overall, he was an extremely supportive worker and charming too.

The whole team loved him. Well, everyone except her, especially right now. Something about his charm just didn’t make sense to her. He was so positive and happy, all the time.

“Oh, thanks Harry.” She forced a smile, eyeing the line behind him.

“Oh, sorry.” He muttered to their other colleagues behind him, quickly pulling out his wallet to pay and grabbing his yogurt cup.

When Harry walked past her table, she figured she was safe. Turns out, he was grabbing a spoon and decided to sit next to the birthday girl, giving her all the unwanted attention.

“So, any birthday plans? Wait, how old do you turn today?” Harry asked cheerfully, genuinely curious.

“Uhm, I don’t really celebrate.” She shrugged, “I’m 28 now, well… I guess technically at 9:47pm.”

“You don’t celebrate?” Harry put his hand over his heart as if she said something offensive. “That’s a shame,” he said quietly, thinking for a moment. “Why don’t you celebrate? It’s your one day of the year.”

“Oh, no reason really. I just don’t really like the attention,” she took another bite of her sandwich. The silence fell between them, awkward as Harry began to eat beside her. The smell of his strawberries and granola filled the air.

“Attention is the best part,” he smirked. “What are y’going to do then?” He asked while he ate scoops of his vanilla yogurt.

“Oh, probably just… sit at home? Watch a movie?”

“Darling, that’s no way to celebrate your birthday.” He argued, shaking his head. “Let’s go out tonight,” he declared without any room for much discussion.

“Oh, I don’t think —,” she started, shaking her head.

“It’s no big deal, I want to. Besides, it’s Friday night and you deserve to go dancing.”

“Dancing? Like… at a club?” She swallowed, eyes wide.

“Yeah, that’s usually where dancing takes place,” he said in a matter-of- fact way. “I’ll send you the details,” he promised, standing abruptly. He hurriedly grabbed his half eaten yogurt. “Don’t you dare flake on me!” He half-yelled across the cafe.

The day went by fast and soon, the sun was setting on the horizon. Back at her shoebox flat, she stood in front of her mirror, tops scattered around her hardwood floor and her duvet. “Shit, I don’t have anything to wear,” she cursed to herself. Holding up an old mini black dress that wasn’t even hers and fit a bit odd, it was her only appropriate option. “Fuck it,” she accepted the defeat and shredded her clothes. “It’s just Harry,” she kept reminding herself.

Harry was the type of person that made everyone feel comfortable. Surely, he was only offering to take her dancing out of pity. While at work, she stuck to herself, answered questions when asked and never caused a scene. Harry was so outgoing and chatty, she recalled when their boss asked Harry to “rein it in,” while going off on a tangent during a company wide board meeting. He could carry the conversation, which was somewhat in her favor. She at least knew the night wouldn’t be boring with him around.

Just as she finished her hair and fixed up her lip combo, her phone dinged with a familiar text tone. Not once but twice.

Harry Styles

— Send me your address, we’ll go together.

— Don’t tell me you fell asleep.

“That would’ve been the easiest way out, hm?” She said to herself, glancing in the mirror before sending her address and a quick text back.

— I’m 28, not a grandma. Buzz 1B when you get here.

After about twenty minutes of contemplating on canceling, she heard the familiar alert of her door. She grabbed her small purse, shut the lights off and walked down the hall to meet Harry. Her heels clicked against the tile as she saw Harry’s tall figure standing outside. She watched as his eyes lit up the second he saw her. As she opened the door, Harry immediately went to her side.

“Fuck sakes, look at you,” Harry grinned. His green eyes scanned the length of her body under the blue night sky, seemingly mesmerized for a few seconds. “Sorry,” Harry corrected himself sheepishly. “You look great!” Harry’s smirk spread wide, making his dimples more pronounced. He held out his palm, offering his hand to her.

“You look… good too,” she complimented quickly in return.

God. Was it obvious how hot her skin was under his gaze?

She could’ve swore he was walking a bit slower to staring at her while they began to walk. She wasn’t used to male attention but despite what she thought, she definitely didn’t mind it from him. He made her feel sexy which felt good.

“Oh, don’t make my ego too big.” Harry smirked, tugging her hand gently as he led her down the busy street towards the station. “It’s not too far, just up on Camden High. Have y’ever heard of it? It’s called KOKO. One of my mates took me a few weeks back.”

“KOKO?” She pretends to retrieve some thoughts. “I don’t think so,” she bit her lip, suddenly feeling a bit out of place, there’s no way she’d know a central London club since she never left her flat for anything other than work and the shops.

And here she was on her birthday with her colleague, holding hands and going clubbing in a dress that barely fit her… but what could possibly go wrong?

“You’ll love it, promise. If it’s shit to you, we can go somewhere else.” Harry promised as they waited for the tube. On the cart, Harry stood directly in front of her as she sat down. She couldn’t help but wonder if his protective nature was just ingrained in him or if it was because of her. Throughout the ride, they made small talk about work and how annoying their boss was about minuscule tasks. Before she knew it, her hand was securely in Harry’s again, pulling her to her feet.

“This is us, love.” His hand moved to the small of her back, guiding her out of the busy London underground back to the pavement. “This way,” he said confidently as he walked. “You got your ID on you?”

“Of course,” she smiled as they arrived at a big, black mystery building with a growing queue. Partygoers stood outside, waiting for their ID to get checked and cover to be paid. When it was their turn, Harry swiftly paid for them both, whispering, “my treat,” before showing their ID’s to the bouncer.

The moment she walked through the double doors, the whole energy shifted. It was quiet but she could feel the bass rising from the floor through her body. Harry guided her with a strong grip on her hand. He pulled her through a pair of big black curtains and she was immediately met with a crowd of laid back individuals waiting for their drinks. As music danced around them, she was mesmerized.

“Want a drink before we head in?” Harry asked, pointing to the bar without releasing her hand.

“Uh,” she thought for a few seconds. A shot would definitely help loosen her up but she wasn’t sure where the night would take them. “Let’s skip it for now,” she half yelled over the loud noise that filled the room.

Harry continued to pull her along, guiding her through a busy hallway until they upped the stairs. “Just up here,” she heard him say as they passed by a group of intoxicated girls. As they climbed, a few men nodded at Harry as they rounded the corner. A large dance floor that stretched across the building came into view. The music was loud, bodies everywhere and the air was filled with a sweet, earthy scent that couldn’t be mistaken for anything but marjiuana.

Without much warning, Harry led her straight into the middle of the dance floor. The dim lights and shadows mixed with the lure of surrounding bodies made her feel so alive. She’d never been in the middle of the dance floor, surrounded by so many strangers.

Harry kept her close, digging in his bag for two pairs of sunglasses. He leaned close to her, almost enough to touch lips. “Put these on, will help with the lights.” He pointed to the lasers and strobe lights beaming off the ceiling through the club scene. She felt a bit awkward as she put the generic black glasses over her face but she realized many people were wearing them as well. She could see Harry faintly grin as he started to move with the music. She stood still, watching him for a few seconds — absorbing the moment — analyzing his carefree nature.

“Dance!” Harry half yelled, grabbing her hands to suspend them in the air. “Just feel the music,” he pressed his body closer as she began to move to the techno music, her body was a bit awkward.

“This is crazy,” she tried to yell over the bass, feeling it a bit more. The energy radiated off them, Harry leaned close and whispered. “Yeah, there you go.” Their bodies began to mesh together, her dancing still semi-awkward but more cohesive with the large crowd. “Can I?” Harry’s hands hovered over her hips, cautiously waiting for her approval.

Without much thought, she brought her hands over his. A small smirk fell to her lips as she felt him gently applying pressure. Both their bodies began to flow together as the music changed to something more sensual but still upbeat.

“You’re doing great,” Harry whispered into her ear, his facial hair tickling her skin. “You look great,” she heard him say more firmly as she wrapped her arms around his broad shoulders, half to be close and half out of practicality.

“This is my first time,” she explained, gesturing to the dance floor. “Being somewhere like this.”

“Consider your cherry popped then,” Harry replied cheekily, resting his head near her shoulder, breathing in her fruity scent. “Just let the vibe take you, whatever happens…. Just let it happen, if it feels good,” his hands slowly guided her to turn so, she could lean back against him. His fingers stayed glued to her hips.

The two of them together danced and got lost in the beat for a few songs. Harry leaned down and whispered against her ear, his stubble tickling against her skin once again.

“Happy birthday, angel.” His voice was slightly sweeter and an octane deeper than usual. She felt her cheeks heat up fast as they swayed together like they were the only two in the room. “Having fun?”

“So much, thank you for… this,” her lips brushing his ear as she spoke. “I never would’ve gone out if it wasn’t for you,” she said genuinely to which she earned a big grin and a gentle squeeze from his palms.

When the music changed again, Harry didn’t let her go. They danced through a few songs before Harry guided her to the bar downstairs. Slightly out of breath, sweaty, flushed and desperately needing a drink — Harry kept her close. “Would you like a drink? I think I might get something non-alcoholic.”

“Surprise me,” she smirked.

“Oh. My pleasure, birthday girl. What do you like?” She noticed how his gaze dropped to her lips for a second.

“Something… sweet, maybe with a little spicy kick to it but I’ll do non alcoholic too.”

She stepped to the side as Harry ordered and paid for them both. He returned with their drinks in hand. She carefully took hers, tasting it instantly desperate to quench her thirst.

“Mmm,” she moaned, nodding in approval.

“Good?”

“Good. Really good.”

“Want to head back to the dance floor?” Harry asked. With a quick nod, Harry led them back towards the floor but kept them on the edge near the entrance. It was easier for them to conversate but they still had to lean in pretty close to understand each other. Harry stepped in front of her, forcing her attention towards him.

“Any birthday wishes for 28?” He asked, his voice sounded like honey as he sipped on his drink.

“Maybe… start actually doing more? I don’t know,” she shrugged. “Been a bit more closed off lately and tonight has shown me so much.”

“That’s the hard part, isn’t it? Living when you’ve just been surviving.” Harry said close to her ear.

“You deserve to be celebrated everyday, not just today.” Harry exclaimed, putting his free hand in the small of her back. “I’m really glad you came out tonight.”

“I’m glad too.”

Harry’s eyes fell to her lips again as he licked his own. “Any other big dreams for your 28th?” She mimicked his gaze.

Fuck, how bad would it be to makeout with my colleague?

“Maybe… Not wanting this night to end,” she tugged at her bottom lip with her teeth, desperately needing to stop herself from kissing him.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Harry smirked. His hand pressed more into her back, closing the distance.

His hand left her side, cupping the swell of her cheek. “I know we probably shouldn’t—,” He started but their conversation was interrupted as the crowd roared behind them.

Harry laughed and looked towards the sea of strangers before his eyes landed back on her. He did a simple head shake and smirked, “let’s get back in there, can't have you miss any of the fun.” Harry held her hand snug as he led her back near the middle of the dance floor.

In the middle of the strobe lights and groups of sweaty strangers, Harry tugged her close and grinded his pelvic area against her own. The atmosphere was hot, dirty and intimately theirs.

“Fuck, I’m really trying to be good, angel.” He whispered.

“Yeah?” She whispered back, a surge of confidence and sexual tension flowing through her. “Wonder if I want you a little naughty?” She asked in his ear, letting her lips slowly press against the curve of his neck. Through the bass, countless of stranger and uptempo music — she could hear his whimper.

“Is that a birthday wish?” Harry pulled back a little, his grasp on her waist turning a bit more possessive. “Because I’ll gladly give you whatever you want, love.”

“Whatever I want?” She dared to ask, thinking of a few things she’d love for him to do to her. Most of them invoked him on his knees, a sight she wished to see. “Walk me back to mines?” She suggested, already dragging him out of the crowd of people.

Sex was usual out of love than lust for her but Harry’s words of, “let loose,” and “you’re in your twenties, this is the time to have fun,” clouded her mind. Plus, Harry’s face card and muscular body was the perfect way to end the night. She wasn’t shy to talk about sex with friends but asking for it? Well, that felt greedy and selfish. She wasn’t the type to do hook ups but again, it was her birthday and through her twenty eight years — she’s never had birthday sex.

While they rode the tube back, she finally told him her last birthday wish.

“Okay, don’t laugh. Can I say something?”

“‘Course love, this is a safe space. Tell me anything,” harry promised, rubbing the back of her hand.

“I have one more birthday wish.”

“Okay, let’s hear it.”

“I’ve never… “ she started, Harry’s eyes went wide for a second.

“Oh, love. Don’t tell me you never had cake today.”

“No, no,” she laughed, a blush filling her cheeks. “Not that.” She let out a sigh, closing her eyes before cupping her hand, telling Harry to lean in a bit closer to whisper. “I’ve never had birthday sex and I’m not saying it has to be you but I felt like there was a little vibe between us but if you’re uncomfortable then it’s okay —,” she started to ramble with her eyes closed, not able to look at Harry. “And if you go to HR, can you please not tell them that I ask—,” he finally cut her off, his hand resting against her skin as he stole a quick kiss from her lips.

“Sorry, usually I’d ask first but you wouldn’t stop rambling.” He mumbled against her delicate lips that formed a smile under his own. “I’d love to fulfill that wish for you and for fucks sakes,” he paused. “I was hoping you would ask. Now, can I kiss you properly?”

