#together together

You mark your favourites, drag others into a possible carousel folder, reject three because the angle is too similar, bring one back because his smile is too good to waste, then switch tabs to the HSHQ draft calendar. The Together Together TikTok account is open on the other phone, already logged in, already full of fan videos from the last show. You repost one of a group screaming when Harry had started to sing Little Freak, save another where the crowd dances under the soft summer rain, answer two emails from PR, then glance at the Instagram account waiting quietly in the background.

The Q&A.

Yesterday, during the off day that hadn't really been an off day for you, you had sat through a video call with PR and management about doing something more interactive for Harry’s fans. The spontaneous livestream in Amsterdam had gone absurdly well, still brought up every few days by fans as if it were a historical event, and the team had wanted to recreate some of that directness without forcing Harry into something he would hate. Instagram stories, question sticker, twenty-four hours, hand-picked answers. Nothing live, nothing recorded unless Harry wanted it. Just the question card and his typed replies.

But you'd been patient, and had explained the format to him: he could approve every question, he could answer in writing, you wouldn't post a word without him agreeing, nothing had to be too personal, too polished, or too revealing. It could be funny, warm, thoughtful, and very much him without forcing him to perform.

Harry still hadn't loved the idea when you first brought it up, but honestly, that was pretty much expected. He doesn't dislike fans, never that. He adores them, respects them, and notices far more than people give him credit for. But the machinery of social media is another thing entirely. He has spent long enough being turned into content that he has grown very protective of the parts of himself that don't need to be posted, and he's rarely thrilled when anyone suggests giving the internet more access simply because the internet wants it.

Eventually, he had sighed, kissed your shoulder, and said, “Fine. But if someone asks what my favourite kinds of socks are, I’m blaming you.”

You had taken that as a yes.

Now the responses are waiting, a full day’s worth of questions stacked behind the little question sticker you posted on his account. You haven't looked properly yet, mostly because you know the number will be ridiculous and you want Harry beside you when he first sees it. If nothing else, his face will make excellent personal entertainment.

You close Anthony’s folder halfway, pick up the work phone and head outside. The garden is bright and too warm, summer pressing itself into every corner despite the shade beneath the trees. The grass has lost some of its spring softness from the heatwave, but the far end remains cooler, sheltered by leaves and the brick wall behind the tomato plants. You cross the lawn with the phone in your hand, already smiling because you can see Harry now, tucked under one of the trees, barefoot on the grass.

He's doing plow pose. Or attempting it with a level of concentration usually reserved for live televised award-show speeches. His shoulders are on the mat, arms stretched long along the grass, legs lifted over his head, toes pointing somewhere behind him. He's topless, wearing only his black running shorts, which you have privately and publicly renamed his slutty shorts so many times that he has started calling them that too. Every muscle in his body is engaged as he holds the position, stomach tense, arms firm, thighs controlled, skin warmed by the sun and the June air.

He looks ridiculous, really. But he also looks unfairly good. Both things can be true.

You stop a few metres away, biting your bottom lip around a grin as your eyes travel shamelessly over the view available to you from behind. Your boyfriend is folded in half in the garden, focused on breathing, and you're only human. And more importantly, you're his girlfriend, which gives you certain viewing privileges.

Harry’s eyes remain closed. “I can feel you looking,” he says.

You cross your arms, still grinning. “Can you?”

“Mhm.”

“Very observant for a man currently pretending to be a paperclip.”

His mouth twitches, though he keeps the pose. “Do you like what you’re looking at?”

“I’m having a wonderful view.”

“Is that so?”

“It is. Very educational.”

“Yoga often is.”

“I’m learning a lot about alignment.”

Harry gives a quiet laugh through his nose. “You’re behind me, love.”

“Exactly.”

His lips press together, fighting a smile, and you take one step closer, then another, slow enough that he probably thinks you're simply coming to sit near him. He is too focused on holding the pose to track you properly, still breathing with solemn discipline, still trying to look like he's above distraction.

You lean down. Then, very quickly, bite his arse cheek through the fabric of his shorts.

Harry makes a noise you've never heard from him before, somewhere between a yelp, a gasp, and pure offended betrayal. The shock travels straight through his body, his balance goes instantly, and the whole elegant yoga shape collapses. He tumbles sideways and lands on his back in the grass with all the grace of a dropped sack of potatoes while you're already walking away, giggling, towards the tomato plant.

“Oi!” he splutters from the ground. “What was that for?”

You pick a cherry tomato from the vine with perfect innocence. “Taking opportunities as they come.”

Harry remains sprawled out on the grass, arms spread, legs crooked, staring at you as if he cannot decide whether to laugh or have you arrested. “You bit my bum.”

“I did.”

“During yoga.”

“Yes.”

“I was meditating.”

“You were vulnerable.”

“That’s worse.”

You pop the tomato into your mouth and hum at the sweetness. “Very good crop this year.”

Harry starts laughing properly then, head falling back against the grass. “You’re a menace.”

