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Harry Styles Splits With Girlfriend After Year Long Relationship.

A Messy Break Between Two Global Superstars—Who is at Fault?

You couldn’t have been more unphased. It’s not like the two had a groundbreakingly amazing relationship. You knew they couldn’t. Not after you and him.

This was a matter of time, in your eyes. Before her, there was you. And you? You were all Harry had been looking for. And you knew it. So much so that at the start of his new relationship, you didn’t feel threatened in the slightest.

You went through your day as normal that Saturday, running some errands, grabbing a bite for lunch. Ignoring the string of texts from some friends asking if you’ve seen the news. Even a text from your own mother, only causing a large eye roll and a swipe left to dismiss it.

So when your phone rang at 10 at night with an endearingly familiar name, you decided it’d be the first notification you responded to that day.

“Hey,” you answer calmly and levelheaded, now resting on your mattress with a wide smile. Your stomach was pressed into your comforter as your feet swung back and forth behind you, rubbing into one another in smooth passing. You were adorned in sleep shorts a little too short for your own good and a matching cotton tank top that fell loose on your skin.

“Hi,” his voice rasped on the other line, “how are you?”

You have to hide your chuckle at his attempt at kind conversation. You’d rather he skip to the good part.

“I’m good, just in bed,” you sigh, “are you holding up okay? Saw the news.”

An empty ask that was fully forced out of you.

“I’d like to see you,” he says, and now you’re intrigued.

“Yeah?”

“I miss you, y/n,” and it wasn’t winsome, it was desperate.

“I know you do,” you nod, keeping your voice to a sensual whisper as you continue the quiet sway of your feet above you.

“Let me see you,” he pleads, “I need to see you.”

It was a naughty thing, him begging over the phone for you like this. He was wise beyond your years, big and strong and tall. You were his perfect little thing, young and perky and small enough to melt into his hold. You shuddered at the thought.

“You can come see me,” you nod slow, “if that’s what you really want.”

You knew it was. He knew that you knew it was.

“Yes, please,” the answer is quick, hopeless.

You honestly felt sorry for him. Listening to him pry for you like he needed you to breathe. You wondered how long he’d missed you, thought about you while fucking his girlfriend. Based on what you’ve heard, you can only assume it’s been a depressing amount of times.

“Ok, baby,” you bite back your smile, “come in when you get here. It’s unlocked.”

And with that, he hung up, pulling his shit together as quickly as possible to come see you. You just smiled to yourself on the bed, scrolling mindlessly as you waited for him. You were clean and freshly showered, slathered in a sweet smelling lotion and smooth all over.

You felt yourself wettening at the thought of him, of seeing him again after all this time. He was older now, chest littered in straggled hairs and pecs full and wide.

You thought of the photos you’d seen of him for Runner’s World Magazine—his stubbled beard and the ghosted bush of his happy trail. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t miss him just as much as he missed you, you were crying to taste this new version of him. Thick and stocky and strong enough to lift you with a hand.

And when he pushed through your door, disheveled as ever, it was everything you ever wanted and more. A thick black hoodie and a loose pair of pink cotton shorts, fabric ripped and torn at the bottom and hugging his quads perfectly.

Even through your distance—your stomach on the bed and him tall in the doorway—you were drowned in his scent. The heavenly mix of deep vanilla musk and all things manly. His phone was held loose in his left hand, looking interestingly small wrapped between his large fingers.

For a moment, there was silence. His eyes drifting to places they shouldn’t and your eyes watching him do so. He peered to the tight crevice that laid between your two legs as you laid against the mattress, ass up and feet gently kicking. You looked so innocently girlish in your pretty cotton pj’s that he nearly folded right there, watching your round ass move just the slightest with every shift of your feet.

“Hi,” You called to grab his attention. His eyes darted away from your body and up to your pretty face, round and doe eyed and clean.

“Hi,” breathless.

You roll to your back, sitting up straight now and throwing your shiny legs over the edge of the mattress. You pressed the palms of your hands against the bed on either side of you, staring up at him with a small smile.

“You look good,” you say.

“So do you,” he nods, taking slow steps closer to you now. Your heart pounded with every new inch he moved, and now you’ve truly realized how much you miss him. Missed this.

You just watch as he walks closer to you, keeping your eyes wide and locked on his. You suddenly felt small as he towered down at you, taking slow strides until he landed between your legs hung off the bed.

You were close now. Your knees grazing the hairs on his legs as his face drew all the way down to meet you gaze. Your neck was tilted back so far that it ached to hold the contact, but you didn’t mind. Not when he was looking at you the way he was.

“I’ve missed this sweet face of yours,” he whispers so low that you nearly miss it, bringing a finger to drag softly along the frame of your jaw.

Your eyes flutter at the hint of contact, basking in the smooth pass of his finger tip grazing against your face. His voice was low, deeper than it had been when you were together and a twang of something different in his accent.

“You did?” You ask innocently, blinking up at him with those big eyes that had him aching.

“I did,” he nods, bringing his finger to your lips now. He dragged against them, soft and swollen, watching as the pink skin pulled along with his touch and bounced back into place in recoil.

“Such a pretty, pretty little thing. So soft,” he seems to be talking to himself, grazing over new places on your face and neck with just the delicate touch of his finger. You were soaked. So soaked that you knew he’d taunt you once he got a feel.

He hooked his finger under your chin to tilt your head further back, bringing his face down until his lips were hovered against yours. You stayed like that for a moment, breathing hot breaths into one another with stuttering eyes.

“Y/n,” he breathed into you, as if he was setting himself up for his next line. But nothing came after, just desperate exhales and shifts of his finger.

“Hm?” You hum, lips grazing over his in a frustrating tease.

He pulled closer, rubbing his mouth against yours before pulling back with a breath. You leaned up to catch his lips again, failing as he pulled back and parted his lips further apart. He pushed forward again, breathing hot air into you as you waited to follow his lead. It was a wreck, the two of you sorting out how to start something so erotic. And then, through wide mouths and heavy breaths, he closed his lips around yours with a deep, long inhale. His finger released itself from your face and replaced it with the firm grasp of his palm, holding your face upright in a strong handle.

You flutter into the kiss that absorbs you, reeling in the taste of his tongue lapping up and down and around your mouth. You felt electric, trapped into the hold of his strong hands and the aggressive push of his tongue. He tasted delicious, minty fresh with a subtle hint of expensive whiskey that had your head spinning and thighs tightening.

“Need to fuck you,” he groaned into you, “missed this so much. Missed you.”

“Mm,” you hum in agreement, allowing your hands to find their place on his chest in front of you. You tug at the thick cotton of his hoodie and yearn for what’s below it, trying your hardest to take your time and follow his lead. You wanted him satisfied, to get everything he wanted from you and use you how he pleased. That would be pleasurable enough for you.

“You can take it off, baby girl,” he whispered into you, immediately pressing his lips back onto the moment he finished his sentence.

Your chest tightened and twisted into itself at his words and the familiar pet name that he’d used so tastefully when the two of you were together. You pulled the black sweatshirt up and over his head, allowing the fabric to pass through your kiss for just a moment before tossing it on the floor of your bedroom.

You were more than pleased to find that he hadn’t worn anything under, now exposed to his bare chest and chiseled muscles. It was even better than what you’d imagined; strong and buff and so so hard. Your nails trickled over the hills and valleys of his abs, feeling them squirm and tense beneath your touch. It was heavenly, the smooth surface that coated the swelling muscles.

He slowly pushed the two of you back through your disgustingly sloppy kiss, letting you fall to your back softly against your pretty pink comforter. You peaked an eye open through the kiss to glance at his shoulders as he did so, watching his traps swell and his shoulders round out in a gorgeously fit shine.

You let your legs wrap around his waist as he hovered over you, pushing his hips down into your center greedily. You both shuddered at the covered contact, the feeling so distant yet so familiar all the same.

He breaks his wet suction to your lips and shifts lower to your jaw, kissing down the sweet sensation of your perfume and down to your collarbone.

He was ridiculously needy, slopping his tongue around your smooth skin desperately as he failed to stabilize his breathing. He kissed every inch he could find, slowing his pace the lower he reached. Your skin was slick with his saliva by the time he reached the waist of your shorts, slowing down to nothing as he pressed slow deep kisses onto the skin.

You quivered as you watched him beneath you, green eyes staring up at you in challenge. His lips were soft and wet, kissing sweetly onto your sharp hip bones as his wide hands grasped your sides.

You started to wonder how you got here, Harry inches away from your pussy as your hand tangled through his hair. Yesterday, he was taken by a beautiful woman known worldwide by millions. Today, he’s falling undone for a woman a bit too young for his own good.

His fingers hook into the cotton of your tiny sleep shorts, tugging them down to reveal your wet slit. You hadn’t worn any underwear—having not expected him—and he growled low at the sight in front of him.

He laid a hot breath on the center of your tight, dripping wet pussy, sending goosebumps up and down your legs and tensing the muscles surrounding it. You were buzzing, high on the feeling of his lips back down where they belonged. You knew he missed your pussy, the way it gushed for him and swelled a pretty bright pink.

The second his tongue pressed flat against your slit, he moaned, loud and shameless at the sweet taste of you. He’d missed you dearly, dreaming of sugary sensation of your arousal coating his tongue for months on end. You were a honeyed petal for his lips to suckle on, framed by the precious scent of your cashmere lotioned thighs. He was on a cloud, lapping you up as your back arched in the beautiful way he remembered.

“Fuck, Harry,” you moaned, light and airy as your fingers twirled his curls harshly. His tongue worked miracles on your hot core, painting you up and down masterfully and you felt like you could cry at how much you missed him. No man has ever pleased you in the way he could, he knew your body like it was his own and was more generous than any man could dream of being.

“My baby tastes so sweet,” he groaned, pressing his tongue in and out of you and nudging his nose against your wet clit.

“Yeah?” You rasp out, “Daddy missed my pussy?”

His hands gripped your hips tighter at the line, shoving his mouth so deep into you that he had to be suffocating. Your back was arched up so high that it ached, your mind distracted in the pleasure that coursing through your blood on fire.

You quivered and gushed on his tongue, gentle moans rolling through you as his mouth moved to work your clit. He sucked hard and flicked your bud simultaneously, sending an aggressive vibration through your legs that locked Harry’s head in place. He was humming slow and steady against you, the mix of feelings comparing to nothing you’ve had before.

Your stomach felt hot and swarmed within itself, your head spinning against the mattress as your hair sprawled up and out. You were drunk on the man between your legs, opening your eyes every couple moments to watch the sensual sight of his face lodged between your thighs.

“You’re gonna cum,” he says, “cum on my tongue, baby, please.”

You clenched and tensed and squirmed, groaning at his words as he brought you up the latter and to your peak. You came fast and hard, soaking his tongue with your arousal as you clamped your legs around his head.

He nuzzled his head back and forth between your legs, blubbering against you as sopped you up and swallowed you down. His eyes stared up at you as he watched you collapse into your orgasm, the scene so provocative that he felt himself drip through his pants. Embarrassing, yes. But not between you two.

Your breaths slowed and your heart pounded as you came down from your high, pussy swollen and even wetter than before. He rose from his place at the edge of the bed with a wipe of his mouth, hovering back over you and taking in your red face.

“On your stomach,” he muttered stern, a demand rather than an ask that you will so happily oblige too.

You rolled to your stomach and shimmied to let your cheek lay against your pillow, wiggling your ass on the bed just barely.

He came to sit behind you, pressing his hands up the sides of your back and over the curve of your ass. He was taking you in, a sharp exhale slipping through his throat as he watched you shimmy around on the bed. Your ass was up and your slit was held tight together, dripping with the remains of your orgasm and puffy waiting for him.

You stretched your arm back behind you as you looked at him over your shoulder, slipping your fingers down past your ass until they landed on your center. You tapped the wet area twice, staring at him suggestively as you lifted your ass higher and used your fingers to split your hole open. You were putting on a show for him, displaying your little hole as he watched you intently.

“You wanna use your words?” He spits, rearranging his cock in his shorts at the sight of you teasing him.

“I can use my words,” you nod, continuing to touch yourself from behind. “You just tell me what you wanna hear.”

His jaw clenched at your response and his eyes shut for a moment too long, desperately trying to keep himself together.

“I want you to tell me what you want, and stop parading yourself in front of me like a slut,” he says low, running his hand up the back of your thigh.

“But I am a slut for you, daddy,” you whine, pressing a finger between your folds, “aren’t I?”

You watch as his lips part and his brows furrow, lost in watching you touch yourself so grossly as you spoke. You were an animal for him, stripping all of your self respect for the man behind you.

You press a second finger into yourself now, slowly stroking in and out as he watched closely. Your eyes shut in bliss and your pink lips fell apart at the pleasure you were providing for yourself, getting off to watching the man stare at you.

“Mmm,” you hum, “feels so good. Wish it was daddy’s cock instead, so big and hard.”

You watch him wince at the words, taking a thick swallow down his throat as he continues to eye you down. Your fingers plunged deep inside of you with every press, pulling out and soaking your skin with your filthy arousal.

“Stop.”

And you did. Hand out of yourself immediately, peering back at him with big eyes and waiting for the next instruction.

So you watched. Watched as he shrugged his shorts down and onto the floor, boxers following next and his cock springing to his lower stomach. Your thighs clenched and your jaw fell open, desperate for the throbbing length in front of you.

He was heavy and thick, so wide for you. His tip was red and swollen, soaked in the subtle drips that had been spilling out of him since he’d arrived. He looked glorious, like the most beautiful thing you had ever laid your eyes on.

When he shifted over top of you and lifted your hips up harshly, you could barely hold in your excitement as you bit back a smile. You’ve been thinking of this, this moment, his cock lined up behind you, for what felt like ages.

He pressed the head into your creamy slit so slow, so punishing. He stretched your tight pussy wide, pulling at the skin in a perfect mix of pain and pleasure. Your mouth fell open as you melted into the mattress beneath you, soothed by sweet sounds of Harry’s long groan behind you.

“Fuck, y/n,” his tone was low and his grip on your hips tensed, tugging at the skin until it reddened.

“Ohh, Harry,” your knuckles whitened as you tugged at your comforter, “fill me up, keep going.”

He slammed the whole of himself into you in one quick movement, bottoming out as his dense balls slapped against your throbbing clit. It sent a jolt of bliss through you as his tip pecked in deep, rubbing into your spongy insides rough and relentless.

He fucked you this way for a while, pounding in and out of you and watching as your ass jiggled and shook with every thrust. You were moaning loud, feeling too good to keep anything in as your skin slapped together. The noise was wet and sloppy as his hips melded to your ass, skin slapping and pussy gushing in a disgustingly pornographic manner.

“Shit, baby,” he groaned through gritted teeth, pressing a hand onto your back to press you further down into the mattress.

“My pussy feel good?” You whine, “tell me who feels better, daddy. Me or her. Tell me.”

“You, fuck— you!,” he struggles, “You.”

“Yeah? You missed this? Tell me how good it is,” you clenched around him tight, building to your orgasm as you taunt him.

“So good,” he breathes, “feel so good around me, baby girl. Best pussy I’ve ever had. So tight, shit.”

“Mmm,” you hum at his praise, legs trembling he thrusts into you even harder. You were jelly in front of him, being treated as nothing but a fuck toy for him and that’s how you liked it.

His tip slams into you relentlessly, over and over and over again until your stomach is boiling for the second time and your head is fuzzy. You were close, so close and he could feel it.

“M’gonna cum,” you murmur into the mattress, ass arching up as rams into the same sweet spot.