Starstuck, she smiled wide and barely nodded her head before his pink, plush lips were on hers again. The kiss was soft and gentle as if she was the most delicate woman waiting to fall apart. When the intercom announced her stop, reality began to creep in. Harry led her off the cart and back up to the pavement towards hers.

“This isn’t… weird, right?”

“Not if you don’t make it weird,” Harry shrugged, nonchalantly. “Listen, we’re both consenting adults that are coherent and equally enthusiastic… Why shouldn’t we end your birthday on a good note?” Harry explained as they turned the corner. “It can be whatever you want it to be, it’s your wish but know that I’m happily willing to grant it.”

She nearly fumbled her keys as they arrived back at her flat, Harry couldn’t keep his hands off of her. He held her waist, his taller slender figure over hers.

“This is my humble abode,” she announced as she opened the front door. “Make yourself at home.” She was glad she tied up her space the day before.

“It’s cute but I’m not here to judge your furniture,” Harry told her firmly but not unkind. He slowly started to shrug off his jacket, closing the space between them. “I’ve been thinking about you all night.”

“Would you like some water?” She blurted out as soon as she could feel the temperature of his body near hers. “I have tap or spark—,” she offered

“I’m quite fine,” he mumbled as he leaned down and kissed her shoulder blade.

“Okay, if you change your mind —,” she started but Harry spoke up again.

“It’s okay to be nervous, I’m nervous too.” Harry took a small step back, “do you want to have sex? Because I don’t want to do anything y’ aren’t comfortable with,” He said.

“No,” she sighed, “I mean, yes. I do want to have sex with you. I’m just nervous and worried that it will be weird when we go back to the office…”

There, the elephant was finally out, she thought.

“I promise not to make it weird. Whatever happens here,” he gestures to this space. “Stays here unless y’ tell me otherwise. Again, we two consenting adults who..”

“Who want to have fun and hook up,” she finished the sentence for him.

“Correct.” Harry smirked, closing the gap between them. He took a small peak at his wrist watch on his forearm. “We have a tight schedule to make if you wanna cum before midnight.” Harry joked, cheekily.

Her face reddened but she reached up and kissed his lips without hesitation. She was tired of waiting, acting all shy when all she felt was greed and lust for Harry.

“Want to make you feel s’good,” Harry muttered against her lips. Her brain began to fog up with all the ways he could make her cum, desperately needing a release.

“Please, Harry.” She begged, skimming the clothed muscles along his back to the bottom hem of his shirt. “I want your month,” she blurted out, overcome with desire.

“Yeah? Pretty girl wants my mouth, hm?” Harry asked, looking past her shoulder. He nodded his head in the direction of her bed. “Let’s go mess up those sheets.” Harry led her over, his mouth on her neck as they stumbled to her bedroom. “Bet y’taste so fucking good, so sweet.” She gasped softly when Harry picked her up by her thighs suddenly and sat her on the edge of her mattress. His fingers went to his shirt, letting it fall to the floor.

“Fuck, you’re so hot,” she whispered more to herself. Apparently sunshine worked out and had loads of tattoos.

“Thank you baby but you’re fucking stunning.”

She couldn’t help but feel a surge of confidence run through her, eagerly needing his touch. The both of them fumbled with the zipper of her dress, working it down her back and off her shoulders. She was glad she wore a cute matching set in her favorite color, which Harry seemed pleased about too.

“Bloody hell,” he eased to his knees, “lift your hips, angel.” He worked her out of her dress, easily forgotten as his green eyes fell to her flushed skin. “What a treat f’me, darling. Look at you,” Harry smirked, “Can I taste you, baby?”

“Please, Harry.”

Harry was far from timid while he leaned in and took a sniff of her barely clothed, decorated in lace vulva. “Fucking hell, you smell like a dream baby.” His tongue flattened against the lace, tasting the fabric and the arousal that seeped through. Harry whimpered out, closing his eyes in pleasure as he tasted her. His hands held her thighs apart, offering a soothing firm touch to keep her from closing her thighs.

“Fuck,” she cursed and let out a soft moan, as Harry nudged his pointed nose against her.

“Need these off,” before she knew it, the delicate lace was ripped away from her skin and utterly ruined. “Sorry, I’ll buy you new ones.” He promised sweetly, wasting no time to ease his head between her thighs again.

Harry’s tattoo arms rested against her thighs, holding them open. She tried to study the delicate ink etched into his skin, partly curious and partially to soothe her nerves but the moment his tongue was on her, she couldn’t focus on anything else but pleasure.

“Ooh,” she moaned out. Her hand clasped around her mouth.

Harry was easily better than any man she'd ever been with. His tongue was so skilled with the right amount of pressure and attention to her clit, she figured she orgasm multiple times way before midnight ended. His eyes found hers as he began to suck down on her clit, his moans sending an extra vibration through her. Her hand went to his thick, disheveled hair tugging it for leverage as she grinded her hips on his handsome face.

“Fuck, need to hear you, please.” He begged, his voice turning into a whiny plea. “Please, baby please.”

“Oh, Harry.” She cried out, squeezing her thighs uncontrollably around him. Her body started to heat as the small bubble of warmth formed deep in her abdomen. “Feels so good,” she panted.

“Fuck angel, you’re dripping f’’me. Feed me s’good. Never gonna get enough,” he muttered against her, a little distorted as he continued to suck and lick at her. His fingers gripped her thighs, spreading them open.

Just as she started to squirm, her skin tingled with warmth from the pleasure soaring through her. “Need more, baby, please.” She whined, aching for deep penetration.

“Need more? Yeah?” He pulled back to ask, his face glistening as he accommodated her. “I’ll give you anything baby, what do you want hm? I’ll give you whatever you want, whatever you need.” Harry pleaded, at her mercy. “Just tell me, baby.”

She wanted to fuck him, oh she wanted to fuck him so bad but Harry must’ve saw the hint of hesitation laced on her face.

“Want my fingers baby? Can I feel how soft you are please? I really wanna feel you squeeze my fingers baby, bet you are s’soft and warm.”

“Oh, God, yes.” She begged, happy he read her mind. “Please, Harry. I want your fingers.” Nothing was sexier than his dirty talk and the sounds of his pleas. Looking down at him on his knees desperately doing anything he could to satisfy her.

“Anything for you,” Harry adjusted his position, sitting up on his knees more, straightening his back. The look of his wet face, dimpled smile that showed his perfect bunny teeth was truly a sight. “Nice and wide for me, doll.”

Harry took his pointer and middle finger carefully down her vulva, collecting the arousal that pooled out of her. His slender fingers worked at the sides of her vulva with a gentle touch as he toyed around her entrance. “Such a pretty pussy,” he complimented. “Are you sure you want this?” Harry asked, hesitating right on the rim of her entrance.

“Yes, please.”

Harry slowly pressed his finger inside her, palm side up. He moaned out loudly as if he was gaining pleasure from the moment himself. “Fucking hell,” he cursed as he watched her reaction.

A soft gasp echoed through the space simultaneously a wet sound from her vagina walls clenching around his finger. Harry bit his lip and shook his head with a smirk. “Oh, I’m gonna love playing with this pussy, my pretty pussy.” His mouth was filthy and she couldn’t even dwell on the fact that he added possession because Harry eased a second finger into her the moment the words fell from his mouth.

“Oh, fuck Harry.” She moaned out, gripping the back of his neck. The sounds coming from her vagina were unlike anything she’d ever heard as he continued to move his fingers. This had to be the most turned on she ever had been. The second Harry curled his fingers against her inner wall, she nearly fell apart, gripping his wrist.

“Oh! Fuck, right there, please.”

“Listen to yourself baby, so fucking perfect. You sound like a perfect angel,” he continued. “Right there, hm? You like my fingers right there?” Harry did a small tapping motion earning a loud, long moan from her.

Harry’s eyes lit up as he watched her face, he was deep in concentration, wanting her to have the most pleasure ever. He whined when he heard her moan again, gripping his hand tightly.

“Harry, Harry,” she urged, “I’m gonna cum,” he pumped his fingers harder, leaning down and attaching his mouth to her wet clit. His pink lips wrapped around her sensitive skin to bring her right over the edge.

“Cum for me, come on. I need it, baby. I need it so bad,” Harry begged, whining as if she was a piece of candy he desperately craved.

As soon as she tightened around his fingers, Harry pushed up inside her and applied all that good kind of pressure that drove her absolutely insane.

“Harry!” She cried out, gripping into his skin. Her mind faded as the orgasm washed over her in completely utter fervor. The air was thick and ripped from her lungs as she fully surrendered to the pleasure he brought her.

“Fuck,” she cursed on the way down, hot and sticky. Harry grinned, proud of himself.

“That was beautiful to see.” He kissed the top of her thigh as he eased his fingers away from her. He brought them immediately up his lips, sucking on the sweet, earthy taste of her arousal. “Mm, can’t get enough.” He said low, shaking his head.

Still a bit dazed, she laid back on her duvet, complete silence filled the air as Harry stood from his knees. She felt the weight of the bed dip as he sat down next to her. “You alright?” He asked.

“Yeah,” she smiled, looking over at him. “Sorry that was just so… good, great actually.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he chuckled. “I’d gladly do it for you one hundred times over.”

When she sat her, still bare from the waist down. She noticed Harry’s large wet spot on his pants. His eye sight followed her own.

“Oh, yeah…” he said softly, a bit embarrassed. “That sorta happened while I was.. uhm,” he didn’t know how to explain that he came in his pants like an inexperienced man. “I jus’ got loads of pleasure watching you and —,” she interrupted him.

“It’s okay, I’m.. flattered.”

He chuckled, “you should be but really, I wanted tonight to be about you. You’re the birthday girl,” he stood to his feet. “Loo? I want to help you clean up.”

“Oh, you’d… you’d do that?” She asked, pleasantly surprised.

“Of course.”

She stood and grabbed some spare clothes from her closet before leading him to the bathroom. Harry stopped at the doorframe, hesitating.

“D-Do you want company? I personally don’t mind,” he muttered quickly.

“Uh, is it… weird?”

“No, it’s not. Plus, I really don’t mind, if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind,” she said quickly.

“Okay,” he smiled and walked through the doorway and shut the door behind him.

“Uhm,” he turned around towards the door to give her a bit of privacy as she used the bathroom and stripped the rest of her clothes. While Harry stood in the corner, he shredded his own ruined jeans and boxer briefs in one go. He turned back around slowly, not embarrassed or ashamed but just vulnerable.

“I can start the shower if you show me,” he said, wanting to make himself useful.

“I got it,” she smiled, turning the dial to warm. Harry washed his hands and peeked through the mirror as she climbed into the stand-in shower. Seconds later, he joined her, closing the curtain behind him. He swallowed hard as she checked out his body with a quick glance.

“Hope you’re not… disappointed,” he whispered into the humid air.

“What, no? You’re beautiful, you look incredible like so incredibly hot.”

“Oh,” he nervously chuckled. “I uh, I was talking about us not having like.. full sex. Since I know you said you wanted birthday sex.” He explained as he put his hands under the water stream.

“Oh, no. That… what we did was fine. I mean, it was amazing. I am… extremely happy with that.” She explained a bit awkwardly.

“Good,” he smiled, stepping a little closer. “I’m extremely happy too. Can I wash your body?” He asked, his green eyes shining into hers.

“O-Oh, of course.” She handed him her loofa with some fruity scented soap on it. Tucking her lips into her mouth as he was very gentle with her, cleaning her body with care. He crouched down to get her legs, letting the water hit the tile fill the space with a relaxing sound. After a few seconds he spoke up again.

“Y’ know, I wouldn’t be against doing this again,” Harry suggested.

“Celebrating my birthday with me?” She smiled as he rose to his feet.

“Yeah, that and maybe… actual sex next time.”

“Oh, yeah… I think we could work that out,” she grinned. “Are you free like… tomorrow?”

Harry chuckled, shaking his head. “Greedy, are we?”

“Well, I would say eager.”

“Are we talking tomorrow, Sunday or tomorrow like today?”

It was well past midnight now.

“Hm… what about like Saturday and Sunday?”

“Oh,” he smirked. “Think that could be arranged.”

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And the worst part? You don’t even blame him.

Because the few times you’ve dared to look—just a peek—you were just as wrecked as he claimed. Eyes glassy, mouth parted, body trembling under his touch. A perfect mess. His.

So when you catch him again, he doesn’t look guilty. Not even a little.

“Can’t help it, angel.” His voice is rough, thick with something dark. “You look so fucking good coming apart for me.”

Heat licks up your spine, your thighs pressing together on instinct. But he notices. Of course he notices.

He cocks his head, dragging his gaze over you, slow and heavy. Then, as if deciding something, he stands and holds out his hand. “Come on.”

You blink. “What?”

“We’re going out.”

He doesn’t give you a choice.

--

The electronics store is bright, all sleek displays and humming screens. It smells faintly of new plastic, and if you weren’t so hyper-aware of the man next to you—the way his hand rests low on your back, the way his thumb strokes slow circles against your hip—you might have actually paid attention to the endless rows of cameras.

But Harry is focused.

Not just on you—though you can feel the weight of his gaze every time you shift—but on the equipment. He moves with purpose, eyes scanning through specs, occasionally nodding like he’s mentally checking things off a list you aren’t privy to.

You watch as he picks up a high-end camera, testing the weight in his palm.

“This one?” you ask.

“Maybe,” he murmurs, tilting it slightly, examining the lens. “Good quality, but not enough angles.”

