Depressed Bitch

The possessiveness flares hotter in your chest and you can't help yourself. ''Exactly. You're mine,'' you whisper, turning your head slightly to press a hot, open-mouthed kiss against his jaw.

The words barely leave your mouth before Harry's grip on your waist turns firmer, pulling you tighter against his chest. A low, approving hum vibrates through his body and into your back.

''That's my girl,'' he whispers, lips brushing the shell of your ear. One of his hands slides down your stomach and slips under the waistband of your tiny shorts, fingers finding you already warm and slick. ''Fuck, you're soaked just from reading thirsty comments about my dick?''

You gasp softly as his long fingers glide through your folds, teasing your entrance before circling your clit with slow, deliberate strokes. His other arm stays wrapped around you, holding you securely against his chest while he starts rocking your hips gently against his growing hardness. The friction is delicious, the soft fabric of his sweats doing nothing to hide how quickly he's getting hard beneath you.

''All those girls wishing they could have me,'' he continues, voice rough and possessive in your ear, ''and here you are, sitting pretty on my lap with my hand in your shorts. And you fucking love it, don't you? You love that this cock is yours whenever you want it.''

His fingers dip lower, sliding one thick digit inside you slowly, then another, curling just right as he pumps them lazily. You moan quietly, head falling back against his shoulder, and Harry takes full advantage, attaching his mouth to your neck and sucking a mark there while his hips roll up to meet your movements. ''That's it, baby. Ride my fingers like you're gonna ride me later,” he murmurs, nipping at your earlobe. ''Bet all those fans would lose their minds if they knew how filthy you get for me. How wet you are right now just thinking about bouncing on my cock. God, I fucking love you. Your pussy feels like heaven.''

The dirty words combined with the steady rhythm of his fingers have you whimpering, rolling your hips harder against his hand. Harry chuckles darkly, the sound sending shivers down your spine. His free hand slips under your hoodie, palming your breast and pinching your nipple as his fingers stroke that spot inside of you. ''So fucking tight around my fingers, baby. Can't wait to feel you stretching around me.''

You turn around in his lap, maneuvering quickly so you're facing him properly, knees on either side of his thighs. It's a little clumsy, your legs tangling briefly in the process, but neither of you cares. The second you're turned around Harry's mouth crashes into yours, kissing you hard and deep, tongue sliding against yours with urgent hunger.

His hands grab fistfuls of your ass, pulling you down against his hard cock as you make out messily, hot breaths mingling together. You grind down on him, hands buried in his curls, moaning into his mouth while he groans against yours, the kiss turning wet and filthy.

The kiss breaks only long enough for Harry to trail his mouth down the side of your neck and across your shoulder, open-mouthed and hungry, sucking lightly at your skin while his hands grip your ass firmly. He tugs your tiny shorts down your thighs with impatient fingers, groaning deeply when he feels just how soaked you are.

''Fuck, baby, you're dripping for me,'' he rasps, eyes dark as he pushes against your hips so you sit up on your knees, and dips his head like he wants to taste you right there on the couch.

His breath is hot against your abdomen, but you thread your fingers through his curls and gently tug him back up.

''Not yet,'' you whisper, voice breathy but determined. ''I need you inside me right now, H. Please.''

Harry's eyes flash with heat and he nods, kissing your ear softly. ''Yeah? Greedy tonight, aren't you?'' He nips at your earlobe. ''That's okay, love. I'll eat this pretty pussy so fucking good later tonight. Gonna have you sitting on my face for as long as you can take it, I promise.''

You reach down between you, tugging at the waistband of his grey sweats and his boxers until his cock springs free, thick and hard and flushed. Harry groans as you wrap your hand around him, pumping him slowly a few times, feeling him throb in your palm.

He helps you shift, lining himself up at your entrance. The head of his cock slides through your slick folds, teasing your clit before he finally pushes in slowly, inch by inch, stretching you open so perfectly that you both moan loudly into the quiet living room.

''Shit, so tight,'' he breathes, forehead pressed to yours as you sink down onto him. Once he's fully seated inside you, you don't waste any time. You start moving, bouncing on his cock with steady, needy rolls of your hips, the wet sounds of your bodies meeting filling the space between you. Harry's hands stay on your hips, guiding you, helping you keep your balance while you ride him. ''That's it, baby. Bounce on it.''

You're still wearing his oversized hoodie, the hem falling around your thighs and occasionally blocking his view, so he gathers the fabric in one fist and holds it up against your stomach, eyes locked on the sight of his cock disappearing inside you again and again.

''Look at that,'' he murmurs, voice wrecked. ''So fucking pretty stretching around my cock. All mine.'' One of his hands slips under the hoodie, palming your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple as you ride him harder, grinding down deep on every bounce.

You squeeze around him deliberately on the next downstroke and Harry chokes out a broken moan, hips stuttering up into you. ''Do that again,'' he begs, voice hoarse. ''Fuck, squeeze me, baby. Just like that.''

''Yeah?'' you ask, a cocky little smile tugging at your lips even as pleasure makes your voice shake. You clench around him again, watching his eyes flutter and his head tip back against the couch. ''You like that? Knowing I'm the only one who makes you feel this good?''

Harry's grip on your hip tightens as he whimpers a desperate little yes, baby, thrusting up to meet your bounces. ''I'm all yours,'' he promises. ''No one else. Just you, riding me so fucking perfect. My good girl. I'm gonna make you my wife one day, you know that?''

When you start trembling, thighs burning and pleasure coiling tight in your belly, Harry brings his thumb to your clit, rubbing tight, slick circles. ''Come on, baby. Come for me. Want to feel you falling apart.''

You shatter with a loud cry of his name, clenching hard around him as your orgasm crashes through you. Harry follows right behind, groaning deeply as he spills inside you, hips jerking up with every pulse. He keeps you on him through the aftershocks, arms wrapped tight around your waist, face buried in your neck as you both catch your breath.

Then Harry pulls back just enough to look at you, a lazy, satisfied smirk on his flushed face. He brushes a damp strand of hair from your cheek.

''Congratulations, baby'' he murmurs, voice warm and teasing, eyes sparkling with that familiar mischief. ''Looks like you won the lottery.''

...

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

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Your stomach twists in that familiar way it does when he raises his brows like he knows exactly what you're thinking. He's leaning back, legs spread wide, a red cup hanging loosely from his fingers.

Your brother, Jason, is next to him, tossing a glance at you as he sips his drink. Girls are circling him, giggling, clearly victims of his charm, or, a more accurate description if they'd ask you, his sexual perversion.

They're quite the team.

Harry's attractive, of course. You'd have to be blind to argue the opposite. But he's insufferable, and when they're together, so is Jason. You can't tell who's the worse influence. If you're honest with yourself, you know Jason's been like this since high school, but you pretend it's Harry's fault to justify your hatred of him.

And if you're truly, completely, wholeheartedly honest with yourself, you know it's not hatred that you feel towards Harry.

Your brother's best friend. Totally, entirely off-limits. The overused cliché. And yet, the party seems to revolve around him, or maybe it's just because you can't seem to pry your eyes off him.

You first met Harry the moment he stepped into your life as Jason's best friend, a year older and effortlessly magnetic. You'd just started university early, barely out of high school, and your brother had been hyped about joining a fraternity. You'd rolled your eyes at the idea: frats always seemed messy, loud, and way too preoccupied with parties and girls, but of course, you still ended up being introduced to everyone who mattered, including Harry.

He'd had that careless confidence that made every girl on campus swoon, but from the first weekend, it was clear he mostly looked at you. The way he'd watch your reactions at his jokes, only laughing when you did, the way he grinned at your sarcastic comebacks like they were the funniest thing he'd ever heard.

He'd lean in when Jason wasn't looking, drop a comment that was just the right amount of teasing, and you'd feel it: that pull, that awareness of him that made your chest tighten every time he was near. You told yourself it was harmless.

Of course, Harry didn't make it easy. He was relentless, dropping hints and lingering touches, leaning close under the guise of jokes, whispering filthy things that made your heart hammer.

You remember your twentieth birthday party, when he cornered you by the punch table, obnoxiously loud. ''Knock knock, Y/N.''

You'd blinked, flushed red from the alcohol, indulging him. ''Knock knock who?''.

''Baby owl.''

''Baby owl who?''

He grinned like he'd just won the lottery, brushing a curl from your face. ''Baby owl see you at my place later.''

''That was awful,'' you snorted, but the corners of your lips twitched anyway.

''Really? I've been working on that all day. A twentieth birthday special,'' he said with feigned innocent confusion.

''That's sad. Really, I feel sorry for you, Styles.''

''Ouch. Sorry it wasn't up to your high standards, Mrs. Joyless.''

''Missus? Are you mister Joyless then?'' you laughed, fully aware of how blatantly flirtatious your words sounded.

''Hell yeah, baby,'' he smirked proudly, affectionately squeezing your chin between his index finger and thumb.

Jason had walked into the room at that moment, glaring at Harry with that familiar ''don't even think about it'' look.

He'd made it crystal clear that Harry wasn't allowed to touch you. He was fiercely protective of you in that quiet, intimidating way that was both oddly sweet and incredibly infuriating.

Harry would roll his eyes, but he never fully stopped. He'd linger by the door when you visited, offer sly compliments when Jason wasn't paying attention, touch your waist when he brushed by you.

You'd caught yourself replaying little moments over and over: the brush of his hand against yours when you handed him a cup at a party, the way he'd tilt his head when he listened to you talk about assignments, pretending it was boring but secretly intrigued.

Jason noticed, of course, and he'd glare at Harry as if to say, one wrong move and you're dead, and Harry would smirk back, daring him silently, but always respecting the boundary enough to stay in the gray space between teasing and crossing the line.

Years of stolen glances, passing touches, and playful banter that made your stomach twist. Every frat party, every game night, every moment you found yourselves in the same room was a battle between desire and restraint. You knew he was off-limits, and you loved it, the thrill of the one man you couldn't have, the dangerous edge of wanting someone who was so close yet untouchable.

You're aware of Harry's eyes following you from the moment you walk into the frat house, and God, it's intoxicating, the way he preys on you in this frat boy jungle of booze and clutter. You weave through the crowd, careful not to step on toes or knock over cups, and the chaos of the party seems to mirror your own racing thoughts.

''We're playing spin the bottle, gather 'round, bitches!'' your friend Marissa shouts from the middle of the crowded living room. People cheer and push toward the center, laughing and shoving each other into semi-circles. You glance around, scanning for a spot to sit, but every couch cushion is claimed, every armchair packed with people, and even the floor is a mess of limbs and sticky red cups.

