#meandom!harry

You took a deep breath, feeling both excitement and a hint of pain as Harry began to work. The buzzing of the needle grew louder as it pierced your skin, creating the outline of the word 'kitten'. You couldn't help but whimper a little, but Harry's gentle strokes and soothing words kept you grounded. After every wipe away of ink, he would place a kiss on your other cheek, you both laughed at first, but the gesture made your heavy breathing softer.

As the minutes ticked by, the adrenaline of the spontaneous decision started to wear off, and the exhaustion from the long day began to set in. You felt your eyelids growing heavier, your body succumbing to the comfort of Harry's touch and the rhythmic buzz of the tattoo gun. "You okay, kitten?" he checked in, his voice a gentle rumble in the quiet room. You nodded with your eyes still closed. "You're doing so well. Just a little more, then we'll be done." he cooed.

With a few more precise movements, Harry finished up the shading on the 'N' in 'kitten'. He rolled his chair back to admire his work, his eyes filled with satisfaction as her looked at your ass, now marked by him. You felt a shiver run down your spine as he leaned in and placed a tender kiss just below the fresh ink. "So beautiful," he murmured, his breath hot against your skin.

He stood up, and you felt his hands slip your dress to gently lift it up your back, leaving it bunched up just under your shoulders. Harry's gaze never left yours in the mirror, and you watched as his pupils dilated with desire. The air grew thick with anticipation as he took a step closer, his tattooed hand sliding around to cup your cheek and turning your face towards him. "You're so beautiful, baby," he whispered before capturing your mouth in a slow, sensual kiss. His tongue danced with yours while his other hand trailed down your spine to rest on the small of your back.

With a low growl, Harry's demeanor shifted from gentle to dominating. He gripped your hip, his hand moving to pull down your thong. He stepped back, admiring the view of your now bare ass with the new ink.

"Spread your legs for me, but stay laying on your tummy." he ordered, his voice firm yet tender. You complied immediately, feeling a rush of vulnerability as you exposed yourself to him. He stepped closer, his hand moving to cup your wet core before his thumb began to circle your clit with expert precision. "Look at how eager you are, baby." He leaned in and spat on your pussy, the warmth of his saliva making you gasp.

With a predatory grace, Harry aligned his hardened length with your entrance and pushed in without hesitation. You moaned into the bench pillow as he filled you up completely. His grip tightened on your hip, guiding his thrusts deep and slow. Each time he pulled out, you felt the stickiness of his spit mingling with your arousal, heightening the sensation of his thrusts.

"Daddy," you whimpered, your voice muffled by the leather. Harry's response was a low, animalistic grunt, his pace increasing as he claimed you with every powerful stroke. He leaned over you, his chest pressing against your back as his other hand snaked up to play with your nipples, pinching and rolling them until they were hard peaks of pleasure.

His hand moved back to your ass, his thumb tracing the fresh ink as he fucked you, marking his territory with every thrust.

"Are you Daddy's good girl?"

You nodded, your voice trembling as you murmured, "'m Daddy's good girl." The words sent a jolt of electricity through your body, the kink of the scene only adding to the intensity of your arousal.

The smell of ink and sex filled the air as Harry's grip on your hips tightened. He leaned in closer, his hot breath fanning against your neck as he whispered dirty, degrading things in your ear, pushing you further into your submissive role. "You like it when Daddy's rough with you, don't you? You like being my slut?" he groaned. You could only nod, as he picked up the pace, pounding into you with a fierce need that made the bench shake.

With every thrust, Harry's spit-slicked thumb circled your clit, bringing you closer and closer to the edge of orgasm. "Come for me, baby," he urged, his voice thick with desire. You felt your body tighten, the pleasure building until it was too much to handle. You let out a muffled scream as your climax hit, your muscles clenching around his cock, sending him over the edge as well.

With a final, powerful thrust, Harry pulled out, his cock glistening with your arousal. He reached down and painted your un-inked ass cheek with his cum, leaving a sticky, hot trail across your skin. "So perfect," he murmured, his eyes never leaving the mess he'd made.

Harry grabbed his phone from the nearby counter. He snapped a picture, capturing the moment with a sense of ownership and pride. The image was a stark contrast: the delicate 'kitten' tattoo on one side, his hot, white cum on the other. You felt a thrill at the thought of the photo, the evidence of his claim on you, his brand of love and dominance.

Harry took a paper towel and gently wiped the warm cum from your ass. His touch was surprisingly tender, a stark contrast to the raw passion that had just consumed both of you. He threw the towel away and reached out to stroke your hair, his hand moving in slow, calming motions that made you melt into the bench. "Did a good job for me, baby," he murmured, his voice soothing as he praised you for your obedience and the pleasure you had brought him.

Despite the tenderness, his grip on your hair was firm, reminding you of your place. "You're so beautiful, kitten," he said, his thumb tracing the line of your cheek as he tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. "And now, you have a permanent reminder of who you belong to."

A whispery ‘fuck’ tumbled from your lips, cueing Harry to the imminence of your orgasm. He admired the way your eyes screwed extra tight, momentarily blocking out the rest of the world as you focused just on the pleasure he was giving. Flushed, chest heaving, so close– he slipped his fingers from inside of you. 

You thought maybe he was just switching his angle, so you gave him a moment, but when his touch didn’t return your eyes shot open, earning Harry a warranted ‘Harry what the fuck?’

‘Goodmorning baby,’ he cooed, not a trace of remorse woven into his voice. He kissed your cheek, then your nose, following a familiar path along the topography of your face, before landing on your lips. Halfheartedly, you tried to push him off as he slotted his hips between your own. The kiss grew heated as you sank under the familiar weight of his body, reveling in the softness of his lips on your own. 

In the shower Harry made you kneel before him while he jerked himself off, ‘hands to yourself baby, no not like that, no touching’. The tile was cold beneath your knees but the warmth of the water and the heat of the sight above you kept you warm. You had once sworn you could watch him play with his cock for the rest of your life and be happy, but this, this felt like a new layer of cruelty. 

You watched patiently, your hands on your thighs, as he tugged on his long, hard cock. Admiring the way the water droplets splashed on the defined muscles of his torso, rivulets running down the concave of sinew and flesh his muscles had carved, creating endless mosaics of glass on the dark ink that framed his pelvis. Only once did he threaten when you’d begged to get just a small taste of his skin on your tongue, ‘if you don’t behave I’ll blow my load down the drain.’

As his breathing labored his hand found your face, grasping at the plush of your cheeks to pry your lips apart. He did let you taste, briefly, the tip of his thumb between your pink lips. As his moans grew, echoing off the cavern of the shower stall, you didn’t have to be asked to open wider. He spilled his cum on your tongue, salty, abrupt– a treat. 

The question had been gnawing at your throat since the shower. Harry had always been one to tease, and while at times frustrating, you had grown to love it. As you admired the musculature of his back as he pulled a t-shirt over his head you finally gathered the courage to ask. Your voice was weaker than you wanted, but you mustered through, ‘Harry, are you uh, are you gonna take care of me soon?’. The grin that crept across his lips should have been a warning to the sadist that lived beneath the soft exterior of his cheerful and soft demeanor. 

He was still soft though, recognizing the apprehension woven into your visage, ‘Oh baby, m’so proud of you for asking. You’re allowed to cum whenever you’d like,’ your eyes lit up, shoulders falling with ease at the permission. Never had he given you such a clear cut go ahead. You nodded, turning to finish picking out your clothes for the day. ‘But I have one rule, okay?’ 

Rules, rules can be such a wonderful thing in a relationship rooted in domination and submission. There’s the comfort of knowing that in your formal or informal rule list, that your dominant will always take care of you, health and safety above all else. There’s the thrill of rules made just to be broken, no desert before dinner is an easy and harmless one to disregard and a punishment for something so menial exists merely to fulfill masochistic tendencies.

Your head knocks up and down, eager to hear what Harry has put in place for the day. ‘You’re only allowed to cum if you’re humping something ‘n it can’t be me. Panties stay on.’ His grin only grew wider as your jaw dropped. The frankness in his tone tells you he isn’t playing, and while this is not the meanest thing Harry has ever done to you, there’s an edge of cruelty rooted in humiliation that feels unfamiliar. 

‘But– you– but, Harry!’ you sputter in disbelief. 

‘Darling, either way I’ll take care of you really good tonight, but you know the rules for today, do with them as you please.’ You’re frozen, imobile as he steps around the bed, placing a chaste kiss to your forehead before turning to exit the bedroom. Standing in shock at the exchange you try to wrap your head around the exchange. On one hand he’s given you permission to take care of yourself, and while not your favorite it's a rarity that brings a level of excitement. On the other hand the means of which he’s dealt you for dealing with the ache you seemingly woke up with holds an air of unseemly humiliation. 

You’ve ridden his thigh, ground yourself over the taut musculature of his leg countless times. How bad can humping something that’s not him really be? 

By the time breakfast was over you felt flustered all over again. His touches had started off soft and seemingly benign as the two of you ate breakfast, his hand found your thigh, a reassuring and domestic touch. But his fingers crept higher and by the end of your meal (and with many warnings from Harry to be ‘be good and finish your food’), his hand had slipped past the elastic edge of your underwear, index finger toying with your slick and puffy clit. 

‘Harry!’ you’d whined, ‘that’s not nice, you know I’m not allowed to cum’. In response he flashed an innocent smile before adding more pressure to the painfully slow circles he’d been rubbing on your nub. You didn’t push his hand away though, only knuckled the edge of the table harder as you let him carry on with his ministrations. You figured maybe if he was the one to technically break the rules by making you cum it wouldn’t count. 