The words shouldn’t make your stomach flip.

You know what he’s planning. Know this isn’t just about upgrading. It’s about more. More angles, more footage, more ways to capture exactly how wrecked he can make you.

Your breath catches as he moves onto something else—a small, discreet device.

“Is that—”

“A hidden camera?” He smirks. “Yeah. Could put it anywhere. Get a nice little collection going.”

You swallow hard.

He keeps going. A high-sensitivity microphone. A ring light. A sleek little tripod. He handles them with the kind of ease that makes your knees weak, like he’s already imagining exactly where he’ll set them up.

The sales clerk approaches then, offering a polite, professional smile.

“Can I help you with anything?”

You barely hear the question before Harry shifts behind you, his body pressing up against yours, his lips grazing your ear. His voice is low, for you and only you.

“Could fuck you right here.”

Your entire body goes rigid.

“Harry—”

“Bend you over the counter,” he continues, voice thick with amusement. His fingers ghost up your thigh, barely there, but your skin burns all the same. “Let the security cameras catch everything.”

Your breath stutters, a choked gasp slipping out before you can stop it.

The sales clerk clears his throat. “Uh… I can walk you through some of the settings if you’d like?”

You try to nod, try to play it off, but Harry doesn’t move. He stays pressed against you as the clerk launches into a dry explanation, and it takes everything in you to stand still. To keep your composure while Harry’s fingers tease the hem of your skirt, inching higher, higher—

You nearly jump when the touch disappears.

“Thanks, mate,” Harry says smoothly, stepping back like nothing just happened. “We’ll take all of these.”

Your head spins.

All of them.

Three cameras, a microphone, a ring light. Enough to film you in every angle he wants, from every perspective, with every sound recorded crystal clear.

You don’t even realize you’re shaking until Harry’s fingers brush over your wrist, grounding you.

“One more stop, angel.” His voice is warm, teasing.

Your stomach twists.

You already know where he’s taking you.

--

The sex shop is discreet, tucked between two high-end boutiques. The windows are dark, the sign subtle, but the moment you step inside, you feel the shift—the heavy hush, the intimate displays, the slow thrum of something low and pulsing over the speakers.

Harry walks in like he’s been here before. Like he owns the place.

And in a way, he does.

You can feel it in the way he moves, the way his fingers trail along the shelves, occasionally plucking something up, rolling it between his fingers, considering. You barely have time to register what he’s holding before he makes a quiet noise of approval and adds it to the growing collection in his arms.

Nipple clamps. A flogger. Silk restraints. A plug set.

Your face burns as he turns to you, offering one of the smaller plugs in his palm.

“Go to the bathroom.”

You freeze.

His eyes don’t waver.

“Put them in.” His voice is calm, steady. “Now.”

You hesitate for half a second—just long enough to see the flicker of warning cross his features.

And then you obey.

The moment the door shuts behind you, your hands shake as you follow his command. The plug is smooth, easy, but it’s the panties that make you squirm—just the thought of them in public, the knowledge that Harry could turn them on at any moment.

When you return, he’s waiting.

He doesn’t say anything at first, just watches. Then, after a long pause—long enough for you to start fidgeting under his stare—he steps closer, brushing his lips over your temple.

“Good girl.”

The praise makes your knees nearly buckle.

He smirks. “Let’s go.”

--

The drive home is torture.

You should have known it would be.

Because the second Harry starts the car, his fingers flick something on his phone, and suddenly—

“Oh,” you gasp, your back arching slightly.

The vibrations are low, teasing, barely enough to do anything but make you ache.

Harry hums, casual. “You’re already soaked, aren’t you?”

Your cheeks burn, but you nod, breathless.

He turns the setting up. Just a little. Just enough to make you squirm.

Red light.

The car slows.

His hand drifts over your thigh.

“You can hold it, can’t you?”

You bite your lip, nodding again, your thighs pressing together.

Green light.

The vibrations ease slightly, but the pattern shifts, unpredictable.

It continues like this—slow torture, relentless teasing, each stoplight an opportunity for him to push you closer and closer to the edge.

By the time you pull into the garage, you’re shaking. Your fingers dig into the seat, your breathing uneven.

Harry watches, amused.

Then, just as he parks, he leans in, his voice silk-smooth against your ear.

“Come.”

Your breath stutters.

“Now,” he murmurs. “And don’t make a sound.”

The vibrations increase, sudden and sharp, and it takes everything in you not to cry out. Your entire body trembles as the orgasm washes over you, your fingers clutching the seat, your lips parted in a silent whimper.

Harry watches it all.

When it finally fades, your body slumping back against the leather, he exhales, slow and satisfied.

“That’s one, angel.”

His fingers trace your thigh, teasing.

“Hope you didn’t think we were done.”

His voice is warm, teasing, dripping with amusement, but there’s something darker beneath it. Something that makes your stomach tighten and your breath stutter. That look in his eyes—the one that tells you he’s not even close to satisfied.

Your skin is still buzzing, oversensitive from what he did to you in the car, but he doesn’t care.

He’s already moving.

He steps out, rounding the car without urgency, and when he opens your door, he doesn’t say a word—just waits. Expecting.

You step out on shaky legs.

The air outside is thick and warm, but the heat that lingers between your thighs is worse. You can still feel the echoes of pleasure from the first orgasm he ripped out of you, still feel the way your body clenched around nothing when he left you empty.

He knows it, too.

He watches you carefully, fingers ghosting over your hip as he leads you inside, through the dimly lit hallway, past the living room where you’ve already let him ruin you so many times before.

The moment the bedroom door shuts behind you, the shift is immediate.

Harry rolls his shoulders, tilting his head slightly, studying you.

Assessing.

Your pulse spikes.

The room is different.

You notice it instantly—the small but deliberate changes.

The cameras.

One on a tripod at the foot of the bed. Another placed carefully on the nightstand, positioned just right. The third—mounted directly above the mattress. Overhead shots.

Your stomach twists.

Then your eyes catch on the microphone.

It’s clipped beside the camera on the nightstand, small but powerful, capable of picking up every gasp, every moan, every tiny, desperate sound you make for him.

Your thighs squeeze together.

And on the sheets?

Silk.

Black silk ties, draped neatly across the mattress. Waiting.

Your breath catches.

He planned this.

Your skin prickles as you turn back toward him, but he’s already watching you, already smirking like he can hear the way your thoughts are racing.

His hand lifts, his fingers brushing along your jaw.

“Strip.”

One word.

No room for hesitation.

A slow, creeping shiver spreads down your spine, and your hands move before you can even think.

You reach for the hem of your dress, slipping it over your head in one slow motion. The fabric pools at your feet, leaving you bare—except for the lace panties he forced you into earlier and the plug still nestled between your cheeks.

Harry’s gaze darkens.

His tongue drags along his bottom lip, and he exhales slow, controlled, fingers flexing at his sides.

“On the bed.”

You shudder.

It’s not just a command—it’s a promise.

Your heart pounds as you move toward the mattress, sinking onto the soft sheets. The moment you do, Harry follows, climbing onto the bed with deliberate slowness, his toned body flexing as he hovers over you.

The silk restraints are still lying there. Waiting.

He picks one up, twirling it lazily between his fingers before tilting his head, green eyes locking onto yours.

“Let me tie you up, angel.”

It’s not a question.

It’s a test.

You swallow hard, feeling the last shred of control slipping away, and nod.

But he doesn’t move.

His smirk deepens.

“Say it.”

Your breath stutters. The words feel thick in your throat, but when they finally come, they’re barely more than a whisper.

“Tie me up, Harry.”

Something flickers in his eyes. A slow, satisfied smirk tugs at his lips, and then—

He moves.

Swift. Effortless. Expert.

He grabs your wrist, looping the silk around it, securing it to the headboard with a practiced ease that makes your stomach tighten. Then the other wrist—soft but firm, tight but not painful. You test the restraints. No give.

Your breathing is already uneven.

He shifts down, grabbing your ankle next.

You jerk instinctively, but it’s useless.

Harry likes you like this—helpless beneath him, vulnerable, completely at his mercy.

By the time he secures your other ankle, your body is already trembling. Spread wide. Exposed. Completely at his mercy.

You test the restraints again.

You can’t move.

The realization sends a sharp, dizzying pulse of heat straight between your legs.

Harry notices.

He always does.

He hums, pleased, dragging his knuckles along your inner thigh. His touch is featherlight, teasing, barely even there.

And then—

He reaches into his pocket.

Your breath hitches.

The remote.

Your stomach drops.

The plug.

He clicks it on.

The vibration is instant.

Low at first—deep, pulsing, sending sharp, concentrated pleasure straight through your core. Right where you need it most.

A helpless whimper rips from your throat. Your hips jerk automatically, body arching against the restraints, but there’s nowhere to go, no way to escape the relentless stimulation.

Harry watches every second of it.

The way your thighs tremble, the way your lips part in desperate little gasps, the way your stomach tightens.

And then—

He turns on the camera.

You freeze.

The red light blinks.

Recording.

Your stomach clenches, heat flooding your skin, because this moment—your wrists tied, your legs spread, your body already writhing from the toy still pulsing inside you—is being captured.

For him.

Forever.

Harry tilts his head, smirking.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, dragging his fingertips along your trembling thigh. His voice is low, smooth, hypnotic. “So fucking pretty like this.”

You let out a broken whimper.

His hand slides higher, teasing along the waistband of your panties. Not touching you where you need it most.

Not yet.

He licks his lips, watching you squirm.

“Think you can come like this, angel?”

Your chest rises and falls rapidly. You don’t answer. You can’t.

But Harry doesn’t need one.

He just turns up the vibration.

And watches.

The vibrations deepened.

Your breath hitched—sharp, desperate, a ragged little sound that barely even made it past your lips. The plug was already relentless, pulsing deep inside you, the sensation twisting tight in your stomach, coiling lower with each slow, calculated increase of the setting.

You were already trembling. Already aching. Already so close.

And Harry hadn’t even touched you yet.

He watched you squirm, wrists and ankles straining against the silk restraints, body arching involuntarily.

Completely at his mercy.

Completely his.

“Fuck,” he exhaled, his voice slow, measured, but dripping with hunger. His knuckles skimmed along your inner thigh, grazing just close enough to where you needed him—but never quite there. Just teasing. Just watching.

And the camera?

Still rolling.

Still capturing every little gasp, every tremor, every desperate little attempt to chase the pleasure he was holding just out of reach.

The red light blinked.

Recording.

His smirk deepened.

“Such a pretty mess, angel.” His voice was low, approving, hypnotic.

You whimpered, hips twitching, but the restraints left you helpless—spread wide, open, exposed, your body reacting instinctively to the overstimulation.

But Harry?

Harry was calm.

Patient.

He sat back, admiring his work—admiring you—as if he had all the time in the world.

And then, finally—finally—

His fingers traced over your panties.

A sharp gasp tore from your lips, your entire body jolting at the sudden touch. Even through the soaked lace, the warmth of his fingertips sent electricity crackling through your veins.

Harry hummed, pleased.

“Fuck, you’re soaked.” His fingers pressed lightly, rubbing slow, teasing circles over the fabric. “Been like this all day, haven’t you?”

You nodded frantically, swallowing back a sob. “Y-Yes.”

He chuckled, dark and satisfied, rubbing just a little harder.

“Good girl.”

Your thighs quivered, muscles tensing, your wrists tugging at the restraints again. Every little movement sent shockwaves of pleasure ricocheting through your body.

And then—

He ripped your panties.

A sharp tear, the lace splitting effortlessly beneath his fingers. The fabric vanished in an instant, and suddenly, there was nothing between you and him.

Nothing stopping him from touching you—truly touching you.

And he did.

Slow. Gentle at first. Just his fingertips, gliding over your drenched folds, exploring.

Spreading you open.

His thumb circled your clit, barely any pressure at all—but after everything? After the teasing, the buildup, the vibrations inside you?

It was too much.

A strangled, helpless sob ripped from your throat, your back arching clean off the mattress.

Harry’s breath caught.

He groaned—actually groaned—watching you break for him.

“Fuck. That sensitive, angel?” His tone was teasing, but there was something else there. Something hungry.

He dragged his fingers through your slick, slow, deliberate.

“Bet you could come just from this.” His voice was silk and sin, completely entranced by the way your body shuddered, twitched, begged.

Your head jerked frantically, desperate, pleading, already teetering on the edge.

“P-Please—”

But before you could even finish the sentence—

He slid two fingers inside you.

Your vision blurred.

The stretch—the depth—the angle—all of it was perfect.

The moment he curled his fingers, you screamed.

The sound punched out of your lungs, raw and wrecked, as he pressed against that perfect, devastating spot.

Harry cursed under his breath, watching every second of it.

The way your body clenched around his fingers, the way you writhed against the restraints, the way your chest heaved, nipples peaked and sensitive beneath the cool air—

Every. Little. Detail.

Captured.

The red light blinking.

Recording.

He moved faster, fingers stroking deep, precise, thumb circling your clit in tight, merciless patterns.

“Come for me,” he growled.

It wasn’t a request.

It was a command.

And you had no choice.

The pleasure slammed into you like a tidal wave, tearing through every nerve ending in your body. You came with a sob, a scream, a desperate, shattered cry, your body convulsing, legs shaking, clenching so hard around his fingers it was almost unbearable.

But he didn’t stop.