''Need a seat?'' Harry's voice rings out from behind you. You turn, caught off guard by the way his grin spreads, one of those you're-about-to-get-into-trouble grins. ''You can sit on the armrest if you want. Or, y'know, there's an empty seat here too,'' he adds with a nod to his lap, lips tugging upward as though daring you.

''In your dreams, Styles.'' You roll your eyes, but perch on the armrest anyway, because it's the only spot that seems to be available.

The game begins, and one by one, your classmates spin the bottle. Some kisses are awkward, some sloppy, but all are met with cheering and laughter. Jason's friend Josh kisses the girl from Alpha Xi Delta he's been crushing on. Marissa kisses another girl, which makes her boyfriend flush.

Jason is leaning against the wall, his jawline catching the light as a dozen girls sneak glances in his direction. You can feel it, the way everyone is watching them, hoping the bottle lands on him or Harry. The tension in the room is tangible, mixed with the sticky warmth of the crowded space and the thrill of alcohol-fueled games.

When your turn comes, you watch the bottle whirl, noting the way Harry's eyes track it almost obsessively, how his lips twitch with anticipation. The bottle spins with a sluggish, teasing rhythm before settling squarely on Harry in a cruel twist of fate.

Of course it does.

Your stomach twists with dread and a hint of excitement you refuse to acknowledge. You groan, glaring at the bottle on the wooden table like it personally betrayed you.

Harry leans back casually, one brow raised, grin teasing, and gloats. ''Scared, are we?'' You can tell he's pleased. The mockery in his words ignite a sense of competitiveness in you, and you're tired of letting him think he's got the upper hand. You snort, grab him by the collar of his shirt, and yank him up toward you.

Your lips press to his, a little unsure at first, but Harry deepens the kiss immediately, hands sliding to your waist, pulling you forward until you're sitting in his lap. Cheers erupt around you, girls hollering, Marissa the loudest. Your brother groans, ''C'mon, man! That's my sister!'', but you're too caught up in the kiss to care.

When Harry's hands wander impulsively toward your thighs and boldly tease upward, you instinctively slap his hands away, then follow up with a sharp but playful smack across his face. He laughs, a deep, throaty sound, cocky as ever, but his eyes betray the hint of adoration he tries to hide. Laughter bursts around the room again, cheers punctuating your small act of defiance.

You smirk at him, chest heaving, hair falling into your face. He pretends to glare, rubbing his cheek, but there's a softness there, and an unbridled hunger that makes your pulse skip.

...

The living room is still buzzing when you duck upstairs, needing a moment away from the chaos. Most people aren't allowed up here, because the boys love to act like their bedrooms are sacred territory, but being Jason's sister grants you a little immunity.

You push the door to his room open quietly, letting yourself in. The party downstairs is muffled under the floorboards, and you finally feel like you can breathe. You sink onto the edge of his bed, brushing your hair back, feeling the tension in your shoulders loosen.

''Fancy seeing you here,'' Harry says when he walks by, grinning like he's caught you red-handed. ''Avoiding the crowd?'' He steps closer, leaning casually against the frame of the door, arms crossed.

''I needed some quiet,'' you reply, smirking, but your pulse has already spiked at the sight of him. ''And apparently… so did you.''

''Oh, no, I followed you up here,'' he says matter-of-factly, walking toward you, eyes scanning you like he's savoring the sight. ''I just wanted to see what Jason's perfect little sister does when no one's looking.'' His gaze lingers on your lips, the curve of your neck, the way your hair falls across your shoulders. ''Something scandalous, I'd hoped.''

You snort. ''Sorry to disappoint.''

''Oh, you could never disappoint me, baby,'' he smiles mischievously, and it's hard to ignore the huskiness in his voice.

One glance at each other, and the teasing evaporates.

Your lips meet in a messy, urgent kiss, his tasting faintly of beer and the mint gum he always chews. You gasp when he deepens it, one hand cupping your cheek while the other slides down to your waist. ''Harry,'' you breathe against his mouth. ''If Jason finds out...''

He smirks, tilting his head to claim your lips harder. ''He won't,'' he murmurs, his voice low. ''You can be quiet for me, can't you, baby?''

You groan, letting him pull you closer, and then you're pressed against the mattress, his lips moving over yours with a hungry insistence that leaves your knees weak. One hand tangles in your hair while the other brushes under your shirt, fingers skimming over the dip of your waist. ''Harry—'' you gasp, but he silences you with another, firmer kiss, tongue sliding against yours teasingly.

''I've wanted this for years,'' he hisses against your mouth, teeth nipping your lower lip, ''watching you walk around in these tiny skirts, being such a good girl, always paying attention in class.''

You hum in pleasant surprise when one of his hands slips between your thighs, thumb brushing over the edge of your panties. ''Harry! Not here,'' you whisper, huffing out a breathless laugh.

''Yeah, yeah, I know. Jason's downstairs.'' Harry rolls his eyes, chest rising and falling rapidly, but there's a grin in his voice. ''Let's skip the formalities. You shouldn't, you couldn't, but you want to, and you will.''

''But—'' you cut yourself off with a choked moan, clutching his shoulders as he grinds into you. His lips move over yours, teasing, biting, claiming, and heat pools quickly between your thighs.

''See?'' he murmurs, voice low and filthy, ''You want it. You want to have it off with your brother's best friend, don't you, baby?''

Your hands tangle in his hair, tugging sharply to shut him up, your mouth searching his again, desperate and messy. He's rolling his hips into you, groaning low into the kiss as he finally lets one hand slip beneath your panties, sliding his fingers along your slick heat.

You moan, shivering when he works in two fingers at once, stretching you open, and he groans against your mouth, teeth pulling on your bottom lip, stinging in a way that has you reeling.

''Fuck, you're perfect,'' he mutters, voice thick, hands gripping your thighs and waist, hauling you closer, pressing your body against his. ''So perfect and fucked up. Can't believe I'm finally nailing Jason's little sister. He'd lose his fucking mind. In his bed, too. Naughty girl.''

''Shut up. Condom,'' you murmur in between kisses, and he grins against your lips, pulling a condom from his wallet. ''Good girl,'' he mutters, sliding it on. You fumble with his zipper, hands shaking, and he takes pity on you, yanking down his jeans with a hiss.

Jesus Christ.

He's thick, veiny, twitching and leaking against your thigh, and your mouth goes dry. His grin flickers with pride, then he positions himself and pushes into you, the stretch sending a sharp, delicious ache through you. You gasp, raking your nails down his back as he fills you, slow at first, letting you adjust, then starts thrusting, messy, sloppy, urgent, hands on your hips, dragging your body against his.

''You're so fucking tight,'' he groans, low and guttural, curls falling over his forehead. ''Look at you. Think of how many girls would kill to be you right now, fucking me like a desperate little thing.''

You whimper, grinding back, matching his pace, moaning his name, lost in the sensation. He's relentless, cocky, domineering, but there's a heat, an intimacy in the way his eyes trace your face desperately, like he's memorizing every reaction, every shiver, every gasp, and storing the information away for another time.

He buries his face in your neck, teeth grazing your skin, cock ramming into you, and you whine, head falling back against the mattress. ''God, Harry, why didn't we do this sooner?''

''Because Jason's a fucking cock block,'' he grunts, half-focused on slamming his hips into you at a brutal, punishing pace.

You snort despite the situation, which turns into a shaky moan when Harry swivels his hips so he rubs deliciously against that spot inside of you. ''Not a very successful one. We're definitely doing this again.''

He shudders, pulling you against him as his climax hits, groaning your name, and you tremble, panting, your own orgasm rolling through you with a heady, dizzying intensity. You cling to each other, sweaty, tangled, skin flushed, hearts racing.

''So fucking worth it.''

...

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

general tag list

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

...

Soundcheck is unbearable. His voice is angelic, almost distracting you from the way he blatantly stares at you, undressing you with his eyes. His hands run up and down the microphone stand seemingly innocent, but you know better. It's sinful. You never thought you'd be jealous of an inanimate object, but here you are. Just terrific.

You're walking around the stage with Lloyd, showing him a few angles in which you'd like photos taken that'd be good for press. You catch the ghost of a smirk when Harry struts across the stage during Little Freak, mouthing, ''That's you, love.''

You barely make it to lunch.

The green room smells like him. Even before he arrives, there's something in the air, the vague presence of his warm cologne, expensive and woody, mixed with leather and citrus and a hint of vanilla. You take a seat, pretending to scroll through your phone, but really you're just breathing him in. It's stupid, you know. Pathetic. But he smells like comfort, like home.

You've worked with Harry long enough to know things about him no one else does. Not the fans. Not the press. Not the crew. You know that when he gets anxious before a show, he paces, not fast, but with a sort of steady rhythm, like he's trying to match his breathing to the beat of his footsteps. He rolls his shoulders four times before going on stage, left, right, left, right. Always in that exact order. It's not for posture, it's superstition. He never skips it.

You've seen him unravel in quiet ways. He doesn't talk about being homesick, but when he gets that faraway look in his eyes, you can tell he's thinking of his mum's kitchen, or the flower garden behind his childhood home. He's never mentioned it out loud, but you've noticed how he keeps a folded photo of his family tucked into a pocket inside his backpack. On the really hard days, with long travel, cancelled plans, and exhaustion written into the lines under his eyes, you've caught him pulling it out, just for a second. Just long enough to be able to breathe.

You know his habits like they're etched into you. The way he bites the inside of his cheek when he's overthinking. How he taps the edge of his rings against a table when he's bored, or how he hums under his breath when he's in a good mood, usually something old, something soulful. You know that he loves quiet mornings and hot tea with too much honey, that he hates waking up to alarms, and that he writes little ideas down on scraps of paper because the apps on his phone make him feel ''too digital.'' You've found those notes around the tour bus, crumpled and forgotten, full of half-finished songs and poetry that make your chest ache.

The media paints him in broad strokes: the rockstar, the fashion icon, the flirt. But you know the smaller, softer truths. The way he's careful with people's feelings. The way he listens, really listens, when someone talks to him. You've seen him sit backstage with a crying crew member, hand rubbing comforting circles on their back, voice low and soothing. You've seen him spend twenty minutes helping a lighting tech with a busted cable because he ''just likes to understand how things work.'' You've seen him come alive when the crowd sings his lyrics back to him, and dim a little when he walks off stage and the noise stops.

