MapleSnowflake

—

“they’re nice, babe. I swear.”

your boyfriend bites his nails anxiously as the two of you walk towards the entrance of the studio. no matter how much you've tried to put him at ease, he's justifiably intimidated by your friends and has been nervous to meet them for months.

you can't blame him, really. the friends in question are actually your former employers: the sidemen. you'd interned with them three years ago, and despite being fully 25 years old by now, they still treated you like their kid sister. they were... protective, to say the least.

"don't let them get to you, please. I am sure they'll try to interrogate you but they're really not scary guys. they just care about me, that's all."

"that's what scares me!" he retorts. "I'm half-expecting jj or ethan to threaten my life if I were ever to hurt you."

"as they damn well should!" you laugh, and he groans. "it's a good incentive to never try any bullshit with me," you grin, kissing him on the cheek. "come on."

—

you lead your boyfriend through the halls of the studio, following the sound of the seven raucous voices you knew all too well, the laughs of your chosen brothers echoing through the space. reaching the end of the corridor, you see them through an open door, lounging on the big comfy couch often used for their second channel videos.

rapping your knuckle on the doorframe, you alert them of your presence. "hellooo," you sing with a wave.

"hey!" "oh my god, hi!" "yo fam!" "ay, there she is!" "y'alright?" "what's up, mate?" "finally!"

you hug each of them tightly, a beaming smile stretching across your face from all the love. "s'great to see you guys."

stepping back from their embraces, you snake an arm around your partner's waist. "lads, this is my boyfriend!" you gesture to the slightly panic-frozen man at your side. "babe, this is josh, harry, simon, jj, tobi, vik, and ethan."

"hi," your boyfriend says a bit quietly, raising a hand to wave at your friends. "y'alright, mate?" asks josh, taking the initiative to greet him first and shake his hand. the rest follow suit, and the nine of you make your way back to the couch. you squeeze your boyfriend's arm reassuringly as he seemingly starts to let go of the breath he'd been holding in all day.

"so," simon starts. "what are your intentions with our daughter?" the whole room laughs, and you roll your eyes. "oh god, not this shit. such a wind-up."

"oy, we need to know if you've got a good bloke!" ethan defends. "you do have historically bad taste, mate," tobi adds with a pat on your shoulder, and your jaw drops dramatically. "well that's rude."

"it's true," harry chimes in. "I didn't go looking for a reason to punch that last donny just for the hell of it, did I?"

sighing, you concede. "okay, okay. fine. you win. christ, you're like my parents, the lot of you. I swear this one's a good egg," you say lovingly, running your fingers through your boyfriend's hair.

"well, I try to be," he laughs awkwardly, his shoulders relaxing a fraction more.

"so what do you do for work?" vik inquires, at least having the decency to masquerade his interrogation as small talk.

the conversation starts to flow more smoothly — your boyfriend getting more confident with every answer that appears to satisfy your friends. none of the questions are too invasive or confrontational, bar jj trying to dig into your sex life and getting instantly shut down by everyone.

your boyfriend manages to make them laugh a few times, seeming to win them over bit by bit as they learn more about him. your heart warms at the realization that you hadn't even needed to speak in several minutes, just listening to your favorite people all getting along effortlessly without your arbitration.

after a while, he excuses himself to use the bathroom, leaving you to debrief with your friends. "alright, hit me," you exhale, surprisingly nervous to hear what they have to say. "what's the verdict?"

they're silent for a moment, like they're letting the suspense eat at you, before they finally put you out of your misery with a few smiles and nods of approval.

"nice fella." "he's sound, mate." "seems like a lovely bloke." "I like him." "you got a good one." "good lad." "happy for you, mate."

you beam happily in response, feeling a weight off your shoulders so heavy it was as if you'd been seeking approval from your actual parents.

"but if he hurts you, on god I'll—" "oh my fucking god, I KNOW."