“You chose me.”

“I did.”

“Repeatedly.”

“Unfortunately for my bum.”

You pick another tomato, then another, filling your palm until you have a handful. By the time you settle beneath the tree, back against the trunk, Harry has rolled his head to watch you from where he still lies dramatically on the grass.

“Are you ready to answer fan questions?” you ask.

His smile disappears into a groan. “No.”

“Come here and get it over with.”

“Do we really have to?”

“Yes.”

“Could we not say I fainted?”

“You fainted?”

“Emotionally.”

“You’ll survive.”

Harry pushes himself up with a pout that is far too cute for a man who has just been bitten and bullied into work. He walks over, drops down beside you, then immediately lies back with his head on your thighs as if that is where it belongs. You adjust automatically, one hand moving to his hair, the other balancing the work phone.

Before you can open Instagram, Harry opens his mouth. You look down at him, and he opens it wider, like a baby bird.

“Are you serious?”

He makes an expectant sound, you laugh, pick up a cherry tomato from your little pile, and feed it to him. Harry bites down, eyes closing as he chews. “Mm,” he says. “These are good.”

“Home-grown.”

“Tastes better because we grew it.”

“You looked at it twice while I watered it.”

“Emotional support.”

“You stood there and said, ‘They’re coming along, aren’t they?’”

“Encouragement is important, too.”

You feed him another one because he looks far too pleased with himself, then open Instagram and tap into the Story responses tray beneath the question sticker. The screen takes a moment to load, and Harry watches upside down from your lap. “How many questions did we get?”

You glance at the number, then blink in surprise. “Two hundred and forty-two thousand, three hundred and twenty-seven.”

Harry chokes on the tomato, and you pat his chest while he coughs. “Fucking hell,” he says once he can speak. “That’s a lot.”

“Dedicated fans.”

“Mad, all of them.”

“Lovingly.”

“Lovingly mad.” His face softens then, eyes drifting towards the phone. “They’ve always shown up for me. Even when I disappear, even when I’m quiet, even when I don’t give them much online. Best fans in the world, really.”

You smile down at him. “They’ll be very happy you’re doing this.”

“Only because of you.”

“Nope, because of you.”

“Because you’re making me.”

“Because I’m lovingly making you.”

He sighs. “Fine. Feed me another tomato and ask the first question.”

Harry finishes chewing, staring up into the tree as he thinks for half a second. “None of them. They’re theirs now.”

You do exactly that, scrolling through the endless column of submissions until one catches your eye. “This is a good one,” you say. “What’s a song you released that you wish people would listen to differently?”

You give him a look. “That’s very you.”

“It’s true.”

“It’s also not an answer.”

“It is an answer.”

“Harry, come on.”

He smiles a little. “I mean it. Once they’re out, people should get to have their own version of them. I don’t want to stand over everyone’s shoulder telling them how to feel.”

You hum, waiting.

“But if I had to pick one,” he adds, “Fine Line. I think it’s a hopeful song.”

“That’s better.”

“It was already good.”

“It was half good.”

You use the Share Response option, place the question card on a soft background photo of him, and type his answer underneath it. “None of them. They’re yours now. But if I had to pick one: Fine Line. I think it’s a hopeful song.” You show him before posting, Harry nods, and you post it. “One down,” you say.

“Two hundred and forty-two thousand, three hundred and twenty-six to go.”

“Don’t be dramatic.”

“Shh, I’m very busy.”

“You’re lying on my thighs eating tomatoes.”

“Exactly, busy.”

You scroll again, then stop. “Who was the first person who told you ‘no’ and it actually helped you?”

Harry’s smile arrives immediately. “My mum. She’s usually right.”

You snort. “Can’t argue with that.”

“No one can.”

“Anne is one of the few people you actually listen to.”

“I listen to you.”

“When?”

“Often.”

“Name one time.”

Harry pauses, you raise your eyebrows expectantly, before he points at the phone. “Next question.”

You laugh, type the answer, post it, and keep scrolling. “What’s the most ‘not Harry Styles’ thing you do when no one’s watching?”

Harry doesn't hesitate. “Watching Mike Tyson knockouts on YouTube before bed.”

You look down at him. “Oh my God, yes. That’s so strange.”

“It’s not strange.”

“It’s deeply strange. Sometimes I wake up and you’re under the duvet watching boxing knockouts like a little gremlin.”

“It relaxes me.”

“Men being knocked unconscious relaxes you?”

“Not the unconscious part. The technique.”

“That doesn't make it better.”

Harry shrugs from your lap. “Works for me.”

“You’re a mystery.”

“I thought I was very knowable.”

“Only until bedtime boxing.”

You type his answer while shaking your head and post it.

The next question you choose makes you laugh before you read it aloud. “Hi Harry, still tryna figure out the tomato reference in Kissco. Kindly enlighten us?”

Harry reaches blindly towards your pile of tomatoes, finds one, and puts it into his mouth with excessive smugness. After swallowing, he says, “Tomatoes? I like tomatoes. They should be on the grocery list. Add a tomato emoji to that one.”