He kept fucking you through it, fingers relentless, dragging out every last tremor, milking every last drop of pleasure until you were shaking, sobbing, gasping for air.

And only then—

Only then—

Did he finally slow.

Your chest rose and fell rapidly, your wrists trembling against the silk. Your whole body felt like static—shattered, floating, buzzing.

And Harry?

Harry was grinning.

He kissed your knee, slow and lazy, as he finally pulled his fingers out of you.

“Such a good girl.”

Your lashes fluttered, vision still hazy, but you could barely even register his words. Your body was spent, ruined, completely undone.

But Harry wasn’t finished.

Because then—

He licked his fingers.

Your stomach plummeted.

He hummed low in his throat, savoring, before grinning.

And then—

He reached for the camera.

Still rolling.

Still capturing everything.

And he smirked.

“Hope you didn’t think we were done.”

Your pulse was still pounding in your ears.

Your body was wrecked, trembling, every nerve ending overstimulated and raw from the orgasm that had just torn through you.

And yet—

Harry still wasn’t done.

He loomed over you, tall, broad, completely in control, the red recording light casting a soft glow over the sharp lines of his jaw. His eyes devoured you, taking in every little detail—

The way your chest heaved. The way your thighs still trembled against the sheets. The way your wrists flexed instinctively against the silk, as if you could stop him.

You couldn’t.

And you didn’t want to.

The bed dipped as he climbed over you, the heat of his bare skin searing against yours.

His cock—hard, leaking, thick and aching—dragged against your swollen folds, notching at your entrance, but not pushing in.

Not yet.

You whimpered, body arching instinctively, desperate for him, but he just chuckled—low, deep, indulgent.

“Mm. Look at you.” His voice was warm honey, slow and deliberate, each word sinking deep into your bones. “So pretty when you beg, angel.”

You bit your lip, hips shifting, trying to chase him.

He smirked.

And then—

The first inch.

You gasped, eyes flying open, head tilting back against the pillows.

He was thick, stretching you open so slowly that it almost burned.

But Harry didn’t give you time to adjust.

Didn’t give you time to think.

Because then—

Another inch.

And another.

Until he was halfway inside you, filling you, the intrusion both devastating and perfect.

Your nails dug into your palms, your body trying to take more—needing more.

And then, Harry reached for the camera.

Still recording.

He angled it down, making sure to capture the way your body was taking him, stretching around him.

His cock twitched.

And then, his voice—low, thick, wrecked:

“Fuck, angel. Look at this.”

You tried to, tried to open your eyes, tried to focus, but then—

He pushed all the way in.

The breath punched out of your lungs.

A sharp, desperate gasp—loud, needy, broken—tore from your throat as he bottomed out, pressing so deep you could feel him everywhere.

Your body clenched around him, still too sensitive, still feeling everything from before.

But Harry just groaned, deep and guttural, hips rolling in the slowest, most devastating grind.

Your toes curled, pleasure sparking white-hot under your skin.

You were still tied up. Still helpless. Still completely his.

And now, you were full.

So full you could barely breathe.

Harry pulled out—slow, deliberate—before thrusting back in just as slow, pushing you open all over again.

“Fuck,” he exhaled, watching you, watching the camera, watching everything.

Your body twitched, squirmed, begged.

He just smirked.

And then—

He set the pace.

Deep, slow strokes, hitting every spot just right, dragging against the oversensitive nerves he’d already ruined.

Your mouth fell open, pleasure crashing over you with every slow thrust.

Every inch of him pressing deep, stretching you so perfectly it hurt.

The camera blinked.

Recording.

Capturing the way your body was shuddering, the way your fists clenched the silk, the way your lips trembled around the moans he was pulling from you.

He leaned down, breath hot against your ear.

“Gonna give me another one, angel?” His voice was taunting, dripping with amusement. “Think you can come for me again?”

You shook your head wildly, chest heaving, eyes glazed over.

“I— I can’t—”

Harry just hummed, lips brushing your temple.

“Yes, you can.”

And then—

He fucked you deeper.

Your back arched instantly, wrists straining, a sob ripping through your throat.

The pleasure was blinding, white-hot, unbearable.

“Harry—”

His teeth scraped against your jaw, his voice gravel and smoke.

“Say it.”

Your breath hitched, nails digging into your palms, body trembling from the sheer force of it.

“Y-Yours,” you gasped.

His hips snapped harder, cock grinding against that devastating spot over and over—relentless, unforgiving.

“Again.”

A strangled sob.

“Yours—fuck—I’m yours.”

His groan was low, wrecked, dangerous.

“Good girl.”

And then—

His hand dropped to your clit.

Your vision blurred.

A sharp, overwhelming cry ripped from your chest, your body jerking violently, pleasure spiraling out of control.

You were gonna come. You were gonna fall apart for him again. You couldn’t stop it.

Harry knew it.

He wanted it.

He fucking needed it.

His fingers worked your clit in tight, ruthless circles, hips grinding deep, pushing you further, further, further—

And then he stopped.

Your body shuddered violently, the cruel absence of release ripping through you in an aching pulse. Your wrists strained against the restraints, fingers curling into fists as if grasping at the pleasure he had just stolen from you.

“No—Harry, please—” Your voice was wrecked, trembling, broken.

He only chuckled, slow and dark, as he withdrew from you completely, leaving you empty and throbbing.

“You were about to come, weren’t you?” he murmured, running a single finger up the slick seam of your cunt.

Your thighs twitched, trying to chase the friction, but the spreader bar kept you locked open, helpless. A desperate whimper crawled up your throat.

“Y-yes, I was—”

Harry tsked, tracing idle circles around your entrance, not giving you what you needed. “Shouldn’t have done that, angel. Didn’t I tell you? You come when I say.”

Tears of frustration burned behind your blindfold. “I c-can’t take anymore—”

A sharp slap landed between your legs, a quick sting against your soaked, sensitive cunt. You gasped, jerking at the impact.

“Oh, you can take more,” Harry said smoothly, rubbing the heated skin where he had just spanked you. “And you will.”

Your whole body quivered as he slid his fingers down, pressing them against the plug still nestled inside you. A strangled sound escaped your lips when he pushed it deeper, rocking it in place.

“Wanna stretch you out properly, baby,” he mused, voice thick with something dangerous. “But first—”

You heard the rustling of fabric, the creak of leather as he stood from the bed.

“Up.”

You barely had the strength to move, but you forced yourself to obey, arms shaking as you struggled against the restraints. The blindfold remained in place, leaving you vulnerable as you listened to him unbuckle something, the unmistakable sound of a belt sliding free from its loops.

Then—his hands were on you again, untying your wrists, removing the spreader bar. Your legs instantly trembled, weak from the overwhelming denial.

“Good girl,” Harry murmured, massaging the sore skin where the restraints had been. “Now, come with me.”

He grasped your chin, tilting your face up as he pulled the blindfold away. Your eyes blinked open, pupils blown wide as you took in the wicked smirk on his lips, the lust-darkened green of his gaze.

Before you could catch your breath, he scooped you into his arms. You barely had time to register the movement before he was carrying you out of the bedroom, past the cameras still recording every second.

The bathroom door swung open. Steam clung to the air as he stepped inside, turning the shower knob until hot water cascaded down, filling the room with a thick, humid heat.

Your back hit the cold tile a second later. You barely had time to react before he pressed his palm against your sternum, urging you down, down, down until your knees met the wet floor.

He grabbed the camera from the counter, flipping the screen toward him. The red recording light glowed as he aimed the lens at you, already kneeling and dripping with arousal.

“Open your mouth,” he ordered, his voice a slow drag of filth.

Your breath hitched.

You obeyed.

The second your lips parted, Harry’s smirk deepened. He took his time, letting the camera capture every little detail—the way your tongue flicked out, the way your breath came in short, desperate little pants, the way your lips glistened from the mix of your own arousal and the steam filling the room.

“Fuck, angel,” he murmured, palming his cock, stroking himself right in front of you. “You look so pretty like this.”

He tilted the camera slightly, making sure it caught the way you were already trembling, still wrecked from everything he’d put you through in the bedroom. He hadn’t even touched you yet, but your body was still in pieces, still aching, still on the brink.

He tapped the head of his cock against your bottom lip. “Go on. Take it.”

You leaned forward instantly, eager, desperate to please, desperate to have some part of him back inside you. Your tongue darted out, licking the swollen tip before wrapping your lips around it.

The deep groan he let out sent a shiver straight down your spine.

“Yeah, that’s it,” he praised, one hand still holding the camera, the other coming to the back of your head. “Messy, baby. I want to see spit dripping all over that pretty face.”

You hollowed your cheeks, sucking him in deeper, bobbing your head as your hands found purchase on his thighs. The hot water pounded against your skin, the steam thick, making the whole room feel like a fever dream.

The camera shifted in his grip, the angle catching the way your lips stretched wide around him, the way your throat fluttered as he pushed deeper.

“Shit—” He exhaled sharply, fingers tightening in your hair. “Keep going, angel. Take it all.”

You did. You let him guide you, let him control the pace, let him push further and further until the tip of his cock nudged against the back of your throat. You gagged around him, eyes watering, but you didn’t stop.

Harry groaned, low and wrecked. “Fuck, you’re so good for me.”

He pulled back, just enough to let you breathe, before pushing in again—this time rougher, faster, with more force. You moaned around him, the vibrations making his hips jerk forward. Spit dribbled down your chin, mixing with the hot water that streamed over your face, but you didn’t care.

“That’s it, baby. Get it all wet for me.”

He adjusted the camera again, angling it downward, capturing the way your lips were red and swollen, the way his cock disappeared between them over and over again. He licked his lips, voice dropping to something even darker.

“Gonna fuck your throat now, angel. You ready for that?”

You could barely nod, but you did, blinking up at him with big, watery eyes.

Harry growled.

“Good girl.”

Then he snapped his hips forward, holding your head in place as he started fucking your mouth.

The force made your throat tighten, made your gag reflex threaten to fight back, but you took it. His cock dragged against the back of your tongue, thick and heavy, every thrust sending you further into the haze of pleasure and submission.

Tears spilled down your cheeks. Drool dripped from the corners of your mouth. Your nails dug into his thighs as he used you, each thrust more relentless than the last.

“Fuck—look at you.” His voice was wrecked, barely holding on. “Gonna come down your throat, angel. Gonna fill you up nice and fucking full.”

You moaned, the sound muffled around him, but he understood.

“Yeah? You want that?”

You nodded desperately, tears spilling freely now.

Harry cursed, deep and rough, before pulling out just enough to let you breathe—then pushing in one last time, shoving himself as deep as you could take.

With a low, guttural groan, he came, hot and thick down your throat.

“Don’t swallow,” he panted, pulling back just enough to see the mess he’d left on your tongue. He angled the camera, zooming in on your wrecked, ruined expression.

“Show the camera, baby.”

You opened your mouth wider, letting him see everything—the cum pooling on your tongue, the spit clinging to your lips, the way you were completely, utterly wrecked for him.

Harry groaned. “Fuck.”

He smirked down at you, lowering the camera slightly, his thumb tracing the edge of your mouth.

“Now swallow.”

You did.

His gaze darkened even more.

“Good girl.”

The moment your lips closed around the last drop, Harry grabbed your chin, tilting your face up toward him. His thumb swiped over the corner of your mouth, catching the mix of spit and cum before pressing it back against your tongue.

“Still so fucking messy, angel,” he murmured, his voice rough, raw. “I should make you lick it off my fingers.”

Your tongue flicked out before he could even tell you to, taking his thumb into your mouth and sucking obediently. Harry groaned, his free hand fisting in your damp hair as he tilted the camera, capturing the way you looked up at him—wrecked, desperate, willing.

He pulled his thumb from your mouth with a pop, gripping your jaw tight before hauling you to your feet.

“Not done with you yet,” he muttered, voice dripping with something dangerous. “C’mon.”

He dragged you out of the bathroom, still naked, your legs barely steady after everything he’d put you through. The cameras in the bedroom were still recording, red lights blinking as he led you straight through and into the living room.

The moment your bare feet hit the cool hardwood floor, your stomach flipped.

The windows.

The massive, floor-to-ceiling windows, wide open, stretching across the entire room.

Anyone could see.

Your breath caught as Harry maneuvered you toward the couch, his grip firm, unyielding. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t even give you a moment to protest before pushing you down, bending you over the armrest, pressing your chest into the soft fabric.

“Stay.”

A shiver rolled through you.

You didn’t dare move.

Behind you, you heard him shifting, placing the camera down, adjusting it for the best angle. Then—his hands. Rough and warm as they skimmed over your hips, down the backs of your thighs. His palms kneaded your ass before spreading you open, exposing every inch of you to both him and the camera.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “Look at you.”

Heat flooded your body. You squirmed under his touch, your thighs already sticky, already aching.

He didn’t like that.

His palm cracked against your ass, sharp and sudden.

You gasped, jolting forward.

“Be still,” he ordered. “Wanna make sure the camera gets a good look.”

You bit your lip, your body thrumming with anticipation as his fingers slid between your legs, teasing, testing. You were still soaked—already wrecked from the way he’d used you in the bedroom, the bathroom, every fucking room he wanted.

And yet, you still wanted more.

He chuckled darkly.

“So fucking needy,” he murmured, rubbing slow circles against your clit before pulling away.

You whined softly.

“Patience, angel,” he said, his tone taunting.