—

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—

just as you’d hoped, harold returned.

the day after his first visit to your club, a bouquet of roses appeared on your vanity backstage with no note. but you knew.

that same night, you got ready to perform one of your more scandalous numbers, and you prayed he’d be there to see it: sitting at the same table, his hazy eyes watching your every move.

and, of course, he was. the fates had decided that naturally, harold should be present when you play the one song in your whole repertoire that genuinely felt as though it could've been written about him (and from your past experiences with men, only him).

a guy what takes his time, I'd go for anytime I'm a fast movin' gal who likes them slow got no use for fancy drivin', wanna see a guy arrivin' in low I'd be satisfied, electrified, to know a guy what takes his time

a new item of clothing falls away from your body during each verse as you float around the room, feigning an angelic persona with a pouty lip and doe eyes in spite of the inherent lewdness of your act.

there isn't any fun in getting something done if you're rushed when you have to make the grade I can spot an amateur, appreciate a connoisseur in trade who would qualify, no alibi, to be the guy who takes his time?

by the end of the song, you're completely bare, only hidden from the crowd behind two giant feathered fans covering your body, while still providing a clear view of your naked silhouette to the cheering crowd.

your perfectly polished act of seduction never failed to get all the eyes in the room on you. every move you made was languid, sensual and addicting, and more often than not would result in at least one man (who you had absolutely zero interest in) confessing his undying love to you after the show. perhaps tonight, you'd be approached by the one person whose attention you actually cared for.

money and flowers fall at your feet as your ears ring with the howls and whistles echoing around you. in the back corner, harold stands without a word and claps respectfully, bless him.

—

you make yourself presentable again before you head out into the crowd, a lacy pink négligée and sheer robe with feathered collar adorning your figure. you'd plucked a rose from the bouquet on your vanity, tucking it in your hair in an effort to catch harold's eye. it took great self-control to not beeline straight to him, reminding yourself that you've yet to even have a conversation with the man and that you had no right to be so eager about someone you don’t really know. so you try to play hard(ish) to get, choosing to talk to some other guests first.

after mingling with the audience members for a short period, you pull off to the side, stopping at the bar for a breather (and a drink).

a moment later, you're interrupted by the sound of a gruff voice behind you. "y'alright, gorgeous?"

you'd, perhaps foolishly, hoped it would be harold, despite knowing instantly that it wasn't his voice. instead, it belonged to a greasy-looking older man, with a musty smell about him and an untrustworthy grin.

"oh. hello," you smile, polite but hoping to signify a mild disinterest in talking. ignoring it, he helps himself to the seat next to you, and you sigh. as if a man like this would ever take a social cue.

"s'one hell of a show you put on there," the stranger lauds. "could watch you all day, I could."

"oh, that's very kind. thank you, mister."

suddenly, you feel his clammy palm land on your exposed thigh, far too high up for your comfort. you gasp, shooting out of your seat so his hand falls away. "please do not touch me," you rebuke. "this is a look-not-touch kind of establishment, sir."

he scoffs, getting to his feet and towering over you. "please, doll. you can't put it all out there for the whole of the east end to see and act precious after." the spit from his harsh words lands on your cheek and you move to wipe it, but he abruptly grabs you by your forearm before you can, squeezing tightly. "if you're gonna act like a slag on stage, don't pretend you're a lady off it."

your heart begins to pound with panic, his fingers bruising your fair skin with the strong grasp he has on you. "oi, get off me!" you shriek, trying to shove him off to no avail. "stop, you're hurtin' me!"

the man starts dragging you towards the dark hallway along the side of the club and you scream for help over the too-loud band playing before his free hand slaps across your mouth, muffling your cries. "oh pack it in, darlin’, wouldya? it'll be over faster the less you try 'n fight me."

you fight even harder, doing everything you can to wrestle free from his hold. tears start to stream down your cheeks as he tugs you further down the corridor, closing in on a private room intended for high roller clientele. trying and failing to bite his palm, your lungs seem to shrink behind your ribs, your fear manifesting as hyperventilation.