You stare at him. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“There’s no deeper meaning?”

“Nope.”

“Are you lying?”

“Maybe.”

“Harry.”

“What? Let them have fun.”

You type exactly what he said, including the tomato emoji, and send it. “You’re going to make them worse.”

“They enjoy puzzles.”

“You enjoy being a puzzle.”

“I enjoy tomatoes.”

“I’m aware.”

You scroll until you find a longer question, and your tone changes slightly. “This one’s more serious. Behave.”

“I’m always on my best behaviour.”

You look at him and he smiles angelically. Then you read, “I’d love to ask him about some friendship advice, how to handle the end of a friendship or something. Oh, and I actually DMed him on Insta about it, so Harry, I need you to answer please.”

Harry goes quiet for a moment, and you let him think.

“I’m sorry you’re going through that,” he says eventually, slower now so you can type while he speaks. “I think it’s alright to be sad about it. Losing a friend can feel a bit like grieving. Try to be kind to yourself and remember that not every friendship is meant to last forever. The ones that are will find their way back to you if they’re supposed to. Hope you’re alright. x”

You finish typing and glance down at him. “That’s good advice.”

“I’m very empathetic.”

“You are, actually.”

“I know.”

You post it, then run your fingers absentmindedly through his hair. “Have you lost friends along the way you’d want to reconnect with?”

Harry thinks about that, looking up through the leaves. “I think everyone has people they don’t talk to anymore but still think of sometimes. Not always in a sad way. Just… they were part of a version of your life, and you remember them kindly.” He pauses. “I’m grateful for the people I have now. Very. Feels like I’ve got what I need.”

You look at him a little softly and he catches it. “Don’t make it sentimental.”

“You made it sentimental.”

“Next question.”

You laugh and scroll. “What is your TLC (total lung capacity)?”

Harry cackles. “That’s specific.”

“Do you know?”

“I think around seven litres? It’s been a while.”

You stop typing and stare at him. “Of course you know your lung capacity. Who doesn’t casually know their lung capacity?”

“I had testing done for marathon training.”

“Obviously. Very normal.”

“You should get yours checked.”

“I kindly refuse.”

“Might be useful.”

“For what?”

“Running from me when you bite my bum again.”

“I don’t need lung capacity for that. I need opportunity.”

Harry laughs as you post the answer.

The next question is lighter. “Hi Harry, I love you. What’s your favourite animal? Can’t say cat or dog.”

Harry raises one eyebrow. “Can’t say cat or dog?”

“Rules are rules.”

“Probably a penguin. They seem like nice company.”

You type it, laughing. “I’m glad.”

“Why?”

“Penguins are monogamous, aren’t they? Faithful little partners. Good role models for you.”

Harry looks up at you, amused. “That’s where your mind went?”

“Yes.”

“I say penguin, you hear marriage values?”

“I hear loyalty.”

“I’m very loyal.”

“Penguin-coded.”

He laughs, shaking his head against your thighs. “Put that on a shirt.”

You grin and scroll again, then huff. “Oh, we’re getting into important journalism now.”

“That sounds dangerous.”

“Two questions. Tell me who is the inspiration for each of your songs, and how big is it?”

Harry blinks, then laughs. “Are you serious?”

“The fans need answers.”

“I’m a musician, not a porn actor. I don’t know how that knowledge would benefit them.”

“Morale.”

“Morale?”

“Maybe.”

Harry gives you a long look, then says, “The inspiration for my songs? Life, mostly. I’d like people to make them their own. And my ego? Manageable. My forehead, though…” He pushes his hair back dramatically, exposing his forehead with great theatrical suffering.

You laugh while typing. “The ego part is generous.”

“Generous as in accurate?”

“Generous as in optimistic.”

“You bit my bum ten minutes ago. You don’t get to criticise my ego.”

“I absolutely do.”

Harry becomes stiller beneath your hand, and for a moment, you can almost see him move through versions of himself, the boy at eighteen thrown into the centre of the world, the young man in One Direction trying to be liked by everyone, learning that being adored loudly didn't protect him from being misunderstood loudly too. His answer, when it comes, is simple. “That everyone had to like me. They don’t, and that’s okay.”

You post the answer and keep scrolling, still smiling. Then a question makes you pause. “What’s something you believed about yourself at eighteen that you completely unlearned by thirty?”

Your fingers pause in his hair, you type the words, but after posting them, your attention drifts. Not away from him, exactly, just deeper into yourself. You've always admired that clarity in him, the way he has learned to hold criticism at a distance without turning hard, the way he can be kind without being endlessly available, gentle without offering himself up for everyone to pick apart.

You're not there yet, not fully. You still want to be liked, especially now that standing beside him has made you visible in ways you never used to be. You still notice comments you should ignore, still soften your own edges in certain rooms, still wonder whether people are waiting for you to prove them right if they already decided you don't belong. Harry knows that. He has seen the overthinking, the people-pleasing, the quiet spirals you try to hide until they have already exhausted you.