He reached for something—a bottle of lube, cold as he drizzled it between your cheeks. His fingers smoothed it over your skin, teasing your hole, making you twitch beneath him.

“One day,” he murmured, leaning in, voice just for you. “One day, baby, I’m gonna fuck you here too. Gonna stretch you out nice and slow.”

You whimpered, fingers curling into the couch.

“But not tonight.”

Instead, he pushed inside your pussy in one hard, punishing thrust.

You cried out, your body arching at the overwhelming sensation. He was still thick, still hard, still relentless. Your walls clenched around him instinctively, but he didn’t give you a second to adjust—his hands gripped your hips, holding you still as he set a brutal pace.

The wet sounds of skin against skin filled the room, mixing with your gasps, your whimpers, the deep groans spilling from his lips.

The camera was still recording.

Harry reached for it, lifting it with one hand, angling it down to catch everything—the way he filled you, the way you took him so fucking well, the way your body trembled beneath him.

He smirked, never slowing down.

“Wave, baby,” he said, voice dripping with amusement. “Let them see how good you take it.”

Your stomach twisted at his words, a sharp spike of humiliation cutting through the pleasure. You could feel the heat of the camera on you, the weight of his stare, the way he watched you through the lens, utterly transfixed.

Your fingers gripped the couch tighter, your body burning with the mix of overstimulation and the sheer, undeniable thrill of it all.

“Go on,” he murmured, his voice a dangerous purr. “Be good for me.”

Shame curled in your chest, but the need to obey—to give him exactly what he wanted—was so much stronger.

You lifted one trembling hand from the couch and waved.

Harry groaned. “Fuck, look at you.”

He rewarded you with a brutal thrust, his cock slamming so deep it knocked the breath from your lungs. Your arm dropped, a broken sound slipping from your lips as he kept going, his grip tightening on your hips, his fingers digging into your skin.

The angle was devastating—his cock hitting deep, rubbing against every sensitive spot inside you, his pace merciless. The obscene sound of your slick filled the space, your body taking everything he gave without resistance, already so fucking ruined for him.

The camera was still rolling.

He moved it slightly, shifting to get a better angle, then pressed it close to where your bodies met, capturing the way he disappeared inside you over and over again.

“See that, angel?” he taunted. “See how fucking good you take me?”

You couldn’t even form words, your forehead pressing into the couch, your entire body trembling.

He leaned down, his chest flush against your back, the camera still in his hand. His breath was hot against your ear, sending a shiver down your spine.

“You were made for this,” he whispered. “Made for me.”

Your walls clenched at the words, your body betraying you completely.

Harry groaned, his hips stuttering for just a second before he caught himself, before he pulled back and gave you a particularly sharp thrust—one that had you gasping, your hands gripping the couch for dear life.

His free hand snaked between your legs, finding your clit, rubbing it in slow, deliberate circles.

Your whole body tensed, the pressure inside you coiling tighter, tighter, so close to snapping—

And then he stopped.

You sobbed, your body shaking, your walls fluttering helplessly around nothing as he pulled out of you completely.

You felt him shift behind you, setting the camera back down, letting it capture the way your body trembled, the way your thighs clenched, desperate for more.

Then his hands were on you again, flipping you over, pressing your back against the couch cushions. His weight caged you in, his gaze dark, predatory.

“Not done with you yet, angel,” he murmured, dragging his thumb across your swollen lips, watching the way you panted beneath him.

The camera was still rolling.

His hand slipped between your legs again, teasing your slick entrance, rubbing the head of his cock against your overstimulated clit just to watch you squirm.

“You want more?” he asked, voice rough, teasing.

You nodded frantically, too wrecked to form words.

He smirked.

“Then get on the counter.”

Your legs barely worked as you scrambled up, body still trembling, overstimulated and desperate as you obeyed his command. The moment your feet hit the floor, Harry grabbed you by the waist, guiding you toward the kitchen with effortless control.

The counter was cold against your burning skin as he lifted you onto it, positioning you exactly where he wanted. Your thighs fell open instinctively, the evidence of everything he’d done to you glistening between them, your body still slick, still aching.

Harry groaned at the sight.

“Fuck, angel. Look at you.”

You barely had time to catch your breath before he reached down, grabbing something from the bag on the counter. Your stomach flipped as he held it up.

The large plug.

Your breath hitched, anticipation and overstimulation clashing in a way that made you shiver.

“Color?” he murmured, his voice softer now, more serious.

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to breathe past the haze of it all. “Green.”

A flicker of something unreadable crossed his face before he smirked, trailing his fingers up the inside of your thigh, teasing.

“That’s my girl.”

He kissed you then—hot and deep, his tongue sliding against yours, stealing the air from your lungs. His free hand worked between your legs, rubbing slow, lazy circles against your clit, making you whimper against his lips.

Then, without warning, he pressed the plug against your entrance, pushing it in.

Your whole body tensed, a broken gasp spilling from your lips as the stretch burned for just a second—before the pleasure hit. The fullness, the pressure, the way it made everything more intense.

Harry pulled back, watching your face, drinking in every reaction.

“That’s it, baby,” he murmured. “Taking it so fucking well.”

The praise sent another shiver down your spine. You clenched around the plug instinctively, and Harry groaned at the sight, gripping your jaw, forcing you to meet his gaze.

“You feel it, don’t you?” he taunted. “How much better it makes everything?”

You nodded weakly, barely able to breathe.

But he wasn’t done.

Reaching down, he clicked a button—and vibrations pulsed deep inside you.

A strangled moan tore from your throat, your body jolting against the counter as the sudden stimulation hit all at once.

Harry just chuckled, watching you squirm.

“Look at you,” he murmured. “Already falling apart for me.”

He didn’t give you time to adjust, to catch your breath—his hands were already on you again, pushing your legs wider, lining himself up.

“Just one more, angel,” he whispered. “Just one more.”

Then he thrust inside you.

You choked on a gasp, your hands flying to his shoulders, nails digging into his skin as the sensations overwhelmed you. The vibrations, the stretch, the way his cock filled you so perfectly—

It was too much.

And yet, not enough.

Harry grunted, his grip on your hips bruising as he set a punishing pace, fucking into you deep, fast, relentless. His free hand shot up to your throat, his fingers curling around the column of your neck, squeezing just enough to make your pulse race.

Your vision blurred at the edges, your body trembling beneath him.

“S’this how you wanted it?” he growled. “Getting fucked so hard you can’t even think?”

Tears streamed down your face, your body wracked with pleasure, every nerve alight, every inch of you burning with overstimulation.

Harry groaned at the sight, leaning down to capture your lips in a messy, desperate kiss. His pace never faltered, his thrusts deep and brutal, fucking you through it, dragging it out.

Your walls clenched around him, the vibrations pushing you closer, closer—

And then you shattered.

Your entire body convulsed, pleasure slamming into you like a freight train, the orgasm ripping through you so violently you nearly sobbed. Your nails raked down his back, your thighs squeezing tight around his hips as he fucked you through it, chasing his own release.

Harry cursed under his breath, his movements growing erratic, rougher. He pulled out at the last second, groaning as he spilled across your stomach, his chest heaving, his body tense.

For a moment, the only sound in the kitchen was your ragged breathing.

Then, slowly, Harry reached for the camera—lifting it, angling it down, capturing the absolute wreckage of you.

“Fuck,” he murmured, tracing a hand down your trembling thigh. “You look so pretty like this.”

The camera clicked off.

And then, he lifted you into his arms, carrying you straight back to bed.

The sheets were cool against your overheated skin as Harry laid you down, his grip still firm but gentle. Your body felt weightless, trembling, drained from everything he had put you through—but he wasn’t finished.

Not yet.

He reached for a towel, wiping the mess from your stomach, his touch softer now, deliberate, taking his time as he cleaned you up. You shivered under his hands, your body still sensitive, overstimulated beyond belief.

Harry hummed, low and satisfied. “You did so fucking good for me, angel.”

Your eyes fluttered shut as he brushed damp hair from your face, pressing a kiss to your forehead. The shift in him was stark, a complete contrast from the dominant force he had been just minutes ago. Now, he was patient. Tender.

He grabbed a water bottle from the nightstand, twisting the cap off before bringing it to your lips. “Drink.”

You obeyed, swallowing the cool liquid, letting it soothe your raw throat. Harry watched you carefully, thumb stroking over your jaw.

“There you go,” he murmured. “That’s my good girl.”

Your heart squeezed at the praise, warmth curling in your chest. Even now, with your limbs weak and body wrecked, you craved it.

Harry must have seen it on your face, because he smirked, setting the bottle aside before slipping into bed beside you. His arm curled around your waist, pulling you in, pressing you flush against him.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured, running his palm up and down your back, soothing, grounding.

You sighed into the touch, relaxing against him, sinking into his warmth.

His lips ghosted along your shoulder, pressing soft kisses up your neck, along your jaw. He traced every mark he had left on you, his tongue flicking out to soothe the sensitive skin.

A deep, contented sound rumbled from his chest as he held you close, his fingers lazily tracing patterns along your hip. “Proud of you, angel. Took everything so well for me.”

A sleepy hum slipped past your lips. You barely had the energy to respond, too far gone, your body melting into his.

Harry chuckled, the sound low and raspy.

Then, you felt it—his fingers reaching for the remote, grabbing it from the nightstand.

A moment later, the TV flickered to life.

Your stomach flipped.

You didn’t need to look to know what he was playing.

Heat crept up your neck as the sounds of your own moans filled the room, the unmistakable echo of skin on skin, the filthy words he had murmured against your lips now playing back in crisp, high-definition audio.

Your breath hitched.

Harry smirked, tilting your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze. His eyes were dark, hungry, still burning despite everything.

“Look at you,” he murmured, watching the replay, his hand trailing down, fingertips ghosting over your still-sensitive core. “So fucking wrecked. So perfect.”

Your cheeks burned, embarrassment and arousal clashing, twisting deep in your stomach.

Harry chuckled, pressing a kiss to your temple. “We’re keeping all of this,” he whispered against your skin. “Our own little collection.”

You barely had the strength to respond, your body too heavy, your brain too foggy.

But just before sleep claimed you, you heard him murmur one last thing—

“Hope you know… there’s going to be a part three.”

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

Thank you so much for reading! I appreciate any support so remember to comment, reblog, & like ❤️‍🔥

The next morning, you wake up feeling like your world has tilted off its axis.

Your head throbs, exhaustion clinging to your limbs like a weight you can’t shake. The sheets are tangled around you, suffocating, heavy with the scent of him. You shove them off, blinking against the early morning light spilling through the blinds, but it does nothing to clear the fog in your mind.

Your phone is still on your nightstand where you left it, screen black, as if waiting for you to wake up and face reality.

You reach for it, hesitation curling around your fingers like a ghost of last night. The moment your thumb unlocks the screen, the message is there, waiting.

Harry: We need to talk. This is getting dangerous.

A cold chill runs down your spine.

Dangerous.

You swallow hard, rereading the words like they might change if you stare at them long enough. He knew. He knew something was wrong, and instead of explaining, instead of giving you anything to hold onto, he left you drowning in uncertainty.

Your mind replays everything—the intensity of his touch, the way he claimed you in his office, the abrupt panic when someone knocked. The voice was female, familiar.

Your stomach twists violently, nausea clawing at your throat.

You want to believe it was nothing, that the fear in his eyes was just the risk of getting caught, that the voice on the other side of the door was just some faculty member, a student, anyone but what you fear it might be.

But the way he pushed you out, the way his grip had been tight, urgent—it didn’t just feel cautious. It felt desperate. Like he was hiding something.

Your fingers tighten around your phone.

You tell yourself you’re overthinking, but the doubt lingers.

Harry knows it will.

Knows you’ll wake up with questions, with that sharp mind of yours piecing things together, even if you don’t want to. Knows that the moment you walked out of his office, his world started cracking at the seams.

He barely has time to run a hand through his hair, to school his expression into something unreadable before he reaches for the door handle. His pulse is still thrumming, his body still electric with the ghost of you, your touch, your scent, the way you came undone beneath him.

But none of that matters the second he opens the door.

Emily.

She stands in front of him like a storm cloud, her arms crossed, a knowing look curving her lips.

“You’re hard to track down these days,” she says, stepping forward like she still has the right. Like she hasn’t been gone for months. Like she doesn’t know exactly why he’s been avoiding her.

Harry clenches his jaw. “What do you want, Emily?”

His voice is sharp, clipped. A warning. But she ignores it, like she always does.

Her gaze flickers past him, over his desk, the disheveled papers, the air still thick with the remnants of something intimate. Her smirk widens.

“I was going to ask how you’ve been,” she muses, tilting her head. “But it looks like you’ve been busy.”

His stomach turns, but his face remains unreadable. He doesn’t move, doesn’t let her see the way her presence alone has lit a fuse under everything he’s built, everything he’s tried to keep separate.

He doesn’t respond. He can’t afford to let her see how much she’s right.

She steps closer, her perfume—something expensive, something foreign now—curling in the space between them. Her eyes are sharp, dissecting, pulling apart the pieces of him that she still thinks she has claim to.

Then she smirks, because of course she does.

“Let me guess,” she says, voice coated in amusement. “A student?”

His silence is all the answer she needs.

And maybe, deep down, you already know the answer, too.

But knowing doesn’t stop the way your stomach twists violently every time your mind replays the moment in his office—the knock, his urgency, the way he shoved you out like a secret that needed to stay buried.