as you truly start to feel as though you may faint, you hear a loud thump just next to your ear that you don't see the cause of. unexpectedly, your attacker's arms go limp, releasing you from his grip. before you can collapse, a different pair of arms catch you. they gently maneuver you to the floor against the wall, handling you like glass.

disoriented, confused, and slightly deprived of oxygen, you struggle to focus your eyes on the scene around you. finally, you register that the man who'd tried to take you was now unconscious on the ground, a large wound forming on his head where he'd clearly been hit. you turn to look at your rescuer, eyes going wide when you realize it was harold who’d saved you.

"oh! oh my, ha—m..mr. lewis. thank you so much," you exhale, feeling embarrassed but undeniably relieved, endlessly grateful.

"oh, call me harry, please… a—are you okay, miss?" he asks in a hushed tone, eyes filled with sweet concern as he plants himself on the floor in front of you. harry. you didn't know he went by 'harry' in his personal life. you decide it suits him far better than 'harold'. he's holding what looks to be the splintered leg of a broken chair, evidently his weapon of choice in the heat of the moment. you might've actually laughed about the peculiar selection under different circumstances.

"oh, y-yes, yes, of course. I'm so sorry. I can't thank you enough, mr. lew— harry," you sniff, wiping your eyes and trying to put yourself back together and slip back into your burlesque persona with a smile. you go to stand, and he softly places a hand on your shoulder to stop you.

"no, p-please. sit down. breathe. you don't have to put your stage face back on right now," he assures. your brows furrow in consideration — he must know exactly what putting a stage face on feels like. your shoulders relax slightly.

"I didn't plan for you to see me like this," you mutter, shame flooding your veins. "I shouldn't let customers see me all disheveled-like," you try to laugh casually. you attempt to adjust your clothing and fix your hair, but he just shakes his head quietly, perhaps a bit sadly.

"maybe s'more important that customers don't try and take advantage of you like that,” he retorts. you feel your eyes water again instantly as you nod in agreement. your brain didn't know how to process his understanding, his kindness. it was rare in the men who frequented your club.

"I suppose you're right, yes," you concede. "thank you, harry."

from his pocket, he reveals the single rose that had been in your hair before falling out during your altercation with the stranger. "I found this on the floor by the bar. it looked lovely on you."

a modicum of warmth returns to your body, your heart beating evenly once again as a blush rises to your cheeks.

"may I?" he gestures.

"mmhmm." you manage with a little smile.

harry shuffles towards you the tiniest bit, trying not to overwhelm you, and tucks your hair behind your ear, carefully placing the rose back in its rightful place. heat radiates from his skin and seeps into yours. he smells nice — clean and woodsy.

"can't tell you how happy it made me to see them flowers on my vanity this morning. no lad's ever got me flowers before," you confess. "thank you."

"that's criminal, that is," he huffs in shock. "pretty lass like you should be gettin' flowers every day. y'should be treated like a lady."

your face flushes red, but you have to disagree. "hardly a lady, am I? this bloke said if I act like a slag on stage then I shouldn't pretend to be a lady in real life," you add defeatedly, pointing at the unconscious man. "s'pose he's got a point."

harry looks almost offended by your statement, by the fact that you believed something so horrible about yourself. "he absolutely does not have a point," he argues. "that's bollocks. you're makin' art up there, performin'. there's nothing slaggy about it. it's beautiful. an--and you're beautiful. to hell with him and anyone who believes that. you're a right lady deservin' of respect 'n all, just like everyone else."

you listen to his passionate appeal, your lip beginning to tremble as he determinedly tries to convince you that you're wrong. consumed by your emotions, you lean in and press a soft kiss to his cheek before you can second guess yourself. but then you do.

immediately, you panic. "I-I'm sorry, please forgive me, that wasn't appropriate." you force yourself to stand on still-shaky legs and start walking down the hall, trying to get away from the whole mess.