Just as you felt the familiar tight knot beginning to coil tighter in your belly he withdrew his hand. You whined in response, it was only breakfast and you’d never felt more frustrated in your life. ‘Never said you’re not allowed to cum baby, you know the rules’. You sat in disbelief, chest heaving, as Harry walked away from the dining table. 

By the early afternoon tears came, prickling, hot and desperate as they welled in your eyes. Harry had perched you in his lap, a hand on your hip guiding you in grinding against the hardness beneath his pants. Blooms of petechiae formed in the wake of his mouth against the column of your throat. Once again his fingers slipped past the flimsy lace of your underwear, gliding through your soaked lips with ease, ‘awe baby, you’re so wet, really want t’cum don’t you?’

The beg fell quickly from your lips, ‘please’, a simple plea, as your hips continued to rock against the slick on his fingers. He stilled you, the pads of his fingers digging gently into the fleshy skin of your thigh. Puffing out his lower lip, a faux pout that was only followed by further mockery, ‘I know, I know, y’want it so bad don’t you? You know the rules, y’can end this at any time.’

You did know the rules, and yet you still had a glimmer of hope that Harry would forget to stop himself while he was toying with you, resulting in an unwarranted but technically permissible orgasm. He kept his gaze heavy on yours, fingers notched into your heated skin, as he began to toy with your clit again. You felt your flush rise, chest pinked and heaving as he started guiding the roll of your hips against his hand once again. It came too easily, the innate drive to seek pleasure. Even though your movements felt like betrayal, a false promise, you couldn’t stop. 

Your whimpers grew pathetic, gasping– breathless, and Harry just watched in admiration as you began to come apart on top of him. He knew toying with you like this was devious– painful. He knew that the second he’d pull his hand away you’d be flooded with a fresh wave of frustration– grief of the orgasm that could have been. Despite this, he wasn’t going to stop. He wasn’t one to magically breach into the realm of tenderness (unless needed). He’d stop if you safed, he’d stop if he felt that as your dom you couldn’t handle anymore, but you both knew that you were far from that threshold and he wasn’t going to let up easy on you just yet. 

You reveled in the respite that his hand gave, and Harry let you. He let you ride out the waves of your pleasure until he felt the first muscles in your hips and abdomen begin to contract, and just for a second he let you think that at best you’d get to cum on his fingers, and at worst maybe get a ruin. He did all this while whispering praises into the tepid skin beneath your ear, ‘Getting my fingers all sticky love, y’so desperate to cum aren’t you baby, doing so good grinding against my hand like the filthy little thing y’are’. 

At the brink, nonsense tumbling from your lips, you wondered if maybe, finally, Harry had grown a soft spot for the dire of your situation. He gripped your hip again, the firm clutch of his hand grounding, and slipped his fingers from your warmth. 

That’s when the tears came. 

Your mouth fell agape, brows furrowed. You could feel your flush growing, not out of excitement but disappointment, and he smiled– smiled at your rubicund features. Smiled at the wobble of your lip. Smiled at the sticky mess he held in the palm of his hand. 

He wiped away the fat salty tears that spilled in bourn runs from your wide eyes, movements soft and tender. His tone though, was anything but, ‘don’t cry m’love, it’s not worth crying over, s’just an orgasm’. 

You excused yourself after that, your movements rigid and fueled with an untapped rage as you retreated to the couch in the office. You thought, maybe, just maybe if you holed up as far away from him as you could, you’d be able to make it through the rest of the day. But Harry was quick to follow, settling himself down into the plush office chair to get some ‘work done’. 

He seemed focused on his work, intent and diligent as he read over emails and typed away. He paid no mind to you, and for the first time ever that felt like a blessing. But he had other plans up his sleeve. ‘Can you c’mere lovie?’ He asked, eyes still glued to the screen in front of him. 

As much as you wanted to say no, curl yourself further into a ball with your back to him, you couldn’t. You got up, silently cursing your betraying feet as you walked over to his desk.  He didn’t look up, paid you no mind, as he politely requested ‘knees please, want ya’mouth’. 

You were thankful he didn’t look up, thankful he didn’t see how excited and eager the request made you. He was finally letting you taste him, and the ache between your thighs was worth it for a glimpse at one of your favorite parts of his body. Plus maybe, just maybe this would distract you for a little while. 

You welcomed him onto your tongue with a moan, heavy and velvet. He sat thick– corked. Your hand found the base of his cock, coarse hair a nest for your hand, your tongue laving over the underside of his crown. But Harry halted your motions, swatting your hand away with a tsk, ‘just keep me warm baby, unlike some people I can control when I want to cum’. 

A rumble of disappointment crept up your throat, vibrating around his shaft before dissipating into the air around you. But still, you obliged. You laid your head against his thigh, making sure to be careful to cradle him on your tongue. 

Saliva pooled on your tongue, a deluged run of spit and precum. You tried not to care as it began slipping past the gates of your lips in rill lines, and you tried even harder not to care about the incessant thrum running from your core up your spine. 

Spit slicken and messy you sat, patiently, idly admiring Harry as he studiously worked above you. When he finally peered down at you he looked so endeared. He loved how all you’d done was sit there with his cock in your mouth and you already looked fucked out. For the first time today he thought you actually looked content.

His fingers slipped around the curve of your jaw, running against the taut skin of your cheek as he praised, ‘doing so good baby, finally finished up my emails, y’can take care of me now’. 

Finally he granted you the solace of pulling his cock all the way into your mouth. Not only did the sensation of his cockhead slipping past the back of your throat feel like an accomplishment but it was also one of your favorites. You loved watching his expression as you pleased him, brows drawn tight, chest rising in puffs. You reveled in the feeling of his fingers smoothing through your hair, pulling the strands into a makeshift ponytail so he could guide you. The praise he sang was only an added bonus, ‘Doin so good f’me, always take such good care of me, that’s it lovie, just a little more, I know, I know y’can make it fit, c’mon’.

Transfixed solely on pleasing him you didn’t even realize that you’d begun to grind against the floor. It took his coos turning derisive for you to attune to your motions, ‘does sucking m’cock turn you on that much that you’re humping the floor, dirty little thing y’are, so desperate to cum you’ll get yourself off on anything’. 

Your whimpers muffled around the base of his cock as you sucked Harry closer to an orgasm, and to no one's surprise the floor wasn’t enough to get you over the hill you’d been teetering on all day. Harry pulled you off, fixing your head just below the tip of his cock as he continued stroking himself. ‘You’re gonna swallow everything like a good girl,’ he grunted, hot ropes of his cum painting your tongue. 

‘Always so good f’me, did so good,’ he leaned down, placing a quick peck on your lips before pulling you to your feet. As you stood before him, soaking in the warmth of his praise, you couldn’t help but to cross your shaky legs, squirming in an attempt to stifle the ache between your legs. 

‘Awe, did sucking m’cock get you all wet and achy pumpkin? I bet it’s so hard being such a desperate lil mess, yeah? Y’know what to do if you want this to be over m’love.’ Harry smirked as you pouted, but he saw the gears in your head turning as the reality sunk in that you would have to take care of herself in the one way Harry was offering. 

You excused yourself once again, feet scurrying out of the office to your shared bedroom. Harry had chipped away at your resolve, piece by piece. You were overtaken by the overwhelming obligation that Harry had planted in your mind to finally cum. 

Hesitating, you grabbed a pillow from the top of the bed. You slotted it between your thighs, the slight bump of your clit against the cushion shouldn’t have sent shockwaves through your body– but it did. 

You huffed as you settled onto the saddle of the pillow, willing away the hot flush of embarrassment that threatened to climb along the surface of your skin. You’d tried so hard not to succumb to Harry’s rule, but he was too good at fracturing your equanimity. Subservience was the goal after all. 

Harry knew exactly what you were doing when you’d scurried out of the office, it was clear as day, written all over your face, but still he didn’t come chasing. He waited, thumbs drumming, until a breeze of moan carried through the hallway. 

Thinking back to all the times Harry had ushered you into riding his thigh, you did your best to imagine that the pillow between your legs was him. Past words of his encouragement consumed your mind, an inkling of your orgasm fresh on the horizon, ‘be a good girl n get y’self off on my thigh, that’s it, making such a pretty little wet patch on me, filthy girl, gonna be a good girl n cum on my thigh?’

Harry watched you, shoulder pressed into the molding of the doorframe, mirth woven into the coy smile he’d seemingly worn all day. You looked so pretty perched up on the bed. He liked the way your features warped, twisting in pleasure. How your cheeks and chest were rubicund, nipples perked against the cotton of your shirt as tiny gasps and mewls of his name fell from your lips. He could only imagine what images were running through your pretty little mind. Most of all though, Harry liked that you’d finally caved. 

You tried so hard, rolling, grinding, working so hard to reach that orgasm you’d been desperate to have all day. Frustration– exhaustion– exacerbation, wrapped around the cords and muscles of your body, burrowing deep in your sinew and marrow. Your motions slowed, pants no longer of pleasure puffed from your lungs. 

It came of no surprise to Harry when, once again, tears began to well in your eyes. Hot– biting. His sonorous voice filled the room as you gave way for the tears to fall, ‘is that all you’ve got?’ 

It wasn’t a question, it was a gibe, a torturous sneer for you to continue. He joined you on the bed, perched on the edge, his hand finding your thigh to give a reassuring squeeze. You did your best to swallow the sob choked in your throat. You gathered each fragmented piece of composure, scrambling to assemble the jagged splinters as your hips started rolling again. 