You try to focus on your classes, on anything other than Harry. But it’s impossible. Every lecture blurs together, every voice around you muffled beneath the pounding thoughts in your head. You’ve never felt this restless, this sick with uncertainty.

It must be written all over your face, because the second you slide into your usual seat in the lecture hall, Olivia frowns.

“You look like you saw a ghost.”

You force a laugh, waving her off, but you know she’s right.

You haven’t eaten. Haven’t slept. You feel like you’re coming apart at the seams, like if you let your guard down for even a second, all the questions, the doubts, the fear will swallow you whole.

Between classes, you finally snap, you pull out your phone and type the words before you can stop yourself.

You: Can we talk?

The message sends. You watch the screen. Wait.

Nothing.

You stare at your phone for what feels like an eternity, willing it to light up, for his name to appear, for something—anything—to give you a lifeline.

But there’s no response.

The unease grows into something unbearable. Hours pass, but the silence remains.

And finally, you snap.

You need answers. You need to see him.

That’s what you tell yourself as you step out into the cold evening air, pulling your coat tighter around you, your fingers clenched around your phone like a lifeline. The city buzzes around you—people laughing, cars honking, life moving forward—but your world has stopped. Frozen in the unanswered text, in the gnawing doubt that has been sinking its teeth into you since last night.

Your feet move on autopilot. The closer you get to his apartment, the harder your heart pounds, each step echoing in your ears.

He’ll explain this, you tell yourself. There’s a reason. There has to be a reason.

You reach his door. The hallway is eerily quiet. Your breath catches in your throat as you lift a hand to knock, hesitating, just for a second.

But then you try the handle.

It’s unlocked.

Something twists in your stomach, sharp and instinctual. Wrong.

You push the door open.

And you freeze.

Because the last thing you expect is to see her sitting on his couch.

Her legs are crossed, body draped over the cushions like she owns the place, a glass of wine in hand. She’s beautiful, effortlessly so. Her dark hair is pinned back in a way that screams elegance, her red nails tapping against the glass, a slow, deliberate rhythm that only adds to the suffocating weight settling in your chest.

Her eyes flick up when she hears you, sharp and calculating. And then she smiles.

“Oh,” she hums, standing as if she’s been expecting you. As if she already knows who you are. “You must be her.”

Your breath catches.

The air in the room shifts, charged and suffocating. Your vision tunnels, your brain scrambling to process the words, the meaning behind them, the implication—

Her.

Your pulse pounds, a steady, deafening beat in your ears. Your entire body locks up as you stare at her, as the pieces start clicking into place with terrifying speed.

And then—

“Y/N.”

Harry’s voice.

Low. Urgent.

You look up just in time to see him stepping out from the kitchen, a dish towel still clutched in his hand, his face a mask of pure panic the moment he sees you.

He stops dead in his tracks.

For a moment, no one speaks.

You and Harry lock eyes, and the way his entire body tenses, the way his throat bobs as he swallows, tells you everything before a single word is said.

The floor beneath you may as well crack open.

Because you already know.

You know before she even tilts her head, a slow smirk creeping onto her lips.

You know before Harry exhales sharply, his free hand running through his hair, as if bracing himself for the inevitable.

You know before she takes a step toward you, deliberately slow, like a predator playing with its prey.

And when she speaks again, her voice is smooth as silk, dipped in something cruel.

“I’m Emily,” she says, extending a hand you don’t take. “Harry’s wife.”

Your world collapses.

“It’s lies.”

The words barely make it past your lips, but they land. They settle between you like a finality, like a gavel crashing down in a courtroom, sealing a fate you never saw coming.

Harry flinches. His hands twitch at his sides, like he wants to reach for you, like he wants to fix this. But he can’t. He won’t.

Because there is no fixing this.

“Who is she?” You choke out, barely recognizing your own voice.

It’s raw, barely above a whisper, but it cuts through the suffocating silence like a blade.

Emily doesn’t hesitate.

She smiles—cold, knowing, like she’s been waiting for this moment. Like she’s enjoying it.

“As I’ve just said. His wife.”

The word slams into you like a freight train.

For a second, everything stops.

Your heartbeat. Your breath. The very foundation you’ve been standing on crumbles beneath you, sending you spiraling.

You stumble back, shaking your head so violently it makes you dizzy. “No.” The word bursts from your lips, sharp and desperate. “That’s not possible.”

You turn to Harry, waiting—begging—for him to tell you she’s lying.

That this is a mistake. That she’s just someone from his past. That this isn’t what it sounds like.

But he doesn’t.

He just stands there, his jaw tight, his shoulders tense, his silence the most damning thing of all.

You feel like you might throw up.

“It’s not what you think,” Harry finally says, but his voice is hollow, like even he doesn’t believe the words coming out of his mouth.

A sharp, humorless laugh rips from your throat. Your hands shake at your sides, your entire body thrumming with something between fury and devastation.

“Oh, really?” Your voice cracks, barely holding itself together. “Because it sounds like I’ve been fucking a married man.”

Emily hums, tilting her head, faux sympathy curling in her smirk.

“Technically,” she muses, “we’re separated.” She shrugs, inspecting her nails, as if she’s commenting on the weather. Then her eyes flick back to yours, sharp and ruthless. “But legally? He’s still mine.”

A sickening snap echoes inside you, like a rubber band stretched too far, finally breaking.

Your stomach twists, nausea clawing at your throat.

Your world is crashing down around you in real-time.

You think about every stolen moment. Every whispered promise. Every fucking time he told you that you were his.

That all this time, he was never truly yours.

Harry takes a step toward you. His face is tight, pained. “I was going to tell you.”

You step back so fast your heel almost catches on the rug. Your hands come up like a shield.

“When, Harry?” Your voice wavers, the first sign of the cracks forming in your carefully built composure. “After I ruined my life for you? After I let myself believe this was real?”

His throat bobs as he swallows hard. He wants to reach for you. You can see it in the way his fingers flex, in the way his chest rises and falls too quickly.

But he doesn’t.

Because he knows he doesn’t deserve to.

“It is real,” he says instead, voice quieter now, like he thinks that might soften the blow.

But it only makes it worse.

You let out a breath—ragged, exhausted, done.

“No.” Your voice shakes, but your resolve doesn’t.

You meet his gaze, one last time, letting him see it.

The moment you give up on him.

“It’s lies.”

The words seal something shut inside you. The last thread tethering you to him snaps.

You turn around.

And this time—

You don’t look back.

You can’t.

If you do, you might break.

Your legs move on autopilot, carrying you out of his apartment, down the hallway, through the stairwell, because waiting for the elevator feels like torture, like wasted seconds you could be using to get as far away from him as possible.

Your breathing is uneven, sharp, ragged gasps that don’t feel like they’re actually filling your lungs. Your vision is blurring at the edges, hands trembling so violently you have to ball them into fists.

You don’t know where you’re going.

You just know you have to get out.

The cold air smacks you the second you push through the building’s front doors. It stings against your overheated skin, bites at the exposed parts of you like punishment for being so fucking stupid.

For believing him.

For letting yourself fall.

You don’t realize you’re crying until a sharp gust of wind makes the wetness on your cheeks burn. You swipe at them harshly, furious with yourself, with him, with everything.

A door opens behind you.

For one agonizing second, hope flares in your chest, ugly, unwanted, but there anyway.

But when you hear the voice, it’s not his.

It’s her.

“Wow,” Emily drawls, footsteps slow as she steps onto the pavement behind you. “Didn’t even try to stop you, huh?”

A fresh wave of nausea rolls through you.

You squeeze your eyes shut, inhaling sharply through your nose. “Go fuck yourself.”

Emily hums, unconcerned. “Can’t say I’m surprised. He never was very good at holding onto the things he really wants.”

Your hands clench into fists at your sides.

You want to ignore her. You want to walk away.

But you can’t.

Because every single word she’s saying is feeding the thing inside you that’s already ripping you apart.

And she knows it.

So you turn.

You meet her gaze head-on, fire burning behind the devastation in your chest.

“Whatever game you think you’re playing,” you grind out, voice shaking but unwavering, “you can fucking have him. I’m done.”

Emily just smiles.

Like she’s already won.

And maybe, maybe she has.

Because the only person who could have proved her wrong is still standing inside his apartment, behind a locked door, choosing silence.

Choosing not to fight for you.

You turn around.

And this time, when you walk away—

It’s for good.

The words echo inside you like a cruel joke, rattling around your skull as you push forward, step after step, through the city streets.

You don’t remember the walk home.

It’s a blur, blinking streetlights, car horns blaring in the distance, the sharp chill of the wind biting at your skin. You feel detached from yourself, like you’re floating somewhere outside of your own body, watching a version of you that you don’t even recognize anymore.

Because that version of you?

She was naive.

She let herself fall into something dangerous, something messy, something that was never meant to last.

And now?

She’s paying the price.

You barely make it back to your apartment before the tears start falling.

The second you close the door behind you, the dam breaks.

A strangled sob rips from your throat, your knees buckling as the weight of it all slams into you at full force. Your fingers clutch at the fabric of your coat, your chest heaving as if you can’t breathe, as if no matter how hard you try, you can’t get enough air.

You don’t hear Olivia at first.

Not until she’s right there in front of you, her hands gripping your shoulders, her voice sharp with concern.

“Y/N—hey, hey. What the hell happened?”

You shake your head violently, trying to force the words out, trying to explain, but—

They get caught in your throat.

Because how do you even say it?

How do you put into words the way your entire world just imploded?

Olivia doesn’t wait for an answer. She just pulls you in, wrapping her arms around you tight, holding you like she’s afraid you might shatter completely if she lets go.

And maybe she’s right.

You bury your face into her shoulder, your entire body trembling as the sobs rip through you, one after another.

“I—” Your voice is barely a whisper, cracking with the weight of it all.

Olivia pulls back just enough to look at you, her brows furrowed in concern. “What?”

You swallow, hard, your throat raw.

“He was married.”

Her expression shifts instantly.

“What?”

You let out a broken laugh, wiping at your tear-streaked cheeks. “He fucking lied.”

Olivia stiffens. Her grip on you tightens, her entire body going rigid with rage.

“Are you—” She cuts herself off, inhaling sharply through her nose. Her eyes darken, her jaw tightening. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

You just shake your head.

And worst of all?

You let yourself believe he was yours.

The realization guts you.

It claws its way through your ribs, wrapping around your lungs like a vice, making it impossible to breathe, to think, to function.

Because that’s the worst part, isn’t it?

Not just that he lied.

Not just that he kept her a secret.

But that you let yourself believe.

That you let yourself fall so deeply into him, into this illusion of something real, something yours.

And it was never real at all.

That night, you don’t sleep.

You toss and turn in bed, your body aching from something deeper than just heartbreak.

It’s in your bones. In your blood.

A wound that no one can see, but one that’s still bleeding.

The weight of his betrayal settles like lead in your chest.

And no matter how many times you tell yourself to let it go.

You don’t know if you ever really will.

Harry knows he won’t.

The second the door slammed behind you, something in him fractured. Something deep, something vital, something that will never fully heal.

Now, he sits on his couch, head in his hands, his elbows digging into his knees, his mind a fucking mess.

He can still hear it. Your voice, raw and shaking, cutting through him like a blade. It’s lies.

You’d looked at him like he was a stranger. Like he was something filthy.

And maybe he is.

Across the room, Emily sighs, the sound laced with amusement. “Well. That went well.”

Harry’s head snaps up. His blood boils.

“Get out.”

His voice is low. Dangerous.

Emily smirks, crossing one leg over the other, making no move to leave. “Oh, please. You’re mad at me? You’re the one screwing your student while still legally tied to your wife.”

His stomach twists. He hates that word. Wife.

Hates that you heard it come from her mouth.

Hates that you believed it before he could tell you the truth.

“Ex-wife,” he grits out sharply, jaw clenched so tight it aches.

Emily just laughs. It’s light, amused, mocking.

“Yeah, well…” She finally stands, swiping her purse off the couch. “Good luck fixing this.”

She walks to the door like she’s already won.

And maybe she has.

Because when she shuts it behind her, the silence is unbearable.

Harry exhales sharply, his hands dragging down his face, his skin hot with frustration, regret, and self-loathing.

He should have told you.

Should have sat you down weeks ago and explained everything. Should have given you the truth instead of letting you walk blindly into this fucking mess.

But he didn’t.

He kept you and her in two separate worlds because it was easier.

And now?

Now he’s lost the only thing that mattered.

He leans forward, gripping his hair tightly, his breathing uneven. His chest aches in a way that isn’t just emotional, it’s physical. A sharp, twisting pain that radiates through him, coiling around his ribs like a noose.

His eyes flicker toward the coffee table. Your hoodie is still there.

You’d left it here a few nights ago. He remembers watching you walk around his kitchen in it, drowning in the fabric, laughing when he pulled you onto his lap and told you it looked better on you than it ever did on him.

Now, it’s just evidence of what he’s lost.

Harry grits his teeth, pushing up from the couch so fast his vision dips.

He needs to fix this.

He has to.

Without thinking, he grabs his phone.

His fingers move fast, typing and deleting and typing again, until finally, he settles on the only truth that matters.

Harry: I love you.

He sends it before he can stop himself.

Then he waits.

And waits.

And waits.

But the screen stays silent.

And deep down—

He knows it will.

The silence.

The nothingness.