And you… you read him like no one else. You know when his smile is real and when it's a mask. You know when his laughter comes from his stomach and when it's just a polite response. You can tell when he's carrying something heavy he doesn't want to talk about. You see it in the slope of his shoulders, the way his fingers twitch against his thigh. You see it in the way he exhales, shallow and short instead of long and full. You see him, even when he doesn't want to be seen. Especially then.

That's what makes this complicated. The fact that you're not just his assistant or his friend or even his secret hook-up. You're the one who knows him. The real him. And even when he's in full showman mode, belting obscene lyrics, swinging his mic, thrusting into the air like sex personified, you can still feel the pulse beneath the surface. The tension in his hands. The flicker of something unspoken in his gaze. You catch it all. Every goddamn time.

And sometimes… when he looks at you across the room, when he smiles at you so brightly his dimples pop out, like there's an inside joke lingering in the air that only the two of you are in on, you wonder if maybe he knows you just as well.

...

Not much later, the long table is crowded with crew, conversations blending into a white noise you can't focus on. Harry slides into the seat next to you and rests his large palm on your thigh under the table. No one sees. He's careful, maddeningly so. His thumb lazily strokes slow circles… then dips between your legs.

You jolt, barely managing to cover it up by taking a quick sip of your water. He leans closer, face stoic like you're discussing stage cues.

''You're so warm,'' he murmurs. ''So wet. Poor thing.''

You try to breathe normally, try to keep your hand steady as you cut into your salad, but it's impossible when he's pressing two fingers against your panties, applying a gentle pressure. He doesn't slip beneath them, not yet. You've noticed he likes the build-up. The denial. He rubs slow, firm circles until your thighs tremble and your fork clatters against the plate.

''You gonna be a good girl and stay quiet, Y/N?'' he asks lowly, eyes zeroed in on your lips like it's taking everything in him not to kiss you right in front of the entire team.

You nod quickly, but it's humiliating how quickly your body betrays you. You can't focus on anything but his hand. His fingers move lower, dragging down the soaked cotton just enough to brush bare skin, making your breath hitch.

Then suddenly, he pulls away.

You're breathless. Empty.

''See you after the show,'' he says lightly, and he's gone before you can even protest.

...

The concert is torture.

He performs like a sin in velvet and glitter, hips rolling with obscene precision. You're near the wings with your headset on, pretending to be focused on the crew chatter, but every time he growls into the mic or grips it like you imagine he would your throat, you're subconsciously pressing your thighs together.

And he knows it. He glances over mid-set and catches your eye; it's not the usual glimmer of showmanship or crowd-charming sparkle, but that burn of intensity that he saves just for you, the same one he'd given you on the jet, and you know you're in for it tonight.

When the end of his set nears and the intro to Kiwi starts, he steps to the edge of the stage, curls clinging to his forehead, shirt clinging to his chest, and he pins you in place with a look that makes your knees buckle. It's not subtle. Not even close. His brows twitch just slightly as he sings the filthiest lines while making direct eye contact, daring you to keep watching.

The way he slinks across the stage, hips loose, shoulders rolling, one hand gripping the mic while the other runs through his hair, is pure sex. He throws his head back at the bridge like he's losing himself in it, and you know damn well it's calculated. Everything is. Every thrust of his hips, every stomp of his shoes, every teasing smirk. He doesn't just perform the song, he weaponizes it.

When the crowd enthusiastically douses him in water, he's soaked, his shirt clinging to his chest like a second skin, completely see-through, the fabric stretched tight across his torso. You can see the outlines of his abs, the ink swirling over his body, the faint rise and fall of his chest as he catches his breath between lines. His curls drip over his forehead, lips parted around heavy breaths. The crowd roars at the sight of him. He looks wild. Ferocious. And so fuckable.

He finishes the encore drenched in sweat and water, chest heaving, curls dripping on the floor. As soon as the lights drop and the crowd screams, he sprints off stage, straight to you.

You barely get a word out before he grips your wrist and drags you down the corridor.

The green room is empty now. Quiet. And as soon as the door shuts behind you, you're shoved back against it, mouth claimed in a rough, desperate kiss.

''You've been such a good girl today,'' he whispers against your lips, voice low, husky. ''Didn't even touch yourself, did you?''

You shake your head, breathless. ''No, Harry.''

''Need me that bad, don't you?''

Your knees nearly buckle when he grins. His teeth sink into your bottom lip, tugging on it lightly before releasing you with a low chuckle that makes your stomach flip.

His hand finds your throat, thumb brushing over your pulse as he walks you backwards toward the dressing table. Lights flicker in the mirror behind you, harsh, glowing, bathing you both in a golden haze.

''Get on the table,'' he orders softly. ''Hands behind you. Legs open.''

You scramble to obey, heart pounding, perching yourself on the cool marble with your knees separating for him. The air hits your thighs, making you shiver. The dress you'd chosen to wear this morning is modest enough to be professional and practical enough to allow you to move freely despite the heat here in Lisbon, but you've seen the way Harry has been eyeing your bare legs all day, and you'd be lying if you said that wasn't part of your motivation behind the choice of clothing. He steps between your legs, tongue flicking over his bottom lip like he's already tasting you in his mind.

''Look at yourself, Y/N,'' he says, hand returning to your throat. He presses, gently. Dominant. It's subtle enough to not be particularly constricting of your airflow yet, instead making you feel deliciously light-headed. ''Look how fucking desperate you are.''

His hand trails down your body and slides your dress up your thighs, before pushing your soaked panties to the side with two fingers, making a vulgar sound when he taps at your drenched slit.

''You've made a mess,'' he mutters. ''Think you need to be punished for it.''

He grips your thighs to push them further apart, then drops to his knees on the floor, deliberately slow, maintaining eye contact.

The first lick makes your vision go white.

You gasp, hands uselessly gripping the edge of the vanity as he devours you like a man starved. His tongue is ruthless, lapping, circling, sucking your clit until your knuckles turn white. He groans into you, the vibrations sending jolts of almost unbearable pleasure through your core.

''Keep your legs open,'' he growls. ''Or I'll tie them open for you.''

You nod, choking on a moan as his fingers push into you, two at once, rough and cruelly deep. He crooks them just right, licking your clit in sync with the the thrusts of his fingers, building your high up so fast you're panting his name like a prayer. The slick sounds, the obscene way he groans into you, it's filthy, raw, addictive.

''Fuck, Harry, please—''

''You don't come until I say.''

But it's too much.

His tongue flicks faster against your clit, his fingers drive deeper, and your orgasm slams into you before you can stop it. You cry out, thighs clenching around his head, but he doesn't relent. Doesn't even slow down until you're whining pathetically in overstimulation.

He smirks.

''Guess you do need to be punished.''

You're ruined. He keeps going.

He brings you to the edge again, fingers and tongue unrelenting, dragging every last sound out of your throat as he whispers filth against your core.

''You taste like heaven,'' he pants, pulling back for breath only to spit on your clit and start again. ''So fucking sweet, love. Gonna eat you every night if you keep being this good for me.''

Your thighs are twitching, your hand burying in his hair as he devours you, makes you cry into the curve of your elbow, desperate to stay quiet even as he eats you out mercilessly. Some of the curls on his forehead are soaked with your slick. You whine at the obsene sight.

He kisses the inside of your trembling thigh when he's finally done, lips soft and wet, the tendernes of it a stark contrast to what he was doing to you just seconds earlier.

''You ready, baby?'' he asks deceivingly sweet, grinning up at you.

You're still trembling on the dressing table, thighs sticky and shaking from orgasm after orgasm, when Harry rises to his feet. His lips are glossy, his cheeks flushed, and his pupils are blown wide with hunger. He doesn't give you time to catch your breath. Doesn't say a word.

The veins in his arms stand out as he yanks his shirt over his head, exposing every taut, glistening muscle. He's a fucking masterpiece. Cut from marble, bronzed by the sun, inked like a sinner.

You'd seen him shirtless before. Too many times, if you were honest with yourself. Quick, stolen seconds you weren't supposed to linger on. Like the time you'd walked into his dressing room door to update him on a last-minute setlist change and caught him mid-change, pants slung low and unbuttoned on his hips, chest bare and glistening with sweat from soundcheck.

Or worse, the time you'd passed the training room and caught a glimpse of him pulling himself out of an ice bath, water cascading down his body in rivulets, tracing every cut line of his abs, dripping from his tattoos like holy water. His muscles flexed with the effort, every inch of him flushed pink from the cold, breathing hard, eyes scrunched shut, and you'd had to physically force yourself to keep walking despite your knees feeling weak, to swallow the desperate little noise that almost escaped your throat.

But back then, you were just his assistant. Invisible. Untouchable. You'd trained yourself to look away, to keep your hands steady, even when all you wanted was to touch him, to trace the ink of the ferns hung low on his hips, to kiss the sparrows perched beneath his collarbones, to worship the body you weren't allowed to want.

Now, with his abs flexing, chest heaving, water from the show still dripping down the delicate black lines of his tattoos, he's standing right here in front of you, looking at you like he's starved for you, and you don't have to pretend anymore.

You don't even realize you're reaching for him until he catches your wrists midair and pins them behind your back with one hand. His eyes flash with dominance.

''Desperate little thing,'' he murmurs, stepping between your spread thighs again. ''Already wrecked and you're still begging for it.''

''I need you,'' you beg softly, your voice hoarse from moaning. ''Please, Harry. Need all of you.''

His free hand undoes his belt with one quick, sharp snap.

''You're gonna take all of it,'' he growls as he shoves his pants and briefs down just far enough to free himself. ''Every inch. Keep your hands behind you, or I'll tie them.''

You nod frantically, mouth watering at the sight of him. He's thick, heavy, flushed an angry red at the tip, veins running up the shaft. Your walls flutter in anticipation when you glance down, wide-eyed, dazed. You can see the way he's leaking for you, how painfully hard he is, and you realize he's just as desperate for you as you are for him.

You used to think he held all the cards, that he was this larger-than-life figure who was unbothered while you struggled with wanting something you could never have. But now, pressed against his bare chest, feeling his heart pounding like a war drum against your skin, seeing the raw need etched into his face, you realize he's just as wrecked as you are. Every twitch of his aching cock, every shudder of his body, every ragged breath he takes, it's for you. It knocks something loose in your chest, a quiet, aching insecurity you hadn't even known you were carrying, because it's not just you losing control tonight. It's him, too. And he's not hiding it anymore.