"wait!" harry flies up to his feet and runs after you. "please, stop," he pleads, a hand reaching for your arm hesitantly, not wanting to grab you too harshly after what you'd been through that evening.

"I-I have to talk to the club manager, I should probably tell him that there's a wanker knocked out back there," you explain, unable to look harry in the eye.

"let me take care of it for you, please. you should go get your things and get out of here. c-can I walk you home to make sure you're safe?"

you glance up at him, his wide eyes overflowing with genuine sincerity. safe. he wanted to keep you safe. no one had ever offered that to you and meant it. somehow, you believed that harry did. you nod in concession, your lip now chewed raw with anxiety. "please."

—

you've somehow managed to dress yourself and pack your things up in under five minutes, like a delayed flight response in your head was screaming for you to get out.

harry is waiting for you by the front door, as the club manager and two large security guards head towards the corridor where your assailant is still knocked out.

"he's bein' dealt with," harry assures with a confident smirk. "you won't see him here again. let's get you home, yeah?"

"how'd you manage that?!" you exclaim. "the owner never cares about customers harassing the girls."

"well, he cares about losing the business of all seven sidemen and all our mates, don't he? it was ban one donny or miss out on a helluva lot of cash."

you gape at him, in awe of how willingly he'd leveraged his power to protect you. the guy who everyone in the city knew to be shy and timid had effectively threatened your employer into keeping you safe. you could cry all over again. "I—thank you, harry. so much. I don't know how to repay you for that. f'everything."

"you don't owe me anything, love," he promises with a nonchalant shrug, before offering you his arm. "shall we?"

you walk towards your flat just down the road, the silence between you oddly comfortable. harry's presence kept you warm in the cold air.

a few minutes pass, and you bittersweetly arrive at your place. as terrible as your night had been up until this point, you now didn't want your time with him to end. "here I am," you nod your head towards the building in front of you, turning to face harry. "thank you again, for walking me."

"I'll do it every night if you want."

butterflies swarm in your stomach as you lock eyes with him. he truly was breathtaking up close. you couldn't remember meeting anyone so gorgeous in your life — his heart only reinforcing the beauty emanating from him. he was lovely in every meaning.

"can, uh... would you like to join me for a cuppa tea? least I can do."

—

the two of you get comfortable on your small settee, drinking your tea and getting to know each other. it feels a bit surreal to have him here, but you somehow already feel at ease with him in your space.

the conversation comes to a natural pause, a moment of silence. you watch each other intently, like you're committing the other's features to memory. you want to soak up every drop of harry's sunlight.

"you're so beautiful," he murmurs, his finger catching you under your chin before you can hide your face in reservation. "please don't make me stop lookin' at you, darling."

heat rises to your cheeks, speechless from the way he was admiring you. you train your eyes back onto his, the pretty blue irises slowly being swallowed by growing pupils as he aches to pull you closer.

"what happened to the shy lad who never talks to anybody offstage?" you tease breathily. a lopsided grin spreads across his face, a low laugh rising from his chest.

"you make me brave."

his lips graze yours softly as he closes in on you. your chest heaves with desire, with need. your hand slides up his arm, resting on his broad shoulder, and without an ounce of patience left in your body, you push forward, finally latching your lips onto his.

you melt together, wrapped tightly in each other's arms as your tongues meet and dance. you bury your fingers into his hair, and his hands glide down your back to land low on your hips, pressing hungrily into your skin like he can't get close enough.

kissing along your jaw and down your neck, harry treats you with a care you'd never experienced from anyone. he kisses your arms softly where your attacker had left bruises. you sigh with pleasure as he nips at your collarbone, leaning back to open more of yourself up to him. he caresses you slowly, reverently. his rough hands and soft lips set your nerves alight. you'd never felt so wanted. he worships you for ages, like he’s in no rush to return to the world outside of your flat.

he takes his time.

—

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