The absence of you.

And still, he waits.

Harry sits in the dim glow of his apartment, the only light coming from his phone screen as it rests on the table in front of him, mocking him with its stillness.

The message is there. Sent.

Delivered.

But unread.

You’re not answering.

You’re not even looking.

His jaw locks. His fingers drum restlessly against his knee, his whole body tense, like he’s waiting for a bomb to go off.

Hours slip through his fingers, but the only thing he can focus on is that goddamn phone.

He doesn’t move from the couch.

Doesn’t eat.

Barely breathes.

His mind races, running through every possible way this could have gone differently.

If he had told you sooner. If he had fought harder. If he had pushed past his own fucking cowardice and made you believe in him before Emily got the chance to ruin it.

But the ifs don’t matter now.

The only thing that matters is that he lost you.

He swipes the phone off the table so quickly it nearly slips from his grasp.

His fingers hover over the keyboard.

He types:

I’m sorry.

Please, talk to me.

Deletes it.

Types again:

Y/N, please.

Backspaces.

Finally, his hands still.

His chest tightens.

And he settles on the only truth he knows.

Harry: I love you.

He hits send before he can stop himself.

And then—

Nothing.

The screen stays silent.

The minutes drag into an hour. Two.

No response.

And deep down, Harry knows—

You’re gone.

And you’re not coming back.

The bathroom is filled with music, bass vibrating through the walls as you swipe mascara over your lashes, refusing to let your hands shake.

Olivia is in the other room, hyping you up, her voice loud over the pounding playlist she threw on the second you told her you wanted to go out.

“That’s my girl!” she calls from the bedroom. “We’re getting wasted tonight.”

You force a smile, dragging the wand through your lashes one last time before stepping back, eyeing yourself in the mirror.

You look like yourself. Hair styled. Makeup flawless. The dress hugging your body is one Olivia shoved into your arms twenty minutes ago, saying something about how you needed to “remind the world you’re a fucking catch.”

But no amount of red lipstick can cover the wreckage underneath.

Your chest still aches. Still tightens every time you close your eyes and see him.

Don’t think about it.

Don’t think about his hands, his voice, the way he looked at you when you walked away.

Don’t think about the way his jaw tensed when Emily said wife.The way he didn’t fight for you.

Don’t—

Your phone buzzes.

Your breath catches.

You stare at the counter, at the way the screen lights up.

Harry.

Your stomach lurches. Your heart stutters in your chest, knocking against your ribs with something sharp and awful.

You don’t pick it up right away.

You don’t want to care.

But your hands move before your brain can stop them.

You blink, and then—there it is.

Harry: I love you.

The words blur together on the screen, your breath leaving your body in one sharp, uneven exhale.

Something cracks inside you.

And for a second—for a single, agonizing second—you waver.

You should feel something. Anger. Sadness. Hope.

But all you feel is tired.

Because he doesn’t get to say that. Not now. Not after everything.

Love isn’t a fucking bandage he can slap over the mess he made.

You swallow hard, your reflection swimming before you.

Somewhere in the other room, Olivia is singing along to the music, yelling about how you’re taking shots the second you get to the club.

You grip the edge of the counter, fingers pressing into the cool surface.

For a second, you think about answering.

About calling him. About screaming. About telling him that love doesn’t fix this. That love doesn’t erase lies.

But then—

“Let’s go, babe.”

Olivia’s voice is closer now, her grin wide as she steps into the doorway, hands on her hips. “Time to forget about that asshole.”

You inhale shakily.

You take one last look at your phone. At his name glowing on the screen.

Then you turn it off.

You shove it into your bag and grab Olivia’s hand. “Let’s go.”

You aren’t ready to deal with the wreckage he left behind.

Not tonight.

Tonight, you’re going to drown him out with flashing lights, loud music, and strangers who don’t remind you of him.

Tonight, you’re going to pretend he never existed.

And tomorrow?

Tomorrow, you’ll start learning how to mean it.

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

Thank you so much for reading! I appreciate any support so remember to comment, reblog, & like ❤️‍🔥

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“Okay,” you finally say, your voice barely above a whisper.

He opens the passenger door for you, waiting until you’re settled before closing it gently and walking around to the driver’s side. The car is warm, the faint scent of leather and his cologne enveloping you as he starts the engine. For a few moments, neither of you speak, the silence filled only by the soft hum of the car as he pulls out of the parking lot.

“You didn’t have to do this,” you say finally, your fingers fidgeting with the strap of your bag.

“I wanted to,” he replies simply, his eyes on the road. “I’d hate for something to happen to you because I let you walk home alone.”

His concern warms you in a way you’re not entirely prepared for. “Thank you,” you say softly, glancing at him out of the corner of your eye.

He nods, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Where do you live?”

You give him your address, and he repeats it under his breath as if committing it to memory. The silence that follows is comfortable, but you can feel the tension simmering just beneath the surface, the weight of what happened earlier still lingering between you.

“You could come home with me,” he says suddenly, his voice low but clear. The words hang in the air, heavy with implication. “If you wanted to.”

Your breath catches, and you turn to look at him, your heart pounding in your chest. “I… I have an essay due at midnight,” you say, your voice trembling slightly. “And my roommate might get suspicious.”

Harry’s lips quirk into a small smirk, but his eyes remain serious. “Fair enough,” he says, though there’s a hint of disappointment in his tone. “But the offer stands.”

You nod, your fingers tightening around your bag as the car turns onto your street. He pulls up to your building, shifting into park but leaving the engine running. For a moment, he says nothing, his gaze fixed on the steering wheel as if he’s weighing his next words carefully.

“We need to be careful,” he says finally, his voice quiet but firm. “I don’t want this to… complicate things for you. Or for me.”

You nod, understanding the unspoken implications. “I know. I’ll be careful too.”

His eyes meet yours, and for a moment, the tension between you feels almost unbearable. Then, as if deciding something, he reaches into the center console and pulls out his phone, handing it to you. “Give me your number.”

Your hands tremble slightly as you take the phone, quickly typing in your details. When you hand it back, his thumb hovers over the screen for a moment before he looks at you again.

“Text me when you’re inside,” he says, his tone leaving no room for argument.

You nod, fumbling with the door handle as you step out into the cool night air. The sound of the door closing feels final, and you glance back at the car. He’s watching you, his gaze steady but unreadable. You force yourself to turn and walk toward your building, the weight of his eyes on you every step of the way.

Once inside, you lean against the closed door, your heart still racing. You pull out your phone, your fingers trembling slightly as you type a quick message:

I’m home. Thank you for the ride.

The reply comes almost immediately, the soft buzz of your phone making you jump. When you open the message, your breath catches.

I should be thanking you, love. Couldn’t stop thinking about earlier. You made it impossible to focus.

Your cheeks heat as you read his words, and you bite your lip, your fingers hovering over the keyboard as you debate your response. Finally, you type:

I’m glad I’m not the only one. You were all I could think about.

The three dots indicating his reply appear almost immediately.

I can still feel you on my lips. Your taste is addictive.

Your breath hitches, your heart pounding as you stare at the screen. You’re not sure how to respond, but before you can overthink it, another message comes through:

If you’re not too busy with that essay, maybe you can help me get you out of my system.

Your fingers tremble as you type back:

I think you’re underestimating how deeply you’ve gotten under my skin.

His reply is immediate:

Careful, love. I might have to prove just how deeply I want you.

The glow of your laptop screen illuminates your face as you sit at your desk, fingers flying over the keyboard. The clock on the corner of the screen reads 08:34 p.m., and your essay is still far from finished. The quiet of your apartment is broken only by the occasional creak of the floorboards and the faint hum of the radiator.

Until it isn’t.

From the other side of the wall, you hear it—the unmistakable sounds of your roommate, Olivia, and her boyfriend, Jake. Their laughter starts soft but quickly escalates into something much more intimate, the rhythmic thudding of the bed against the wall making you groan in frustration.

You press your palms to your temples, trying to block out the noise, but it’s no use. Every sound seems amplified, from Olivia’s breathy moans to Jake’s low groans. You slam your laptop shut, leaning back in your chair with a huff.

Your phone buzzes on the desk, and you glance at it, half-hoping it’s Harry. But the screen is blank. You chew your lip, debating your next move. Finally, you open the chat and type:

Are you still awake?

The response comes almost instantly.

Always. What’s wrong, love?

You hesitate, your fingers hovering over the keyboard before you finally type:

Would you still be willing to pick me up? Olivia and Jake… are busy. But I need to finish this essay.

This time, his reply takes a little longer. When it comes, your heart skips a beat.

Say the word, and I’ll be there in ten. 

Your lips curve into a small smile as you type back:

I’ll be outside in ten. Thank you.

You grab your bag and laptop, pulling on your jacket as you glance in the mirror. Your reflection betrays the nervous excitement bubbling beneath the surface, your cheeks slightly flushed.

--

The black Range Rover pulls up to the curb just as you step outside, the cool night air nipping at your skin. Harry leans over to push the passenger door open, his gaze locking onto yours. There’s a softness in his eyes, but something darker lingers beneath it, an unspoken tension that makes your pulse race.

“Trouble concentrating?” he asks, his voice low and smooth as you slide into the seat.

You let out a small laugh, shaking your head. “You could say that.”

He arches a brow, his lips twitching into a smirk. “I take it Olivia and Jake weren’t exactly… quiet?”

“Not even a little,” you admit, your cheeks heating. “Thank you for coming to get me. I wasn’t sure how much more I could take.”

“Always happy to help,” he replies, his tone casual but his eyes lingering on you a beat too long. He gestures to the bag sitting on the console. “I picked up Thai. Thought you might be hungry.”

Your stomach growls at the mention of food, and you glance at the bag with a sheepish smile. “You’re a lifesaver.”

Harry chuckles, the sound low and warm as he shifts the car into drive. “We’ll see if you still think that by the end of the night.”

The air between you feels charged, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife. The soft glow of the dashboard lights casts shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw and the faint stubble dusting his cheeks. You’re hyperaware of every movement he makes, the way his fingers grip the steering wheel, the way his lips part slightly when he concentrates.

“You don’t have to babysit me, you know,” you say, breaking the silence. “I could’ve figured something out.”

“I wanted to,” he says simply, his eyes flicking to yours briefly before returning to the road. “Besides, you’re better off working somewhere quiet. I’m assuming my place fits the bill?”

You nod, your fingers playing with the strap of your bag. “It does. Thank you.”

When you pull up to his building, Harry parks in the underground garage, the quiet hum of the engine cutting off as he turns to you.

“Ready?” he asks, his gaze lingering on your face.

You nod, swallowing hard as you follow him to the elevator. The ride up is silent, but the tension between you crackles, every glance and subtle movement amplified in the confined space. When the doors slide open, Harry leads you down the hall to his apartment, unlocking the door with a quiet click.

The space is just as you imagined it—sleek, modern, and impeccably tidy. The scent of leather and faint cologne lingers in the air, grounding you as you set your things on the kitchen island. Harry places the bag of takeout on the counter, pulling out containers and utensils.

“You get started on that essay,” he says, his tone light but firm. “I’ll take care of this.”

You glance at him, your heart pounding as you pull your laptop from your bag. The way he moves, so calm and confident, makes it impossible to focus on anything else. You settle onto one of the stools, your fingers hovering over the keyboard as you try to drown out the thoughts swirling in your mind.

But Harry’s presence is impossible to ignore. Every glance, every movement, every small sound he makes draws your attention like a magnet. And from the way his eyes flick to you when he thinks you’re not looking, you know he feels it too.

The smell of Thai food fills the kitchen as Harry opens the containers, the aroma making your stomach rumble. He sets out the dishes with the kind of casual precision that makes you think he’s done this countless times, and it’s strangely comforting. You sit across from him at the island, your laptop to one side, the essay still untouched as you dig into your food.

“This is incredible,” you say after a few bites, glancing up at him.

He smirks, spearing a piece of chicken with his fork. “Best Thai place in the city. I wasn’t about to let you settle for instant noodles.”

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “You’ve thought of everything.”

His gaze lingers on you for a moment, the playful glint in his eyes replaced by something deeper. “I try.”

The conversation flows easily as you eat, the tension from earlier softening but still humming beneath the surface. Harry asks about your essay, and before you know it, he’s pulling your laptop closer, scrolling through your notes and offering suggestions. His feedback is sharp and insightful, his tone encouraging without being overbearing.

“You’re on the right track,” he says, leaning back and crossing his arms. “Just tighten up your argument in the third paragraph. Make it more concise.”

You nod, scribbling down his suggestions in your notebook. “Thank you. This helps a lot.”

His lips curve into a small smile. “Anytime.”

As the night wears on, the clock ticking closer to midnight, Harry clears the table and washes up. The sound of running water and clinking dishes fills the quiet space, and you find yourself stealing glances at him, your pulse quickening every time he catches you.

“I’m going to shower,” he says once the kitchen is spotless, his tone casual. “Feel free to make yourself comfortable.”

You nod, watching as he disappears down the hall. A few moments later, you hear the sound of water running, the faint hiss of the shower echoing through the apartment. You try to focus on your essay, but your mind keeps drifting, the image of him under the spray of water refusing to leave your thoughts.

Before you can second-guess yourself, you stand, your heart pounding as you follow the sound of the shower. The bathroom door is slightly ajar, steam curling out into the hallway. You push it open slowly, the sight before you stealing your breath.