“I know, baby,” he rasps, “wanna feel this pussy cum on my cock. Give me what I’ve missed so much, cmon.”

You shook as your second orgasm rippled through you, hard and aggressive this time. Your moans were strangled and your face was red, gripping your walls around his dense shaft as you fell undone. You felt light and floaty as you came down from this one, falling limp beneath him as he rode you through it.

He pulled out, popping out of you as your stomach fell flat to the mattress. You were wiped, completely exhausted yet craving more all the same. A feeling only he’s given you.

“Y/n,” he rubbed up your back, “I know you’re tired…but I’ve been waiting to watch my baby ride me again for too long. Can you do that for me?”

He was insane to even act like you would say no.

“Yes, please,” you nod quick and flip to your back, catching your breath as he peers over you.

After a quick shift and some rearranging, you were perched on top of his thighs as he laid back into your pretty headboard relaxed as ever. You loved to see him like this, laid back and sprawled out for you to play with. To climb on top of and treat it as your little playground.

He tugged your top off in one quick motion, gawking at your perky breasts that fell in front of him. They bounced out of your top and displayed themselves beautifully for him, so hard and just what he needed to take him over the edge.

You smirk at his intense stare never leaving your chest, and lift your body up and over his swelling tip. It was pretty, so red and aching for you to sit yourself down where you belonged.

And when you finally pressed yourself down and let him pierce through you, your legs tensed harder than they ever had before. His hands guided your hips as they made their journey down, taking him in slow and steady as he stretched you for a second time. He curved straight up into your stomach, pressing a tent into the skin with every sudden movement.

“Oh, baby,” his neck reels back, “You feel that? We feel so good together, fuck.”

And you did. You were spinning, lost in the feeling that you brought upon yourself as you rolled your hips back and forth ever so sensually. It was tender but rough, slightly personal with a tinge of animalistic chemistry. Broken moans and heavy breaths littered the space around you as you rode him with your perfect mix of bounces and slides, soaking the hairs that surrounded his base with your slushy arousal.

“Did she fuck you like this, baby? Hm?” You spur on, quickening your pace as you find your rhythm back and forth.

“No, no, only you,” he spits out with no hesitation.

You grin, satisfied with his admission before lifting yourself all the way up, sliding him completely out of you as you kept him in place between your folds. You teased around the tip that slid between them for just a moment before swallowing him whole once more, sitting yourself down completely in one smooth drop.

At the sound of his deep, drawn out moan you shuddered, bouncing up and down and all around him as you watched his lips fall further apart. He looked heavenly, stubble shifting as his prominent Adams apple bobbed up and down with every groan. His body was strong beneath you and his big grown hands held you tight, gently guiding your movements but letting you keep control all the same.

“Shit,” you curse, “I fuck daddy so good, make him cum better than she did, I know I do.”

You’re rambling now, but you don't care. Neither does he. It’s all true, and right now it’s all so right. Just what he needs to hear falling from your pretty soft lips. He wanted to be reminded of his emotional disloyalty to his ex-girlfriend. He wanted you to know how often he thought of you while he fucked her.

“She was nothing. We were nothing. This is it, baby, you’re it, fuck!” he’s breathless, dick twitching inside of you and so close to his release.

“Please, miss your cum in me so much daddy, wanna be full,” you pick up your pace, bouncing so harsh that your tits were slapping against themselves with every drop. He was in a trance as he watched you, struggling to keep his eyes open but determined to not miss a second of the angelic sight in front of him. His girl, his little baby fucking him again just how he liked. Rough and desperate and one big mess for him.

With a loud and girthy groan, his hot liquid spurts inside of you in a warm blanket of comfort. His head tossed back and his mouth fell agape in total and complete ecstasy, legs trembling beneath you as he came long and hard.

Your hips rolled him through it until his cum was pouring through the crevices where you connected, mixing with your own as you came with him. It was ridiculously wet and weirdly therapeutic to hear, like a sound you forgot existed.

You both tensed and squirmed and vibrated within each other until your head fell forward and into the crook of his neck, laying there in heavy breaths as his hands instinctively wrapped to your back. He rubbed softly into your sweaty skin, catching his breath in sync with your own.

His cock stayed in you for quite a bit before you two parted, your pussy dripping with the two of you as it landed onto his lower stomach. You both giggled a bit at the burden, knowing now that you have to go run to grab him something to clean himself up with.

“Oops, stay here,” you couldn't contain your little laugh, meshing with his own muffled chuckles throughout the dimly lit room.

You ran quickly to your bathroom to grab him a fresh towel, returning fast so as to not leave him coated in his own cum for too long. You know how it feels, there’s definitely a lot of pressure to stay perfectly still until the towel appears.

You leaned over to wipe him up, leaving him dry and only slightly sticky. You were sure you two would shower soon anyway. You had to, you were both coated in sweat.

“Thank you,” he whispers to you as you toss the towel to the side, climbing back into bed next to him.

“Harry,” you push some hair out of his face, “I really miss you.”

“I dont,” he shakes his head, pushing his lips together as he turns to face you.

You freeze, lips parted and cheeks red. And all you can think to do is put a bit of distance between the two of you and bring one of your fuzzy pillows to cover your naked body.

“Hey, I’m joking!” he nudges you with the back of his hand and erupts into a fit of laughter, the sound so sweet but so annoying in the moment.

“Harry, that’s not funny!” you scold, tossing the fuzzy pillow at his head harshly.

“It was kind of funny, until you got all sad,” he mocks, “that was quite the pout, little miss.”

“I don't miss you anymore. You can go,” you cross your arms and swat him away, tummy fluttered and chest full.

“Y/n,” he pulls closer to you, “I miss you very, very much.”

“You do?” you ask, softer this time. You know it was silly, but for some reason you had always been under the impression that you were more into him than he was you. Maybe it was the age, the power dynamic, that had you feeling like he had much more important things to attend to than a cute little twenty something. But when you were reminded otherwise, it was more rewarding than anything.

“Very much,” he nods, “Bath?”

And of course you nod, as smitten as ever, before he kisses your cheek and hops up from the bed to run the water. You just sat there, fucked out of your mind and heart swelling, waiting for him to come back and swoop you up and into the bubbles.

if you enjoyed, pls like/reblog!

more importantly, please read my recent work on wattpad! Liminal- a smutty friends w benefits plot where harry and oc live across the hall from eachother

link to Liminal -> here.

masterlist

ask/request - ask anything! i usually only reply to specific requests once i’ve fully completed it so i can keep all unfinished requests in my inbox!! :)

You and Harry hadn’t been together for very long, at least not in chronological terms. In your own time, though, it felt as if you had been together for a lifetime. Long enough for Harry to know when you were genuinely happy or merely being polite; long enough for him to memorise your usual order at the café and place it for you; long enough to grow accustomed to the messages and the countless random TikToks you sent him throughout the day; long enough to notice, and even appreciate, your particular obsession with his moustache.

His moustache… it was a simply irresistible detail. You could hardly remember what his face had looked like before, as though past versions had never truly existed. When you met, he was already sporting the facial hair you loved so much and, honestly, it only made him even more attractive. There was something about that effortless aesthetic, flirting with a certain “daddy” vibe, that caught you off guard, because you hadn’t even realised you could find it attractive until you met him.

It was amusing to think that, before everything, you had already known him in another way. From magazine covers, from impeccable photos at events, from concert videos you used to watch repeatedly during your teenage fangirl phase. It felt like a lifetime ago, even though, deep down, it hadn’t really been that long after all, you were only 21.

And even so, none of those versions compared to the one that existed now, so close, so real. Because, in real life, there was always something more—the way he looked at you, as if he had all the time in the world just for you. The way his smile appeared slowly, almost teasing, especially when he noticed how much attention you paid to that moustache. And when you moved closer, it was impossible to ignore the soft yet shiver-inducing sensation against your skin, the low laugh slipping from his lips as he noticed your reaction. It was unfair, really, because no old memory, no perfect photograph, came anywhere near that.

Many things about Harry seemed unfair when you stopped to think about it. He was unfairly handsome, had a body that looked as though it had been sculpted by the gods, knew exactly how to treat a woman, and was so good in bed that he made you cry almost every time you had sex.

Simply put, You were absolutely crazy about him.

You remembered that night perfectly, when he was so deep inside you that you could feel the shape of his cock pressing against your stomach. With a low, husky voice, he had murmured against your ear, “I’ve ruined all other men for you, haven’t I?” And you knew he was right. Deep down you already knew you would never be able to be with or be satisfied by any man who wasn’t Harry. Back then, you weren’t even officially a couple, but he acted as if you had been his from the very first moment he saw you.

Now, with him so close again, that feeling returned even more intensely. The calm, possessive look, the smile that appeared slowly, especially when he noticed how your eyes lingered on his moustache. That light moustache in contrast with the dark brown of his hair, well kept, which always made you a little more nervous when he smiled.

You moved closer slowly, your heart racing. Your fingers slid up to his chest, feeling his heavy breathing beneath his shirt. Harry tilted his head slightly, his eyes darkening as he watched your reaction. The corner of his lips curved, making his moustache shift in a subtle, almost teasing way. “Look at you…” he murmured, his deep voice laced with desire. “You’re already wet just from being close to me, aren’t you? And I haven’t even started touching you yet.” He took a step closer, his body almost pressed against yours. His hand moved slowly down your waist while his eyes remained fixed on yours. “I want to feel you in my tongue…”

He effortlessly carried you to the bedroom, switching on the bedside lamp on the way.

The warm, golden light bathed his skin as he laid you down on the bed. The sheets were cool against your back, contrasting with the heat already rising through your body. He knelt between your legs, his large palms finding the inside of your thighs, spreading you open slowly, almost reverently, just for him. “You drive me crazy.”

He began with slow, wet kisses along your inner thighs, moving up gradually. His rough moustache brushed against your sensitive skin, leaving a trail of shivers. Each kiss was followed by a gentle bite, a warm lick. He took a deep breath, inhaling your scent as if you were addictive.

When he reached the centre, he didn’t attack straight away. He ran his broad, flat tongue from your soaked entrance up to your clit, a long, slow, possessive movement. His moustache moved along with it, creating that rough, delicious friction that made you grab the sheets. He repeated the motion several times, letting out a low moan against you, the sound vibrating directly through your centre. "You're so wet for me..." He whispered, almost reverently. "This pussy is mine, isn't it?" 

He closed his mouth around your clit and sucked firmly, rhythmically, while his tongue circled in quick, precise motions. His wet moustache rubbed without pause, intensifying every sensation. You arched your back, moaning loudly, your fingers tangling in his hair. He responded by gripping your thighs more firmly, opening you even more, plunging his entire face.

His tongue slid between your folds, teasing you slowly, then returned to your swollen clit, sucking at it hungrily. The sounds were wet, obscene, echoing through the silent room: the sound of suction, his husky moan, your own moans growing louder and more desperate. He alternated between long, deep sucks and quick, short licks, never letting you grow used to the rhythm.

One of his hands moved up your body, gripping your breast tightly, pinching your nipple while the other kept your thighs open. You could feel your orgasm approaching fast, but he noticed, he always knew when you were close, and he slowed down on purpose, torturing you. “Not yet, love, you’re going to hold it just a little longer. Can you do that for me?”

He pushed two thick fingers inside you, curling them exactly in the spot that made you see stars, while his mouth returned to your clit with more intensity. His wet moustache slid with more intensity, his tongue working faster, his fingers fucking into you hard and deep. Your whole body shook, trying to close your thighs around his head, but he wouldn’t let you.

When the pleasure became unbearable, he grunted against you. “You can come now, my love. Make a mess on my face.”

The orgasm hit you like an overwhelming wave. You came hard, moaning his name, your body tightening, pulsing around his mouth and fingers. But He didn’t stop. He kept sucking and licking slowly, prolonging the pleasure until you became too sensitive, trembling and breathless.

Only then did he move up your body, his moustache glistening with your arousal, his lips swollen and red. His dark eyes were wild with desire. “So beautiful for me.” He murmured, kissing you, making you taste yourself.

"I want to make you cum like this one more time before I actually fuck you. Is that okay?" You can only nod, unable to find words. “That’s my good girl.”

“great,” they say, not really waiting for your answer. “you’re on.”

and then you’re walking.

the lights hit you all at once, bright and blinding, the audience rising, clapping, cheering in that overwhelming way that always feels a little unreal. you smile automatically, waving, soaking it in just enough before stepping into your mark.

you take a breath.

and then—

“hi.”

the applause softens, but the energy stays.

“wow,” you say, looking around like you’re taking it all in. “this is… a lot of people who voluntarily chose to be here.”

a small wave of laughter rolls through the crowd.

you nod slowly. “that’s already concerning.”

more laughter.

you shift your weight slightly, hands clasped loosely in front of you.

“hi, i’m— well, you know who i am, otherwise this would be deeply embarrassing for both of us.”

another laugh, a little louder this time.

“i’m hosting saturday night live for the first time, which is exciting,” you continue, voice calm, almost too calm. “and slightly suspicious. because i mostly do films where i stare at walls and try to feel things.”

the audience laughs again, catching onto your rhythm.

“i’m here promoting my new movie directed by chloé zhao,” you say. “which means it’s very beautiful, very emotional… and i cry in at least seven different lighting situations.”

a few people clap.

you nod at them. “thank you. i suffered for that.”

the laughter builds easier now.

you glance off to the side, like you’re remembering something.

“it’s actually been a very busy year for me,” you add. “i filmed the movie, did press, and i’ve been in a long term relationship.”

a beat.

“which is, honestly, my most challenging role.”

the audience reacts immediately, laughing, a little louder now.

you tilt your head slightly. “yeah. method acting. very immersive.”

you let that sit for a second, then continue, tone unchanged.

“i’ve been dating my boyfriend for over three years,” you say. “which, in hollywood time, is… basically a marriage and a divorce.”

a bigger laugh.

you nod. “we’re doing great, though. still together. against all odds. and several conspiracy theories.”

that lands.

you let your eyes drift slightly toward one of the cameras.

“because, apparently, our relationship is fake.”

the audience laughs again, already anticipating it.

“yeah,” you say, very matter of fact. “there’s a section of the internet that believes i’m in a long term, emotionally committed, very public fake relationship… for fun.”

you shrug lightly.

“i wish i had that kind of free time.”

laughter, louder now.

you pace just a step, slow and casual.

“they’re very dedicated, though,” you add. “they have timelines. body language analysis.”

you pause.

“which is interesting, because i don’t even analyze my own behavior that closely.”

another wave of laughter.

“like, they’ll be like, ‘she's ignoring him less than usual, something’s off,’” you say, mimicking just slightly. “and i’m like… i forgot he was there .”

the audience laughs, clapping now.

you nod, trying to stay serious. “i’m almost always forgetting about him.”

you glance toward the audience, like you’re searching.

“he’s actually here tonight,” you say casually.

there’s an immediate shift. the audience perks up, murmurs, excitement buzzing.

“yeah,” you continue. “i brought him to prove he exists.”

laughter.

“harry styles is here.”

the camera cuts to him almost instantly.

he’s sitting in the front row, dressed in something that’s very him, a smiley face shirt and blue jeans. he smiles, waving a little as the audience cheers louder, some people standing.

he leans slightly toward the person next to him, then looks straight at the camera.

“i’m real,” he says, deadpan.

the audience loses it.

you watch the screen for a second, then nod.

“debatable.”

more laughter.

the camera stays on him for a second longer as he presses a hand to his chest, mock offended, then mouths something that looks suspiciously like wow.

it cuts back to you.

“he’s a musician,” you add, like it’s new information. “very successful. you might know him.”

a small laugh.