‘Gotta be s’close, just keep rubbing, I know you can do it’. Even with his encouragement, the precipice still felt light years away. A fresh set of sobs wracked through your body, the pleads falling before you even registered the height of your desperation, ‘I can’t, please, it’s not you, just want you Harry, please– please Harry’. 

His thumb stroked along the soft expanse of skin exposed just below the hem of your skirt, idly, admiring how pretty you look when you cry for him. ‘Must not really want it if ya haven’t cum yet’. 

It stung, manchineel in your veins, and still, you kept going. Swallowing your tears you rocked, miniscule shocks and sparks of fire kindling in your belly. Prideful, Harry sat, admiring your unspool, ‘that’s it baby, y’gotta be close, just keep rubbing lovie, doing so good,’ 

Finally, with the help of his succored encouragement you were getting close to that escarpment you’d been aching for all day. Your gasps and moans began to tumble with ease, thighs tensing around the fluffiness of the pillow. A heaving moan wracked through your ribcage, scurrying through the tight cords of your throat. It was an anticlimactic rise, trudging– pushing– climbing, to the dullest view in the world. 

Harry didn’t give you any time to recuperate though, flipping you, a near tackle, on to your back, he settled between your thighs. Desperate– grabby hands found the crotch of your panties, tugging the lace to the side his mouth finally made contact with where you’d so desperately wanted him all day. 

To an outsider Harry would have appeared to have been a starved man by the way he was lapping at your cunt. ‘Harry!’ you gasped as his lips suctioned to your clit. 

Your legs clamped around his ears, a makeshift Ridell, as his tongue lapped at your wet heat. 

Animalistic grunts and shrieks crawled up your throat. Sparkling– champagne bubbles in your veins. This time the climb was worth it: a vista, hot pleasure, scorching. ‘Fuck!’. Clawing, gasping– shrill. 

Panting, spent, Harry kissed his way up your mons to your belly button. Wiggling his hips he pushed down the waistband of his trousers to his knees (he doesn’t think his erection even had a chance to go down after your blowjob). You looked at him with wide eyes, knees snapping closed in an attempt to deter his obvious next course of action. 

Your efforts were futile, his body unyielding in the bifurcate of your thighs. He shifted his hips forward, the crown of his cock prodding at your puffy lips, ‘Harry I can’t’, you whined. 

With one arm stationed on the mattress next to your waist he propped himself up, ‘you can and you will’, he grunted through clenched teeth, sliding  his cockhead through your wet heat. 

Toying– teasing– taunting, he slid himself between your lips, nudging against your oversensitive clit with every pass. You were whimpering and he’d barely began. He tsked, ‘thought all you wanted was to cum pretty girl.’ You were speechless, brain devoid of any reasonable thought due to the overstimulation coursing through your spent nervous system. ‘Begged for it all day lil lovie, isn’t this what you asked for?’

You bit down on your lower lip, as he pressed just the first inch of himself inside of you. It was an involuntary movement, a spasm of uncoordinated overworked synapses and nerves, when your legs attempted to clamp closed around him. Pushing him away, getting him closer, neither of you could tell. 

He slapped your thigh, a cursory action and you fought against your own muscles, spreading yourself open for him.

He was slow, tenderly so– a scary thing to be at the receiving end of, as he inched his cock inside of you, the thew of your body slowly relaxing to give way for the width of him. 

His hands hooked under your knees, folding, bending– shaping you how he saw fit. He pasted your thighs to your chest, pressed in on yourself. This position always got him the deepest. His resolve was quickly abandoned, hips snapping, tensile force cracking. Teeth bared– mirrored snarls, he bore. The pretty noise that mauled its way from your throat was unconditioned, primal and gaspy. 

He was so deep, where you’d wanted him all day, and it was overwhelming. Tears began to prick at your eyes, no longer hot and desperate like they had been all day. When he angled himself just so, hitting that spot that always made your brain go hazy and your toes curl, you couldn’t help but let the tears fall along a mindless beg. ‘Please, please, please’, for what or who didn’t matter. 

Your body felt overworked, oversensitive, spent after so many hours of being on edge to then have come twice in such a short amount of time. It was too much, far too much when Harry’s thumb pasted to your clit, the pressure almost unbearable in combination with how deep and perfectly he was pounding at your insides. ‘Look so pretty when you cry f’me, c’mon lemme see you cum again, I know you have it in you’. 

Harry’s request felt inordinate as you groaned under his touch. The words ‘I can’t’, falling from your lips over and over again, because truly you didn’t know if you could. Your imploration was disregarded by Harry, as surely you could and he knew it. He was only going to work harder for what he wanted.

It was mocking, meant to get under your skin in the way Harry was so good at and that you loved so much, ‘pretty little thing begs for me to fuck her all day and then can’t take it when I finally do, how sad’. The gibe ignited fire in your skin, your nerves lighting ablaze with overwhelm. 

He could see it, see it in the flush of your skin, how your tears carved pools in the ruddyness of your cheeks. He could feel it, feel the way your lungs fought for air underneath the weight of your thighs pressed to your chest, how your hamstrings attempted to grow taut beneath his fingertips and how your walls began to pulse around his cock. He smirked, smirked at how much his locution conditioned your frame. 

His thumb worked faster against your clit, your physiological responses fuel to his own burning fire, the one that ached in his chest to make you cum. Your vocalizations meandered into gibberish, cock dumb and overwhelmed. And finally, finally you crumbled at his fingertips. 

It was blinding, a tidal wave of pleasure that shook you to your core. Your muscles spasmed, voice shaking, as you came– hard, gushing. The noises where your bodies were connected grew wet, sloppy, your orgasm slick against the top of Harry’s thighs. 

‘That’s m’good girl’, he cooed, pressing a kiss to your salt kissed skin. ‘Always look so pretty when y’cum for me’. He released your thighs from his tight grip, allowing your body to flop how it needed as his own thrusts grew sloppy. You were practically dead weight beneath him when he came, body almost too spent to process that he was cumming. The fresh wave of heat from his cum along with his own rambling nonsense your only cue. 

You hissed as he pulled out. ‘So good, always so good f’me’, he mumbled, ‘look so pretty with my cum stuffed so deep inside’. 

It was a blur as he slipped off the bed, returning moments later with a warm washcloth to wipe you up. You whined as he peeled your slick panties from your body and started to clean up the mess between your thighs. Somewhere deep inside your sex scrambled mind you were sad that he was wiping away the combination of the two of you– a sacrosanct of your relationship. ‘I know, I know, gotta clean ya up, y’messy girl’. 

He helped position your body into a more suitable arrangement for a cuddle. Each press of his fingers into your skin was soft and warm. As the warmth of his chest pressed against your back you couldn’t help but whimper again. His grasp was so warm, so safe and you wished you could be curled up in his arms forever. 

He kissed along the protrusions of your scapula, whispering sweet things into the hair that hung over your shoulders. His grasp was so cozy– so secure and you wished you could be curled up in his arms forever. You couldn’t tell if you loved soft, sweet, cuddly Harry or tormenting, snide, mean Harry more. Both versions served such distinct roles in your life, ultimately not one was better than the other. 

♡ ♡ ♡

The house was already alive beneath her. Sharp voices floated up through the floorboards—her mother's brisk orders, her sister’s light laughter, the clatter of servants preparing trunks and parcels for the journey ahead. Another maid had mercifully taken the morning shift, sparing Margaret from having to sweep hearths and draw bathwater before she could even think to dress. A small grace, rare enough not to question.

She slipped from her thin mattress, wincing as the creaky bedframe gave a low, protesting groan that seemed far too loud in the stillness of early morning. Her toes met the chill of the attic’s wooden floor, the boards worn smooth with age and dust. The air smelled faintly of moth-eaten linen, old stone, and something else, perhaps something forgotten, like the lingering ghost of candle smoke from nights long past. Here, at the highest point of Briarbourne Hall, it always felt like time had stopped moving.

Margaret gathered the dress she had laid carefully at the foot of her bed the night before, a patchwork of hand-me-downs and salvaged fabrics, lovingly sewn together in the hours no one cared to notice she was missing. The soft square neckline complimented the frill at the bottom. She pressed the bundle of cloth to her chest and tiptoed across the attic, careful to avoid the loudest of the floorboards, until she reached the narrow, rickety stair that led down to the servants’ entrance.

The back door groaned on its hinges as she slipped outside into the pale breath of dawn. The world was still half-asleep; the gardens were blanketed in mist, and the stones of the courtyard were slick with dew. Margaret padded barefoot across the cold, uneven stones to where a fresh bucket of water and clean cloths had been left at the corner by the kitchen maids.

Kneeling beside the bucket, she set her dress safely atop a dry patch of stone and braced herself. The water was bitterly cold, biting at her skin like needles. She splashed her face, her neck, her arms, scrubbing quickly with a coarse linen cloth. The roughness scratched at her skin, leaving it tingling and pink, but it washed away the heavy fog of sleep from her mind.

The world around her stirred to life: the low hum of distant conversation, the rhythmic clink of metal as the lantern lighters worked the hillsides beyond the Hall. She could just make out their tiny figures moving against the horizon, their soft voices carrying on the crisp air as they hooked the last of the night’s lanterns onto tall wooden posts. First light was creeping steadily over Edevane now, spilling pale gold across the fields, catching in the lace of fog still tangled in the hedgerows.