When he strokes himself once and presses the head against your entrance, dragging it slow and teasing over your soaked folds, it jolts you out of your epiphany.

''You want this?''

''Yes, fuck, yes—''

He slams into you in one sharp thrust.

Your head falls back against the mirror with a loud thud, mouth open in a silent scream. He doesn't give you time to adjust, just grips your hips and fucks into you, deep and rough, his cock stretching you so good you can't think.

The table rattles violently with every ruthless snap of his hips.

''Look at yourself,'' he pants, glancing down at where you're connected, where your slick coats his cock. ''So fucking wet for me. You hear that?''

You can. It's obscene, the sound of him driving into you, your soaked cunt sucking him back in every time he draws out.

He grabs your jaw, turning your head at an uncomfortable angle to face the mirror.

''Watch.''

It's filthy. Your mouth is parted, eyes dazed, tits bouncing with every thrust. You're a mess: smeared lipstick, flushed skin streaked with mascara stains, a few bite marks already blooming on your neck. He watches too, groaning at the sight.

''Fuckin' made for me,'' he grunts, one hand sliding up to wrap around your throat again, squeezing just hard enough to make you dizzy. ''You like this, don't you? Being fucked like a good little toy?''

''Yes, Harry, please, harder—''

He growls, snapping his hips faster, harder, sweat dripping down his temples. The sound of your skin slapping together echoes off the walls.

And then... he pulls out.

You gasp at the loss, the sudden emptiness, aching, clenching around nothing.

''Bend over the vanity,'' he commands.

You scramble off the table, barely steady on your legs. He manhandles you into position, pressing your face into the cool marble, your ass high in the air.

The mirror in front of you reflects it all, your ruined expression, the curve of your back, the dark look in his eyes as he slides back inside your cunt from behind.

He grabs your hips, surely leaving bruises, and starts to fuck you again, deep and punishing, every stroke angled perfectly to wreck you. You cry out, eyes fluttering shut as your body jolts forward with every harsh thrust.

''I could watch you like this forever,'' he grunts, snapping his hips. ''Split open and begging.''

One hand tangles in your hair, yanking your head back so you can see yourself in the mirror again. His other hand slides between your legs, rubbing ruthless circles over your clit. When you let out a choked moan, the hand in your hair moves to wrap around your throat again, pulling you back slightly so you're upright, your back against his chest. Your eyes meet in the mirror.

''You're mine now,'' he growls in your ear, voice gravelly and dark, his cock driving into you so deep you don't even realize you've been holding your breath. ''No one else gets to see you like this. No one else gets to touch you.''

''I'm yours,'' you cry, voice breaking. ''Only yours.''

''That's right, baby,'' he whispers. ''All fucking mine.''

He keeps driving into you, each thrust harder than the last, the sound of your skin slapping obscene.

''You gonna come for me again, Y/N?''

''Yes, yes, please, fuck, I'm gonna—''

He slams into you harder, biting down on your shoulder as your orgasm rips through you and you shatter around him with a scream, convulsing, clenching hard around his cock.

He works you through it, his thrusts growing sloppy before he spills inside you with a deep, guttural moan, heat flooding you as he buries his face in your neck, panting, hips jerking against your ass.

You're both silent for a long moment.

He stays buried inside you, hand stroking your thigh soothingly, lips pressing gentle kisses to your spine. His breaths come heavy and uneven against your skin, but even now, everything about his touch is so careful, so heartbreakingly loving. It's jarring, how gentle he is, after fucking you like that. But of course he is. It's Harry.

Your whimper softly.

Finally, he pulls out with a low, reluctant sound, hands steadying you as your legs threaten to give out. Without a word, he slowly spins you around, lifts you onto the dressing table, and presses his forehead against your shoulder. He clutches you like he needs you to breathe, like he's terrified you'll slip away if he lets go for even a second, one hand stroking lazy, tender patterns along your back.

''You good, love?'' he murmurs against your skin, voice hoarse but so, so sweet. ''Wasn't too much, was I? Tell me you're good.''

You hum your answer, too blissed out and overwhelmed to find the words, but he hears it anyway, feels it in the way you melt against him, your arms wrapping around his neck as you hold him closer. He presses a kiss to your shoulder, then another to your cheek, another to your jaw. Like he can't stop. Like he doesn't ever want to.

And when you finally glance up at him, drunk on him, dizzy from it all, he smiles, soft and a little shaky.

''This was always gonna happen, you know,'' he says softly, pressing his forehead against yours.

Like it was inevitable. Like it's just the beginning of something neither of you will ever be able to walk away from.

...

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

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@2601-london @mads3502

But right now, there's no excited chatter echoing off the polished surfaces, no quiet strumming of an instrument, no 5-minute calls. Just the soft roaring of the engine and the occasional shuffle of someone shifting in their sleep behind a curtain. It's late and you're flying somewhere above the Atlantic, everyone tucked away for the red-eye haul to Lisbon.

Except you.

And Harry.

You're curled up beside him in the plush leather seat, a warm blanket draped over the both of you, your laptop balanced on your thighs, the screen casting a faint glow across your face. The soft click of the trackpad is the only sound between you as you scroll through the updated tour logistics: merch drop schedules, radio interviews, VIP timetables, revised set list cues...

You're focused. Professional. And painfully aware of how close Harry's knee is to yours.

''Alright,'' you speak up softly, not looking at him. ''I just need your input on the new Paris VIP plan. They want to add a backstage Q&A before soundcheck, only thirty minutes, but it overlaps with your press block. I told them I'd check with you first.''

Harry's quiet for a beat. You can feel his gaze on the side of your face, even though you're pretending not to.

''What do you think I should do?'' he asks eventually, voice low, almost sleepy.

Your stomach tightens. He does that often. Asks for your thoughts, your judgement, like he actually values your opinion. You try to ignore the way it makes your stomach churn and remind yourself that this is in your job description.

''I think we should move the press slot,'' you say, typing a note quickly. ''You'll have more time to reset before soundcheck that way. And you like talking to the fans. You always leave in a better mood.''

He huffs a quiet laugh. ''You pay attention to my mood, do you?''

Shit.

You blink at your screen, then glance over at him. He's leaning against the armrest, hoodie sleeves pushed up, tattoos half-hidden in the soft light. One rogue curl has graciously fallen above his brow and his lips are tilted in the barest smirk.

''Comes with the territory,'' you say quickly, like it's no big deal. ''I need to know when to avoid you.''

That makes him laugh, low and raspy, making you bite the inside of your cheek as you look back at your screen. It's fine. You're fine.

You've been his personal assistant for over a year now. You've memorized his schedule, his allergies, his coffee order and the name of the plushie he brings on tour, despite vehemently denying it. You know when he's tense, when he needs quiet, when he needs to be left alone. You're loyal, always. Unshakable.

And hopelessly, stupidly, quietly in love with him.

But he doesn't know that. Can't know that. You're too good at your job for that kind of mistake.

And you love your job. There was something electric about being on tour: the long nights, the endless movement, the rush of showtime. You loved the chaos of it all, how no two days were the same. You loved the adrenaline that kicked in when a last-minute change had to be made, and you were the one everyone looked to for the fix. It gave you purpose, grounding. And honestly, you thrived in it.

Even in the exhausting moments, the jet lag, the back-to-back shows, the late-night emails... you never once regretted taking this job. Being around music, around the team, around him, made everything worth it.

You'd slipped into the rhythm of the tour crew like you'd been part of it for years. There was something comforting about the way everyone moved together, the shared glances, the inside jokes, the group breakfasts in hotel lobbies.

You were the youngest on the team, but nobody made you feel small. They trusted you, and more importantly, they liked you. Jeff always brought you coffee when you looked like hell. Pauli made you laugh when you were wound too tight. It felt like family. Loud, messy, and wildly dysfunctional, but it was yours.

And Harry's an incredible boss, to nobody's surprise. He was thoughtful. Kind. A little quiet in meetings, but always listening. Always noticing. He never barked orders, he asked, genuinely. And when he thanked you for something, it wasn't in that empty, offhanded way people often do. He meant it. You could feel it in the way he said your name. It made you want to work harder, not out of obligation, but because he deserved that kind of loyalty.

''I should finish this before we land,'' you murmur, starting to scroll again. ''Still need to go through wardrobe notes for Madrid.''

You don't notice the way he watches you, how his gaze trails from focused eyes down to your parted lips, how he swallows when your fingers twitch on the keyboard.

''You never let me help,'' he points out softly, drawing your attention back to him.

You blink. ''Help with…?''

''Any of this,'' he gestures toward your screen. ''You do everything. Handle everything. I don't know how you're not burnt out yet.''

''I'm your assistant. It's kind of my job, Harry,'' you say with a soft chuckle and a slight tilt of your head, confused.

''You're the best assistant I've ever had,'' he hums, eyes dark.

Something about the way he says it makes your heart stutter.

You weren't sure when it happened exactly, when your feelings shifted, digging deeper into your skin than just a work relationship. Maybe it was the night in Atlanta when he stayed behind after everyone left the venue just to help you find your clipboard, calming you with hushed reassurances as you spiraled.

Or maybe it was how he never let anyone talk over you in meetings, always circling back to your points, asking what you thought. It was slow, creeping, this ache in your chest every time he smiled at you like he knew you, really knew you. You told yourself it would pass.

But that night in Austin you'd known. You'll never forget the way your breath had caught in your throat.

The setlist had already been printed, laminated, sent to every team lead. Your favorite song, a deep cut he rarely performed, wasn't on it. It never was. But during the encore, he looked over his shoulder at you backstage, smirked, and softly said into the mic, ''Think I'll do one more.'' And just like that, he launched into it.

When he sang the bridge, his eyes finding yours for a split second in the wings, it had felt like a secret. Like he was saying, I see you. I know, and you'd known you'd never be the same after that.

''Don't say things like that,'' you say quietly, forcing a smile. ''I might start thinking you actually like me,'' you joke, a futile attempt to lighten the tension that's suddenly growing between you.

There's a pause. Too long. You risk a glance at him, only to find him already looking at you.

''I do,'' he says.

Just that. Without a teasing lilt to his tone, or the shit-eating grin he usually wears that tells you he's just messing with you.

Your breath catches. Your fingers freeze on the keyboard. ''Harry…''

''I know.'' He looks away quickly, tongue flicking out to wet his bottom lip. ''I shouldn't have said that. You're… important. To me. To the crew. I can't mess that up.''