You don't realise you've gone silent until he touches your nose with his index finger. “Where’ve you gone?” he asks softly.

You blink down at him, his grin is small, but his eyes are knowing. “Nowhere,” you say, too late.

“Liar.”

You let out a breathy little laugh. “I was just thinking.”

“I know what you were thinking.”

“Do you?”

“Mhm.” He reaches for your free hand and brings it down to rest against his chest. “You don’t have to please anyone for my sake.”

Your face softens immediately, and he keeps his gaze on yours as he continues. “I mean it. Not fans, not my team, not strangers online, not anyone who thinks they know what you should be. You're enough as you are. Always. Especially to me.”

You swallow around the emotion that rises too quickly. “I know.”

“Do you believe it?”

You hesitate for half a second. “I’m trying to.”

“That’s honest.”

“You make it easier.”

“Good.” His thumb brushes over your knuckles. “Keep trying, then.”

You nod, a small smile returning. “Okay.”

“Next?”

You look at him for another second, warmed by the steadiness of him, then turn back to the phone. “Next.”

The following question fits the mood too closely. “What’s the loneliest you’ve felt while being surrounded by people?”

Harry closes his eyes. “God, they’re digging deep today.”

“I like the deeper ones.”

“So do I, just not when I’m meant to answer them publicly.”

“You’re known for dodging questions without making it look like you dodged them. You’ll be fine.”

He opens one eye. “Is it that obvious?”

“Harry.”

“What?”

“Your favourite thing about the movie was that it felt like a movie.”

He bursts out laughing, face scrunching with it. “That was actually genuine.”

“It was historic.”

“It did feel like a movie.”

“It was a movie.”

“Exactly.”

You both laugh, and the heaviness softens enough for him to answer. “I think everyone feels that sometimes,” he says. “It’s important to tell someone when you do.”

You type and post, then he asks, “How many more are we doing?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“That’s cruelty.”

“You’re doing well.”

“I’m running out of tomatoes very soon.”

“I’ll note that as a professional limitation.”

You pick another question. “You talk a lot about treating people with kindness. What’s the hardest time you’ve had actually living that?”

Harry answers almost immediately. “Probably when I’m not being very kind to myself. That’s usually when it’s hardest.”

You type it, but your hand slows slightly around the final words. You know the shape of that answer. You know the break he took wasn't only rest, not only silence after years of noise, but a long, often uncomfortable process of finding out who he was when he wasn't being applauded. He has told you enough for you to understand that the hardest person for him to be gentle with has often been himself. After you post it, your fingers drift to his left wrist, tracing the anchor tattoo there. “I’m glad you’re kinder to yourself now,” you say.

Harry turns his wrist beneath your touch. “You helped.”

You shake your head. “No.”

“Yes.”

“You did that yourself.”

“I did some of it myself.” He looks up at you. “But you helped. You don’t try to make my life simpler by pretending it isn’t complicated. You understand it without letting it swallow everything. You have my back, and you don’t make a performance out of it.” His voice is quiet, grounded. “You make my head quieter. I don’t know if you realise how rare that is.”

You look down at him, unable to make a joke quickly enough to protect yourself from the tenderness. “I think that’s what love does,” you say eventually. “Not always, maybe. But the good kind. It gives you somewhere to land.”

Harry’s eyes soften. “Is that what I am for you?”

“Yes.”

His smile is smaller now, a little shy. “Good.”

“You’re my rock too,” you add, touching his cheek. “Even when you’re annoying.”

“Especially then.”

You both laugh, and you shake your head as you nod at the phone. “Deep talks over fan questions. Who would’ve thought?”

“Dan, probably.”

“Who’s Dan?”

“No idea. Just felt right.”

You laugh harder, and he looks very pleased to have dragged the mood back into silliness.

The next question reads, “If you couldn’t make music or act anymore, what problem in the world would you want to work on?”

Harry thinks only briefly. “Loneliness. I think everyone’s carrying more than you realise.”

You type, post, then look down at him. “Do you feel lonely?”

“Not anymore.”

“But you have?”

“Yeah.” He watches the leaves above you for a moment. “There were times I felt lonely while surrounded by people, probably because everyone knew the version of me they needed, but not all of me. I had to learn how to be alone before being around people felt honest again. Now I’ve got a smaller circle, but it’s real. That helps.”

“If you ever feel lonely beside me, I want you to tell me.”

Harry looks at you immediately. “I will.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.” His hand rests over yours. “Can’t imagine it, though.”

“Still.”

“Still,” he agrees.

You nod, satisfied, and move on before you both get too emotional beneath a walnut tree. “What’s a rumour about you that you secretly wish was true?”

Harry laughs instantly. “That I’m much cooler than I actually am.”

You chuckle while typing. “I find you pretty cool.”

“That so?”

“And Ava definitely agrees with me.”

“Well,” Harry says, visibly pleased, “if you and Ava say so, must be true then.”