Margaret hurriedly dried herself off, her fingers stiff with cold, and slipped into her homemade dress. It hung loose around her slender frame, the seams slightly crooked where she had sewn them by candlelight. She tied the thin, worn sash around her waist and smoothed the wrinkled fabric with trembling hands, willing it to look presentable—though she knew it never truly would.

For a moment, she lingered outside, drawing in the fresh, damp scent of the morning; the earth, the moss, the faint trace of woodsmoke from distant cottages. She closed her eyes and let herself feel it: the fleeting quiet, the freedom of being unseen.

But there was no time to waste. She turned back to the Hall, pulling open the back door once more, and crept up the narrow servants’ stair to her attic. The air grew thinner with each step, the ceiling slanting sharply until she had to duck to avoid the low beams. The attic was dim and cramped, but it was hers, and that counted for something.

Crossing the tiny room in a few strides, she knelt by the small, battered trunk tucked beneath the eaves. It was her secret trove, the only corner of the world she could call her own. Carefully, she lifted the lid. Inside lay a neatly folded mended shawl, a handful of worn, dog-eared books, and a journal bound in cracked brown leather.

Sitting on the edge of her frail bed, Margaret let the worn journal settle in her lap, the cracked leather cool beneath her fingertips. She opened it carefully, mindful of the fragile spine, and a thin photograph, tucked between the first pages, fluttered free. It drifted down like a falling leaf and landed soundlessly against her skirt.

She stared at it for a moment before picking it up between her trembling fingers.

The photograph was aged nearly to sepia, its edges curling inward, browned and delicate from the slow burn of time. Yet the image it held was stubbornly clear, stubbornly sharp enough to sting. It showed her family standing tall before the pristine façade of Briarbourne Hall in its younger days, when the stone was still new, the paint still bright, the gardens lush and untamed.

There was Nora at the center, poised and regal even then, her hand resting lightly on Thomas’s arm. Thomas stood stiff-backed and unsmiling, a man already heavy with the expectations of legacy. Beatrice was a bright flare beside them, her hair in glossy ringlets, her small face beaming with the easy assurance of someone destined to be adored.

And there—off to the side, almost out of frame—was Margaret.

Three years old, dwarfed by the grandeur around her, her hair a wild tangle that caught the light like spun gold. Her small hand was curled tightly around her mother’s, her round cheeks flushed from play. She looked up toward Nora, wide-eyed, expectant, clinging.

A memory unspooled itself, as fragile as the breath of winter across glass.

They had been running, she and Beatrice, through the tall grasses in the field behind the house, where the earth still smelled sweet and alive and the wind tangled itself in their hair. Margaret remembered the feeling of the grass brushing against her legs, the sun hot on her back, her heart hammering in the way only a child's could—with no fear, only delight.

Beatrice, in a white muslin dress, ran ahead with all the effortless grace that would one day turn heads in every ballroom. Margaret stumbled after her, skirts hiked up awkwardly in both fists, her laughter bubbling uncontrollably from her lips. She could still hear it—the high, shrill giggle of uncontained joy.

Nora had stood by the great oak tree at the edge of the field, skirts gathered in one hand, her other hand shading her eyes as she watched them. There had been no sternness then, no sharp tongue or cutting glance. Only a laugh; light, unguarded, almost girlish.

"Margie, slow down before you topple!" her mother had called, her voice bright with laughter, the smile stretching across her usually severe mouth like a miracle.

‘Margie.’ The name hung in Margaret’s mind like a ghost.

It was a name she hadn’t heard in years, one that now seemed to belong to someone else entirely, a girl who had once been cherished, if only fleetingly. A girl who had once been seen.

The memory trembled like a flame in a breeze, threatening to go out. It felt brittle now, foreign, as though it had been pressed too hard against the waking reality of her life and had cracked under the strain. A dream she wasn't sure had ever truly belonged to her.

Margaret touched the photograph with aching gentleness, her thumb brushing the faded faces. She half-feared that if she looked too long, they might vanish altogether—this brief, golden sliver of a past that had long since been buried beneath years of cold glances and clipped orders.

She closed her eyes and held the photo against her chest, letting herself feel, for just a moment, the ghost of the warmth that had once been hers.

“Margaret Jones!”

Her father's voice, sharp, commanding, and utterly devoid of affection, sliced through the thin attic door like the crack of a whip.

She startled, the photograph slipping from her fingers and landing soundlessly on the worn floorboards. Her heart kicked painfully against her ribs. Fingers fumbling, she gathered the fragile photograph and journal, tucking them hastily back into the battered trunk as if hiding away a guilty secret.

Below, the house had roused into a flurry of activity. She could hear the heavy thud of trunks being carried down the stairs, the shuffle of hurried feet on stone floors, the clipped farewells of servants they would leave behind. First light was brushing up against the horizon now, gilding the attic windowpanes in a thin, cold silver. The carriage would not wait for her.

Margaret smoothed her dress with quick, trembling hands, feeling the rough weave catch against her calloused fingers. She squared her shoulders, drawing in a deep breath to steady herself, and slipped out of the attic.

The air grew colder as she descended the narrow staircase, the grandness of Briarbourne Hall pressing down with every step. The once-warm home of her childhood now loomed with the icy stiffness of a house grown used to her silence.

In the main hall, Beatrice spun before a tall, gilt-framed mirror, her new satin traveling cloak flaring out around her in glossy ripples, catching the light like water. She laughed—a light, tinkling sound rehearsed for the ears of courtiers—and Nora stood nearby, adjusting a fold in her daughter's sleeve, her face soft with approval.

Thomas stood apart, checking the time against his polished pocket watch, the glint of gold catching the edge of his cold gaze. He looked up briefly, his mouth thinning in irritation at the sight of Margaret before snapping the watch closed with a click of finality.

"You lot look lovely," Margaret offered into the charged air, her voice small, careful, the words as practiced as a prayer she no longer believed in. She kept her slim fingers clasped behind her, thumbs fiddling in anticipation. It had been months since Margaret had left the palace past the gates, besides for a usual gather for produce at the markets.

Beatrice turned just enough to catch Margaret's eye, her lips curling into a slow, triumphant smirk that didn’t reach her coldly shining eyes. Nora gave only the faintest of nods in acknowledgment, her fingers already back at work adjusting the angle of Beatrice’s bonnet, ensuring every ribbon and bow sat with effortless perfection.

Margaret bowed her head, murmuring another hollow compliment she knew they would not hear, and accepted the shawl a waiting maid thrust into her arms with mechanical indifference. She wrapped it around her shoulders, grateful at least for the meager shield against the creeping morning chill.

Within moments, they were ushered out into the courtyard. The air was sharp and biting, carrying the fresh scent of damp earth and woodsmoke. Margaret flinched as the cold kissed her cheeks, but she kept her expression still, trained. Before them loomed the family carriage, grand and heavy, its deep blue panels freshly polished and emblazoned with the Fitzgerald crest—a bear rampant, roaring in silent pride.

Margaret climbed in after her parents, tucking herself into the farthest corner of the plush interior. She folded her hands neatly in her lap, her fingers tightening until her knuckles turned white as the horses stamped and frothed impatiently at the bit, their breath pluming in the frosty air.

The carriage gave a lurch, the wheels groaning as they began their long journey northward. Margaret kept her eyes on the road ahead, refusing to look back at Briarbourne Hall, its chimneys silhouetted against the awakening sky.

The path stretched out before them—four long hours through misted hills, along roads that wound through shadowed woods where light struggled to reach. Alderham was waiting at the end of it, a place Margaret had only ever heard of in careful murmurs and wary warnings, a place of power and cold stone and royal blood.

She pressed her palm against the windowpane, watching as the mist thickened, swallowing the world in a pale gray hush.

Somewhere beyond that veil of fog, Wrosley Keep loomed, patient and immovable.

•─────⋅☾⊱♰⊰☽⋅─────•

The great hall of Wrosley Keep stood as still as a tomb, thick with a silence that settled deep into the stone walls. Only the occasional crack of the hearth fire gnawing at its last stubborn logs offered any sign of life, the sound snapping sharply in the heavy air. Morning light, dim and shrouded by Alderham’s eternal mist, slanted weakly through the narrow, arched windows, painting long, wan stripes across the cold flagstone floor. The lingering fog outside made even the bold banners on the high walls seem muted, their colors dulled as if bleached by centuries of waiting.

At the end of the long black oak dining table sat King Harry Styles, solitary at the head, his figure carved out in stark lines against the throne-like chair he occupied. His posture was ramrod straight, every inch the king he had been raised to be, shoulders squared beneath the heavy cut of his dark jacket. The deep blue fabric, trimmed with subtle silver embroidery along the cuffs and collar, caught the faintest gleam of the firelight. As he meticulously adjusted the cuffs at his wrist, the small movements spoke volumes—rituals of control, of composure sharpened to a blade’s edge.

His hair, dark and thick, was neatly combed back from his brow, not a strand out of place. It gleamed faintly in the low light, the rich, natural wave of it tamed into order, like everything else about him.

Across the vast, yawning stretch of table—too long for comfort, too cold for true conversation—his twin brother, Edward, slouched in his chair with a boneless ease that seemed almost deliberately disrespectful. His ankles were crossed lazily beneath the table, boots scuffed with the dust of some unspoken misadventure, and his shoulders slumped as if the very notion of formality was a burden too great to bear.

A young maid, pale, slight, and visibly trembling, moved with silent urgency as she set down the last of the polished silver cutlery. Her hands fluttered like nervous birds. She offered a low, swift curtsey, her head bowed so low the limp ties of her apron brushed the floor. Without daring a glance at either brother, she backed out of the hall, the soft scrape of the door closing behind her like the final note of a funeral march.