The silence that follows is loud. You can hear your heart pounding. Feel the ache in your chest, years of unspoken want stretching tight between you.

You glance up at him. And for the first time in months, you let yourself see it. The flushed pink at the tips of his ears. The subtle quickening of his breathing. The way his hand flexes on his thigh like he's stopping himself from reaching for you.

His gaze drops to your lips.

''You don't know how long I've wanted to kiss you,'' he says suddenly, voice barely a whisper, like he doesn't even realize he's saying it out loud.

Your mouth goes dry.

''So why haven't you?'', you whisper. He blinks like he hadn't expected the question.

Then, quietly, he says, ''Because I can't lose you. I reckon the team would fall apart without you. You're too good at your job for me to screw it up... just so I could finally have you.''

You can't breathe. Not when he's looking at you like that. And still, even now, you almost chicken out. Almost.

But then your voice breaks through the thick silence, soft and unsteady.

''What if I said I wanted you to?''

His jaw tenses.

You feel it before you see it, the moment he snaps. Quietly, calmly, but undeniably.

His hand slides over your laptop, closes it, and sets it aside.

''Then come here,'' he says, voice low and dark. ''And let me show you how long I've been waiting.''

And suddenly, you're not just sitting beside your boss anymore. You're alone (well, you're shielded from the rest of the cabin by only a curtain, but close enough) with the man who's been undressing you with his eyes for months. Who knows what you look like on two hours of sleep. Who knows your parents' birthdays, your calendar, the way your lips part when you're concentrating too hard.

And now, you swear he knows the exact second your thighs press together under the blanket.

You hesitate.

Not because you don't want him. God, you want him. But the rest of the crew is right there, just past the curtain. His manager's asleep two rows in front of you. Someone else stirs faintly behind you.

''Harry,'' you whisper, panic tugging at your voice. ''There are people.''

''I know,'' he murmurs, shifting closer. His thigh presses against yours, thick and warm beneath the blanket. ''We'll be quiet. Won't we, sweetheart?''

Sweetheart.

It wrecks you.

His fingers slip beneath the edge of the plush blanket. Nothing scandalous, just resting on your leg, but the promise in the gesture sends heat rocketing through you. You feel like you've been lit from the inside out.

''You can stop me anytime,'' he whispers, lips ghosting your ear. ''But if you let me keep going…'' A pause. A low, shaky breath. ''I'm not gonna be sweet about it.''

You breathe in too fast. Your lungs are full of him: his cologne, his warmth, the tension radiating off him like a second skin.

And you nod.

One small nod.

That’s all it takes.

His hand slides higher.

Slips under the waistband of your shorts. Over your bare thigh. Slow, reverent strokes, like he's committing your skin to memory. You try to stay still. Normal. But your breath is already shaking, and his hand is so sure. Confident. Dangerous.

''You've been wearing these shorts on purpose, haven't you?'' he whispers, breath tickling your neck. ''Walking in front of me. Bending over at every venue. Teasing me. Torturing me.''

You shake your head, a weak protest, but he just chuckles, dark and low.

''Liar,'' he murmurs.

And then his fingers brush the edge of your panties.

You jump. Just a little. But his hand steadies you, palm flat on your thigh, thumb brushing soft circles against your skin.

''Easy,'' he breathes. ''Let me touch you. Please, Y/N. Let me feel how wet you are for me.''

The sound your throat makes is borderline embarrassing, a choked gasp you barely catch in time. You grip the blanket tighter. Focus on breathing, on staying quiet.

''Shh, darling,'' he breathes, voice cracked and needy. ''You're gonna get us caught.''

He doesn't rush.

He slides two fingers over your clothed center, slow and deliberate. Feels the damp heat there and groans, quiet and low, like he's physically in pain.

''Fuck, baby,'' he whispers under his breath. ''You're soaked.''

You bury your face in your hand, heat crawling up your neck at the filthy words coming from your boss' mouth. ''Harry—''

''You've been like this the whole flight?'' he hisses, fingers pressing harder, rubbing circles through the fabric. ''Sitting beside me like a perfect little assistant, meanwhile your cunt's fucking throbbing under that laptop of yours?''

You nod, throat too tight to answer. His fingers trace over the damp fabric, slow and teasing, his touch maddeningly gentle; not enough to satisfy, just enough to torture. He keeps his eyes locked on yours like he wants to watch the moment your self-control snaps.

You squeeze your thighs together involuntarily. His hand is caught there now, stuck between them, exactly where he wants to be.

''Don't do that,'' he warns, voice tight. ''Don't hide from me.''

He presses down harder, fingers deliberately rubbing you through the soaked fabric. To anyone watching, it might not even look all that suspicious. But under the blanket, he's drawing filthy, lazy circles over your clit, just soft enough to make you squirm.

''You like bein' good for me, yeah?'' he murmurs against your temple, breath hot. ''Such a good assistant. Always do what you're told.''

You nod desperately, your hips rolling into his touch before you can stop them. He slides your underwear to the side with a practiced flick of his fingers, making you jolt again, whimpering in your throat. His fingers are on your bare pussy now, hot, thick, and teasing as he parts you slowly, lazily.

''You're gonna make me come in my fucking pants,'' he grits, barely moving his wrist as he slides a finger between your folds. ''You have no idea what you do to me.''

You're shaking.

You've fantasized about this on hotel beds, in green rooms, on long drives while he slept beside you in the tour bus. But nothing could've prepared you for the way he touches you. The way he whispers filth in your ear like it's poetry. Like every word comes straight from his heart.

''Open your legs for me, love,'' he says. ''Let me in.''

You do.

Without hesitation.

You shift, knees falling apart just enough under the blanket, and he rewards you by sliding one thick finger inside.

You gasp, one hand flying to cover your mouth and the other gripping his thigh under the blanket, nails digging in, as he pumps his finger slowly, gently, curling it right against your spot, like he's known your body for years without ever having touched you.

''There she is,'' he murmurs. ''That's my good girl.''

Your eyes roll back.

You grip the seat, try to breathe through your nose and bite your lip so hard you taste blood, your entire body trembling from the effort of staying silent. But he's not being merciful. He's savoring it. Twisting his wrist, adding a second finger, fucking you slow and deep under the cover of that soft blanket while the rest of the crew sleeps just feet away. He scissors you open, making you gasp out softly behind your hand, pressing his thumb to your clit with just enough pressure.

''You're so tight,'' he groans softly. ''Gonna take my cock so fucking well.''

You squeeze your eyes shut and bite your hand to stay silent. When you flutter them open slightly, you notice it.

His other hand is moving.

You blink through the dim light.

He's gripping himself under the blanket.

''Harry—''

''Shh,'' he whispers. ''I'm not gonna fuck you yet. Just need your hand. Need to feel you, baby, please.''

You stare at him, dazed. He's got your cunt stretched on two fingers and now he's hard too, thick and flushed and leaking against his fist, the stupid blanket draped over you blocking most of your view.

This shouldn't be happening.

You're his assistant. His team is right there.

And yet your hand is already moving before you can think twice, already wrapping around the base of his cock, warm and slick and heavy in your palm.

''Fucking hell,'' he breathes, his eyes squeezing shut as his head falls back. ''Y/N…'' he pants softly, his chest rising and falling hypnotically.

You stroke him slowly, in rhythm with the way he's fucking your cunt with his fingers. It's a miracle no one's noticed, everyone either asleep or wearing noise-cancelling headphones, the lighting dim, the blanket mercifully thick.

''You feel so good,'' he whispers, leaning closer. ''So warm and wet and perfect. Fuck, I've thought about this every night, getting myself off in the bathroom of every fucking venue while the whole team's waiting for me. I see you watching me every show, looking at me with those doe eyes, practically begging to be fucked, aren't you, baby?''

You whimper, pace quickening. His hips stutter into your hand, his fingers curling hard inside you.

You let out a soft, pained moan into your palm, thighs shaking as he pumps into you faster now, fingers slick and relentless. Your orgasm slams into you, sudden and all-consuming, and your body goes tight, locked up against the seat as he works you through it. Tears sting your eyes as the pleasure tears through you in silent, pulsing waves, Harry whispering praises against your ear as you shake through it.

He groans softly, barely audible, lips brushing your ear as you come undone in his hand.

''That's it. That's my girl. So quiet. So fucking good.''

You stroke him faster now, emboldened. He thrusts into your hand, sharp and desperate.

''I'm gonna come,'' he warns, voice breaking. ''Fuck. Gonna come all over your hand, sweetheart.''

You grip him tighter.

His breath catches, and then he's spilling in your hand, hips jerking, quiet curses hissing through clenched teeth. You feel it coat your skin, warm and messy beneath the blanket.

Neither of you moves for a long moment.

Just panting.

Reeling.

Your hand is still under the blanket, sticky and warm. His hand is still between your thighs, thumb brushing soft circles against your skin as you try to recover.

It takes a full minute before you can breathe again, and when he finally pulls his fingers from you slowly, your body shudders at the loss of connection. He brings them to his lips, sucks them clean without shame, eyes locked on yours the entire time.

''Taste even better than I imagined.''

You stare at him, wide-eyed, wrecked. Boneless. He just smirks, brushing your hair back like nothing happened.

''Next time,'' he murmurs softly, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, your collarbone, your neck, your jaw. ''I'm fucking you.''

You shiver.

A curtain rustles behind you, someone getting up to grab a water, and you both quickly pull back, sitting up straight.

Like nothing happened.

Like you're just two co-workers sitting beside one another, watching the clouds.

But under the blanket, your hearts are still racing, your cunt still pulsing, the remnants of his release still coating your hand.

And the line between boss and assistant?

Officially obliterated.

''Now,'' he clears his throat, settling back in his seat with a soft smile like he didn't just ruin you, ''about that Dublin setlist.''

...

The extreme heat has switched up the planned outfits a little bit, going from pants to shorts at the past couple of shows, but the fans are definitely not complaining and Harry kind of likes flaunting his toned legs as well, so it’s a win-win. 

Standing in front of the mirror he is humming Bridge Over Troubled Water while trying to fix his tie when there’s a knock on the door.

“Come in!” he calls out, eyes still fixated on his reflection. 

The door opens and he doesn’t even have to turn around to know who it is. It’s like he has a sixth sense when it comes to you. 

“Oh, I see the slutty little shorts are coming out to play again,” you tease him instantly upon walking into the room and closing the door behind you. Harry smirks as he turns around, though his smile halters for a second when he sees you.