“i’ve actually learned a lot from dating him,” you continue. “for example, i now know that leaving the house requires… an audience.”

the audience laughs, and the camera briefly cuts to harry again, who nods like that’s fair.

“and that you can, in fact, wear sunglasses indoors and still be taken seriously.”

harry shrugs at the camera, unapologetic.

you continue, unfazed.

“also, he’s taught me that if you wear something confident enough, people will just… accept it.”

you gesture vaguely. “like, feathers. or no shirt. or both.”

laughter builds again.

harry claps slowly for that one, smiling.

you glance back toward him.

“i tried it once,” you say. “didn’t go well.”

the audience laughs again.

you pause, then add, “turns out, you need the hair for that.”

the reaction is louder now, people clapping, a few cheers.

harry leans back in his seat, shaking his head, laughing.

you let the moment breathe before continuing.

“but he’s very supportive,” you say. “he’s here tonight, which is nice, because usually he’s somewhere else. like… italy. or japan. or emotionally unavailable.”

the audience laughs, a little sharper this time.

harry visibly reacts to that one, pointing at you like hey, but still smiling.

you shrug. “we’re working through it.”

a softer laugh.

you shift slightly, your tone just barely warming.

“he did help me prepare for this,” you admit. “he said, ‘just be yourself.’”

you pause.

“which is terrible advice for live television.”

laughter again.

“i asked him for something more specific,” you continue. “and he said, ‘don’t worry, you’re funnier than me.’”

you tilt your head.

“which felt… manipulative.”

the audience laughs.

harry presses his lips together, trying not to laugh too hard at that.

you take a small breath, glancing around the room again.

“but in all seriousness,” you say, tone still dry but slightly softer, “it’s nice to have someone who shows up for you.”

there’s a small shift in the audience, a quiet aww kind of reaction.

you immediately cut it off.

“especially because i made him sit through a four hour director’s cut of my film.”

laughter breaks it again.

“no bathroom breaks,” you add.

harry holds up a hand like that’s true, mouthing help.

you nod. “he survived. barely.”

you take another small step, settling back into your spot.

“anyway,” you say, clapping your hands lightly once. “we have an amazing show tonight.”

the audience cheers again, the energy rising.

“we’ve got great sketches, incredible performers, and i will be doing my best to not ruin all of it.”

a laugh.

you smile, just slightly.

“stick around. i promise it’ll be worth it.”

the band kicks in, the applause swelling again as you step back, the lights shifting, the moment moving on.

as you walk offstage, you catch a glimpse of the screen.

harry’s still smiling.

not the big, public one.

something softer.

It was the third time that day. No– fourth. Maybe fifth? You’d lost count hours ago, your body humming with the strange, feverish pull that came with ovulation, like your own biology had turned into a cheeky little devil whispering in your ear: go find him again, he’ll give you what you want.

And Harry… Harry had been a very good sport about it so far.

Morning had started with him waking to you practically crawling on top of him, lips trailing over his chest, your thighs already squeezing together in that needy way that made him sigh and mutter, “S’already too early for this, baby.” But of course, he gave in. He always did.

By the time breakfast was cold on the counter, you’d already taken him on the sofa. Then the shower. Then again on the bed when you were supposed to be getting dressed. Each time, he laughed a little more in disbelief, shaking his head as if he couldn’t quite believe you were still that insatiable.

But he never said no.

Now, hours later, you caught him in the kitchen, lazily stirring honey into his tea, hair still damp from the shower you’d dragged him into earlier. He looked so content, so unsuspecting, standing barefoot in his joggers and nothing else, tattoos flexing as he lifted the spoon.

You giggled.

Harry froze, spoon halfway to the mug. “Oh, no. No, no, no. I know that laugh.” He didn’t even turn to look at you.

You padded into the kitchen on your tiptoes, clasping your hands behind your back like you were about to beg for sweets. “Haaaarr—”

“Don’t you dare,” he warned, pointing the spoon in your direction without facing you. “M’warning you now. M’a tired man. Leave me alone, woman!!”

You burst into even louder laughter, bouncing on your feet as if you hadn’t already been thoroughly ruined by him all day. “But…” you sang, drawing out the word as you came closer, “I want you.”

He finally turned, giving you that wide-eyed, mock-horrified look that always made you crumble. “Want me? Again? You’ve had me all day, bunny. You’re insatiable. You’re gonna drain me dry.”

“Maybe that’s the plan,” you teased, nose scrunching as you grinned at him.

Harry groaned, tossing his spoon into the sink and dragging a hand down his face like a man defeated. “You’re lucky you’re cute,” he muttered, eyes narrowing when you hopped closer and pressed your cheek against his bare chest.

You tilted your head up, pouty lips brushing his collarbone. “Don’t you wanna?”

His laugh was disbelieving, half-choked. “Sweetheart, I can’t walk straight thanks to you, and you’re here askin’ me if I wanna?”

You batted your lashes, pretending innocence. “But it feels sooo good.”

He bent down so his nose brushed against yours, voice dropping lower, teasing. “For you, maybe.”

“Liar,” you whispered, nipping at his lip. “You like it too. You’re obsessed with me.”

That earned you a full laugh, his head tipping back as he gripped your hips. “Obsessed, am I?”

“Mhm.” You nodded proudly. “Hopelessly.”

He leaned down until his lips were at your ear. “Careful, lovie. Keep temptin’ me like that and I’ll show you exactly who’s obsessed.”

Your giggle came out breathy this time, betraying how hot his words made you. Your body pressed shamelessly against him, hips giving a little wiggle.

Harry’s jaw clenched. He squeezed his eyes shut as if in pain. “Jesus.” Then, louder, dramatic as ever: “I told you to leave me alone, woman!!”

And with that, he scooped you up effortlessly, your squeals ringing through the kitchen as he carried you back toward the bedroom.

Harry dropped you onto the mattress with a bounce, standing over you with his arms crossed, trying his hardest to look stern despite the grin tugging at his lips.

“You’re unbelievable,” he said. “You know that?”

You sprawled out like a starfish, hair messy, cheeks pink, eyes glinting mischievously. “Unbelievably cute?”

“Unbelievably horny.”

You kicked your legs playfully, giggling when he rolled his eyes. “Can’t help it. Blame my ovaries.”

“Oh, I do. I’m writin’ them a formal complaint later,” he muttered, crawling onto the bed and caging you in with his arms.

You wrapped your arms around his neck instantly, pulling him close. “Nooo, don’t complain. You love it.”

He arched a brow. “Do I?”

“Yes.” Your answer was immediate, certain.

Harry studied your face, then shook his head with a laugh. “You’re mental.”

You kissed him before he could say more, lips soft but insistent, teeth nipping playfully at his lower lip. He groaned against your mouth, already giving in even as he mumbled, “S’not fair. Can’t ever say no to you.”

“That’s cause you’re obsessed,” you reminded him with a cheeky smile.

He growled low in his throat, rolling you onto your back and pinning your wrists above your head. “Hopelessly, yeah? Is that what you think?”

You nodded, heart racing, thighs already parting beneath him.

“Then maybe,” he whispered, lips brushing your jaw, “I oughta prove just how obsessed I am.”

Hours later (maybe days, time had no meaning anymore) you lay tangled in the sheets, your body buzzing, sore in the best way. Harry was beside you, one arm flung over his eyes, chest rising and falling with heavy breaths.

You propped yourself up on your elbow, studying him with a dreamy smile. “You okay?”

He peeked at you from under his arm. “No. M’dead. You’ve killed me.”

You giggled, poking his ribs until he squirmed. “But you liked it.”

He groaned, grabbing your hand to stop your poking. “I love it, which is the problem.”

''Alright, go on,'' he says, voice teasing as he picks up a menu. ''Tell me how charming I am again.''

You raise a brow at him, smiling behind the rim of your wine glass. ''I never said you were charming.''

''No, but you're blushing. That says enough.''

You roll your eyes, but your cheeks are a little warm. ''You're lucky I like you.''

He leans in just enough for you to catch the scent of his cologne, and you can't help but squeeze your thighs together under the table. ''You have no idea,'' he murmurs, eyes scanning your face.

The air shifts, as it always does between you two. A joke turns into a moment. A glance turns into a throbbing between your legs. You're still getting used to it, the way he pays attention to you, the way he always puts your needs before his own without hesitation.

The waitress comes and goes with your orders, barely glancing at you once she sees who she's serving. Harry doesn't seem to notice, or he does, but pretends not to, and you watch the side of his face as he orders two bowls of a pasta dish he insists you have to try and thanks her, polite and unbothered, like he's not the most famous man in the restaurant. You wonder how often he's had to pretend not to notice the stares, how it feels when everyone knows your face.

He turns back to you with that familiar, lopsided smile, the one that makes you feel like you're the only person in the room, and now that you're alone again, the conversation starts to unravel into something softer. He asks you how your week's been. You tell him about a book you've been reading, a walk you took the other day, the little things that most people don't care about, but he listens to everything you say like it's the most important thing in the world. After a sip of wine you ask him something that's been rolling around your mind.

''Do you ever get tired of being… y'know. Recognized? Looked at?''

Harry tilts his glass in his hand, eyes scanning the table as he contemplates the question. ''Sometimes. Depends.''

''On what?''

He exhales slowly, like he's trying to decide how honest to be. ''On the day. On the mood I'm in. Sometimes it feels harmless, someone smiling at me in a grocery store, or a fan wanting a photo. It's nice. Other times…'' He pauses. ''It makes me feel like I'm in a glass box. Like I'm being watched through it, but I can't touch anything on the other side. It's... isolating, at times. I don't know.''

Your heart twists a little at the image. ''That sounds lonely.''

''It can be,'' he admits. ''But it's part of the deal, right? I asked for this. Not all of it, not the way people think they own you, or the weird entitlement, but the rest of it. The music, the performing, the connection with people. That's the part I couldn't live without.''

You nod slowly, letting his words settle. ''Do you think people ever really see the real you?''

He glances sideways at you, then nudges your foot under the table. ''You do.'' He reaches for your hand and lifts it to his mouth, pressing a kiss to the back of it like you're some old-Hollywood starlet.

Your breath catches.

''Alright. That was depressing, let's move on,'' he says, looking at you with a conspiratorial smile as he leans in closer, your hand still in his. ''Deep questions or embarrassing childhood stories?''

You laugh. ''Are those my only two options?''

''I mean, I could ask about your thoughts on parallel universes, but we've only had half a glass of wine.''

You pretend to think. ''Embarrassing stories, then. I want to know all your secrets.''

''Dangerous.'' He leans back in the booth, stretching one arm along the back of the couch. ''Okay. I had this phase, I reckon I was around nine or ten, where I genuinely believed I was going to be a magician. I made my mum sit through hours of these dreadful performances in the living room. My sister still has the photos, I'm sure.''

''I'm going to need to see those.''

...

Harry fumbles with the keys, and you lean against the doorframe, watching him with your shoes dangling from your fingers and your smile still stuck in place. You're both laughing when you walk through the door, the sound echoing through the quiet apartment.

''Remind me to never let you order in Italian again,'' you say, squinting at him. ''Your accent is awful when you're drunk.''

He grins, dimples deep. ''It's called authenticity, darling.''

''It's called cultural appropriation, Harold.''

He lets out a bark of laughter and tosses his keys on the entryway table. ''And I'm not drunk, I'm just... tipsy. Barely. Just like you are.''

''How come you're such a lightweight at, what, 170 pounds of pure muscle?'' you say with a huffed laugh, heading toward the kitchen, ''I'm revoking your wine privileges.''

''You wound me.''

But he's already trailing after you, tugging his rings off one by one and setting them carefully on the counter. The top few buttons of his shirt have come undone over the course of the evening, revealing the slope of his collarbone and the beginning of that stupidly pretty chest you try not to stare at. His sleeves are rolled up his forearms, and the tattoos scattered across his skin look like they're moving under the soft kitchen lights. You bite your lip at the sight of the swallows on his collarbones, sinful thoughts flooding your mind.

You turn away quickly, focusing on taking off your earrings.

The silence is comfortable, filled with the occasional clink of jewelry being set down, the soft sloshing of wine as Harry uncorks another bottle behind you and pours two glasses. You send him a disapproving look, but he cuts you off with a smug smile.

''You know,'' he says, passing you a glass and bumping his shoulder into yours. ''You look very beautiful tonight.''

You glance at him. ''Only tonight?''

He grins again, softer this time. ''Especially tonight.''

You roll your eyes fondly but take a sip of wine to hide your smile. ''Flattery will get you everywhere.''

''That's the plan,'' he grins, leaning against the counter beside you.

You both fall quiet for a moment, and you let the hush settle around you. He looks relaxed like this, sleeves rolled up, wine in hand, curls a little unruly from where your fingers kept brushing through them on the drive home. There's something about this version of him, the real him, that makes your chest ache a little.

''Can I ask you something?'' you say eventually, swirling the wine in your glass.

He hum softly, gazing at you intently over the rim of his glass.

''Is it hard pretending to be somebody you're not? Like... in the media?''

The question hangs in the air for a beat. He exhales slowly, setting his glass down on the counter.

''I don't. I show the public a side of myself,'' he says after a moment. ''If I presented myself to be a completely different person... I wouldn't be able to keep up with that. What the public sees, it's... limited, but it's still me. A part of me, anyway.''

You nod. ''That makes sense.''

''It's weird, really, when the entire world thinks they're entitled to knowing everything about you. They want to know all my intimate, dirty secrets while they keep their own hidden. It's invasive, and wildly hypocritical,'' he says, staring at a scratch on the counter, before smiling softly. ''But the view I have from the stage... It's worth all the scrutiny, the speculation, the vile headlines. All of it.''

Your nod softly, and your voice is quieter when you speak. ''For what it's worth, you'll never have to deal with any of it alone as long as I'm here. The highs and the lows.''

''I can't tell you how much I appreciate that. You.''

The words sit heavy in your chest. You take another sip of wine, then shift your weight so your hip bumps lightly against his.

''Hey,'' you say, glancing at him sidelong, wanting to lift his spirits. ''You're not the only one with layers, you know.''

Harry raises an eyebrow. ''Oh?''

''I have hidden depths. Mystery. Intimate, dirty secrets.''

He smirks. ''Any of these dirty secrets you're willing to share?''

You pretend to think. ''Maybe.''

His voice drops a little lower. ''Like what?''

There's a flicker of curiosity behind his eyes now, of interest. That quiet kind of intensity he gets when he's trying to read between your words. You chew the inside of your cheek and shrug, trying to keep your tone light, and you know you have him hooked.

''I don't know. Like… I guess I've thought about certain things. Wondered what I might like.''

''You can tell me,'' he says, softer now. ''No pressure.''

You glance down into your wineglass, suddenly hyperaware of how close he is, how warm the air feels around you. ''Okay,'' you say, half-laughing at yourself. ''But only if you go first.''

He lets out a low chuckle and sets his glass aside completely, folding his arms loosely across his chest. ''Alright. Let's see…'' There's a thoughtful pause before he continues. ''I like being in control. I like guiding things. Making someone feel safe while still pushing a little. Watching them fall apart and knowing I'm the reason.''

Your stomach flips.

''And I like praise,'' he adds. ''Giving it, mostly. I like letting someone know when they're doing well. When they're being good for me.''

You don't realize you're holding your breath until you exhale.

He smiles, a little smug. ''Too much?''

''No,'' you say quickly, ''Not at all. I just… I didn't expect you to say all that so easily.''

He shrugs, playful. ''You asked.''