Then Edward moved, quick and careless. He seized the metal lid covering his breakfast and tore it free with a theatrical flourish. It clattered noisily across the gleaming surface of the table, spinning and skipping like a tossed shield until it collided with a silver pitcher at the center with a metallic bang.

The echo rolled through the cavernous hall.

Harry’s jaw tightened so sharply a muscle leapt in his cheek, the only betrayal of his irritation. His hand paused mid-motion, fork hovering just above his plate.

"Must you behave like an ungoverned hound?" Harry said without lifting his gaze, each syllable clipped and wrapped in the kind of low, withering disdain that could wither even the boldest spirit.

Edward only chuckled, a deep, lazy sound, utterly unfazed by the rebuke. He speared a thick slab of meat with a single, cavalier jab of his fork, dragging it toward himself with a scraping sound that made Harry’s teeth grind.

"Morning to you as well, brother," Edward said around a mouthful of food, his voice warm with amusement and irreverence.

Harry returned to his meal with the same rigid, silent discipline with which he did everything else. His knife sliced through the ham with clean, efficient strokes, movements so precise they might have been measured with a ruler. Every bite was deliberate, not a crumb or smear of sauce left as evidence of indulgence.

In sharp contrast, Edward wielded his utensils with the gracelessness of a street brawler—switching hands without care, sawing into bread and meat with the same dull knife, elbows planted firmly on the table as he leaned forward like a boy who had never been taught a single table manner. He lounged and sprawled and ate without shame, his dark hair tied back haphazardly in a leather cord, the ends curling rebelliously against the nape of his neck.

After several minutes of taut silence, broken only by the muted scrape of silver against china and the distant whisper of the fire, Edward flung his fork down with a clatter that rang out across the cavernous hall. He leaned back in his chair with an exaggerated sigh, the legs of it creaking beneath his lazy sprawl. His long hair, having worked itself free from its earlier binding, spilled in unruly waves over the crumpled shoulders of his shirt, the loose strands catching the weak light like dulled copper. His collar was undone at the throat, exposing the smooth, bronzed skin of his collarbone, and his sleeves were shoved up past his elbows in a careless, half-drunk sort of fashion.

"So," Edward drawled, his voice rough with sleep and sarcasm, "the illustrious Fitzgeralds are due to arrive today?"

Harry did not immediately respond. He merely gave the smallest nod, so slight it might have been mistaken for the tilt of a shadow, his attention never once wavering from the careful, measured cuts he made into his meal. His movements were slow and deliberate, each slice of his knife a whisper against the plate.

Edward shifted, reaching for the nearest loaf of bread. He tore at it absently with long, calloused fingers, shredding the crust as a hawk might rip into a hare, his posture slouched and feral despite the grandeur around him. The pieces fell onto his plate in a rough pile, forgotten as quickly as they were made.

"What’s the fuss about, then?" Edward said, tossing a scrap of bread into his mouth and speaking around it. "Bit far to travel just for tea and pleasantries, isn’t it?"

Harry’s hand paused. He set his utensils down with almost surgical care, the faint clink of polished silver on fine china disturbingly soft. Without a word, he lifted his gaze; cool, commanding, and edged with warning.

"They need our help," he said simply, each word clipped and weighted, his tone stripped of any warmth or sympathy.

Edward snorted into his goblet, the low, derisive sound ricocheting off the stone walls. He tossed another piece of bread onto his plate with a bored flick of his fingers.

"Help?" he echoed, his mouth curling into a smirk. "Why would we waste our time bailing out a family with more pride than sense?"

Harry offered no immediate reply. Instead, he resumed his meal with mechanical precision, methodically cutting into another slice of ham. The blade of his knife bit through the tender meat with a quiet, clean hiss, like the sound of a sword being drawn from its sheath.

"It is not a matter of want," Harry said at last, his voice low and implacable, like the slow shifting of stone beneath a mountain. "It is a matter of duty."

Edward tilted his head, studying his twin as if he were some curious artifact, grinning as though Harry’s words were the punchline of a particularly dry jest.

"Ah yes," Edward said, leaning forward with a theatrical air. "Our sacred duty. To lift the burdens of lesser houses. How terribly noble of us."

For the first time, a flicker of real irritation crossed Harry’s face. His fingers tightened minutely around the handle of his knife, the knuckles whitening, but he gave no other sign that Edward’s mockery had landed. He finished the bite he had prepared with methodical grace, then reached for the linen cloth beside his plate, dabbing the corner of his mouth with restrained, practiced elegance.

"You will remember your place when they arrive," Harry said after a beat, each syllable sliding out slow and deliberate, like the grinding turn of a rusted key in a stubborn lock.

Edward only grinned wider, raising his goblet in a mock salute that dripped insolence. His hair fell untamed around his face, the wild strands catching the muted gray light and turning it to glinting fire.

Harry’s eyes narrowed, sharpening into a cutting stare that could have chilled molten iron.

"And for God's sake," Harry said, the words bitten off as coldly as the northern cliffs outside, "bind your damned hair. You look like some half-bred poet loitering at court doors."

Edward laughed a low, reckless sound that spilled far too loudly into the solemn vastness of the great hall. It was the laugh of someone who cared little for consequences, who had built a life on poking at the sharp edges of his brother’s patience.

Still, under the weight of Harry’s blistering gaze, Edward eventually dragged a hand through his hair with exaggerated compliance, shoving the tangled mass back from his face and tying it off with a rough leather thong he fished from his pocket. His movements were slow, deliberate, mocking.

"You do love your little spectacles of propriety," Edward mused, voice full of half-hearted admiration as he slouched even farther down in his chair, the picture of unruliness disguised as nonchalance.

"And you," Harry said, returning to his meal with a cool finality, "love humiliating yourself."

With that, the room lapsed once more into a brittle, strained silence, broken only by the steady scrape of knife against plate, the low pop of the hearth, and the distant, hollow thrum of the banners outside Wrosley Keep flapping against the oncoming storm.

The Fitzgeralds would arrive by afternoon. And Harry intended to be ready.

•─────⋅☾⊱♰⊰☽⋅─────•

The carriage rattled over the uneven roads that wound through the countryside of Edevane, the early morning sun now fully risen and casting pale gold across the fields. Dust and the sweet, heavy scent of wet earth kicked up in their wake. The horses' hooves clattered rhythmically against the stone-laid roads, a steady drumbeat beneath the low chatter of birds darting from the hedgerows.

Margaret sat tightly beside her sister, her shoulder brushing against the overstuffed skirts of Beatrice’s traveling gown. The silk and tulle ballooned against the cramped quarters, forcing Margaret to shrink inward all the more. She folded her hands primly in her lap, her patched dress of stitched scraps looking even sadder beside her sister’s fine lavender silks, the fabric catching the light like mist.

Their parents sat across from them, poised and straight-backed despite the jostling of the carriage wheels. Lord Thomas Fitzgerald barely moved a muscle, his gloved hands resting on an ivory-handled cane, while Lady Nora kept herself busied with small, constant adjustments—pulling her shawl closer, smoothing the folds of her gown, glancing sharply now and then toward Beatrice.

"Remember," Nora said sharply, her voice slicing through the confined air, "head high. Shoulders back. Speak with care and caution. You are not merely our daughter today, you are the future face of this family."

Beatrice gave a demure nod, twirling the end of one pale glove between her fingers with a casual grace that was well-practiced.

Margaret said nothing. She pressed her forehead lightly against the cool windowpane, letting her gaze blur over the endless roll of green and gold hills, the shadowed woods beyond them. Occasionally, a village boy or a weary farmer would pause to watch the passing carriage, hats tugged low over their brows, but Margaret hardly saw them. She let the rhythm of the horses, the creak of the wheels, the distant shushing of the bushes along the roadside lull her into a quiet fog.

"How grand it shall be," Beatrice said, breaking the stillness with a voice touched by barely restrained excitement. "To show my face properly this time. To be seen not as a child, but as the next heir. Imagine it… the future of Fitzgerald resting in my hands."

She smiled, the kind of smile that was all white teeth and ambition hidden behind a curtain of charm.

Lady Nora offered her daughter a thin, pleased smile in return. "You have been groomed for this, Beatrice. Do not forget it. And should fortune favor us..." She leaned slightly forward, voice dropping low and intent, "you may well have the opportunity to become Harry Styles’ missus."

At this, Beatrice's cheeks pinked with barely concealed glee. Margaret sat still, her gaze dropping to her hands folded tightly in her lap.

"The more the brothers, moreso Harry, favor us," Nora continued briskly, "the better our standing. We require their allegiance as much as they require the appearance of unity. Do not embarrass us. And do not think for a moment they will forgive carelessness."

Thomas grunted in vague agreement, his eyes still trained out the window.

A sudden tap of fingers against the carriage wall snapped Margaret back to attention.

"And you," Lady Nora said sharply, her steely gaze fixing on Margaret like a hawk's on a mouse. "You will speak only if you are spoken to. When you greet the brothers, you will curtsy politely and say nothing more unless addressed."

Margaret turned her head, sitting straighter, folding her patched skirts beneath her with aching care.

"Yes, my lady," she murmured, her voice low, nearly lost beneath the clatter of hooves.

"You will stand behind us," Nora continued, voice crisp. "You will not interfere. You will not embarrass yourself, or us. Should you be asked to leave, you will do so without hesitation."

Thomas said nothing. He never did when it came to Margaret. His gaze remained pinned out the opposite window, as though she were merely another piece of luggage making the journey.