He hasn’t been the only one the heatwave has been affecting when it comes to outfits. As his shorts got shorter, you, his long-time assistant, started putting on shorter dresses as well. Tonight you chose to put on a pale yellow sundress, one that’s short but flowy, demands his attention in an instant, making his eyes glued to your smooth legs and flirty neckline. 

Fuck, he thinks to himself before recovering as quick as humanly possible. Truth is, he’s been crushing on you since… well, probably day one, but only admitted it to himself about a year ago, when the two of you somehow ended up sharing a bed at a mutual friend’s party and he woke up with you curled to his side, your scent filled his nose and as he listened to your quiet snoring, which you absolutely denied you did, he realized just how much in love he was with you. 

But he’s been doing everything he could to keep his feelings at bay, not wanting to ruin your friendship and he also happened to be your boss, though your work relationship is quite different than at an office job. However at moments like this, when you completely take his breath away and make it quite hard for him to think of anything else than ripping your dress off and–

“You okay, Styles?” you snap him out of his thoughts. 

“Yeah,” he smiles, shaking his head. “Not a fan of shorts?” he asks with a flirty smirk, still fiddling with his tie. 

There’s a beat of silence on your end, something crosses your face, but it’s gone before he could catch it. 

“Everyone is a fan of the shorts,” you end up saying. “Let me help you with that,” you offer as you step closer and swat his hands away so you can fix his tie. 

The AC is working perfectly in the room, but suddenly Harry feels like he is burning up, standing so close to you, your hands brushing against his chest a few times and even though it’s only through the fabric of his shirt, it’s maddening. He can only hope you can’t feel or hear his hammering heartbeat. 

“There,” you smile softly stepping back and admiring your work. 

“All good?” he asks, squaring his shoulders.

“The best,” you reply, smile widening. “Everything is set, Shania just got off the stage,” you inform him. “Sarah and Mitch are here as well.”

Harry hums with a nod. His drummer and guitarist have been the last ones to arrive at the venue after doing bathtime with their kids and leaving them with the nanny before heading out for their night shift at the stadium. 

Harry looks at you and notices a bit of worry etched onto your expression. Tilting his head he narrows his eyes at you.

“Something is wrong,” he says and it’s not a question. He knows you enough to notice these small details. 

“Nope,” you shake your head.

“Oh yeah. Tell me, I can handle it, I’m a big boy.”

You chuckle, shaking your head.

“It’s nothing work related.”

“Okay, I still want to know about it.”

You hesitate for a second before giving up, knowing he’ll bug you until eternity if you don’t tell him. 

“Just… I had some problems with a pipe in my apartment,” you say dismissingly. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine if it’s bothering you. There’s still an issue?”

“Kinda,” you sigh. “I need to change the pain pipe in the bathroom, which means they have to rip the wall out. But they are coming in the weekend, so hopefully it’ll be settled.”

“But can you use the bathroom until then?” Harry asks suspiciously. You don’t answer and avoid looking into his eyes at first before shaking your head no. “So you can’t use your bathroom until the end of the week?”

“It’s fine, I’m gonna stay at my sister’s place until then.”

Harry gives you an amused look. 

“Y/N, your sister lives in Southampton. That’s… what, like a three hour commute to London?”

“Two,” you correct him, earning an eye-roll. 

“You’re not going to your sister’s.”

“Well, I’m not paying for a hotel either,” you stubbornly say. 

“Of course not, because you’re gonna stay at mine.”

He says it out loud before he could even think it through. But as soon as his words land, he knows he might have brought hell on himself. It’s challenging enough to spend so much time with you during the day, but having you in his home might be another level of torture. 

You bark out a laugh. 

“No I’m not,” you simply say, not even taking him seriously.

“Yes, you are. I live close, I have two guest rooms, this is the best solution,” he argues, pushing his own doubts to the back of his mind, because putting his feelings aside, this is actually the best solution, saving you from the hours spent on a train every day just to get to London. 

“Harry, I can’t just move in with you.”

“Just until your apartment is fixed,” he shrugs. “I’ll drive over to your place after the show, you can grab whatever you need.”

You stand there, just blinking at him for a couple of long minutes, like you’re expecting him to say he was just joking, but he stands his ground. As bad of an idea it is regarding his situation, he would never let you down. 

“I mean… If you’re sure,” you give in. Harry nods with a satisfied smile.

“I’m sure.”

“Okay, thank you then. Show time in twenty,” you remind him then, switching back to work mode before walking out of the dressing room. 

The second the door clicks shut, Harry lets his head fall back with a quiet groan. Brilliant idea, he thinks to himself. Invite the woman you've been secretly in love with into your house, for several days. What an idiot you are, Styles!

A generous, caring idiot, but still an idiot, because he might have just made the worst decision in his life. 

The show goes down without a hiccup. He puts on his best performance, as always and the fans love him, as always. 

You watch most of the show from backstage, but you love Season 2 Weight Loss way too much not to go out, so you dance in Circle for a little and sneak back before any of the fans could recognize you. Harry however totally saw you and the smile that stretched across his face is the absolute sweetest. 

When the show is over Harry quickly showers while you do your usual rounds settling things. When he’s ready the two of you roll out of the garage in his car, passing by the fans leaving the stadium. 

You’ve just bought your apartment last year and Harry realizes he hasn’t even been there when he pulls up in front of the building. He follows you up to the third floor and bites back the excitement he feels upon stepping into the apartment. 

“I’ll try to be quick. Make yourself at home,” you tell him before disappearing in the bedroom, leaving him alone in the open concept kitchen and living room. 

“No need to hurry,” he calls after you, already curiously eyeing up the place. 

The apartment is small, not cramped, but very lived-in. The vibe suits his expectations of your home pretty well. The couch is tucked beneath a large window overlooking the street, a knitted blanket carelessly thrown over one arm. Books are stacked on every available surface instead of neatly shelved, plants occupy nearly every windowsill and there are tiny trinkets everywhere, little ceramic animals, candles in mismatched holders, postcards pinned to a corkboard over the faux fireplace. 

It looks exactly like you and it makes him smile as he wanders farther inside, hands buried in his pockets as if touching anything would somehow feel too intrusive.

His attention lands on the fridge, it’s covered in magnets, lists, sticky notes and quite some polaroids. He instantly moves closer to look at them. He sees his family, friends, crew members and random moments from the past years, including ones with him as well. 

One of them is from Tokyo last year, the two of you squeezed into a photo booth, both pulling ridiculous faces. 

Another one is from backstage at Madison Square Garden where you're laughing so hard your head is thrown back while he's clearly saying something dramatic, a moment Anthony caught on camera. 

There’s one where he is giving you a piggy back ride in Italy and one taken in his mom’s backyard, the two of you posing like the worst models. 

His smile stretches wider with each photo he spots that features him, feeling warm that you cherish these memories just as much as he does. 

Then he moves over to the living room and the cushions seem familiar. It takes a moment for him to realize it’s because they have the cases on them the two of you chose out together at a flea market in Berlin two years ago. He teased you, saying you’ll probably never use them, but now you’re proving him wrong. 

His eyes continue roaming the room until they snag on the wall opposite him. His smile softens instantly. There’s a painting hanging over the couch, one he gifted you for your birthday three years ago. An abstract piece he found in a gallery and instantly thought the vibrant colors would fit you so well. He was afraid you wouldn’t like it, but here it is, hanging in your home years later. 

“Snooping around, I see.” Your voice makes him turn. You're standing in the hallway now, duffel bag slung over your shoulder, another backpack hanging from one arm.

“Nice decor you have,” he nods towards the painting. 

“Ah, yeah, right? Some rando just gave it to me,” you tease him, pulling a laugh out of him. 

“Dude’s got taste,” he adds. “You’re done?”

“Yes. If I forgot anything I’ll just swing by.”

Harry nods and follows you out of the apartment, glancing back one last time, a smile tugging on his lips knowing he is there, in your home in the tiny details. 

Unlike him, you’ve been at Harry’s place a million times, so there’s nothing surprising there. Walking into the spacious townhouse he bought a couple of years ago in Hampstead you already know the way to the guest rooms. 

“The one facing the backyard has AC, use that one,” he tells you. 

“Ah, I get the fancy room?” you tease him, standing on the stairs.

“You’re VIP,” he grins before he disappears down the hallway leading to the kitchen and you make your way up to the room. 

He pours himself a glass of water and stares out the window sipping on it. That’s when he hears you shuffling around upstairs. The faint footsteps, the closet opening and closing, the facet in the bathroom turning on before you shut it off. He’s so used to being alone here, it’s an odd feeling having someone else here, but knowing it’s you warms him. 

A couple of minutes later you appear in the kitchen as well. 

“Hungry?” he asks, leaning onto the kitchen island and he catches your gaze jumping to his biceps just for the shortest second before shaking your head. 

“I inhaled half of the catering at the stadium,” you admit, making him laugh. 

“Well, feel free to raid the fridge anytime. And… you know where to find everything,” he chuckles.

“Thanks,” you smile at him bashfully. “And for letting me stay here too.”

“I didn’t let you, practically ordered you to stay,” he corrects you, making you laugh. 

“Whatever. I’m gonna shower and then head to bed. Good show tonight.”

“Thanks,” he smiles softly before you nod and then head back upstairs. 

Minutes later he hears the shower running in the guest bathroom and his thoughts are quick to wander. Knowing that you’re up there, standing under the shower naked has him going crazy. All evening he tried to convince himself it won’t be any different than staying at the same hotel, but it is. There’s a kind of domesticity in your presence he is not used to and it has him spiraling a bit. 

He shakes his head, annoyed at himself.

“Get it together, Styles,” he mutters under his breath, finishing his water and forcing himself to move.

He has spent years being around you. Years of late nights, long drives, hotel rooms, dressing rooms and airports. He knows what your coffee order is, how you like your fries, the exact face you make when you’re trying not to laugh during serious moments.

So why does hearing you move around his house feel so different? Probably because you’re not here because you’re working late or because everyone decided to stay over after a party. You’re here because he asked you to be. Because he wanted to make things easier for you. Because a selfish part of him wanted you here, sharing the same living space, spending even more time together. 

By the time he finally gets ready for bed, the house is completely quiet again. He walks past the guest room on his way to his bedroom and stops for a second, staring at the closed door. The ridiculous thought crosses his mind that maybe he should knock and say goodnight, but he is quick to shake it. 

Instead, he lies in his bed for hours, staring at the ceiling, thinking of you sleeping just down the hallway until his spiraling thoughts eat him away and he finally falls asleep. 