“She has excellent taste.”

“She once ate a crayon.”

“Creative spirit.”

“Fair.”

You post the answer and scroll again. “What question are you most tired of being asked?”

“When’s the next album?”

“Understandable,” you murmur, typing quickly. Then you spot another one. “What’s the funniest rumour you’ve heard about yourself?”

Harry’s answer is immediate. “I think the one where I apparently spat on Chris Pine. And whichever one comes out tomorrow.”

You grin as you type. “Did you?”

He gives you a look.

“What?” you ask. “Public service journalism.”

“You know me better than that.”

“I do. But the video did look suspicious.”

“It did,” he admits. “I’ve seen it. I understand why people thought it.”

“So you didn’t spit on Chris Pine?”

“No, I did not spit on Chris Pine.”

“Shame. Would’ve been very rockstar.”

“Would’ve been very rude.”

“That too.”

You send it and read the next question. “Hi Harry, I love you. If you could get one of your own lyrics tattooed, even if it’s a silly one, what would it be?”

Harry grins. “Depends what day you ask me. I think probably ‘Cocaine, side boob.’ Or maybe ‘You Flower, You Feast.’”

You slowly look down at him. “You’re not serious about ‘Cocaine, side boob.’”

“Very serious.”

“Harry.”

“One of my favourite lyrics.”

“You would tattoo that on yourself?”

He nods. “Maybe add ‘choke her with a sea view’ to make it complete.”

“Why do I even ask you things?”

“You should know by now.”

“I’m putting the flower one first.”

“Oi, you’re censoring my truth.”

“I’m protecting your fans.”

He laughs while you type the answer, and you include both because, unfortunately, it's very him.

“If you could only eat one thing for the rest of your life, what would it be?”

“Pasta,” he says instantly. “There’s enough variety that I’d hopefully never get bored.”

“Knew that was coming.”

“Would be weird if you didn’t.”

“True.”

You post that too, then choose, “What’s your favourite ice cream flavour?”

“Honeycomb,” Harry says. “Or Christmas pudding. It’s very underrated.”

Your face twists before you can stop it, and he notices. “Don’t make that face.”

“Christmas pudding ice cream is a threat.”

“It’s festive.”

“It’s confusing.”

“You’re confusing.”

“You eat December as a dairy product.”

Harry laughs into your lap. “That’s going in my notes.”

You keep scrolling, still smiling, and the next one makes you pause. “I would like to ask Harry if he could give the younger version of himself at the start of 1D one personal and one professional piece of advice, what would they be?”

Harry goes quiet, thoughtful. “That’s a good one.”

You nod and wait.

“Personal,” he says after a moment. “Be a bit kinder to yourself. You’re doing alright. Professional: trust your instincts. Do the things you love.”

You type the words, but a grin starts pulling at your mouth around the last sentence and Harry catches it immediately. “Why are you smiling like that?”

“No reason.”

“Y/n.”

“I just like the ‘do the things you love’ part.”

“What’s funny about that?”

Your grin widens. “Well. You love me, don’t you?”

It takes one second, then it clicks and Harry laughs, loud and delighted. “I’m trying to give serious, heartfelt answers, and you’ve turned it filthy.”

“I learned from the best.”

“I’m innocent.”

“We already established that you are absolutely not.”

“I’m answering fan questions with dignity right now.”

“You suggested tattooing ‘Cocaine, side boob’ on yourself.”

“Dignified lyricism.”

You shake your head and send the answer before he can add anything worse.

The next question makes you laugh before you have even read half of it. “Oh my God.”

Harry squints. “What?”

“Harry, did you have to pull some of your hairs from your ass crack in the shower when you had your long hair? Be honest, cause as a girlie with long hair that shit’s annoying.”

Harry lifts his head slightly off your thighs. “Excuse me?”

“A fan needs experienced advice.”

“No.”

“Long hair solidarity.”

“Absolutely not.”

“She’s vulnerable.”

“She’s put far too much thought into this.”

“Is that your answer?”

“Yes. Type that.”

You do, laughing the entire time. “You’re avoiding the question.”

“I’m maintaining boundaries.”

“Coward.”

“Healthy boundaries.”

You post it, then scroll again, still giggling. A few seconds later, you make a sound that immediately puts Harry on alert.

“Oooh.”

“No.”

“You don’t even know what it is.”

“I know that sound.”

“This is something even I don’t know about you.”

Harry’s eyes narrow. “Should I be worried?”

You read, “Hey Harry, I’ve been told I can stop censoring myself, so, ever given a bj? Taken it up the ass? What’s your favourite sex position? Craziest sexual experience?”

Harry’s eyes widen, and he nearly chokes on the tomato he has just put in his mouth. “Fucking hell, y/n.”

You burst out laughing. “What?”

“Why would they ask me that?”

“Your fans adapted to their environment.”

“I’m not like that.”

You raise one eyebrow. “Do not make me pull up your own lyrics to prove you wrong.”