Margaret bowed her head obediently, feeling the familiar flush of shame rise up the back of her neck. Her palms, folded tightly in her lap, left small damp prints against the fabric of her skirt.

"Of course, mother," she whispered, offering a curt nod.

Beatrice gave a small, satisfied smirk and returned to adjusting the lace cuffs at her wrists, as if the matter were settled beyond all dispute.

The carriage jostled sharply over a rut, and Margaret’s head knocked lightly against the wooden frame of the window. She hardly flinched. She only turned her face back toward the glass, watching the misty hills of Alderham grow nearer with each lurching turn of the wheels.

The air seemed to grow colder the farther north they traveled, the fields giving way to long stretches of moorland, where the wind bent the grasses low and dark clouds loomed distantly along the horizon. Somewhere ahead, hidden among the hills and cliffs, lay Wrosley Keep—the seat of the House of Styles.

Margaret pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders, but it did little to chase away the chill creeping into her bones.

•─────⋅☾⊱♰⊰☽⋅─────•

The long hall of the north wing was chilled with the breath of the early morning fog, a low mist pressing against the tall windows like ghostly fingers. Beyond the glass, the fields of Alderham stretched out in a pale, colorless sprawl, the sun straining through the mist in gauzy ribbons of gold, as if the world itself was still waking, hesitant to embrace the new day.

Harry Styles stood in stillness at the window, one gloved hand resting lightly on the cold stone ledge, his eyes lost in the view that had become so familiar it barely registered anymore. His reflection, sharp and princely, stared back at him through the pale glass, the contours of his face sharpened by the dim light. His dark blue coat, cut sharply across his broad shoulders, swept neatly to the tops of his polished black boots, the fabric rich and heavy, like the weight of his title. A brooch bearing the House of Styles sigil, a lion crowned with ivy, clipped his heavy velvet cloak at the throat, glimmering faintly under the low sun. Beneath the cloak, a crisp white cravat was tied precisely at his collar, the folds symmetrical and flawless. His black waistcoat fit snug against his chest, the fabric stitched with faint embroidery in thread so dark it was barely visible unless caught in the right light, a detail most would miss but one that only added to the meticulous perfection of his appearance.

A pocket watch gleamed in his hand, the silver casing flashing briefly as he thumbed open the lid and checked the time. They were due any moment now.

The Fitzgeralds.

Their meeting had been arranged through a careful back-and-forth of handwritten letters, sealed with too much wax, and couched in the kind of formalities that Harry found irksome but unavoidable. The need for this meeting was not one born of mutual respect or kinship, but necessity. The Fitzgeralds needed money after the unfortunate, very public collapse of a portion of their estate wealth. It had become a scandal, one that could not be ignored, especially given how they had once been among the most influential families in the kingdom.

Harry, urged by Edward’s strange, persistent prodding, had agreed to this... display of generosity. At first, it had seemed like nothing more than an act of diplomacy, an arrangement to maintain the delicate balance of power between noble houses. But Edward had insisted, his voice heavy with persuasive charm, that this could be more, much more. Pity, Edward had argued, was not weakness if wielded properly. It was power: the power to bestow favor, to raise up those who could not stand on their own, and in doing so, show the kingdom that King Harry Styles was not just a ruler but a savior.

The thought of it left a bitter taste in Harry's mouth. It was so very... calculated. So very Edward. He had always been the one to see power in places where others saw only weakness, to turn the very act of charity into a tool of dominance. And Harry, always the more cautious, had reluctantly agreed. There was no real danger in extending a hand to the Fitzgeralds. They would remain beneath him, as all others did. Their presence at Wrosley Keep was a show, nothing more—proof of his strength disguised as kindness, as benevolence.

The thought lingered in his mind, cold and steady, until a sharp voice echoed down the hall, dragging him from his thoughts.

"Your Majesty."

The voice was unmistakable. Edward.

Harry didn’t bother to turn, his expression already sliding into a mask of polite restraint.

Edward emerged from the west wing archway, his wild hair now tamed into a neat bun tied with a slim ribbon of red silk at the crown of his head. He wore a white shirt with billowing sleeves tucked into a black waistcoat, silver buttons gleaming, and fitted dark trousers tucked into knee-high riding boots. There was a rakish elegance about him, like a man pretending at courtly behavior but unable, or unwilling, to hide the scoundrel underneath.

"You’re late," Harry’s lips tightened, the words slipping out like the snap of a drawn bowstring. His hand flexed once around the smooth casing of the pocket watch before he snapped the lid shut with a sharp click and tucked it back into the inner pocket of his waistcoat. The movement was crisp, exacting, as if even small gestures could not afford to be careless.

With a slow, practiced stillness, he turned toward the direction of the voice, his frame rigid beneath the heavy drape of his cloak. His face, honed into an expression of distant resolve, betrayed none of the irritation that simmered low beneath his skin.

Edward grinned in response, wide and unbothered, his stance a study in irreverence. His dark cloak hung open and loose at his sides, the finer points of his attire rumpled with a careless charm that somehow only made him look more princely, not less.

"I’m early by my own clock," Edward said lightly, voice lilting with amusement as he strolled forward, hands tucked lazily behind his back.

Harry’s eyes flickered once, a brief roll of temper he was too well-trained to fully show. "You don’t have a clock," he muttered under his breath, more to himself than to Edward, as he brushed an invisible crease from the sleeve of his coat and adjusted the cuffs with slow, deliberate precision.

"All the more reason I’m never wrong," Edward replied with a shrug, his voice rich with self-satisfaction. He came to stand beside Harry, their twin reflections caught faintly in the dim glass of the window—two halves of the same whole, yet impossibly different.

The hall stretched wide around them, a cavern of stone and echo, lined with suits of armor that glinted dully in the thin, reluctant light. Tapestries bearing the ancient crest of their house stirred slightly from the draft seeping through the cracks in the stone walls. Every sound, the scrape of a heel, the breath of the fog beyond the windows, seemed amplified by the vast emptiness.

Harry exhaled slowly through his nose, the breath controlled, tempered, as he turned his gaze toward the distant outline of the main gates, barely visible through the thick white gauze of mist that clung to the outer courtyard. The carriages would be there soon, he knew. The sound of wheels grinding over gravel, the snort of impatient horses, the flutter of banners—he could almost hear it already, ghosting through the cold air.

Without looking at Edward, Harry lifted one hand, a sharp, commanding gesture, and called out, "Open the gates. They’ll arrive shortly."

His words cracked across the space like a whip. Down the hall, the guards straightened at attention, the polished steel of their armor flashing briefly in the dim light. With practiced efficiency, they bowed low, the motion deep and synchronized, before sweeping away toward the outer doors with the hollow thud of boots against stone and the low, rhythmic clank of armor plates shifting.

The brothers remained where they stood, silent as sentinels.

For a moment, there was nothing but the hush of the empty hall, thick with waiting, and the soft, ceaseless groan of the wind pressing against the high windows. Somewhere farther off, the faint metallic moan of the gate mechanisms starting to turn echoed up through the stone like the slow stirring of some great beast waking from slumber.

Harry watched without moving, his posture a portrait of patience sharpened into a weapon. Edward, beside him, rocked back slightly on his heels, humming a soft, tuneless sound under his breath, as if the moment's gravity did not touch him at all.

As Edward rocked idly on his heels, the soles of his boots made the faintest creak against the flagstones. He tilted his head, casting a sidelong glance at Harry, who stood rigid as a drawn sword beside him.

"Tell me again why we’re offering a lifeline to a family that couldn’t even keep their coffers guarded?" Edward asked, his voice low, coaxing, almost playful.

Harry’s jaw tightened, a muscle feathering beneath the skin as he remained unmoving, his gaze locked out toward the mist-veiled road. The fog lay thick and heavy, muting the edges of the world beyond the gates into little more than ghostly outlines.

"Because it is our duty," Harry said at last, his tone clipped and cool as a blade's edge. "A king does not merely conquer. He uplifts, when it suits him."

His words held the weight of a rehearsed lesson, something he had long ago carved into himself with careful precision. Yet even now, the bitterness laced subtly through his voice, a reminder that duty rarely tasted sweet.

Edward smirked, slow and crooked, the kind of smile meant to provoke. "Sounds like you’re going soft," he drawled, the corners of his mouth twitching with barely concealed mischief.

In a single, fluid motion, Harry turned to face him. His cloak snapped behind him with the sharp crack of heavy velvet slicing the cold air. The movement was so sudden, so forceful, that Edward instinctively straightened, the lazy smirk lingering but his posture subtly less mocking.

Harry’s glare pinned him where he stood; cold, searing, and honed with the precision of a dagger’s thrust.

"Say that again at court," Harry said, his voice low enough to be a warning, "and see how fast you find yourself posted to the borderlands."

The threat, though spoken softly, hit like a slap. The borderlands, windswept, treacherous, and crawling with unrest, were not where one went to bask in favor. It was where inconvenient men were sent to fade into obscurity, or die.

Edward raised his hands in an exaggerated gesture of surrender, the chain at his wrist glinting faintly as it caught the dim light. Laughter flickered in his dark eyes, the easy, reckless kind that had always marked him as Harry’s greatest frustration, and perhaps his only true equal.

"As you say, Your Majesty," Edward teased, sketching an irreverent half-bow that was far too casual to be respectful. His tone danced on the edge of mockery, but there was an acknowledgment buried beneath it, a deference neither of them would ever admit aloud.

Harry said nothing in return. Instead, he rolled his shoulders back beneath the heavy drape of his cloak, adjusting the set of it until it fell in precise, commanding folds. His gloved hands smoothed down the front of his coat, each movement methodical, controlled.