He is gonna have a rough couple of days. 

***

The next few days pass in a blur. Somehow, somewhere between rushed mornings, stadium chaos and late-night drives back home, the weirdness of having you in his house disappears. It becomes normal, having you around not just while working but at the end of the day as well, when Harry retreats from being Harry Styles, the pop icon. 

It probably helped that he didn’t need to act like a host because you didn’t act like a guest. It was like you belonged there, in his home and he realized he liked it a lot.

Having coffee with you in the morning, running to the grocery store together or grabbing lunch from the nearby Chinese restaurant. He liked finding you on the couch, typing away on your laptop or making calls when he came back from his run and he liked that on show days you left together, did your own things and went home together at the end of the night, had a a glass of wine or two on the patio before going to bed and starting it all over again. 

When you got a call three days into your stay at Harry’s that your bathroom works will be postponed to next week Harry tried to focus on easing your stress instead of the absolute happiness he felt for having you at his place even longer. It’s like even fate wanted him to enjoy more of the time spent together. 

It’s another show day and Harry is already downstairs, getting ready to leave while you’re still upstairs. 

“Have you seen my charger?” he calls up.

“Which one?” comes your answer.

“The black one.”

“It’s in the kitchen!”

He runs into the kitchen and is not surprised to find the item he’s been looking for everywhere lying on the counter. Laughing at himself he walks back to the front door while tucking the cord into his totebag, just when you come down the stairs. 

Glancing up he freezes for a second, because you’re wearing jean shorts and an old band tee. His band tee to be precise and you look a lot better in it than he ever did. He doesn’t even care that it's one of his favorite ones, he would be fine if you wore it from now on. 

“Is that my shirt?” he asks, recovering. 

You look up at him innocently.

“Is it?”

“Yes, it is,” he chuckles. 

“Ah, it must have ended up in my pile of laundry.”

“Interesting, because I haven’t worn it in a while, so it was not even near the laundry,” he keeps teasing you with a growing smirk. 

“Your memory is shit, Styles,” you wave at him dismissingly. “Let’s go, we’re gonna be late,” you say, changing the subject. Harry just shakes his head chuckling, but follows you out the door. 

That stupid t-shirt messes with his head. Or to be more precise, seeing you wearing his clothes is what has his panties in a twist. 

Every time you walk past him it’s like electricity buzzes through him. Then he starts picturing you more of his things. His running shorts. His shirt. His boxer briefs… It’s a trap he walked straight into. 

When the show starts he manages to shut you out, but then you decide to go into the pit again. No matter how badly he fights the urge to ignore you, he can’t. During Dance No More he stops right in front of you, dancing while looking straight into your eyes. At first you just shake your head at him and try to shoo him away, but when he doesn’t, you end up mirroring his dance moves that makes him laugh. 

“Okay, I accept defeat,” he says into the mic before finally moving on, the fans going crazy over what they just witnessed and that’s when you decide to return backstage. 

By the time the show ends, Harry is still smiling. Partially because the show felt extra good tonight, but mostly because of the interaction he had with you and the thought that now he gets to go home with you. 

“You’re in a good mood,” Mitch comments when they’re backstage, wiping sweat from his face.

Harry looks up from the bottle of water in his hand. “Am I?”

“Yes,” Anthony answers from beside him, his camera is still in his hand. “It’s actually slightly annoying.”

“Sorry my happiness is inconveniencing you,” Harry chuckles. 

“Not the happiness,” Mitch says, pointing at him. “The lovesick teenage boy energy.”

Harry almost chokes on his water. “What?”

“Please, I’m kind of hurt you think I wouldn’t notice the change in you,” Mitch scoffs. “Besides, I know this exact feeling,” he adds, his gaze jumping over to Sarah who is talking to a crew member in the corner of the room. 

“I… I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Harry shakes his head, but he can’t help the smile that tugs on his lips. 

“Yeah, okay. Keep lying to yourself. See you tomorrow,” Mitch pats his shoulder before walking over to his wife. 

Harry looks at Anthony who has his camera in front of his face and snaps a picture of him. Then he checks the screen and nods to himself.

“Yep, lovesick teenage boy,” he says before walking away. 

Harry just shakes his head in disbelief before heading over to you, throwing his towel at you.

“Ew! Get your sweaty towel off me!” You cry out, throwing the towel right back at him. 

“I’m gonna shower and then we can leave.”

“Take your time, you stink!” You call after him teasingly, to which he just flips you off before walking away. 

By the time Harry finally finishes showering, you’re already waiting by his dressing room, scrolling through your phone.

“Done?” you ask, looking up from the screen.

“Squeaky clean,” he grins, proud of himself for quoting his own song. You just roll your eyes, but he spots the smile hiding in the corners of your mouth. 

The ride home is the same. You’re talking about bits from the show and then sing along to some music, it’s been his favorite after-show ritual lately. 

Arriving home you’re already heading into the kitchen to pour the usual glass of wine for the two of you while Harry heads up to his room to drop his stuff off before joining you downstairs. Just outside his bedroom he starts to feel like something is off, but only realizes what it is when he walks in. 

It feels like hell in there. It’s hotter than in a sauna. 

“What the…” He grabs his phone to check the app that’s connected to the AC system in the house and sees that the one in his bedroom is not working. He taps on it several times, but it just wouldn’t turn on. 

Then he digs out the remote, hoping to start it with that, but that doesn’t work either. It’s dead.

“Hey, what’s taking you so long?” You walk in with two glasses of wine, but instantly feel the heat in his room. “Holy shit, did you set your room on fire or something?”

“The AC is not working,” he sighs in defeat. 

“Damn, okay, no worries. We can call someone tomorrow,” you say, handing him one of the wines. He takes a big gulp, since it’s pretty cold at least. 

“Sure. I’ll just sleep in the other guest room tonight,” he says, but then he quickly realizes. “Fuck, there’s no AC there either,” he groans, his head rolling back in frustration. “Okay, then the couch it is for tonight.”

“What?” your eyes widen. “You’re not sleeping on the couch, you need to rest, you have a show tomorrow.”

“Where else am I gonna sleep then?” he chuckles helplessly. 

“In my room. I’ll take the couch,” you say right away. 

“Absolutely not,” he shakes his head. 

“Harry–”

“No.”

“You need to fucking sleep! In a bed!” you argue, slightly raising your voice from the frustration of how stubborn he is being.

“And you don’t need the rest? You’re working too, Y/N.”

“Yeah, but I’m not performing at Wembley.”

“You’re not sleeping on the couch in my house,” he states, making you roll your eyes. 

“Well, you’re not sleeping on the couch in your house either.”

“Y/N, I’m not taking your bed–”

“It’s your bed in your guest room in your house.”

“No, right now it’s your bed.”

“Jesus, you’re so fucking annoying!” you growl. “Then we’re sharing the bed,” you then say, surprising probably the both of you. 

“What?” he chuckles awkwardly.

“It’s big enough, we can just share it tonight and then we can have the AC fixed tomorrow. No big deal,” you explain and this time he can’t argue.

Well, he would love to, but he would rather not say out loud his arguments. He can’t just say he doesn’t want to share the bed because it’s too intimate for him and he would very likely spiral, so he chickens out and just nods.

“Okay. I guess… you’re right.”

Satisfaction takes over your expression. 

“See? There was no need to be this dramatic about the whole situation,” you say, taking a sip from your wine. Harry’s eyebrows arch.

“I’m literally the least dramatic person you know.”

You look at him and that look speaks for you. 

“Okay,” he sighs. “That might be a lie,” he mumbles. 

You carry on with the evening as usual. It’s still so hot outside that you don’t sit on the patio too long, just until you both finish your wine and then head back inside. Harry uses his own bathroom and you use the guest one just like every evening since you’ve been here. 

But once he is done he feels ridiculous for being nervous at the thought of going over to your room and get in bed beside you. 

“Get your shit together,” he mumbles to himself before finally making his way down the hallway. 

The door is open and you’re already sitting on the bed, scrolling on your phone when he walks in. When you look up you smile softly at him that already has his stomach sinking. 

“Come on in! Make yourself home!” you gesture at the bed. Harry chuckles.

“Well, it is my home.”

“Shut up,” you flip him off as he takes the right side of the bed. 

Tentatively he sits on the edge at first, then a little awkwardly lies down.

“Are you going to lie like a board all night?” you tease him.

“What if I am?” he scoffs.

“Okay, do whatever you want. It really is your home,” you say teasingly.

Harry wills himself to relax and get under the covers finally. The bed is big. Big enough that you’ll probably not touch all night, but Harry is still worried. 

“I hope you haven’t started snoring since the last time we slept in the same room,” you break the silence. Harry peeks over at you.

“You’re the one who snores.”

You gape at him dramatically.

“I told you I don’t snore!”

“Can you hear yourself while sleeping?” he arches an eyebrow.

“Well, of course not. I’m sleeping!”

“Okay, I have heard you. And you were definitely snoring.”

That’s a lie. It was just loud breathing probably, but he loves teasing you with that, he loves seeing you get all heated up while defending yourself. 

“Yeah? Then you fart all night!” 

At that, you both stay silent for a second before uncontrollable laughter bursts right out of you both. 

“Fart all night? That’s the best you could come up with?” Harry asks, wiping the tears away from his eyes. 

“Did you want me to say you pee your pants?” you wheeze out, making him laugh even harder. 

It takes long minutes for you to calm down, silence settling over the room. Now Harry feels a lot less awkward about the whole bed sharing situation. 

“Goodnight, Harry,” you whisper at last.

“Goodnight, Y/N,” he replies and falls asleep with a smile on his face. 

***

Harry wakes up before his alarm, which is unusual. With his eyes still closed he buries his face further into the pillow and at first the scent doesn’t even register, your scent all over the pillow. Then feels the warmth, not excruciating, but definitely warmer than what he feels in the morning. Almost like… A body. Pressed against his. 

The memories of the two of you fighting over the bed situation last night creep back into his mind and then he slowly puts the picture together before he even opens his eyes, that it’s you who’s pressed up against him. 

he is lying on his side, one arm stretched out forward, right under the pillow on which your head is resting. You’re lying with your back plastered against his front, his other arm thrown over your waist, his palm touching your bare stomach where your top has ridden up in your sleep. Your legs are tangled together and the cherry on top is what’s happening around your midsections. 

Spooning you his crotch is perfectly pressed up against your ass and just to make things even more interesting, he is sporting an erection. 