He opens his mouth, then closes it. “I’m maybe a little bit like that.”

“A little?”

“Not answering it.”

“What should I write?”

“Some things are allowed to stay mysterious.”

You type it, post it, then set the phone down for a moment, because now your own curiosity has apparently entered the garden. “So…”

Harry looks up at you with immediate suspicion. “So?”

“Have you?”

“Have I what?”

“The things.”

He groans. “Are you serious?”

“I’m curious.”

“You want to know if I’ve had sex with men?”

You shrug, not flippant, simply honest. “If you want to tell me.”

He studies you for a moment, the humour quieting into something more delicate. “Would you see me differently?”

That catches you off guard. “What?”

“If I had. If I’d done any of those things, given a blowjob, or taken it up the arse. Would it bother you?”

You look down at him, almost offended by the question but trying not to make that offense about you when there is something incredibly vulnerable beneath his tone. “Of course not.”

Harry watches your face carefully and you soften. “I don’t care who you were with before me, as long as it was consensual and you were okay. Men, women, whoever. It doesn’t change who you are to me.”

His expression opens slightly. “You’re sure?”

“Yes.” You brush hair away from his forehead. “Harry, I’m with you. Not an idea of who you were allowed to have been before me.”

He stays quiet, then a smile appears, very small and very fond. “See? Another reason for me to love you.”

You roll your eyes, but your hand stays gentle in his hair. “Sappy.”

“True, though.”

“You don’t have to tell me anything if you don’t want to.”

“I know.”

“And I’m not asking because I want gossip about your past.”

“I know.”

“I just want you to know nothing like that would make me look at you differently.”

Harry reaches up and squeezes your hand once. “I do know, now.”

“Good.”

He settles back into your lap, eyes closing for a second. “You’re very good for me, y’know that?”

“That was almost a proposal.”

“Was it?”

“No, but it was nice.”

He laughs softly, and you pick up the phone again before the conversation becomes too tender to move away from.

“How many more?” Harry asks.

“Running out of tomatoes?”

“Yes.”

“There’s one more important one.”

He sighs, already suspicious. “Important how?”

“You’ll see.”

“Is it about you?”

“Maybe.”

“Of course it is.”

“One more,” you say. “You agreed.”

“I agreed to a Q&A, not emotional ambush.”

“You’ll be fine.”

You read the final question with barely contained delight. “Hello there, Harry. When are you going to propose to Y/N? She’s very good for you, all of us fans can see that she’s absolutely perfect. So hurry up and pop the question before we steal her from you.”

Harry barks out a laugh. “Of course you picked that one.”

“It was submitted by the people.”

“Did you send it yourself?”

You gasp, fake offended. “I would never abuse my professional access like that.”

“You absolutely would if you wanted to.”

“I had nothing to do with it.”

Harry’s grin turns boyish. “So you’re not curious at all?”

You look down at the phone, suddenly a little sheepish. “I might be a little interested in your answer.”

He laughs more softly this time, eyes warm on yours, then he answers, “She’s wonderful. I’m a very lucky man. And I wouldn’t worry too much about anyone stealing her from me. x”

You type it, but by the time you finish, your bottom lip has pushed out in a full pout and Harry’s smile widens. “What’s that face?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s a disappointed face.”

“It’s not.”

“It totally is, I know you.”

“I thought maybe the fans deserved more detail?”

“Oh, did you?” He props himself slightly on one elbow, looking entirely too amused. “What did you want me to say? That I’ve got a ring upstairs and a speech ready and I’m planning a full beach proposal in two weeks?”

You break immediately, laughing. “No.”

“No?”

“That would be ridiculous.”

“And very private.”

“And very private,” you agree, posting the story.

You set the phone down beside you once the last answer goes live. The Q&A is done, or at least done enough for now, and already the notifications have started to rise, fans reacting, sharing, screaming into the void of the internet because Harry answered questions from a garden with tomatoes and no one knows that part except the two of you.

You lean your head back against the tree, eyes closing, fingers drifting into Harry’s hair again.

Harry settles fully back with his head on your thighs, eyes closing too. For a minute, neither of you speaks. The garden hums softly around you, leaves moving in the warm air, the tomato plant fragrant beside you, the house behind you waiting with all the work still left before the show tonight. Then Harry mumbles, “Maybe I’m waiting for you to propose.”

Your eyes open, and you look down at him. He doesn't open his eyes, but he's smiling widely.

“You just want an excuse to wear a huge rock on your ring finger.”

Harry opens one eye. “I would wear it proudly.”

“You would, wouldn’t you?”

“Absolutely. Massive one.”

“Obnoxious?”

“Very.”

“Paparazzi visible from space?”

“If you love me enough.”

You laugh, fingers tugging lightly at his hair. “I’ll think about it.”

Harry’s grin deepens. “Good.”

Taglist: @lizsogolden @avensgreenvans @maudie-duan @chocostyles @sparklejumpropequeen1113 @pops234 @lomlcamy

Harry finishes binding the material to the headboard and tightens the knot, eyes wandering over you as he does so, before testing your movement, or rather lack of.