There's another pause. He doesn't press, just waits. His patience is almost worse than pressure, because you want to tell him. You want him to know. But the words seem to be stuck in your chest, the weight of them making it a little harder to breathe.

You take another sip of wine and then clear your throat.

''I guess I've always liked the idea of… being told what to do,'' you admit. ''Not in a 'do my laundry' way. Just in bed. I like the thought of someone being a little more dominant. Someone guiding me.''

Harry nods, gaze soft but focused. ''That makes sense, especially when it's your first time.''

''Exactly why I'd want someone to take control, take some of the pressure off me. And maybe…'' You hesitate, and then decide to hell with it. ''I'd like to be blindfolded? To surrender control to another person like that... I don't know, the mutual trust, it excites me.''

His smile deepens, slow, pleased. ''That can definitely be arranged.''

''Stop,'' you say, flustered, nudging his arm. ''We're just talking.''

''I know,'' he says, raising his hands in mock surrender. ''But I'm taking notes. So, guidance. Trust. A little control. Anything else?''

You open your mouth, then close it. Then open it again. You run your hands through your hair, debating on your choice of words. ''I think... I'd like to try, um, having your hand around my throat?''

''How?'' he asks breathlessly, taking a step closer and brushing your hair over your shoulder. He takes off your necklace with reverence, fingers deliberately brushing along your collarbone.

You swallow. ''Not like… suffocating. But enough to feel lightheaded, to feel the power you have over me in that moment. I don't know.''

''Like this?'' His voice is almost a whisper as his hand slowly slides up your body to wrap around your throat, not squeezing, just... there. You tilt your head back to lean on his shoulder, trying to ignore the undeniable throbbing between your thighs.

You nod once, barely able to move your head with his grip on your neck, but he's not satisfied. He gives your throat a gentle squeeze, just enough to make your lips part and your breath hitch. ''I asked you a question, baby. Be a good girl and answer it for me.''

Your eyes flutter shut, heartbeat thrumming in your ears. ''Yeah... Yeah, um, exactly like this.''

He hums appreciatively, pressing a kiss to your temple.

''We're still just talking?'' you ask, teasing but shaky.

He smiles, softer now. ''For now.''

...

By the time you make it to the bedroom, the air is thick with anticipation, with desire. Harry shuts the door behind him with a soft click, and while you don't turn to look at him, pretending to be focused on the glow of the bedside lamp, the way it spills light across the sheets, your entire body is aware of his presence.

He doesn't say anything at first. Just walks up behind you, slow and steady, like he's giving you a chance to back away if you change your mind. But you don't. You stand still, letting the heat of his body press against your back, and when he dips his mouth down to kiss your shoulder, your breath catches like it always does.

''So brave,'' he murmurs, lips dragging up your neck. ''Telling me what you want.''

He turns you around then, hands firm on your waist, and his eyes, half-lidded from wine and want, flick across your face. The veins on his forearms, running through the inked skin, stand out as he holds you. His thumb slips beneath the hem of your shirt, skimming the warm skin just above your waistband.

''Tell me again,'' he says, voice low. ''Tell me what you want.''

You inhale, shaky. ''I want you to touch me. Guide me, Harry.''

The groan he lets out is quiet and restrained, but it curls hot in your belly. ''Good girl,'' he says, kissing you hard, quick. ''Get on the bed.''

You do. You sit first, then scoot back until you're in the middle of the bed. He follows, nudging your legs open with his knee and climbing between them as he crashes his lip into yours. You reach for his shirt, undoing the last few buttons while he watches you, the heat in his eyes dark and undivided. He shrugs it off his shoulders and tosses it aside, and for a second all you can do is stare at him.

You've seen him shirtless before, but it never fails to take your breath away. His chest is rising and falling in anticipation, his skin flushed and glistening in the lamp light, his eyes drinking you in.

He leans down and kisses you again, slower now, deeper. The kind of kiss that sinks into your bloodstream, lighting up every part of your body with lust. His hands are everywhere: your thighs, your waist, palming your breasts over your dress. And then, without warning, he shifts forward and presses his knee right between your legs.

The pressure is instant. Your hips twitch toward it.

''Oh,'' you breathe, gripping his shoulders.

He smiles against your mouth. ''Feel good?''

You nod. ''Yeah. Really good.''

''Ride it, baby,'' he says, kissing down your jaw. ''Wanna watch you fall apart.''

You do, slowly, rhythmically, grinding against his knee as his lips work down your throat. He worships your skin, kissing, biting, licking a stripe up the side of your neck. One hand finds its way back to your throat, resting there like a promise, not squeezing yet, just reminding you of what you confessed to moments ago.

You moan softly, the sound catching in your throat when he shifts again and bumps his knee into you harder.

''Fuck,'' you gasp, hands twisting in the sheets.

''You're soaked already, aren't you?'' His voice is rough, your eyes nearly rolling back at the sinful sound. ''Just from a bit of pressure.''

You nod again, this time more desperately.

''Good,'' he says. ''God, you're perfect.''

He keeps his knee pressed against your throbbing cunt, letting you grind against it, letting you whimper and gasp and beg. Eventually, he pulls back slightly, just enough to drag his fingers down your chest, bunching your dress further up your hips.

''Can I?'' he asks.

''Yes,'' you say instantly, breathless.

''Want to hear you beg next time,'' he says, kissing the corner of your mouth. ''Just so we're clear.'' You whine at the promise in his voice.

His fingers slip beneath your underwear, and he groans. ''Fuck. You're soaked, baby.''

You bite your lip.

He kisses your cheek, then your jaw, right above where his hand is still pinning your neck down, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses to your shoulder as he slides a finger inside. You gasp, clenching instinctively, still getting used to the foreign feeling of it, and he stills.

''You okay?'' he asks gently.

You nod. ''More. Please.''

He gives you exactly that, one finger at first, slow and steady, curling up inside you with expert precision, then two, pumping into you while his mouth never leaves your skin.

''Doing so good for me,'' he whispers. ''So fucking good.''

You're dizzy with it. The rhythm, the praise, the tension coiling low in your belly. His fingers still work inside you, his palm grazing your clit deliciously, and his other hand experimentally squeezes your throat.

Not hard. Just enough to make you feel it. Just enough to send a jolt of something new down your spine. It's not fear, it's a powerless sort of pleasure, the heady thrill of giving in completely.

''Is this okay?'' he asks, even as his grip tightens slightly.

You can't speak. Not because of his hand around your throat, but because you're too blissed out to think clearly, so you just nod, eyes glassy as your hands twist into the sheets, gripping the fabric.

''Good girl,'' he says again. ''You tell me if it's too much, yeah?''

You manage a small noise of assent.

The pressure of his fingers, the drag of his thumb against your clit, the weight of his palm at your throat, pressing you into the mattress as you moan beneath him. He's watching you, utterly focused, eyes fixed on your mouth as it falls open, your chest as it rises and falls in short, gasping breaths, your hips as they twitch, chasing his touch.

''You're so fucking pretty like this, love,'' he mutters. ''Don't think you even realize what you do to me.''

You whine faintly, overwhelmed.

''Prettiest thing I've ever seen,'' he insists, voice strained. ''My sweet girl. Letting me in. Letting me take care of you.''

You're close, he can feel it. Your walls flutter around his fingers, your legs twitch, your back arches. His hand squeezes a little tighter, constricting your airflow for just a second, and that's all it takes.

You fall apart.

Your orgasm crashes through you like a wave, blinding and white-hot. You cry out, throat strained beneath his hand, body convulsing around his fingers as he keeps moving them, drawing every last tremor from your core until you whine in overstimulation.

Then, slowly, gently, he eases off. His grip on your throat loosens. He kisses your cheek, your jaw, your temple, murmuring soft praises as you come back to yourself.

''Breathe, baby,'' he says. ''There she is. There's my girl.''

You blink up at him, dazed. He brushes the hair from your face and kisses your forehead.

''You okay?'' he whispers.

You nod, slow and heavy. ''Yeah. I'm… yeah.''

''And this... it was okay?''

''It was perfect,'' you sigh contently, stretching leisurely and sinking into the mattress, feeling like you're floating above the clouds.

''Good,'' he smiles softly and reaches over you for his phone on the nightstand, fingers brushing your body as he moves. He lights up the screen, just checking the time, you assume.

You feel his body still on top of you, and look up in confusion just in time to see his smile fade instantly. He goes quiet.

You blink up at him, the haze of satisfaction still blurring your thoughts. ''What is it?''

He doesn't answer right away. Just stares at the phone, jaw tightening, brows pinching together in frustration.

''Harry?'' you press, propping yourself up on your elbows.

Finally, he glances down at you, eyes unreadable, the softness from moments ago returning when he sees your worried face.

''We need to talk, love.''

...

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

@2601-london @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

teach me slowly series tag list

@maddiesalvatore1839 @mleestiles @imaginexxharry @litlmisss @billweasleyswife @rockmelikeahurricaneee @nikkihs

Recently I was diagnosed with C-PTSD and it’s really taken a toll on my entire life. I wasn’t expecting it and I’ve been struggling to figure out how to heal and comprehending how much I need to do in order to heal. Ive been switching between sadness, anger and grief over the past few months and that’s all I ever feel lately. It’s really overwhelming and although I can put a name to the thing that’s been taking over my adult life so far, having to accept that my childhood wasn’t normal and that my pain was caused by things out of my control has been a little bit rough so to say

I don’t often share things like this to anyone but people closest to me but I think I just wanted to let you know because everyday I see people reblogging and liking and commenting and following and it doesn’t fail to make me happy. When I say it means the world I truly mean it. Writing is my whole life and amongst all the bad it has been a silver lining in my life, the thing that took me away from all the crazy and bought a pocket of good. Having you guys respond to it in such a positive way means everything to me.

I’ve been writing a lot this year to get through the days. I’ve been working on a personal project, writing my very first book, and even though I still write I can’t help but miss writing on here the most.

I hope to post something over the next couple of weeks. I haven’t written a Bambi post in a while but I plan to eventually go back into that world soon,, I know u guys are so patiently waiting for it (thank you omg) I also plan to post the series I was working on and planned to post months ago. It’s a boxing/gangleader fic and I love what I’ve written so far!!!!! In the mean time I hope to post a few soft girl Sundays to ease myself into things. 🤍

All of this will take time but I just wanted to say again how grateful I am for you and your patience and for just sticking around!! I can’t wait to start posting again (however that may look like) and I just appreciate you all very much 🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍

Thank you, love you lots

All my love,

Her boss smirked. “But this one’s different.”

Y/N rolled her eyes.

“Okay, fine,” her boss said, leaning against the doorframe with the smug energy of someone holding back a better reason. “Well… I did hear a little rumor that Harry might show up.”

That got her attention.

Y/N sat up straighter, trying not to look interested. “Harry who?”

Her boss blinked slowly. “You’re hilarious.”

“I thought he was in Milan.”

“That’s what everyone thought. But someone from PR said he flew in this morning.”

Y/N hesitated. Not because she was starstruck, but because she didn’t exactly want to meet the man whose name sat on her paycheck. The mystery of Harry Styles had worked in her favor so far. She’d done her job, made something sleek and stunning, and no one micromanaged her from the top floor. Especially not him.

Still, the thought of him being in the same room… watching people hold her design like it was something sacred…

Her boss grinned. “So. You’ll come?”

Y/N shrugged, but the smallest smile tugged at her lips. “Maybe.”

Y/N didn’t plan on going.

She told herself that more than once as she rinsed the remnants of her dinner plate and set it carefully on the rack to dry. She wasn’t avoiding the party. She just hadn’t decided. That was different.

Her apartment was dim, peaceful. A candle burned on the windowsill. Her cat purred against her ankle as if begging her to sit down, stay home, and be reasonable.

But her eyes kept drifting to the time.

8:03.

The party had already started. This meant that people were probably milling around the showroom by now, sipping cocktails and admiring the design she’d spent seven months perfecting. A few might be whispering about it. Laughing. Some would be filming it for Instagram, testing the different vibration patterns with their fingertips like it was a novelty instead of a labor of obsession.

It was strange, watching your work become something public. Intimate and impersonal all at once.

She crossed the apartment barefoot and opened her closet without thinking.

She didn’t want to look like she was trying too hard. But she also didn’t want to fade into the background. She was proud of what she’d made—of how quietly powerful the product was, how good it felt in the hand, how beautiful it looked on a nightstand. It didn’t beg for attention. It didn’t need to.

She wanted to match that energy.

She bypassed the usual workwear. No slacks. No sensible blouse. Instead, she reached for a dress she hadn’t worn in months—a deep red satin, cut on the bias with delicate straps and a low back. Simple but striking. It hugged her hips like it remembered how they moved.

She stepped into it and smoothed the fabric over her thighs. Then she pulled her hair up into a loose, lazy twist, letting a few strands fall on purpose.

She kept her makeup clean, but she hesitated when she reached for lipstick.

Then she picked the bold one.

Not for anyone else. Just because she liked how it made her feel.

When she finished dressing, her phone buzzed with a message from her boss.

8:12 PM [Boss]: Your baby is the star of the night. People are losing their minds. Champagne’s flowing. See for yourself.

Y/N stared at it for a beat, then set her phone down.

She fed the cat, grabbed her coat, and headed for the door.

This wasn’t about networking. Or making an appearance. Or rumors.

It was about showing up for what she built with her hands.

And maybe, if the night was kind, having one more glass of champagne than she should.

The first thing she noticed was the lighting.

Warm, low, intentional—gold against velvet, shadows curling into corners. It didn’t feel like a corporate event. It felt like a gallery. A lounge. Maybe even a secret.

Music drifted low under the clink of glasses and murmured conversation. Not loud enough to fill the space, just loud enough to loosen it. People leaned close to hear each other. Laughed softly. Stared at the central display like it might do something if they looked long enough.

And there it was.

The product.

Perched in a curved glass case like a sculpture—lit from beneath, casting delicate reflections onto the velvet-covered table. Her prototype. Her baby.

Y/N hovered near the edge of the room, shrugging off her coat and folding it neatly over her arm before slipping it into a corner. No one noticed her yet, which she didn’t mind. She liked seeing it like this—her design surrounded by chatter and champagne, the whole night wrapped around something she made.

She moved toward the bar slowly, letting herself observe.

Someone pointed at the vibrator and whispered, “That’s the one I told you about. The curved tip? It’s unreal.”

“Is it heavy?” the other woman asked.

“Nah, it’s perfect. It feels like—I don’t know. It knows what it’s doing.”

Y/N smiled to herself.

She ordered a glass of sparkling wine at the bar and leaned against the marble edge, surveying the room as she sipped. Faces she half-recognized floated past—editors, influencers, colleagues dressed just slightly edgier than they did in the office. Everyone glowed under the amber light.

A few people passed her with nods or polite hellos. One of the junior engineers gave her a wide grin and mouthed, We did it.

She raised her glass.

She was halfway through her drink when a voice beside her said, “Can I ask you something?”

She turned.

It was a woman she didn’t know—tall, striking, clutching a coupe glass with perfectly manicured fingers. She looked like she belonged in a campaign shoot.

“Sure,” Y/N said, curious.

“Did you work on it?”

Y/N blinked. “On…?”

The woman nodded toward the center display. “The toy.”

Y/N smiled faintly. “Yeah. I did.”

The woman’s mouth dropped open. “Seriously?”

Y/N nodded.

“Well,” she said, tipping her glass in salute, “my girlfriend came three times in one night and won’t shut up about it, so—thank you for your service.”

Y/N laughed. “Happy to help.”

“You deserve a raise.”

“I’ll pass that along.”