It’s all settling in slowly but surely, his pulse picking up and then he completely freezes when you stir in your sleep and rub your ass even more against his cock. A silent groan slips from his lips. He’s still groggy and half asleep, but he can tell this should not be happening. 

The rational part of his brain is screaming at him to pull back and get as far from her as possible, but that voice is tuned out as he takes a deep breath and your scent fills his nose, making his cock twitch from the need to touch you. He stays put, slight panic creeping up his spine as he tries to figure out what to do, but that’s when you start moving again. At first he thinks you’re just wriggling in your sleep, but after a few seconds he realizes it’s different. 

You’re rubbing against him. Like, fully rubbing. 

His muscles flex as he tries to control himself, another groan bubbling from him as he dances on the edge of a very dangerous territory. 

You must be still asleep and it’s just an instinct, it’s totally normal to get horny in your dreams, he tells himself, so he shouldn’t take advantage of it, but it’s getting so fucking hard to resist. 

But then…

“Harry…” you breathe out, arching even more against him and that’s when he snaps. 

His hand that’s been on your stomach grips your hip and he finally lets himself grind against you, creating more friction and making you both moan. 

“Fuck,” he grunts as he keeps moving his hips, his cock straining against his briefs. 

Your hand finds his on your hips and taking it you tug it towards your core. He is quick to realize what you need and he gladly slips his hand under the elastic of your sleeping shorts, cupping your heated cunt at first, before gliding two fingers between your wet folds. 

“Yes, please,” you groan, head falling back and he rests his forehead against your shoulder as he keeps rocking against you, his fingers slipping inside you. 

“Fuck, Y/N,” he breathes, feeling like he is losing his mind as you grind against his palm and cock at the same time, chasing your own relief while he is inching closer to his as well. 

Your hands find his that’s under the pillow, gripping the sheets and you bring it to your mouth, placing an open-mouthed kiss into his palm at first but then bite the tender skin when his fingers inside you hit the right spot. 

“More,” you choke out. 

The hand you bit moves to your chest, slipping under your top, palming your breast and you arch into his touch, eager to get more of him. You’re both close to the edge, panting and moaning, Harry is in a state of disbelief and overflowing joy at what’s happening and that’s when the bubble is popped.

His phone starts to ring on the nightstand, loud and sharp, making you both jerk at the interruption. You both move away and sit up, looking at each other like you were just caught doing something you shouldn’t have, the pleasure you were feeling quickly morphing into shock and panic. 

The phone is still ringing and Harry snatches it clearing his throat before answering the call. He tries his best to focus on whatever is being said to him, but his mind is still stuck from just moments ago when he was basically dry-humping you and he was very much on the edge of coming. 

“Yeah,” he croaks out. “Sure, I’ll head over.”

When he ends the call you’ve moved to the very edge of the bed, an unreadable expression on your face. 

“I need to go to the stadium, something is wrong with the sound system, they need to do an emergency sound check,” he tells you and you nod. He hesitates for a second then tries to reach out towards you just when you jump out of the bed. 

“Then we need to get ready,” you say, looking everywhere but at him. 

“Y/N…”

“I’m gonna take a shower and then… You know what? You’ll have to go alone, I have some errands to run.”

That’s a fat lie, he knows. But he doesn’t call you out as you practically sprint into the bathroom, shutting him out. He stays there, sitting and staring after you for a few more seconds, absolutely no idea what to do. He runs a hand through his hair and lets out a frustrated breath as he stands and walks out of the room. He is dying to go after you and talk to you, ask you what you’re thinking, but the look on your face sent a clear message that talking to him was the last thing you wanted to do. He definitely doesn’t want to push you too far, so he is left with drawing his own conclusions and right now those are pretty clear.

You regretted it and now everything is fucked. 

***

You don’t go to the stadium with him and when he returns home you’re gone. He fights the urge to call you and beg you to come back and talk to him, but instead he just texts you that the issue has been solved, to which you just reply with liking his message. 

He is on the edge, waiting for you to return until the very last minute he needs to leave for tonight’s show, but you text him you’ll just get a taxi to the stadium, he doesn’t have to wait for you. Harry swallows down the disappointment, but forces himself to carry on. 

He has done this a thousand times. Walk into a stadium, leave everything else behind, become the person everyone came to see, except today he is having a hard time shutting his mind off. He keeps looking for you everywhere as he goes through his usual pre-show rituals, but you’re nowhere to be found. But he knows you’re there, because everything gets done, it’s just as if a ghost is doing your job. 

When he steps out onto the stage he more or less manages to get his focus straight, but he can tell he is not giving his best performance. He can only hope the fans won’t notice it. When he runs out to his short break after Fine Line and he is on his way back, that’s when he runs into you for the first time. 

“Hey, you’re here,” he stops in his tracks.

“Of course, where else would I be?” you ask with a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. He is debating being late for the next set just to talk to you.

“Are we going home together afterwards?” he ends up asking. 

“Sure,” you nod shortly, though your expression has him worried. He doesn’t have time to talk more however. 

He somehow gets through the second half of the show, even kind of gets more into the flow after the short interaction with you, but once he is off the stage he is eager to get home with you as soon as possible so you can talk. 

When he walks out of his dressing room and you’re there relief washes over him. Part of him was afraid you might ditch him and say you’re spending the night at your sister’s place. 

“Ready?” he asks, slinging his bag over his shoulder and you nod. 

The ride home is suffocating. Silence takes over the car and it’s driving Harry crazy how just hours ago in the morning he had his hands on your body and now you feel miles away even though you’re sitting right beside him. 

He is working up the courage to start a conversation when you walk into the house and that’s when realization hits him. 

“Fuck,” he breathes out.

“What?” you ask him. 

“I forgot… I didn’t get anyone to fix the AC.”

You stare back at him for a second, expression unreadable.

“That’s okay. I’ll just sleep on the couch,” you say at last. 

“No, Y/N.”

“Shut up, I’m not arguing about this tonight,” you snap back, but it triggers something in him.

“Oh, okay. Then let’s argue about why you’ve been avoiding me all day.”

“I was not avoiding you.”

“What a fucking lie,” he scoffs in disbelief, his bluntness making your eyes widen. 

“I’m not having this conversation, Harry,” you shake your head.

“Why?” he challenges.

“What?” you blink at him. 

“Why are you not having this conversation?”

Your jaw tightens as you stare back at him. 

“Because I don’t think there’s anything to talk about.” Your voice is low and steady, but he can see the tornado behind your eyes. Harry lets out a humorless laugh, shaking his head.

“Nothing to talk about?”

He takes a step closer, but stops himself before he gets too close. He’s not going to corner you, not when you already look like you’re moments away from running away again.

“Y/N, this morning we were moments away from making each other come.”

“I know,” you hiss.

“And then you just ran away.”

“I did not.”

“You locked yourself in the bathroom and didn’t come out until I was gone.”

“Okay, fine!” you snap. “I’ve been avoiding you. Happy? Can we move on?”

“No, not until we walk about this!”

“There is nothing to talk about!” Your voice is raised, chest heaving as you stare back at him. 

“I beg to differ,” he scoffs. 

“Then let me rephrase it. I’m not gonna listen to you say it was a mistake and we shouldn’t have done it.”

That hits him hard in the head and chest, his anger quickly morphing into confusion.

“What?” he asks quietly.

“Don’t give me this lost puppy face,” you huff out a dry laugh. “That’s where we would have ended up at. You saying shit like let’s pretend it never happened and just go back to how it was, so I was just cutting it short.” Your voice wavers at the end and it finally clicks for Harry.

You weren’t acting this way because you regretted it, you did it because you thought he would want to forget about it. The realization hits him so hard he almost laughs, except there is nothing funny about it.

“Y/N…” he breathes out.

You look away, suddenly uncomfortable now that you’ve said it out loud.

“Don’t,” you mumble.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t stand there looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you feel bad for me.”

Something in his chest twists as he takes a step closer.

“Y/N, that’s not what this is.”

“Then what is it?” you ask, looking back at him. “Because I know you, Harry. I know you better than almost anyone. You’re going to tell me you didn’t mean it, that you were caught up in the moment, that it’s complicated and we shouldn’t ruin what we have.” A tear rolls down your cheek, but you continue. “And you know what? You’re right, it’s way too complicated and I feel stupid, because there’s no way you–”

He cuts you off with a rough kiss, making you instantly forget what you were talking about as you melt into his arms. It’s desperate, passionate and ignites a fire inside you in an instant. It’s also speaking for him, loud and clear, because as his tongue licks into your mouth you have no doubt he did not regret what happened in the morning, in fact, he is aching for more. 

You’re fisting his shirt and his fingers dig into your waist, pulling you even closer, though that’s not possible anymore. His hands then start roaming your body, your back, your ass and then thighs before he grabs the back of them and urges you to jump, legs curling around his waist as he holds you. 

He carries you up the stairs without breaking the kiss, but you both start laughing when he almost slips, throwing you both down the stairs.

“Fuck, please don’t kill us now,” you laugh, planting a hand onto the wall next to you.

“That would be pretty unfortunate,” he grins, but then his face turns serious for a second and he even puts you down. Standing on the step above him, you’re about the same height. “This is real, Y/N. I want you, so fucking bad, I’ve wanted you for so long and–”

Now you’re the one cutting him off with a kiss, though it’s a lot less aggressive than his. When you pull back, you just smile at him. 

“It’s real. Now would you just keep talking or we could–”

The words turn into a laugh as he picks you up, running into your room so fast, you haven’t seen him move this fast before, not even on stage. He throws you onto the bed and once he is on top of you, the broken AC in his room is long forgotten, along with all the unnecessary tension you put each other through today. 

***

The heatwave is still raging, melting London and Wembley Stadium, but the residency continues. The show blows up the place as usual and Harry parades around the stage in his slutty little shorts, as they are now officially called. 

It’s the part of the show where everyone is moved out to the runway, bringing the show even closer to the fans in the pit. Harry is dripping from sweat as he dances past Mitch.

“Feeling hot?” the guitarist asks, trying to shout over the music. Harry laughs nodding as he saunters closer, Mitch then leans over to his ear. “Did you get your AC fixed?”

“What AC?” he asks, confused.

“In your fucking bedroom! Have you been sleeping in hell all week?” he asks, but then it clicks for the both of them. “Holy shit!” Mitch laughs as Harry just dances away with a knowing smile. “Holy shit! You and Y/N!” he shouts after him.

But Harry just giggles and grabs his mic and then starts singing.

“Ready, steady, go!”