“Is it too tight?” he asks, placing a finger underneath your chin and forcing you to look at him, a seriousness washing over his features whilst he awaits your answer.

Your mouth is dry as you tug at your restraints a little, testing them out to confirm.

It’s tight enough. Just how you like it.

“No,” you tell him, quietly, body sinking into the mattress as your heart pounds with anticipation.

“Good,” he smirks again, leaning down to press a kiss to your lips, soft at first, before parting yours with a practiced ease, delving his tongue hungrily into your mouth.

Normally, you’d snake your arms around the back of his neck, pulling him closer to you, maybe even lightly scratching at his back and leaving nail marks across his skin, but that proves to be impossible now.

Your underwear maintains your dignity, whilst Harry’s still adorned in his suit, minus the tie, and the roughness of his clothes against your almost naked body has you raising your hips to meet him, the contrast sparking something within you.

You whimper into his mouth as he moans into yours, his length becoming more prominent as he presses himself harder against you.

“What’s your colour?” he asks, slightly breathless as he raises himself above you to make eye contact with you.

His palms are flat, either side of your head, and despite the slight distance he’s put between your bodies, you can still feel the bulge within his trousers.

“Green,” you reply in the same tone.

He pulls away, completely, and without warning, climbing off you and coming to stand beside the bed, watching your breath hitch as you tug at the tie around your wrists.

“Harry,” you desperately pant.

“What colour do we use if it’s getting too much, darling?”

You suck in a sharp breath, your eyes meeting his before answering with conviction. 

“Yellow.”

“Good girl,” he smiles down at you before sitting beside you, his fingertips dancing on your upper thigh, delicately stroking your skin.

You buck your hips at his touch, whimpering at the contact, gently tugging at the tie.

“What colour do we use when you need to stop?” he asks.

“Harry—” you whine.

You know the answer, you both know the answer, and whilst you know he just wants to keep you safe, you’re desperate for him and he’s wasting time. 

His hand stills atop your thigh.

“Darling,” it’s a gentle warning, with a raised eyebrow, one that means activity could cease if you don’t provide him with the answer he’s looking for.

“Red,” you reply, immediately. “Red.”

“Good girl,” he repeats, stroking his fingers along the inside of your thighs this time, dangerously close to the dampness forming between them.

“Please,” you beg, in a whisper.

You clamp them together softly, keeping his hand there, trying to relieve yourself as you raise your hips off the bed.

A pathetic moan escapes you when he pulls his hand away from you.

“I’m going t’ have a shower,” he tells you, standing up and watching over you again, awaiting the reaction he knows is coming.

“Wh— no, Harry—” you plead.

Your eyes avert to the tie binding your wrists to the headboard, your chest heaving slightly as your breath leaves you.

“Harry—” you whine again.

He leans down, lips hovering over yours, but not making contact. He’s so close, yet so far.

“Trust me?” he asks.

“Hmm,” you hum in reply, a small nod to confirm, as you try to lift yourself off the mattress and meet his lips with your own.

“Darling—” his second warning of the night comes sooner than he anticipated.

His hot breath fans over you, his lips still so close to yours as you mumble incoherently against them, breathless as you do so.

Harry can hear the mantra of please’s, desperation evident in your tone.

Sensing your need for comfort, he reaches for your bound hands, enveloping them in one of his.

It’s affectionate, a reminder that you’re in control, that exploring your boundaries together is an act of love.

“You trust me?” he questions again.

“Yes,” you provide a solid answer this time, eyes averting from his plush lips to meet his gaze. “I trust you,” you vocalise. 

Harry smiles, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips. No hunger, no desperation behind it. Soft and gentle, and then he pulls away, again.

“Be a good girl for me.” * * *

You have no concept of time. With no way to access your phone, you can only imagine how long you’ve been lying here, bound to the bed in the suite you’re residing in with Harry during this leg of the tour.

He’s been gone at least twenty minutes, you estimate, leaving you in a pool of your own arousal, desperate and wanting.

Showering almost immediately after a show was the norm for Harry. Two hours spent singing, dancing, and running on stage, keeping the audience entertained and in the palm of his hand, had him working up a sweat.

Leaving you tied to the bed while he showered was a first, though.

You’re restless already, anticipation building within you. Occasionally bucking and raising your hips for relief achieves nothing if Harry’s hand isn’t between your legs.

Your thoughts run away with you as you imagine Harry in the shower, his hands massaging the spicy scented gel over his sweaty body.

The mental image of his impressive frame — his toned abdomen after several marathon runs, his muscular arms and legs since Brad had put him on a strict training regime — has you feeling absolutely feral.

You imagine Harry’s thighs between yours as he fucks himself into you, the veins in his arms protruding as he holds his weight above you, telling you to take it like a good girl.

A whimper escapes you as you buck your hips again, the scenario playing out so easily in your mind.