The woman grinned and disappeared into the crowd.

Y/N turned back toward the bar, still smiling. She felt good, not in a look-at-me way, but in that rare, steady way that came from seeing something through. Quiet pride blooming in her chest like heat. Like a buzz under her skin.

She was halfway through a second sip when something shifted slightly in the room's energy. A hush, not quite a silence. The kind that travels like static.

And when she glanced up, she saw it.

Not him. Not right away.

Just the way heads turned near the entrance. Like gravity had tilted.

She felt him before she saw him.

Not in any magical way—just a shift. A ripple in the room’s rhythm. Like someone had cracked a window and let in something warmer.

Y/N turned her head and caught a glimpse of him near the entrance.

Harry Styles.

He didn’t make an entrance. He just… arrived. A black silk shirt clung softly to his frame, the top few buttons undone like he’d decided collars were optional. His hair curled at the edges, slightly unruly in a way that looked too perfect to be accidental. His sleeves were pushed up, revealing tanned forearms and several rings that caught the soft light.

He smiled at someone as he passed—small, easy, familiar. He didn’t glide through the room so much as settle into it, like it adjusted around him.

She turned back to her drink, heart ticking a little faster, but she didn’t let herself watch him.

Until he appeared beside her.

“Hi,” he said, and his voice was deeper than she expected—gentle, like it wasn’t meant for anyone else.

She looked up, caught off guard. “Oh. Hi.”

He smiled, just slightly. “Sorry to bother. I was told I should meet the genius behind the main attraction.”

Her brows lifted, surprised. “Genius is… generous.”

He glanced at the display. “Not from what I’ve heard.”

She felt her cheeks warm. “I just helped design it. There were a lot of people involved.”

He nodded. “Still. You made something people are talking about—in a room full of people who talk too much.”

That made her laugh under her breath.

“I’m Harry, by the way,” he added, almost as an afterthought.

“I know,” she said softly, then immediately followed with, “I mean—I work here. Not, like… not in a weird way.”

His smile deepened. “I didn’t think it was.”

She let her eyes drop to her glass. “I’m Y/N.”

He repeated it like a secret. “Nice to meet you, Y/N.”

The space between them hummed quietly. Not rushed. Just aware.

“Do you… Come to these launches often?” she asked, half-joking, just to say something.

He gave her a look. “That was bad.”

“Really bad,” she agreed, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

“First one I’ve shown up to,” he said, eyes still on hers. “Figured this was the one to see.”

Her voice softened. “Glad you made it.”

He looked like he might say something more, but didn’t right away. Instead, he let the silence stretch between them, warm and full of something neither had named yet.

Then he nodded toward her nearly empty glass. “Can I get you another?”

She hesitated, then gave the slightest nod. “Sure.”

And when he stepped away toward the bar, she found herself smiling.

Not because it was him.

But something about how he looked at her made her feel seen.

He returned with two glasses, holding one out to her with a small, almost boyish smile. “Wasn’t sure what you were drinking. Took a guess.”

She accepted it, fingers brushing his for the second time that night. “Good guess.”

Harry glanced around the room, then leaned in slightly. “Would you mind if we stepped away for a minute? It’s a bit loud in here.”

Her heart ticked up, just slightly. “Sure.”

He didn’t guide her with a hand on her back or anything like that—just walked beside her, quiet and unhurried, as they slipped through the velvet-curtained archway near the bar. On the other side was a smaller lounge area—less lighting, fewer people. Just low couches, scattered candles, and a window cracked open to the sound of the city outside.

No one else was in the room.

She hovered near the edge, unsure whether to sit. He did first, dropping into a curved chair with a low exhale, stretching out like he belonged there. Then he looked up at her.

“Come on,” he said, nodding to the seat across from him. “Won’t bite.”

She sat, tucking her legs neatly and crossing her ankles. The hem of her dress slipped a little higher on her thigh, but she didn’t fidget. He wasn’t staring. He was watching her.

“So,” he said, resting his glass against his knee. “I meant it, by the way. I really did want to get your perspective.”

She smiled a little, setting her glass on the low table between them. “About the product?”

“Yeah.” He tilted his head. “I mean… You probably don’t get to talk about it much in a way that isn’t all—spec sheets and branding.”

She relaxed a little. “You’d be surprised.”

“I don’t know,” he said, sipping his drink. “Seems like most people just want to make jokes about it.”

“They do,” she admitted. “But it’s okay. I kind of like how open everyone’s been.”

“It’s impressive,” he said. “You made something beautiful out of something people usually whisper about.”

Her cheeks flushed again, but she didn’t look away this time. “Thank you.”

He leaned back in his chair, legs stretching out a little. His gaze softened. “So… did you?”

Her brows lifted slightly. “Did I what?”

“Try it,” he said, tone still light—but quieter now. Not teasing. Just… curious.

She blinked, then gave a small laugh, shaking her head. “I knew you were working up to that.”

He grinned. “Was I that obvious?”

“A little.”

“So?” he asked again, voice low and warm. “Did you?”

She hesitated—just for a second—then nodded once. “I did.”

And when she said it, she didn’t flinch. He wasn’t smirking. He wasn’t making it weird.

He was watching her.

And he looked… fascinated.

Her answer hung in the air—soft but sure.

“I did.”

Harry didn’t react right away. He just nodded slowly, as if cataloguing that. Like he wasn’t just interested in the fact—he wanted the feeling.

“For research,” he said, a small smile on his lips.

She let out a quiet breath of laughter. “Of course.”

“You test all the products yourself?”

“Not all,” she said, tucking her hand around her glass. “Just the ones I work directly on. This one was… a bit more involved.”

He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees, glass loose in his hand. His voice dropped a little. “And how did it… perform?”

The words weren’t laced with suggestion—not outright. But there was a curiosity to them. Focused. Like he wanted to know.

She shifted in her seat. Her fingers drummed once against the side of her glass.

“It did what it was designed to do,” she said carefully.

He tilted his head, amused. “That’s a very professional answer.”

“Well, I am a professional.”

He grinned. “I’m sure you are.”

How he said it—warm and low, without looking away—made her throat dry.

She cleared it softly. “It… exceeded expectations,” she added, more quietly. “We went through a few prototypes before it felt right. But the final version… yeah. It worked.”

His gaze didn’t waver. “What made it better?”

She hesitated. Her voice dipped without meaning to. “The rhythm. And the pressure curve. Most toys blast you with power and assume that’s what gets the job done, but we—” She caught herself rambling and stopped. “Sorry. You probably don’t want all the technical details.”

“I do,” he said quickly. “I want all of it.”

Her breath caught for half a second.

“You don’t seem embarrassed,” he added, gently now. “Talking about it.”

“I’m not,” she said, though her voice was a little softer. “I mean… I am a little. But mostly I think people should be allowed to talk about pleasure like it’s normal.”

“It is normal,” he said. “Or it should be.”

There was a pause. Her cheeks were warm, and she couldn’t quite meet his eyes now, not for too long.

“I like how you talk about it,” he said, quieter now. “You don’t sound like someone selling something. You sound like someone who cares if people feel good.”

Her eyes finally lifted to his, and something heavier was now less playful.

“I do,” she said. “Care.”

His gaze dropped briefly—to her mouth, then her hands, then back to her eyes.

And this time, when the silence stretched, it wasn’t awkward. It was thick. Charged.

She felt warm all over.

The air between them had gone thick, slow like honey. His words were kind, earnest, even—but how he looked at her made it feel like he saw more than what she said. Like he was pulling pieces of her out into the light before she was ready.

Her fingers tightened slightly around her glass. She didn’t know what to say next.

So she shifted.

Gently.

“Did you ever try it?” she asked, her voice softer now. Almost hesitant. She kept her eyes on the rim of her drink as she spoke.

There was a pause.

Then a quiet, surprised laugh from across the table.

“That’s not what I expected you to ask,” Harry said, amusement laced.

Her lips pressed together in the tiniest smile. “You asked me.”

“True.”

She braved a glance up at him. His expression was open. Curious. Not mocking.

“No,” he said after a beat. “I haven’t.”

She blinked. “Really?”

He nodded, resting his forearm along the back of the chair. “I wanted to. Meant to. But I figured I should wait until I knew what I was doing.”

Y/N tilted her head slightly, brows lifting. “You think there’s a wrong way to use it?”

“Maybe not wrong,” he said, eyes dancing now, “but I didn’t want to half-understand something someone else put real care into.”

Her cheeks flushed, and she looked down again. “That’s… thoughtful.”

He let her sit with that. No teasing. No pressure. Just the sound of his ringed fingers tapping quietly once against his glass.

Then—softer now—he added, “Based on your reaction… sounds like I missed out.”

She let out the tiniest laugh, surprised at herself. “You might’ve.”

Harry smiled again. Not wide. Just enough.

And when he looked at her this time, it wasn’t like he was waiting for her to flirt back. It was like he wanted to hear what she’d say next. She wasn’t just someone who worked for his company—but someone he wanted to know more about.

Someone who made things he hadn’t touched yet, but maybe wanted to.

She didn’t know what she expected him to say next.

Maybe something flirtier. Maybe something bold.

Instead, he looked at her like he wasn’t rushing to go anywhere.

This small conversation in a quiet corner of the room was better than anything else that might’ve been planned.

She opened her mouth, unsure what to say, when a voice broke in from the doorway.

“Harry—sorry.” A woman appeared, poised and efficient, dressed in all black with an earpiece tucked behind one ear. His assistant, probably. “A couple of people from Vogue want a quick moment. They’re asking for you.”

Harry leaned back in his chair with a small exhale, running a hand through his hair as he turned toward the voice. “Right. Yeah. Okay.”

He stood slowly, finishing the last drink before setting the glass between them.

Then he looked at her again.

And this time his smile was a little softer. Regretful, almost.

“It was nice meeting you,” he said, voice low.

She nodded, unsure if she should stand too. “You too.”

He paused like he might say more. Like he wanted to.

But instead, he just gave her one last look, held it for a second too long, and then turned to follow the assistant out.

She watched him go, her hands curled lightly around her glass.

The silence in the room felt louder once he was gone.

She stayed seated for another minute after he left, nursing what was left of her drink and staring at the condensation sliding down the side of the glass. The buzz of conversation from the main room filtered back in slowly, like a tide rolling in after a quiet storm.

It was just a conversation.

She told herself that as she stood, smoothed down the hem of her dress, and returned through the velvet curtain. The party hadn’t changed—still golden, still loud. Still filled with people drinking and laughing and pretending they weren’t watching for a glimpse of him.

She found her boss near the bar, chatting with someone from PR, a half-full coupe glass in her hand. When she saw Y/N approaching, her brows lifted.

“There she is,” her boss said, turning slightly. “You disappeared.”

“I stepped out for a bit,” Y/N said, waving the bartender over for water this time. Her pulse was still doing strange things in her neck.

Her boss narrowed her eyes. “With him?”

Y/N blinked. “What?”

“Harry.” Her boss sipped her drink, watching her over the rim. “I saw him walk you into the lounge.”

She shrugged, trying to sound casual. “He wanted to ask me about the design. It wasn’t a big deal.”

“Mmhmm.” Her boss gave her a knowing look. “That’s how it always starts.”

Y/N rolled her eyes but couldn’t quite bite back the smile tugging at her lips. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Sure.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know. I believe you.” She tilted her glass toward Y/N. “You just look a little flushed, that’s all.”

Y/N tried to hide her smile behind her water.

She stood there for a while, tucked into the corner of the bar with her boss, listening to bits of conversations float past. A few people complimented her, some even recognizing her work. Someone joked about stealing one of the display units. She laughed in the right places, nodded, and made polite conversation.

But now and then, her eyes drifted toward the hallway.

Just once.

After another half hour, the crowd shifted—voices a little louder and laughter sloppier. The ice in drinks melted faster. Someone spilled a cocktail near the edge of the carpet, and the bartender sighed. It was that part of the night when everything started to blur.

Y/N checked the time—almost eleven.

She wasn’t needed anymore.

Her boss had drifted off into a conversation with someone from marketing, one hand on their arm, gesturing animatedly. Y/N waited for a lull before stepping in.

“I’m gonna head out,” she said, gently.

Her boss turned, blinking once before smiling. “You’re not staying for the after-party?”

She shook her head. “No. I’ve hit my social limit.”

“Well, if anyone earned an early exit, it’s you,” her boss said, pulling her into a quick hug. “Seriously. Tonight was a hit. Everyone’s obsessed.”

“Thank you,” Y/N murmured, soft and sincere.

“Let me know if you want me to send over the press roundups tomorrow.”

“Will do. Night.”

She slipped from the bar and made her way through the thinning crowd, pausing to give polite goodbyes to a few coworkers and people she barely remembered being introduced to earlier. They all said some version of the same thing: Congratulations. It's an incredible design, and you should be proud.

And she was.

She really, truly was.

But still… her heart beat a little faster as she reached the edge of the hallway.

She hadn’t seen him again. No surprise. He was probably upstairs somewhere doing press photos, shaking hands with whoever paid the most significant ad buy, charming the rooms he was expected to charm.

She was okay with that.

She was.

She tucked a hand into her coat pocket, her heels quiet against the polished floor as she stepped into the hallway leading to the exit. Her footsteps echoed softly, muted by the velvet walls and the hush of being somewhere just slightly removed from the party.

It felt a little lonely. But also… peaceful.

Finished.

She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

Then rounded the corner toward the door.

Then—

Click.

The soft sound of a door opening.

Her heart jumped.

“Y/N?”

She turned.

Harry stood a few feet down the hallway, one hand braced lightly on the doorframe behind him. His curls were a little messier now, and the silk of his shirt relaxed further from his collarbone.

He looked… unhurried. Like he’d followed her without really thinking about it.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

Her grip tightened slightly on her coat. “Home,” she said. “I’m tired.”

He nodded once. “Yeah. Makes sense.”

There was a pause before he added, “I’m heading out soon, too.”

She offered him a small smile. “You should stay. You’re the reason they’re all here.”

“I think you might be the reason they’re all whispering.”

She blushed and looked down, fiddling with her phone. “I was just going to call an Uber.”

Harry stepped forward slightly. “Can I walk you out?”

She blinked.

There wasn’t anything loaded in his voice. Just something soft. Something that made her stomach flutter in a quiet, unexpected way.

“Sure,” she said.

And just like that, they turned toward the door together.

The city hummed in the background. Muted headlights passed, tires whispering along the pavement. Behind them, the glow of the launch party dimmed to something distant.

They walked slowly toward the curb, her heels quiet on the sidewalk. Harry kept pace beside her, hands tucked into the pockets of his trousers, his shirt untucked just enough to look like the night had lived on him a bit.

She pulled out her phone when they reached the edge of the street.

“I’ll just call an Uber,” she said, flicking it open.

But before she could tap the screen, he spoke.

“You don’t have to do that.”

She looked up.

“I’ll drive you,” he said, like it wasn’t a question. “If that’s alright with you.”

She blinked. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I know,” he said, and his smile was easy. Sure. “But I’d like to.”

She hesitated.

He took one step closer—not close enough to crowd her, just enough that his voice dropped into something warmer.

“I wasn’t finished picking your brain,” he said. “And I’m selfish when I’m curious.”

That made her chuckle, even as something tightened beneath her ribs.

“You don’t have to impress me,” she said, trying to keep her voice even.

He shook his head, eyes catching hers. “I’m not trying to impress you. I want to hear what else you have to say.”

How he looked at her then—steady and open, not pushy, just present—made her stomach flip.

Her thumb hovered over the screen for a second longer.