Harry stands under the stream of water, his back to you, his muscles taut and glistening. His head is tilted back, the droplets running down his neck and shoulders, tracing the inked lines of his tattoos. He doesn’t notice you at first, too caught up in the rhythm of the water and the stillness of the moment.

When he finally turns, his eyes widen slightly, surprise flickering across his face before it softens into something warmer. “Couldn’t stay away, could you?”

You step inside, the heat from the steam enveloping you as you close the door behind you. “I thought you might need some company,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper.

He chuckles, low and rough, the sound sending a shiver down your spine. “Come here,” he says, his voice soft but commanding.

You slip off your clothes, your movements slow and deliberate as his eyes rake over you. The intensity of his gaze makes your skin prickle, every nerve ending alight as you step under the spray. The water is warm, cascading over your shoulders as he reaches for you, his hands settling on your waist.

Harry’s eyes darken as he pulls you closer under the spray of the shower, his hands gripping your waist firmly. The water cascades over you both, the steam curling around your bodies as the tension between you ignites once more. His lips find yours in a searing kiss, his tongue claiming yours with a dominance that leaves you breathless.

“Kneel,” he commands softly, his voice rough with need. His hands guide you downward, and you sink to your knees, the warm water hitting your back as you look up at him. His cock is hard and proud, the sight making your mouth water.

“Such a good girl,” he murmurs, brushing a thumb over your cheek. “Show me how much you want it.”

Your hands reach for him, wrapping around his length as your tongue flicks out to tease the tip. He groans low in his throat, his hand threading into your hair to hold you steady. Encouraged, you take him into your mouth, your tongue swirling around him as you begin to move.

“Fuck,” he growls, his hips jerking slightly. “That’s it. Take me deeper.”

He tightens his grip on your hair, guiding you as he begins to thrust into your mouth. The rhythm starts slow, but soon he’s moving faster, his cock hitting the back of your throat with each stroke. You gag slightly, but the sound only seems to spur him on.

“Look at you,” he groans, his voice thick with lust. “Taking me so well. Such a good little slut for me, aren’t you?”

You moan around him, the vibrations making his hips stutter. His breathing is ragged as he holds your head in place, fucking your throat with abandon. Tears prick at your eyes, but you love the way he loses control, the way his muscles tense as he chases his release.

“Enough,” he says suddenly, pulling back. His cock leaves your mouth with a wet pop, and he hauls you to your feet, his lips crashing into yours. The kiss is messy, desperate, his hands roaming your body as he presses you against the cool tiles.

“Are you on birth control?” he asks, his voice low but serious, his forehead resting against yours.

“No,” you admit, your voice barely audible over the sound of the water.

His jaw tightens, his eyes searching yours. “Do you want to stop?”

“No,” you say, shaking your head. “I want you. I don’t care.”

Something shifts in his expression, a primal hunger taking over. “Turn around,” he commands, his hands guiding you until your palms are flat against the wall and your back is arched.

He lines himself up with your entrance, the head of his cock teasing your folds. “Tell me if it’s too much,” he murmurs, his voice softer now.

You nod, your breath hitching as he pushes inside. The stretch is intense, the fullness almost overwhelming as he fills you completely. He stills for a moment, letting you adjust, his hands gripping your hips tightly.

“So fucking tight,” he groans, his head dropping to your shoulder. “You feel incredible.”

He begins to move, his thrusts slow and deliberate at first, but it doesn’t take long for his pace to quicken. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the air, mingling with your breathless moans and his guttural groans.

“Harder,” you plead, pushing back against him. “Please, Harry.”

He growls low in his throat, his hips snapping harder against yours. One hand slides around to your front, his fingers finding your clit and rubbing tight circles that make your legs tremble.

“That’s it,” he mutters, his lips brushing against your ear. “Come for me, love. Let me feel you.”

Your orgasm crashes over you, your body clenching around him as you cry out his name. He doesn’t stop, his thrusts becoming erratic as he chases his own release.

“Fuck,” he groans, his grip on your hips tightening as he spills inside you. The warmth of his release pushes you into another wave of pleasure, your body trembling as you collapse against the wall.

Harry wraps his arms around you, holding you close as you both catch your breath. The water continues to rain down on you, washing away the evidence of your passion but not the memory of it.

“Come on,” he murmurs after a moment, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “Let’s finish cleaning up.”

He helps you rinse off, his touch gentle and tender now, before stepping out and wrapping a towel around your shoulders. From his closet, he pulls out a soft, oversized shirt and hands it to you.

“Put this on,” he says, his lips quirking into a small smile. “You’ll look good in it.”

You slip it on, the fabric soft against your skin, and follow him to the bedroom, your heart still racing from the intensity of what just happened.

Harry watches you from the doorway of the bedroom as you settle on the edge of the bed, his shirt hanging loosely on your frame. His eyes are dark, full of desire, but there’s a softness there too, a quiet reverence that makes your chest tighten.

“Did you finish your essay?” he asks, leaning casually against the doorframe, but his tone carries an edge of playful curiosity.

You nod, brushing a strand of damp hair behind your ear. “I did. Just before I joined you in the shower.”

His lips curl into a smirk as he steps closer, his movements deliberate. “Good. Then it’s time for dessert.”

The words send a shiver down your spine, and you barely have time to process them before he’s kneeling in front of you. His hands slide up your thighs, parting them gently as he looks up at you with a heat that makes your breath catch.

“Lie back, love,” he murmurs, his voice low and commanding.

You obey, your pulse racing as you recline against the pillows. Harry’s hands push the shirt up to your waist, exposing you to his hungry gaze. He doesn’t waste a moment, pressing soft kisses along the inside of your thighs, his stubble grazing your sensitive skin and making you tremble.

“So fucking perfect,” he mutters, his lips brushing against your core. His tongue flicks out, tasting you, and the sensation pulls a gasp from your lips.

He starts slow, his tongue tracing lazy circles around your clit, teasing and testing your responses. Your fingers grip the sheets as he builds the intensity, alternating between gentle licks and firmer pressure that has you arching into him.

“Harry,” you moan, your voice trembling.

“I know,” he murmurs against you, his voice muffled but filled with reverence. “Let me take care of you.”

His fingers join in, slipping inside you with ease as he continues his assault on your clit. He moves with precision, finding that perfect rhythm that makes you see stars. Your hips buck against his mouth, and he groans in response, the vibrations sending another wave of pleasure through you.

“Come for me,” he commands, his voice rough. “I want to feel you.”

You shatter beneath him, your body trembling as your orgasm washes over you. Harry doesn’t stop, his tongue and fingers working you through every wave until you’re gasping for breath.

When he finally pulls back, his lips glisten, and his eyes are dark with lust. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, a wicked grin spreading across his face as he climbs onto the bed, hovering over you.

“You taste like heaven,” he says, leaning down to capture your lips in a kiss. You can taste yourself on him, the intimacy of it making your head spin.

He lines himself up with your entrance, pausing to look into your eyes. “Are you ready?” he asks, his voice soft but serious.

“Yes,” you breathe, your hands sliding up his arms to grip his shoulders. “I want you.”

Harry pushes inside slowly, the stretch exquisite as he fills you completely. He groans low in his throat, his forehead resting against yours as he stills for a moment, letting you adjust.

“You’re perfect,” he murmurs, his voice strained. “So fucking perfect.”

He begins to move, his thrusts slow and deliberate, each one pushing you closer to the edge. His hands grip your hips, his lips trailing kisses along your neck as he murmurs words of praise against your skin.

“You feel so good,” he groans, his pace quickening. “So tight. Taking me so well.”

Your nails dig into his shoulders, your moans growing louder as he drives you higher. The intimacy of the position, the way his body presses against yours, makes every sensation feel amplified.

“Harry,” you gasp, your body trembling as another orgasm builds.

“That’s it, love,” he murmurs, his thumb finding your clit. “Let go for me. I’ve got you.”

Your release crashes over you, your body clenching around him as you cry out his name. He follows soon after, his thrusts becoming erratic as he spills inside you, his groan of pleasure vibrating against your ear.

He doesn’t pull out right away, his body still pressed against yours as he catches his breath. When he finally does, he rolls onto his back, pulling you with him so you’re straddling his hips.

“Your turn,” he says, his hands settling on your thighs. “Ride me, love.”

You steady yourself, your hands resting on his chest as you sink down onto him. The stretch feels even deeper in this position, and you both moan at the sensation. You start slow, rolling your hips as his hands guide your movements, his fingers digging into your skin.

“Fuck, you look so good like this,” he groans, his head falling back against the pillows. “Taking me so well. So fucking beautiful.”

The praise spurs you on, and you pick up the pace, bouncing on his cock as your hands grip his shoulders for support. His eyes are locked on yours, his gaze heated as he watches you move.

“Touch yourself,” he commands, his voice rough. “I want to see you come again.”

Your fingers find your clit, rubbing in time with your movements. The pleasure builds quickly, and you can feel him throbbing inside you, his own release not far behind.

“Harry,” you moan, your voice trembling.

“That’s it, love,” he groans, one hand sliding to your ass. His thumb brushes against the tight ring of muscle there, the sensation surprising but not unwelcome. “You like that?”

You nod, your body tightening as the added stimulation pushes you closer to the edge.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, his other hand gripping your hip. “Come for me. Let me feel you.”

You shatter around him, your body trembling as your orgasm rips through you. The sight and feel of you coming undone pushes him over the edge, his hands gripping you tightly as he spills inside you.

For a long moment, the two of you stay like that, tangled together, your breaths mingling as you come down from the high. Finally, Harry pulls you down to rest against his chest, his arms wrapping around you.

“You’re incredible,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

You smile, your fingers tracing lazy patterns on his chest. “So are you.”

The silence in the room was heavy but not uncomfortable. His breath was warm against your skin as he pulled you closer, his arms wrapping securely around you. Your cheek rested against his chest, where you could hear the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. It was calming, grounding even, in the wake of everything that had just happened.

“Are you okay?” His voice was soft, laced with concern as his hand gently traced circles on my back.

You nodded, but then you realized he couldn’t see you. “Yeah. I’m okay. Are you?”

His chest rose and fell with a deep sigh. “I am now.” There was a pause before he added, “But we need to talk.”

You swallowed hard, bracing myself. “I know.”

He pulled back slightly, just enough so he could look down at you, his hand cupping your cheek. “I mean it. Are you really okay? Not just physically, but with everything? I… I don’t want you to regret this.”

Looking into his eyes, you could see the worry etched in them. He wasn’t asking out of obligation; he genuinely cared.

“I don’t regret it,” you assured him, your voice steady. “But, yeah, we should talk about what this means. For us. For… everything.”

He nodded, his thumb brushing over your cheek. “First,” he said, “I need to say that I’m sorry if it felt rushed or if… if I crossed any boundaries.”

“You didn’t,” you interrupted, shaking your head. “I wanted this, too. I still do.”

His shoulders relaxed slightly at your words, but the tension in the air remained. “We need to be careful, though. About everything. Especially with the… student-teacher dynamic.”

You bit your lip. “Yeah. I know. It’s… complicated. And risky.”

“It is,” he agreed. “But I care about you. More than I probably should. And I don’t want this to be something fleeting or secret that hurts you in the end. That’s the last thing I want.”

Hearing him admit that made your chest tighten in a way you weren't prepared for. “I care about you, too,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “But you’re right. We need to figure out what this is and how to handle it.”

He nodded, his fingers brushing a strand of hair away from your face. “We’ll figure it out. Together. But there’s something else we need to address.”

“The fact that it was… unprotected?” you guessed, your cheeks heating up.

His lips pressed into a thin line. “Yeah. I… wasn’t thinking clearly, and that’s on me. But we should talk about what to do now.”

“I’ll take care of it,” you said quickly. “There’s the morning-after pill, and if we keep… seeing each other, I’ll look into starting birth control.”

His brow furrowed. “I’ll help with whatever you need. This isn’t just your responsibility; it’s mine, too.”

You appreciated his willingness to take accountability, but you could see the guilt in his eyes. “We’ll handle it,” I said softly. “Together.”

He exhaled slowly, pressing a kiss to my forehead. “Thank you. For being so… understanding. I’ll do better. I promise.”

You stayed like that for a while, wrapped up in each other. It felt safe, even amidst all the uncertainty.

“What about tomorrow?” you finally asked, breaking the silence. “And the days after that? We can’t just pretend nothing happened.”

He tensed slightly but didn’t let go. “You’re right. We need to set boundaries. At least in public.”

“And in class,” you added, the weight of reality sinking in. “We can’t let anyone suspect anything. Not until we figure this out.”

“Agreed,” he said. “It’ll be hard, but if this is going to work, we need to be careful.”

You hesitated before asking, “Do you think it can work?”

His hand tilted my chin up so you were looking directly at him. “I do. But only if we’re honest with each other and take things one step at a time. No rushing. No hiding from the hard conversations.”

You nodded, feeling a flicker of hope. “Okay. Then let’s try. One step at a time.”

“One step at a time,” he echoed, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Starting with breakfast tomorrow. I’ll make it.”

“You cook?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Don’t sound so surprised,” he teased. “You’ll see. But seriously, we’ll talk more in the morning. About everything.”

“I’d like that,” you said, a warmth spreading through me that had nothing to do with the blankets wrapped around us.

For now, the future was uncertain, but as you lay in his arms, you felt like you could face it together. One step at a time.

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

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[part 3]

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