Without another word, the two of them turned and began to move in measured strides down the long hall toward the main entrance. Their boots struck the stone floor in a steady rhythm, echoing faintly through the cavernous space.

The air between them, though outwardly casual, thrummed with an electric tension—the constant, unspoken current that ran deep between twin brothers who had been raised together yet shaped by the crown to walk entirely different paths.

Outside, the ancient iron gates had begun to groan open, the sound deep and grating, like the yawning of some slumbering beast. Mist coiled greedily through the widening gap, spilling over the gravel like thick smoke from an unseen fire.

From beyond the wall of fog came the soft, rhythmic crunch of hooves meeting gravel, steady and deliberate.

The horses slowed, their breath misting the cold air in great silver plumes. A black carriage, lacquered to a mirror shine and bearing the Fitzgerald family crest, emerged slowly from the mist and drew to a halt before the steps of Wrosley Keep.

He yanked on your hair for emphasis and all you could do was gulp “Yes, sir”

“Thought you knew better by now, Y/N. Guess I’m gonna have to make sure you’ve learned your lesson for good this time around, hm? Let’s practice, shall we?” He pulled on your flimsy g-string hooking his thumb under it and dragging it to the side easily and placed his rock-hard tip at your entrance “Ready for me, pet?”

“Yes” you whined, out of breath already in anticipation. You’d been sneaking around like this for quite a while, now. Every time it was somehow even better than the last. And that’s what kept you coming back for more each time. He was degrading you, using you, and he made no secret of that, and you absolutely loved playing his whore. How could you not? When he was living up to his reputation and then some.

You barely even finished replying before his palm landed on your ass cheek harshly “Yes, what?” he shouted. You thanked your lucky stars that your boss was not only your boss, but the CEO of the company, his office at the very top of the building and large enough not to have to worry about anyone eavesdropping. Well, maybe except for his secretary but you doubted it’d come as a surprise to her, she probably knew way more than she cared for.

“Yes, sir” you were quick to correct yourself, cursing under your breath for having been so thoughtless. It wasn’t that you were afraid of him, you felt safe with him always. You had your safe word and you’d discussed your boundaries thoroughly when you first hooked up after you’d been drooling after him for what had felt like ages. If anything, you were worried he’d tire of you and discard you for a newer fucktoy. ‘Cause that was what you were to him, and you were fine with it. You had to be, Harry Styles didn’t do “relationships”, least of all with someone like you, just a measly assistant that you had no clue why he’d ever even given the time of day to, much less taken an interest in.

“That’s more like it” he grunted as he pushed into you without preamble, and you were so wet that he’d slid right in easily “Fuck, such a good little slut for me, aren’t you Y/N? You’re not all that good, though, since you can’t fucking remember the simplest rules, so I think going over them just isn’t gonna do it. Think I’ll have to punish you”

“Please” you mewled and he chuckled as he thrusted even deeper into you

“Oh, now you’ve suddenly remembered them all, huh? No, you’re not getting away with it that easily, pet. Gonna fuck some sense into you” he grabbed ahold of your bunched up skirt with his free hand for leverage and began pounding into you mercilessly and you felt your hipbones hit the hard wood repeatedly, surely they would bruise, but you couldn’t care less, not when he was hitting your sweetspot just right “Already clenching around me, Y/N? Are you that needy for my cock? Been strutting around all day in this miniskirt just asking for it. How wet did you get just thinking about me fucking you when you dressed in the morning? Did you touch yourself?” he gritted between his teeth as he delivered blow after blow

“Y-Yes, sir”

“Such a filthy little whore” he chuckled. “Aren’t you, pet? And so eager to please me” he slapped your ass, harder this time, making you jump at the impact and he grabbed from under your left thigh, propping your knee over the edge of the desk gaining him deeper access and you moaned harder than you ever had “And these knee-high boots, with those impossible fucking heels. I should try fucking you with them one day. Would you let me?”

“Fuck! Yes, sir. Please…”

He laughed a humorless laugh. “Of course you would. My good little cockslut” you mewled at his dirty words and were getting closer and closer by the second but right before you could reach your peak, you felt him redouble his efforts only for him to stop abruptly and sink balls-deep into you as he shot ropes after ropes inside of you. You could feel him twitch as he came, and you were right there, if only he’d…

He brought your knee down, placing your high heeled boot back on the floor and pushed your thighs together before squeezing carefully out of you with a gasp as he panted heavily, recovering from his high.

“Don’t you fucking move” he warned, a bit out of breath as he put himself together after he unhooked his finger from your g-string letting it fall back between your ass cheeks. He then carefully pulled you off of the desk, pushing your skirt back down and held your back against his chest, speaking into your ear gravely “You better hold all of that in if you want to come today, pet. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.” you shuddered at the loss of contact as he circled the desk and sat back into his chair, crossing his legs leisurely

“Better rearrange those papers while you’re at it. Careful. Better not make any sudden movements” he sounded thoroughly pleased with himself watching you bend awkwardly picking up the documents off the floor, twisting in his chair nonchalantly.

*

You tried your best to deliver the coffees to your boss’ meeting without making it painstakingly obvious that you were walking awkwardly, taking baby steps so that you wouldn’t have any of his come run down your thighs. It was getting harder and harder by the minute, there was only so much your lousy lingerie could do to act as a barrier, they were already thoroughly drenched, not to mention how on edge you still were and was probably contributing to this whole ordeal between your legs.

You pushed your way in through the conference room door, tray in tow, smiling as innocently as possible to the people that acknowledged your presence, but when your eyes landed on Harry’s you could see the glint of mischief dancing in them. He was thoroughly enjoying this, the smug bastard.

You walked carefully around the table, placing the coffee mugs on their respective saucers in front of each of the people in attendance, leaving Harry for last. You noticed him lean back into his chair as you hovered over him, no doubt ogling your ass and then you almost spilled the coffee in his lap when he suddenly grabbed the elbow of the arm you were holding it with “Y/N, be a doll and run into my office for me, I forgot the graphics on my desk”

You turned to look at him incredulously and he just stared at you with a raised eyebrow, ever the poised, bossy CEO. Could’ve fooled anyone that he really needed those graphics, when you just knew he was doing it to get a kick out of watching you try your best to “run” and get them for him.

“Yes, sir” you made sure to squint your eyes ever so slightly at him as you said so noticing his pupils dilating in response and you made your way out of the conference room as slowly as possible, no doubt earning a raised eyebrow from everyone for not hurrying to comply to your boss’ demand.

When you finally reached his office you furrowed your brows, there were no graphics on his desk and before you could turn around and make your way back, already dreading having to probably walk all the way back to his office again and search for them elsewhere, you heard the door shut and the lock being clicked into place.

“Looking for something, pet?”

You huffed “There are no graphics, are there?” you didn’t even turn to face him

“Hm. Smarter than she looks” he hummed to himself and you gasped indignantly earning a chuckle from him “You definitely are smart, made the right decision just then, hm? Would rather make sure you come than keep your job here, don’t you, pet?” he closed in the space between you, hands in his pockets “But, ah… what a pity. Seems you couldn’t keep your end of the deal” he pouted playfully and you lowered your eyes to where he was staring.

Was that there all along? A milky trail running down the back of your left thigh, painfully obvious to anyone happening to land their eyes there. And you weren’t fooling yourself. All the men in that conference room had probably stared right at it.

“Oh, God” you groaned, covering your face

“Awh. Don’t act all coy now, when we both know what a filthy little thing you really are, Y/N” he tsked you, cornering you back against the edge of the desk “But since you genuinely tried your very best…” he smirked reaching down to catch the droplet with his index finger, surprising you when he then brought it to his own mouth “Gonna keep my end of the bargain. How’s that sound?”

You only managed a half smile before he bent abruptly, grabbing the back of your thighs and placing you on the edge of his desk. He kneeled in front of you, pushing your legs apart and you immediately felt his come dripping freely around the flimsy lingerie you were wearing “What… What about your meeting?”

“Oh, this shouldn’t take long” he smirked at you from under his lashes and you bit your lower lip in anticipation as he once again bunched up your skirt to your navel and hooked his fingers into your panties “These are laughable. Barely did you any favors today, pet. I’ll rid you of them, hm?” he pulled your g-string down your legs and then spread you open using his fingers, admiring his come drip down your core and onto his desk “Did so good for me, Y/N. But I knew you would. Desperate little slut that you are, I knew you’d do your best to keep it inside you. Gonna be so happy you did, just you wait” he bit his lower lip staring at you as if mesmerized, sporting his characteristic scowl and you clenched around nothing just watching him look at you like that.

He swiped his forefinger through your folds, and then carried it to your mouth and you wasted no time sucking on his finger and humming around it “Greedy little thing. But this is my treat” he pulled his finger back, scraping it against the back of your teeth and you watched as he pushed it inside you next, allowing for more of his come to ooze out of you as he did so. You moaned in unison at the sight as he pumped his finger in and out slowly, the sounds your pussy was making absolutely sinful “Fuck me, that’s so hot” he muttered under his breath before dragging his tongue flat up your folds, making you hang your head back as you leaned back on your elbows. He pushed his tongue inside you and hummed lowly, sending vibrations all the way up your spine and down to the tips of your toes, making them curl.