Then she locked her phone and slipped it back into her coat pocket.

“Okay,” she said.

His grin deepened. “Good.”

And together, they turned down the sidewalk.

His car was parked just down the street—sleek and understated, dark paint catching little glints of city light. He unlocked it with a click and opened the passenger door for her without a word.

She slid in, her dress brushing against the seat, the door shutting softly behind her. The interior smelled like leather and something subtle, maybe cedar. Clean. Warm.

Harry settled into the driver’s seat, one hand on the wheel, the other raking through his curls as he glanced over.

“You alright?” he asked.

She nodded, smoothing her hands over her coat where it pooled in her lap. “Yeah. … feels quiet now.”

“Nice kind of quiet,” he said, starting the engine. “Different.”

They pulled into the street, the soft hum of the car filling the silence between them for a minute. She watched the city lights blur past the window. She felt completely unobserved for the first time all night, like they were tucked inside something still and separate.

A few blocks in, Harry spoke again—voice low, calm.

“I don’t mean to make it weird,” he said. “But I’ve got a guest room if you want it.”

She turned to look at him.

“No pressure,” he added quickly. “It’s just late, and I figured… I dunno. It’s nicer than sleeping in the back of an Uber with a stranger who keeps playing Pitbull.”

That made her laugh. Quiet, tired. “You have a lot of experience with Pitbull-loving Uber drivers?”

“More than I care to admit.”

She studied him for a second. The way his fingers tapped once against the steering wheel. He glanced over at her, checking—not pushing, just checking.

“Are you sure it’s not weird?” she asked.

“I wouldn’t offer if it were.”

She paused. Then smiled faintly.

“What the hell,” she said.

He looked over at her again, slower this time.

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

He smiled then—slow and warm and a little smug but not in a way that made her regret it.

“I’ve got a nice whiskey,” he said. “We could break it open.”

She leaned back against the seat, letting herself settle into the idea.

“Alright,” she said. “One drink.”

His smile deepened. “One.”

But neither of them believed that.

His house was tucked behind a low gate. It was modern but warm, with stone, glass, and low lighting that glowed softly along the pathway. When he opened the front door, she caught the faint scent of something clean and woodsy, like cedar, linen, and home.

Inside, the space was spacious but lived-in. Nothing was staged: a stack of books on the coffee table, a hoodie tossed over the back of a chair, and a half-melted candle on the kitchen island.

It felt real. Lived in. His.

She slipped out of her heels just inside the door, quietly grateful to be on solid ground. Her feet ached, but the rest of her felt… light. A little dazed. Like the night was still opening.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Harry said, setting his keys in a small dish by the door. “Couch is yours.”

She stepped into the sunken living room and curled into the corner of the couch, tucking one leg underneath her. It was ridiculously soft. She couldn’t help but exhale.

Harry momentarily disappeared into the other room, then returned holding a folded knit blanket.

“You looked cold,” he said, draping it over her lap before she could protest.

Her cheeks warmed. “Thank you.”

He nodded and moved to the bar cart by the window. There was a slight clink of glass and a cork popping. He poured two fingers into each glass, but there was no ice.

When he returned, he handed her one and settled into the armchair across from her. Their knees angled toward each other, as if the conversation had already started.

She took a sip—smooth, smoky. Sharp enough to burn in the back of her throat, but not unpleasant.

For a moment, neither of them said anything.

Then he cleared his throat, voice lower now. More careful.

“Can I ask you something?”

She glanced up at him over the rim of her glass. “Sure.”

“Personal questions,” he clarified. “Nothing weird. I… want to know more than your title.”

Her lips parted slightly. Something fluttered low in her stomach.

She nodded. “Okay.”

Harry watched her over the rim of his glass. Not staring. Just… present.

The kind of attention that made her feel warm in a way that had nothing to do with the whiskey.

He let a few seconds pass. No rush. No sharp pivot. Just—

“What makes you happy?” he asked.

She blinked. Not because it was invasive—because it wasn’t. It was just so… simple. And real. Not a party question. Not small talk.

She hesitated. Swirled the liquid in her glass.

“I don’t know,” she said softly. “That’s hard.”

He nodded, like he understood. “Yeah. It is.”

She tucked the blanket a little higher over her lap, eyes flicking to the window for a second. “I guess… little things. Slow mornings. Getting something right after trying for hours. When my cat sleeps on my chest like I’m her entire world.”

That made him smile.

“And this,” she added quietly, before she could stop herself.

He looked up, curious. “This?”

She nodded, a little shy. “Just… being here. Talking. Not being expected to perform.”

He let that settle. Didn’t push.

“I like quiet,” she added, eyes dropping to her drink again. “But not the kind that feels empty. The kind that feels like someone’s listening.”

Harry’s gaze didn’t move.

“I am,” he said.

She looked at him then, surprised by the sincerity in his voice. He wasn’t performing either because he was sitting in his lived-in house, offering her warmth, whiskey, and stillness.

She didn’t say anything for a moment.

Then, softly: “Why’d you ask me that?”

His lips curved a little. “Because I like how you answer things.”

Her chest tightened—not uncomfortably, but in that aching, fluttery way when someone looks at you and sees something you hadn’t even named yet.

He leaned forward slightly, his glass dangling loosely between his fingers. “Can I ask another?”

She nodded.

“Why this?” he asked. “Why design something like that?”

She smiled, eyes lowering. “You want to know?”

“I wouldn’t have followed you down a hallway if I didn’t.”

Y/N let her thumb glide slowly over the rim of her glass, her gaze fixed between the blanket on her lap and the amber liquid catching the light.

She didn’t rush her answer.

“I think…” she began, then paused, swallowing gently. “I think a lot of the time, we’re told to want things without ever being asked what feels good.”

Harry stayed still. No interrupting. Just waiting.

“I got tired of the clinical way people talk about pleasure,” she continued softly. “Like it’s something separate from the rest of who we are. Like it’s this weird, taboo corner we only peek into when no one’s watching.”

She glanced up briefly to see him still watching her. Focused. Steady.

“So I wanted to design something that felt… beautiful,” she said. “Not just functional. Something that could sit on your nightstand and not make you feel ashamed. Something that made you feel like it belonged to you.”

She looked down again.

“I guess it wasn’t really about the product,” she said. “It was about giving people—especially women—a little control back. Not just over their bodies, but over what brings them joy.”

The room was quiet.

But it didn’t feel empty.

When she looked up again, his expression had changed.

Softer. Quieter. Like something had settled in him.

“That’s the best answer I’ve ever heard to any question I’ve ever asked,” he said quietly.

She let out a soft laugh, but it caught in her throat.

“You made something compelling,” he said. “And you talk about it like it’s no big deal.”

“It’s not,” she said. “Not really.”

“It is,” he said. “Because it matters.”

The way he looked at her now—it wasn’t just interest. It was respect. Admiration. And something more tender, tucked behind his lashes like a secret.

Like she’d just surprised him.

And he loved being surprised.

He didn’t speak right away.

I just watched her; how someone watches a fire burn low—like it was warming him in a way he hadn’t expected.

She took another sip of her whiskey, not meeting his eyes this time. It was easier to pretend the room wasn’t thick with something new.

But he was still watching her.

And then, quietly:

“Can I ask you something else?”

She nodded once, slowly. “You don’t have to keep asking.”

“I do,” he said. “Because I don’t want to push.”

His voice was low now. Weighted, but careful. It made her heart catch, that kind of restraint.

He set his glass on the table and leaned forward, elbows resting loosely on his knees.

“Do you ever feel like… It’s easier to give pleasure than to ask for it?”

Her breath stalled.

The question wasn’t sexual. Not exactly. It was emotional. Raw. Softened by the way he said it. Like it came from a place he knew too well himself.

She didn’t answer right away. The room felt suddenly warmer, the whiskey blooming in her chest like heat. Her fingers curled a little tighter around the blanket.

“I do,” she said finally, voice quiet. “All the time.”

Harry nodded slowly, eyes still on her.

“I think that’s why I put it to work,” she said. “It’s easier. Safer.”

“Because no one expects you to ask for anything back,” he said.

She met his eyes then—and no teasing was left in him. Just that slow, deliberate interest that felt like gravity.

Like he was inching closer without moving an inch.

“That’s not how it should be, you know,” he said.

Her throat felt tight.

“I know,” she whispered.

Neither of them moved.

But the tension—the weight between them—was suddenly impossible to ignore. Something unspoken vibrated beneath the silence. One had to break it, or it would break for them.

And still, he didn’t reach for her.

But his voice was softer than ever when he asked, “Can I pour you another?”

She nodded, the motion small but sure. “Yeah… I’d like that.”

Harry stood and walked back to the bar cart; this time, there was a new stillness. The kind that came with intention. No longer dancing around anything. He poured slowly, carefully, then returned to the couch—and when he sat, he didn’t give her space this time.

His thigh pressed gently against hers. His body turned toward her. Close enough that his warmth brushed her skin like a secret.

She took the glass from his hand, fingers brushing. Holding. Not letting go right away.

He didn’t pull back.

His hand was still on her thigh, his thumb moving in slow, aimless circles, making it hard to think clearly.

She hadn’t meant to say anything. Not really.

But the moment felt thick with possibility, as if she didn’t speak, it might close around them and vanish.

So she did.

“Do you want to try it?”

Her voice was quiet. Measured. But underneath it, something pulsed. A flicker of nerves. Or anticipation. Maybe both.

Harry didn’t move at first.

He looked at her—really looked at her—like he was trying to decide if she meant it the way it sounded.

His fingers stilled against her thigh.

Then his lips parted, the smallest exhale slipping out. Not a laugh. Not quite surprised. Just heat.

“I don’t know what I’d do with it,” he said, his voice low, like it wasn’t meant to be heard outside the space between them.

Her chest rose with a shallow breath, and she gave the slightest shrug—helpless, honest.

“You can do anything,” she said.

His eyes didn’t leave hers.

For a second, the entire room—the lights, the air, the city outside—seemed to hold still around them.

Then, slowly, he leaned back.

Brought his glass to his lips.

Tipped it.

Swallowed the rest of the whiskey in one long drink.

And when he set the glass down, his hand slid higher on her thigh—slow, deliberate, and no longer careful.

“Why don’t you show me?” he said.

His hand stayed on her thigh, firm now. No more questioning. No more almost.

And his voice was low, heat, and certainty when he leaned in—closer than he had all night.

“Come with me.”

It wasn’t a demand. It wasn’t even a request.

It was gravity.

She didn’t speak. She let him take the glass from her hand, setting it down beside his with a soft clink. Then his fingers slipped from her thigh to her hand, curling around hers, warm and deliberate.

He stood, tugging her gently with him.

She followed.

Barefoot, quiet, pulse racing.

The hallway was dim, hushed like the rest of the house had already gone to sleep. She let him guide her past tall shelves, through a doorway, into a room that smelled like linen and skin and something faintly woodsy—him.

The bedroom was spacious but not showy. It had dark walls, soft sheets, and a low lamp glowing gold in the corner.

He turned to face her just inside the doorway.

And for a moment, he didn’t touch her.

Just looked.

His eyes scanned her face, pausing at her lips and neck. Her breath was uneven now, and her hands were at her sides, like she didn’t know what to do with them.

“You sure?” he asked softly.

She nodded.

“That’s not good enough,” he said, stepping closer now, his voice quiet but sure. “I want to hear it.”

Her breath trembled on the way out.

“I’m sure,” she said.

And that was all it took.

His hands slid to her waist. Slow, grounding. He leaned in and kissed her—finally—mouth warm and steady, no rush, just pressure. He’d been thinking about it since she said I helped design it.

She kissed him back, arms slipping around his shoulders, her body moving toward his like it had been waiting.

The door clicked shut behind them.

The kiss deepened as he walked her backward toward the bed, one slow step at a time, his hands splayed warm against her waist. Her breath caught when her legs hit the edge of the mattress, and he pulled back just enough to look at her.

Then his hands slid up—along her sides, over the dip of her waist, until they found the straps of her dress.

He slipped them down with maddening care.

The fabric pooled at her feet.

His eyes dragged over her slowly, taking in the curve of her hips, the heat still lingering in her flushed cheeks, the tension in her thighs. And then, just when she thought he’d touch her again—he stepped back.

Wordless.

Calm.

And crossed the room.

She watched, dazed and aching, as he opened a drawer in the dresser and pulled out the sleek black box—the box she knew by weight and shape alone.

Her chest rose sharply.

He turned it in his hands as he walked back to her. “So this is the one, yeah?” he asked, voice low and wicked.

She nodded, lips parted, not trusting herself to speak.

He smiled, slow and dangerous.

He pressed a soft kiss to her mouth, then her throat, then her collarbone—before murmuring, “And you’re gonna let me use it on you?”

Her knees nearly buckled.

“Lie back,” he said.

She obeyed, heart pounding as she stretched across the cool sheets, her legs trembling slightly with anticipation.

Harry opened the box slowly, as if he were unwrapping something sacred.

He turned the toy on—low at first. A soft, steady hum filled the room, and her breath hitched at the sound alone.

He knelt on the bed beside her, running his free hand up her thigh—slowly parting her legs, his eyes never leaving her face.

He dragged the vibrator gently along the inside of her thigh—up, then down again, nowhere near where she needed it. Teasing.

“You feel that?” he murmured. “You made that happen.”

The vibration buzzed just against her skin. Her body was already arching subtly, craving more.

“You know what the best part is?” he said, bringing it close enough that her breath stuttered.

She whimpered.

He smiled.

“I haven’t even turned it up yet.”

The vibrator's hum was low and steady, like a curling sound around her spine.

Harry sat on one knee on the bed beside her, watching her with infuriating calm. The toy hovered just along the crease of her inner thigh, barely brushing her, never staying still. His touch was maddeningly light, deliberate, withholding.

“You’re already shaking,” he murmured.

She tried to bite back a sound, her breath stuttering instead.

He brought the toy a little higher, grazing the edge of her underwear and pressing a bit firmer against the soaked fabric.

Her hips jolted, the pressure too close and not enough all at once.

“You like knowing I have this?” he asked softly. “Knowing I could use it on anyone I want?”

Her eyes fluttered open, already glassy.

“But I’m not,” he said. “I’m using it on you.”

He turned the setting up—not much. Just enough.

The vibration pulsed stronger, buzzing directly against her now. Still through the fabric, still too light to push her over, but enough to make her body arch, to make a soft moan spill from her lips before she could catch it.

“There we go,” he said, voice low and praising. “There’s that sound I’ve been waiting for.”

He dragged it down again, slow and teasing, making her chase the sensation, her thighs shifting restlessly under his hand.

“You made something perfect,” he said, pressing a kiss just above her navel. “But you didn’t make it to be kind, did you?”

She whimpered.

“You made it to ruin people.”

She nodded, helpless.

“Say it.”

“I—I didn’t…” Her voice broke, hips rocking upward. “I didn’t make it to be kind.”

He smiled against her skin.

“Exactly.”

Then he slipped the toy beneath the edge of her underwear, finally letting it touch her properly—warm and wet and ready. Her whole body jolted at the contact, the air catching in her lungs like she’d forgotten how to breathe.

And he still didn’t give her what she wanted.

Not all of it.

He held it just slightly off-center, teasing that sweet spot with maddening precision, not quite letting her tip over the edge.

Her hips bucked. Her hands twisted in the sheets.

“Not yet,” he said, his voice calm and almost gentle. “You don’t come until I say.”

She moaned—frustrated, desperate, right there.

His eyes never left her.

“You’re gonna fall apart for me,” he murmured. “But not until I see what that beautiful little toy of yours can do.”

Then he turned it up again.

And everything inside her broke.

Her body was tense beneath him, trembling at the edge of something sharp and overwhelming. Her fingers twisted in the sheets, her thighs clenching around his hand as he kept the vibrator in just the right place—but not quite enough to push her over.

Not yet.

Harry watched her with dark, steady eyes, his voice low and calm in contrast to how completely he had her coming undone.

“You’re close,” he murmured, his thumb grazing the edge of her hip. “Aren’t you?”

She nodded, breathless. “Please.”

“Please what?”

She let out a desperate whimper, hips grinding into the pressure now, chasing release. “Please let me—please.”

He smiled, just slightly. “Not yet.”

She cried out, a soft, frustrated sound that made something tighten in his jaw. He leaned down and kissed the inside of her thigh. Then her stomach. Then lower.

“You can take a little more,” he said against her skin. “You built this to take more.”

She gasped as he turned the setting up again—deeper now. Buzzing right against her, not holding back anymore. Her body jerked under the intensity, her breath caught somewhere in her throat.

“I can’t—I can’t—”

“Yes,” he whispered, right at her ear now, his lips brushing the shell of it. “You can. Just a little longer.”

Her entire body arched off the bed. Her legs were shaking. She was unraveling under his voice, under his hand, under the thing she had designed to ruin strangers—and now it was ruining her.

“I need—Harry—please, I need—”

That was the moment.

He kissed her jaw, soft and firm.

“Okay,” he said. “Now.”

And the second he said it, she shattered.

Her back arched, her legs locked around his arm, and a deep, broken moan tore from her throat. She came hard, her body shaking with the release—extended, drawn out, helpless beneath him.

He didn’t let up. Not right away. Just kept the toy there for a few seconds longer, until she was writhing, too sensitive, too much.

Then he turned it off.

Silence fell.

Except for her breath. Ragged. Unsteady. Alive.

He brushed her hair back from her damp forehead, his touch feather-light now.

“Good girl,” he murmured, his lips at her temple. “That’s exactly what I wanted.”

And in that moment, all she could do was breathe.

And feel.

His mouth found hers again—warm and slow and full of the heat that builds behind the eyes—not rushed. Not rough.

Just wanting.

She pulled him closer by the collar of his shirt, her fingers fisting in the soft fabric. She kissed him harder now, her lips parting for his, her body already arching into his like she hadn’t just fallen apart minutes ago. Like she needed more.

He pulled back just slightly, his breath ragged, his eyes searching hers.

Then his lips curled, low and wicked.

“You’re needy, aren’t you?”

She flushed, her cheeks hot, her thighs instinctively tightening around him as she sat straddled in his lap.

She didn’t deny it.

Didn’t look away.

Instead, she leaned in again—nose brushing his, lips just barely apart.

“I need to ride you,” she whispered.

The change in him was instant.

His hands tightened on her hips, jaw flexing as he inhaled through his nose like he was trying to hold something back. He looked up at her—like she was the only thing he’d ever wanted to feel.

His voice came rough now, all gravel and tension.

“Fuckin’ hell.”

And then he lay back, pulling her with him.

“Go ahead,” he said, voice low, like a promise. “Take it.”

His words were still hanging in the air when she leaned down and kissed him again—slow and sure, lips dragging over his like she was claiming something. His hands were still on her hips, but now they stayed still, like he was letting her take over.

And she did.

Her fingers slipped to the top of his shirt, tugging at the buttons—one by one. No rush. No trembling hands this time. She focused, peeling the fabric apart until the smooth plane of his chest was exposed beneath her.

He watched her.

Silent.

His breathing was heavier now. His lips parted as she spread his shirt open and ran her hands over the warm skin beneath. She traced his collarbone, the light dusting of hair across his sternum, and the soft line that dipped down toward his waistband.

Her lips followed her hands.

She kissed down his neck, open-mouthed and unhurried. Along his chest. Over the curve of his stomach. She felt the way his muscles jumped under her mouth.

And she loved it.

He swore softly under his breath, one hand sliding up her spine, fingers curling into her hair.

But still—he didn’t rush her.

She sat back up, straddling his thighs, and her hands went to the button of his trousers.

She looked up, lips flushed, hair a little messy now.

“Okay?” she whispered.

He groaned, head dropping back against the pillow.

“Fucking please.”

She smiled—just slightly.

And undid his pants.

His cock was already hard in her hand, thick and flushed, and when she wrapped her fingers around him properly, he let out a low, broken noise from deep in his chest.

“Fuck,” he whispered, his head falling back against the pillow as she stroked him—long and slow, her thumb catching the bead of slick at the tip and spreading it down his length. His stomach tensed under her, his thighs shifting, breath catching on every exhale.

“You’re gonna fucking ruin me,” he murmured, eyes fluttering open to meet hers.

She didn’t say anything.

She just smiled—soft, knowing—and pushed his shirt fully off his shoulders as she straddled his hips again. Her knees braced against the mattress, her body bare above him, glowing in the low golden light.

She lifted her hips, guided him to her entrance, and hovered there for a moment—just long enough to feel him pulse against her, just long enough to let the tension coil tight between them.

Then she sank.

Inch by inch.

Slow.

The stretch pulled a gasp from her throat and a growl from his. His hands gripped her hips hard, his knuckles pale against her skin.

“Christ,” he muttered, voice thick. “You feel so good.”

She was tight around him, slick and warm and perfect. Her head dropped forward, forehead pressed against his as she bottomed out, taking every last inch until their bodies were flush.

They stayed there for a moment.

Just breathing.

His hands moved—one sliding up her back, the other wrapping around her waist as he whispered against her jaw.

“You okay?”

She nodded, eyes shut, lips parted around a shaky breath. “Yeah. Just… full.”

That made him smile.

“Good.”

She started to move—rolling her hips slowly, testing the rhythm, finding what felt good. She was in control now. She set the pace, and he let her. Let her ride him with purpose, need, and heat in every motion.

Her hands braced on his chest. He slid down to her ass, guiding her, grounding her.

Every drag of him inside her sent a ripple up her spine.

Every grind of her hips pulled another low moan from his throat.

And when she leaned back slightly, hands on his thighs for balance, he looked up at her like he’d never seen anything so fucking beautiful.

“You’re unreal,” he breathed. “Watching you like this…”

She bounced a little more complicated now, a gasp catching in her throat as he hit deeper.

“Don’t stop,” he said. “Just like that. Keep going.”

She rode him harder.

Faster.

Until the wet slap of skin against skin filled the room, and her moans turned into cries, and he was gripping the sheets beneath him like he was barely holding on.

His mouth found her breast, sucking and biting softly, and she cried out as her orgasm started to build again—sharp and unstoppable.

“Come on,” he whispered against her skin. “Come for me again. Let me feel it.”

And she did.

It hit her all at once—sharp and deep, her entire body tightening around him, her voice breaking as she clung to him and came with a shudder.

He followed seconds later—hips jerking up into hers, jaw clenched, a harsh moan ripping from his throat as he emptied into her, lost in the heat and the rhythm and her.

They stayed tangled and shaking, his hands on her back, hers in his hair, and both gasping into the quiet.

Neither of them said anything at first.

Her body trembled as she leaned forward, chest to chest, resting her forehead against his. Their breaths tangled—shaky and uneven, but slowly syncing again.

Harry’s hands rubbed gently along her spine, his thumbs drawing circles beneath her shoulder blades. No more tension. No more teasing.

Just presence.

“C’mere,” he murmured after a few moments, sliding his hands to her thighs and lifting her carefully off him. She let him, boneless and quiet, as he cradled her against his chest and stood.

He carried her to the bathroom.

He gently set her on the tub's edge, his hand brushing a damp strand of hair from her cheek. “Gonna run a bath, yeah?”

She nodded.

He didn’t say anything else. I just turned the faucet, tested the temperature, and added a pump for something that smelled like cedar and vanilla. The room was filled with steam as he helped her into the warm water; his touch was always gentle and patient.

She let out a soft sigh as she sank in.

He sat beside the tub, legs drawn up, his shirt still open, watching her with a quiet affection she hadn’t expected.

“You okay?” he asked.

She looked up. Met his eyes.

Smiled.

“Yeah. More than.”

After a while, he reached for a towel, helping her out and wrapping her up like she was something to be kept warm and safe. They moved back to the bed in silence. He handed her one of his soft, worn-in-all-the-right-ways T-shirts. She pulled it over her head.

He didn’t ask her to stay.

She didn’t ask him to make it more than it was.

But it didn't feel like a goodbye when he pulled the blanket over them and wrapped an arm around her.

It felt like something real, even if only for the night.

She curled into his side.

His fingers threaded into her hair.

And for a long time, neither of them said a word.

His arm tightened around her, anchoring her there.

It had been nearly a month without him, and you both were feeling it, you thought as the blue light from your phone screen cut through the darkness of your childhood bedroom, reflecting off the glossy paper of the posters you had never bothered to take down. It was past midnight when you last checked the screen, which meant it was early morning in London. But neither of you seemed to care about the time anymore—not when it had been twenty-seven days since you had touched him last.

“Tell me about your day, love.” Harry’s voice flows through your earbuds, warm like honey, with that British drawl that still made your stomach flutter every time his deep voice filled your ear. You closed your eyes then, picturing him in your flat, probably sprawled across the sofa, his shorts riding up his thighs, ready to go on that run he kept saying he was going to go on.

“Mom made her famous lasagna. I literally had like three servings…” You whisper, curling deeper into your snug blankets. “You know my Dad asked about you again. Wanted to know when you were going to join me?”

“Soon, love, I’ll book my flight as soon as I finalize everything for this new launch. Which should be in the next few days,” he promises, and you can hear the smile in his tone. “Speaking of which... did you get my package?”

Your eyes dart to the unopened box sitting on your dresser. The FedEx label marked with the Pleasing logo, which you had been saving for your call. “May…be.”

“Maybe?” He asks, and his laugh is soft, but conspiratorial. “Come on, Darling. Open it.”

“What is it?”

“Something for the new Pleasing line. Need your expert opinion. You know how I always like to run things by you.”

And you roll your eyes even though he can’t see you. Ever since he had expanded beyond nail polish into wellness products, he had been using you as his unofficial focus group, and at this point, you had seen it all. “There was a little weight to it when I set it on the dresser earlier. Is it another meditation candle? Please tell me it’s not patchouli again.”

“Just open it. But—” his voice drops lower, “go somewhere private first. Just in case…”

“Harry Styles, what did you send me?” And you swing your legs out of bed, your bare feet meeting the cold hardwood floor, and you grimace. “This better be worth getting out of bed for—”

“Trust me.”

“Hmm… Those sound like famous last words,” you murmur, grabbing the box and heading toward the bathroom. “You know, most boyfriends just send flowers when their girlfriends are away.”

“Well… Most boyfriends are boring.”

And you laugh as you lock the bathroom door behind you, setting the phone on the counter. “Harry… I’m locked in my childhood bathroom past midnight, about to open a mystery box from my boyfriend… I swear…”

“I said it would be worth it… swear…” Your eyes are trained on the box, but there’s something in his voice—anticipation, maybe, or something more, almost mischievous as he asks. “Are you alone?”

“Unless you count the forty bottles of Bath and Body Works lotions my mom refuses to throw away.” And you grab scissors from the drawer, slicing through the tape. “Seriously, this woman never throws anything away.”

“Focus, babe.”

“I am focused. I’m—oh, there’s tissue paper. Fancy. Is this lavender-scented? Very on brand.” You rustle through the purple paper, your fingers hitting something solid wrapped in velvet. “Harry, this presentation is intense. Are you launching jewelry now?”

“Keep going.” He urges. 

And you eye the velvet bag that is heavier than expected. “Okay, so it’s definitely not earrings. Unless you’ve gone full avant-garde and—” That’s when the words die in your throat as you pull out the contents, silence now taking way.

“Love? You there?”

But all you can do is stare at the object in your hand, your brain short-circuiting. It’s... substantial. Realistic even, and somehow very, very familiar, in a strange twisted way, and you wonder how the hell you ended up at this point in your life… because how fucking random.

“So,” Harry nudges, holding back his laughter, “what do you think of the prototype for the new line?”

“Harry.” You try, but your voice comes out strangled.

“Yes?”

“Is this... wait… did you make a dildo?”

“Yeah, babe. I just told you it’s for the new line. It’s amazing, right? Revolutionary casting technology. Very innovative, they say.”

Your brain is still spinning, barely taking in his words, and you hold it up to the light, your face burning at the sight—the size, the slight curve, even the— “Oh my god.” You blurt.

“What?”

“This is you. This is literally you.” And your words tumble out in a shocked whisper. “Like, this is YOUR... Harry, is this a mold of your dick?”

That’s when his laughter explodes through the phone. “Took you less time than I thought. I didn’t think you would recognize it—”

“What? Are you kidding me… after all the time I’ve spent on my knees for you… Babe, I’m more than acquainted with the original model,” you interrupt, then immediately want to crawl under the sink. “I can’t believe you did this.” And the shock is still there, because how many people are going to get their hands on this? And suddenly all you can picture is this perfect object filling the space between a bounty of legs, giving the boundless pleasure you know he’s so good at giving, and maybe there’s something about it that is turning you on…

Then Harry is cutting through your thoughts, “Technically, the design team did it. I just provided the, uh, inspiration.”

“Inspiration,” you repeat flatly, then burst out laughing even though you’re a tangled mess of emotions and curiosity. “You made a mold of your penis and mailed it across the fucking Atlantic. That’s... that’s actually insane.”

“Is it though? I thought it was quite romantic. Now you won’t have to miss me as much.”

“Romantic? Harry, you sent me a replica of your—” And you gesture wildly even though he can’t see you, accidentally dropping it, and you watch as it hits the tile floor with a thud, wobbling back and forth like the world’s most inappropriate metronome. 

“Oh shit… it just slipped out of my hands!” You tell him.

“You dropped my dick? That can’t be a good sign.” He jokes, scandalized, but you can hear him fighting laughter.

“Technically, I dropped A dick. The jury’s still out on ownership rights.” And you stare down at it on the floor. “Though I have to say, the way it landed was very you. Even your silicone doppelganger has the perfect comedic timing.”

“I’m choosing to take that as a compliment.”

“Of course you would...” You tell him, bending to pick it up, now testing the weight in your palm, and honestly, it’s surprisingly well-made, the attention to detail enough to make you blush. “So this is really going to be in the product line? You’re really going to mass-produce your... dick?”

“Well, when you put it like that, it sounds a bit narcissistic.”

“A bit?” Then you turn on the tap, running warm water over it without thinking.

“What are you doing?” He asks with interest.

“Cleaning it, obviously. It’s been in a box, traveling internationally. Your dick’s been through customs, Harry. Do you know how many hands have touched this package already?”

“Please don’t phrase it like that.”

“It’s too late. I already have the visual. Dude, your package has been thoroughly handled by government officials.” And you grab the closest thing you can find to unscented soap, working up a lather. “I hope you declared this properly. ‘One manufactured penis, for personal use.”

“Commercial use, actually. And I’ll have you know it was all very professional.”

“Professional,” you repeat, watching soap bubbles slide down the length as a vision of Harry in the shower crosses your mind, bringing back the many times your soapy hands have been wrapped around this very length. “Right. Because nothing says professional like making a mold of your—”

“It’s for sexual wellness,” he interjects, but his voice has gotten lower, raspier. “The describing line is ‘Pleasing yourself like you mean it.’ It’s empowering.”