“Taste so fucking good together” he mumbled as he ate you up thoroughly and you moaned and whined, kicking your legs uncontrollably before he pinned them apart, grabbing you from underneath your thighs and delving his face against your pussy like a man starved. It was the first time he was eating you out and you had no idea he enjoyed this so much, you never would’ve guessed someone like him would take such pleasure from pleasuring someone, selflessly. But it wasn’t entirely selfless, he seemed to genuinely enjoy doing it. He curled his middle finger inside of you, stroking your g-spot and latched his lips over your clit, sucking intently and you just couldn’t hold back any longer.

After he milked every single aftershock out of you he stood between your legs, going for his belt and you gasped “But… the meeting?” you felt like you’d already asked him that just previously, but your brain was now mush and you couldn’t be sure

He grabbed his desk phone and dialed his secretary, as he guided himself into you again using his other hand, shushing you just before you heard her answer on the other end “Yeah. Something came up” he winked at you and you would’ve rolled your eyes at that had you not been terrified to spite him yet again “Tell them we’ll have to reschedule. And cancel my next appointment. In fact” he paused, grunting inaudibly at one particularly hard thrust inside of you “Clear my schedule for today”

lhh Masterlist

A/N: i hope y'all can forgive me for this one day 😇

💕 like & reblog if you enjoyed this, lovelies, and most importantly, please come share your thoughts on it here 💌

In the northern reaches of Alderham, where the sea clawed endlessly at jagged cliffs and the sky never remembered the color of blue, the House of Styles ruled in a silence older than war. Their dominion stretched over stone and fog, built not on affection or the will of the people, but on blood, inheritance, and history too proud to kneel.

At the center stood Wrosley Keep, a fortress turned palace, all looming archways and sharp towers that scraped the mist. Ivy twisted through the cracks in the stone like veins, and time itself seemed to settle in the creaking woodwork and cold fireplaces. The halls smelled of smoke, leather, and iron—a history left to rot, but never questioned.

It was here that King Harry Styles reigned; not with warmth, but with authority honed sharp and polished clean.

He was never seen without a tailored three-piece suit: black or navy or deep hunter green, the fabric thick and fine, his collar always pressed, his waistcoat snug. Everything about him was chosen, precise. His dark curls, short and swept back with a carelessness that was deliberate, framed a face that was both striking and unreadable. His lips rarely smiled. His eyes, green and glassy, revealed nothing.

He spoke only when needed, and even then, every word fell heavy with intention.

At court, he was a presence more than a man; tall, unmoving, always watching. Conversations faltered when he entered a room. Lesser lords bowed deeper than necessary. Even the seasoned ministers stumbled through their counsel when he tilted his head or narrowed his gaze.

Harry did not rage. He did not whimper or scowl. He did not entertain niceties. He simply expected. And the world gave.

He had grown up in the northern wing of the Keep, in a room with stone walls and windows that never opened. He had been taught to ride before he could spell, to wield a blade before he’d ever written his own name. A prince molded not by love but by responsibility. There had never been lullabies, only oaths. No lull of comfort, only lineage.

Legacy was his only cradle. And legacy, now, was his to bear.

In a different shed of light, Edward Styles was looser around the edges. His presence was lighter, his posture less rigid. He wore trousers and unbuttoned shirts with soft cravats, his long hair pulled back with careless charm, always half a step behind Harry, always the second thought.

He was not unloved by the court. In fact, some preferred his laughter to Harry’s silence. But that preference was useless—Edward held no real power. He spoke freely because his words bore no consequence.

To Harry, his brother was tolerable only in the way that dust is tolerable. Always lingering, never necessary.

Their bond was a myth constructed by their surname. Twins by fate yet they remained rulers by force. It was always a competition from the moment they could both roll over. It was about power, about a legacy to leave behind. Who could do what faster, smarter, diligently. But when it came to it, one had to take the throne and the other would have to watch.

Harry would have cast him out had it not been for custom, for appearances. But tradition demanded two Styles men remain at court, and so Edward lingered. Every door slam and heavy boot down the palace’s halls dusted behind a trace of Edward and his rebellion, his name.

There was no queen at Wrosley. No heirs. No soft footsteps in the halls. Just a crown resting on a head already bowed under its weight, and an empire that expected to be led without question. Harry didn’t need the women, no maiden could satisfy him enough. They were less to him, pathetic sacks that held all but connection, their submission to him.

But in the stillness of his chambers, when the moon crept over the frostbitten moors and silence pressed against the windows like a second skin, there were no answers. Only the throne. Only the quiet.

To the south, in the gentler lands of Edevane, the Fitzgerald estate stood among rolling hills and sun-dappled vineyards, a kingdom painted in gold leaf and etiquette. The estate, Briarbourne Hall, appeared resplendent from afar. Its cream-colored façade glowed at sunset, and carriages arrived like clockwork with their polished brass and embroidered coats of arms. The gardens were sculpted into perfect, symmetrical blooms. The columns were tall, its guests tasteful, and its laughter rehearsed.

But closer—beneath the polished veneer—the cracks had begun to show.

The fireplaces burned lower. Velvet curtains were drawn to hide the fading wallpaper. The silver didn’t shine quite as it used to, and the servants spoke in tones quiet enough to keep the rot from becoming gossip. It was a house still desperate to be admired, even as it hollowed from within.

Inside, Lady Beatrice Fitzgerald, the prized heir to the Fitzgerald name, stood atop a pedestal of her own making. Three gowns had been flung across the bed, and she examined her fourth in the mirror while Lady Nora, their mother, circled like a hawk in pearls.

“Chin up. Shoulders soft but proud,” Nora murmured, adjusting the neckline of the silk. “A queen never lets them see her sweat.”

Beatrice was their golden girl—flawless posture, silk-smooth smiles, and the calculated grace of someone who had never once been told no. She was being prepared, always prepared for the next title, the next court, the next throne. And she drank the attention like wine, eyes half-lidded in her own reflection.

In the corner, half-shadowed by the drawn curtain, stood Margaret. 

She held a chipped porcelain tray—cold tea, two sugar cubes, lemon slices sliced too thin, brittle at the ring and flimsy in its sour center. No one had asked her to bring it. No one ever did. Her sleeves were rolled up, hands red from the morning’s scrub of the tiled halls. Her gown hung in tired folds around her ankles. It had once been Beatrice’s, lavender silk turned a dull gray-blue, frayed at the hem where Margaret had sewn it up with rough thread, the stitches barely holding from a tear she didn’t have time to fix.

She had made it fit. She always did.

She had stitched every seam of the dress she would wear to Alderham—a patchwork of scraps from discarded fabrics, hidden under a cloak that had once belonged to her mother’s cousin’s maid. It was her finest dress. And it still wasn’t hers. But she didn’t mutter a single complaint. Instead, she rather dipped her finest bow at the fore of her parents, thanking them for the opportunity to come along to Alderham. After, she rushed to dish up the dinner prepared along the stretched tables, taking extra precision. She had folded their serviettes into rosebuds, her mothers favorite.

Margaret had long since learned that the way to be noticed in Briarbourne was to be useful, not visible.

“Margaret,” her mother said once without looking, “take that to the kitchens. And do something with your hair. You're an eyesore.”

No thanks. No glance. Just command and dismissal.

She dipped her head, murmured, “Yes, ma’am,” and moved quickly so Beatrice wouldn’t have a chance to nudge her aside with one of those careless little pushes, the kind that always managed to bruise without leaving a mark. Her sister’s laughter followed her out of the room, light and cruel.

She wasn’t allowed to dine with guests. She arranged the flowers for the drawing rooms. She fetched the ribbons. She stayed behind the curtain while the suitors were entertained.

Her father, Lord Thomas, didn’t strike her, but he didn't speak to her either. His eyes slid past her at the breakfast table, as if acknowledging her presence would somehow devalue the family name. When he did address her, it was with the clipped tone he used for horses or staff. Not unkind—just detached. Indifferent.

She had once been allowed to sit at the piano when she was thirteen. Her fingers found the keys with quick glances around her, before a soft note rang through the air. Silence first, then the click of her fathers shoes. The next morning, the piano was locked.

No one told her she was lesser. They simply treated her that way. And so Margaret drifted through the house like a ghost in hand-me-down shoes, too quiet to be remembered, too useful to be entirely discarded.

But she noticed everything.

She saw how her father’s smile faltered when he spoke of royal alliances. She saw how her mother’s fingers trembled as she adjusted Beatrice’s jewels—jewels they couldn’t afford to replace. She saw how Beatrice practiced her curtsies in the mirror after everyone had gone to bed, whispering titles under her breath like a spell. Margaret did not envy them. Not truly. But she wondered what it might feel like to be seen.

There were whispers now, urgent and laced with names from the north. The House of Styles. A visit was being arranged—an audience at Wrosley Keep. Beatrice was to be dressed in emerald satin. Margaret would travel beside her, cloaked in patched wool, silent and unmentioned.

Was Margaret just a symbol of humility? Or unity? Or maybe she was just a placeholder. A shadow to make the crown gleam brighter on Lady Beatrice’s head. That didn’t matter though. This was not the worst that the quiet could get. 

Harry was born to rule—raised to believe legacy is everything and emotion is weakness. With a crown already etched in his blood, and a kingdom watching, he wears entitlement like armor and sees no value in those outside his lineage.

Margaret is the second daughter of another royal bloodline—forgotten in favor of her sister and dismissed by everyone. She is background noise in a room full of power players. Irrelevant. Unseen.

But the quiet has weight.

And slowly, without meaning to, she becomes the only thing he cannot ignore.

What begins as cold indifference turns to something else—something sharp, something aching. But realization comes too late. She is no longer waiting to be seen. And Harry, once so certain of his world, must now live in the silence he created.

What remains when the silence you chose is the only thing that answers back?