“Is that what we’re calling it?” You ask, gripping your hand around the girth as you rinse it off, patting it dry with a hand towel like you’ve dried him off after a quick fuck in the past, but in those moments, you wanted to show him how much you appreciated him and all his glory. “And here I thought you were just missing me.” 

“I am missing you.” He pushes, all playfulness gone, leaving you with the same longing that already had your clit aching. “Every day. Every night, and god, baby, especially at night when I want you next to me in bed.”

And it’s crazy how quickly that longing can turn to something wanting, something primal as the bathroom narrows to just the glow on the screen, and the warmth of your thoughts floods the space. Here you are, all the way across the sea, leaning against the counter, holding his gift—because that’s what this really is, isn’t it? The most Harry gift possible: cheeky and sincere in equal measure, yet completely functional. 

“Twenty-seven days,” you whisper.

“But who’s counting?” And you both say it in unison, an old joke that doesn’t feel funny anymore, because you need this man who is whispering to you at the end of this phone, and that’s when the contemplation begins… And you turn over his gift in your hands, marveling at the weight, the texture. “It’s actually... really well done. The color’s perfect. The size... exact... like scary exact, and now I’m wondering how this ever fit.” You tell him, trailing off as heat climbs your neck.

“Exact?” He asks, his voice breathy.

“Yeah…” You breathe, running your thumb along the edge, remembering. “It’s almost... god, this is weird to say about a sex toy, but it’s almost perfect. Like, if I closed my eyes...”

“If you closed your eyes?”

You smile, staring at the phone as if he could materialize, then your eyes flit to your reflection in the mirror, eyes tracing over flushed cheeks, your hand gripping exactly what you knew would satisfy you, and holy fuck, when had the bathroom gotten so warm?

“It feels real,” you admit quietly. “The weight of it, the way it fits in my hand. You did good, baby. This is... this is almost good enough to use.”

Harry lets the silence stretch between you both, the silence suddenly taut as a fucking wire, you’ve been waiting to cut.

“Yeah?” he raps, voice wanting.

“Yeah...” and you find yourself biting your lip, the decision contracting to a single action in your mind, even though you didn’t think you would be brave enough to go through with it. “Should I try it?”

Harry sucks in a sharp breath. “Will someone hear you?”

And all at once, your pulse beats in your ears as your heart picks up at the thought. “Everyone’s asleep downstairs. The whole family is practically on the opposite side of the house,” you tell him calmly, trying to tamp down the nervous, giddy excitement of trying something new.

“Can I...” he starts, then pauses, clearing his throat, and you hear him shift, probably sitting up. “Can I watch?”

For a second, his request hangs between you, as a low hum races over your skin. This is crazy, you thought. This was absolutely insane. You’re in your parents’ house for Christ’s sake, in the bathroom you used to take bubble baths in as a kid, holding a perfect replica of your boyfriend’s gorgeous dick, and actually considering...

“Okay,” you breathed out before you could lose your nerve. “Switching to FaceTime… Give me a sec…”

You’re trying not to overthink everything as the call disconnects, and for a heart-stuttering moment, you hold your breath, watching his face fill the screen before your eyes. He’s in bed, shirtless, messy hair with that look you’ve seen so many times. Your eyes were already roaming over the screen, taking in all the details you’ve missed as the lamp glowed golden across his chest, highlighting the butterfly tattoo you’ve traced with your tongue a hundred times.

“Hi,” he says softly, green eyes dark with a want only you could fulfill.

“Hi…” You answer, timidly, trying to prop the phone against the mirror with shaky hands, wanting to catch the best angle. “Can you see okay?”

“Perfect,” he says lowly, and you watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. “You already look so perfect, love.”

You smile then, positioning yourself in frame, very aware of how unsexy your old sleep shirt and disheveled hair must look, holding what’s essentially him in the palm of your hand. “Is this a good view?”

“Yeah, babe.” He tells you, and fuck, that voice is already taken with your little effort, his hand disappearing below the frame, and you love how easy it is to please him, how you could probably just say a few words, and that would be enough… but this…

This felt exciting, something you guys had never done, something you needed, because there hadn’t been a single day that you hadn’t thought about his dick inside you, and now you could feel the need pulling between your legs, ready to open up in every way that you’ve never allowed yourself before, at least not like this, not as personal as pleasing yourself before the eyes of someone else.

It was scary, it was vulnerable, it was fucking thrilling, and you were so turned on.

“I’m already so hard.” He confesses.

And the confession shoots straight through you, pooling at that spot low in your belly. You had been apart too long, had wanted each other too desperately, and when you met his eyes through the screen, your decision was made.

“Show me.”

Harry didn’t hesitate and adjusted the camera without pause, holding the phone steady in one hand, angling just so, and there he was, hard and ready, his fist already curling at the base, thumb stroking the underside as he watched your reaction with a focus that made your stomach lurch with need. He was always beautiful, but never more than when he was like this, pre-come glistening like a speck of glitter at the tip, his need already apparent by the way he was stroking his dick.

God, you missed him. Missed that fucking cock, and how it felt inside you, the way it stretched you open and left you shuddering after, and you squeezed your thighs together at the thought, hand moving between your legs ready to relieve the ache as you pressed two fingers against your clit and began to rub a slow circle over the cotton of your panties. “That looks so good, baby. I miss you. I miss you inside me.” 

“You like what you see?” He asks through a gasping breath of pleasure.

Your eyes are trained on his hand. Trained on the fluid movement of his grip from top to bottom, stroking the length of his dick with a tender grasp, “I’m already wet. I want you so bad.” You tell him, slipping your fingers into your underwear, letting out a breathless sigh when your warm fingers finally meet the flesh of your pussy, and you dip your fingers near your entrance, dragging the wetness up to your center, starting to work it in with a small moan.

“Let me watch you take your panties off, love. I want to see how wet you’re getting for me.” And you step back into frame, catching his green eyes as his face fills the screen, and you both lock eyes while you shimmy them down your thighs, letting them drop and hit the floor, and when you step out of them you lift the front of your shirt, pressing yourself against the tiled wall behind you, needing stability to stabilize your shaky legs, because you were doing this, about to put on a show for the man you love, who was an ocean away, and you swallowed down your nerves, spreading your legs, and reaching for the dildo lying on the counter.

“It’s a little chilly… I think I need to warm it up—” 

That’s when Harry speaks up, “It suctions to the wall. You can use it however you want, love, but I thought that would be fun for the future.” And you laugh, eyes moving over the dick in your hand.

“Well, you’ve seemed to think of all of our pleasuring needs…” You poke, turning to level his silicone glory with your lower body. “And since you’ve been so thoughtful, baby, I’m going to give you what you want.”

“Oh fuck, baby—That’s already enough to make me come. You’re so fucking hot.” He forces out, and you can see the torture stealing his features as his hand moves below the camera, but all you can see are the muscles working in his toned arm, and the view is just as hot as his words.

And you click your tongue with a playful scold, “No, no, no, Harry. I get to come first…” You tease, pulling your shirt over your head and tossing it aside as the chill of the air breezes over your hardening nipples, and you bring your hands up to your boobs, pinching the hard tips between your fingers. 

“Darling, I won’t even touch myself… I promise. God—You look amazing. Your body is brilliant in that light. A fucking goddess…” He coos, building you up, and suddenly you feel invincible. 

You bit back your smile, eyes shyly shifting to the erect dick hanging from your wall, and you can’t help but laugh at the sight, “Harry, this kind of looks too big. I’m not going to lie.” You tell him, but internally you want the stretch, want the ache it’s sure to give, and when you spread your legs, backing into the cold cock, you close your thighs around it, trying to warm it up, bringing a hand down to pull it up to your hot center. 

“Damn, babe, you’re a natural…” Harry says, and for a second, you had almost forgotten he was there. 

You laugh, “This is interesting…” You tell him, starting to move along the length, squeezing your thighs for better friction as you reach the tip of the cock, pressing it into your clit, then slowly gliding yourself back down. 

“How does it feel?” He asks, genuinely curious, even though there’s a strained edge to his tone. “For research purposes…”

“For research purposes?” you repeat on a wave of pleasure, watching him lick his lips.

“For quality purposes… You know I never want to disappoint…” he tells you, but all you can say is, “Mmmm” as the pleasure picks up and you close your eyes, ready to get lost in it, feeling the chill disappear with every stroke of your wet pussy, the soft silicone now slick with your juices as your pace quickens slightly.

“Tell me how it feels, love. You’re making it look incredible.”

And you smile to yourself, loving the desperation filling his tone, the need as sharp as your want to have him inside you. “It’s…getting warm…” You breathe out on an upward stroke, the ridge of his tip teasing your entrance, and you bite down on your lower lip to suppress the moan building.

“The warmer it’s getting, the more it feels real…soft to the touch, but hard… mmmm… baby, it’s so hard…

“Fuck…” Was all you heard in a pained gasp as you work his dick between your legs, because the longer your eyes were closed the more you were slipping into the fantasy that this might actually be real, because it feels just like him, the best that money could buy, and you could tell that he didn’t skimp a single dollar trying to make this dream come true for you. 

And here were the visions, flooding you again, that desperation taking over, your mind taking you back to the last time he had fucked you in the shower, the morning you left. That whole night, you guys had fucked like rabbits, both of you trying to satiate a need that would never be filled as long as you both were breathing. It was just like this, that moment in the shower—him pressing you into the glass, the perfect angle of his dick shoved inside you as he wrapped an arm around your waist, lifting you just enough to hit that spot, and now you wanted to recreate it. 

You needed that same penetration; Needed it like the air in your lungs and as you lifted slightly, forcing the hard cock toward your entrance you held your breath, your body gearing up for that masterful stretch… and there it was, you thought as the head stretched you open, a pained moan echoing in the space, and you sealed your lips shut, the moan vibrating at the back of your throat as you forced yourself back onto his dick.

You gasped in a shuddering breath the second you hit the hilt, hard silicone hitting your cervix, with a welcomed ache that had you stilling yourself long enough to let your walls relax, “So good…” You forced, as the dizzying sensation stole your breath. Then you did it again, lifting yourself to the tips of your toes, and slamming back down, that vision of Harry pounding into you at the forefront of your mind, and fuck, this was a close comparison to that feeling, as close as you were going to get with him being so far away, and you seized the moment, your entire world a blurred focus of a vision and a feeling, playing in tandem.  

Then Harry said, “Just like that…” and you repeated his words, his voice like a whisper in your ear, and you picked up the pace, your sweaty palms smacking against the cold tile as you drove the dick deep inside you, your hands slipping as you lost balance, but only for a second, only a quick smear—a squeak ricocheting around the bathroom. “Just like that,” you said again, slowing your movements, the depth enough to satisfy your needs as you controlled the movements of your hips to a steady rock.

He was hitting your spot, the one that had your toes curling, your teeth aching with a pleasure so deep you felt it in your bones, and you needed more… That’s when you’re hand moved to your clit, as you began a slow bounce, your hand matching the rhythm of your hips, “Baby don’t you dare stop,” Harry says, another whisper, another jolt of electricity pulsing to that knot already coiling deep in your belly.

“Harry, it’s so deep… you’re so deep… I won’t— stop. I can’t. Fuck don’t stop…” you chanted between breaths, dreamily slipping between pockets of reality with each wave that was building, and who knew this could feel so good, could get so wet, could slide in and out of you with an ease that felt like taking a breath, because this was that breath, this was that air that you needed, and all it took was one last thrust of your hips, and Harry’s name was spilling out of your mouth as you nearly stilled on the hard mass inside you, finally forcing your eyes open as you came—the feeling tripping something in your brain as you came undone, and your eyes frantically darted to the mirror, taking in the stranger staring back at you. 

And as you caught your breath the world around you went quiet—a strange emptiness pressing on your eardrums, the only sound now the slow patter of your breathing, and the distant, tinny echo of the bathroom vent as you stood there bewildered, your world now zipped clean open, splitting into three—you, Harry, and the chasm of space between you, now unfolding in the spance of a heartbeat.

For a fleeting moment, you were floored by the cruelty that reality had instantly bestowed on you. If it weren’t for the tremble in your legs, you would have thought it was someone else who had just fucked themselves into oblivion, but the proof was in the burn of your thighs, the sharp chill of the tile under your feet, the sweet aftershock clamping down between your legs—all of it was real yet, it still felt fake as the silicone hunk stayed suctioned to the wall. 

“You alright, love?” And Harry’s voice filters through your thoughts, a face on the small screen, hazy and distant, laughter stitched cautiously into his concern. 

You peeked up at yourself again, but only for the briefest second, a stranger of yourself, now slowly morphing back to you, “Well, I think that will definitely sell… but maybe we can negotiate me not wanting to share… because holy fuck baby—”

“Better than the real deal?” He asks as you walk out of frame laughing, as you slip your shirt back on, and you’re back in shot, both of you laughing while you struggle to get the obscene chunk of silicone off the wall.

When you finally manage, there’s a loud pop, and you laugh out, stumbling backward, your ass hitting the counter, and you toss it in the sink, ready to rid yourself of the moment to recollect yourself. “I have a confession…” Harry finally speaks up through a broken laugh.

“And what’s that?” You ask, turning on the faucet. “Harry, have you already launched this, and I’m just hearing about it? 

“No Love, with a launch like this. You know you would be the first to try it… but…”

“But?” You ask.

“The truth is, this isn’t the prototype. I just wanted to gauge your reaction… which seemed pretty good on my end—”

“Harry—”

“No—seriously, that was the hottest thing I’ve ever witnessed in my life. Hands down. As if I need any more of a reason to be obsessed with you.”

And you arch a brow at the phone, trying to hide the flush creeping into your cheeks, “So you’re telling me I have the only silicone dildo that was cast from your dick?” 

“Well, yes… but I have the patton in case I ever change my mind.” 

You glance at the phone, catching the playful smirk tilting up the corner of his mouth. “Okay, well now I have a confession…” You tell him, while holding up the soapy cock in your hands. 

“Wait— are you about to actually tell me that it was better?

“No—” you divulge with a laugh, “Hell no, babe, nothing is better than a warm dick, trust me…” 

“Okay, good, now I’ll be able to sleep tonight, knowing you’re not replacing me.” 

 You eye him suspiciously, “Now that I’ve given you a show, you owe me one…” You demand with a playful grin.

“Oh yeah? Like now or later?”

“Like later,” you start, “Like way later, like when we’re back home later. And we have a whole day, you know, like maybe we can continue with this whole experiment, and—”

“And I can fuck you with both dicks?” He finishes.

“Fuck—you know me so well.” You tell him.

“Oh, love…” He says with a calming sigh, “It’s just one of the many reasons I made it…”

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One Shot Masterlist<-

“I told her I’d take over watering the garden for her. I think we’ll tidy up once we go inside, hm? You can go back in the rocker and watch me do it. The dishes need to be washed.” He mumbled, rocking back and forth on his feet as he used his free hand to water the plants. The hose water was cold but it was nice to get a light back spray when the heat was like this in the mornings.

“She’s done a good job back here. Think some of it’s probably the magic you give her, hm?” He looked back to his son as he let out a little gurgling sound, tiny hand fisting his tee shirt. “Precisely. You give the whimsy, and she absorbs it to give to the plants. You always say exactly what m’thinking.”

The garden was bustling with flowers that he’d watched her plant with their baby in his lap underneath the shaded tree. As much as he had offered to do it for her, he’d been met with sharp glances and sharper questions about him thinking she was ‘incapable’ so he’d simply let her at it. Thankfully she had a green thumb as oppose to his dingy one. Harry could handle the watering but pruning, planting and all of that… not so much. He’d proven that last year when he tried to help.