You need him, now.

He’s taking too long.

You ponder for a moment, then visualise him playing with himself in the shower, the thought of his hands travelling down through his pubic hair, before reaching his hard length crossing your mind.

He would have his dominant hand wrapped around his shaft, whilst the other would hold the tiled wall for support, bowing his head as water droplets roam freely over his body.

He’d groan as the ridges of his cock become more prominent, squeezing softly in the palm of his hand, taunting himself with slower strokes because it feels so good, angel, before pumping hard.

Squeeze. Stroke. Pump.

He would repeat the actions, teasing himself, allowing for the tension to build up to his release.

His laboured breathing would be the first sign that he’s close, and the second would be the groan that escapes his parted lips when he throws his head back in ecstasy. 

The rest of his release follows immediately after, his cock twitching in his hand as the tip begins to leak with his pre-come. He’d emit a guttural groan as the last pump relieves him of the pleasure that had been building, thick ropes of come expelling from his manhood.

You almost orgasm at the thought alone.

You’re needy and desperate and aching for him.

* * *

Harry’s trying desperately to make this last.

He stays in the shower for longer than he intended, knowing that leaving you for a period of time will only benefit you, becoming more slick for him. 

It’s a welcome thought, imagining you squirming and writhing in your bonds, the tie only pulling at your wrists tighter and holding you firmly in place.

He can already hear the desperate please please please’s coming from you in his mind, maybe his name resounding on your tongue as you beg for him to make you come.

He groans as he grasps himself, pumping hard at the image of you bound and at his mercy.

The same tie that had adorned his neck only mere hours earlier was now tied around your wrists, securing you to the bed.

He imagines that tie gagging your pretty mouth when you moan for him, his cock hardening as he considers what your muffled whimpers would sound like behind the material.

Harry’s preparing himself for the sight of you, spread open before him as you buck your hips, unable to relieve yourself, your knickers sopping with your arousal.

“Be a good girl for me,” should have done it for you already, and he smirks at the image of you quivering, cute whimpers escaping you as you coat your underwear with your own slick, to please him.

You’re always a good girl for him.

He’s going to work you, hard.

He’ll tease you with his fingers, encouraging you to take more because you can while you cry out for him.

Maybe he’ll even use the Pleasing vibrator that he knows you snuck into your suitcase.

He’d edge you, play with you, torment you.

He’ll please you like he means it.

Scenarios carry him away as his hand warms around himself, and he pictures his cock delving into your soaking cunt. So wet and warm, and made for him.

A guttural groan escapes him, from annoyance as opposed to pleasure, because he releases his hold on his manhood, stopping himself just in time from coming.

He wants it to be intense.

He wants to make it last.

He needs to come with you.

* * *

“Harry—” you whimper, eyes frantically searching over him as he leaves the bathroom.

He’s changed from his tour outfit and into a pair of Calvin Klein boxers, barely able to maintain the dignity of the obvious bulge within them.

“Shh, angel,” he reassures.

Your breath hitches at the pet name reserved only for you.

He doesn’t immediately approach you, which surprises you and disappoints you.

Instead, he heads towards your suitcase, opened out on the carpeted flooring of the suite. You were practically living out of the luggage holdall, not bothering to unpack too many of your belongings, consumed by bone idle laziness if you were being honest with yourself.

“Harry—” you try again, straining your neck to look at him, groaning at the restraints that prevent you from doing anything.

He barely rummages in your suitcase so it’s obvious he’s looking for something in particular. 

You know he’s found something when he stays crouched in position. When he stands, you notice the maroon coloured object held loosely in his hand.

“Fuck—” you whisper, closing your eyes briefly, only to find Harry standing at the end of the bed when you open them again.

"Care to tell me why you brought this along, darling?” he asks, a knowing smirk gracing his lips as he holds up the object in question.

The Pleasing vibrator.

“Harry—” you whine his name, continuing to tug pathetically at the restraint around your wrists.

You’ve been caught out.

“Want me to use it on you? Hmm? ’s that it?”

You buck your hips towards him at the mere thought of him using the vibrator made by the company he founded.

“’s that a yes?” he smirks again.

You nod in reply, your mouth too dry to vocalise anything coherent right now.

“I need words, darling.”

“Uh huh.”

“Words,” he demands this time.

“Yes— Harry— please—” you’re begging now.

His movements are slow and torturous as he kneels on the bed between your legs, his fingers stroking the apex of your thighs as you part them, with ease, for him.

“Clever girl,” he murmurs, his eyes watching hungrily over you, admiring just how wet you are for him.

You whimper softly at your exposure and despite Harry being between your legs, you attempt to close them together.

“Keep them open, darling,” he tells you.

You whine, turning your head away from him as you flush under his gaze, self-consciousness consuming you as he watches you.

“Eyes on me, darling,” he tells you, placing the vibrator on the duvet and resting his hands on your thighs, encouraging them to stay parted.

Your breath hitches as you follow his command, biting your lip as you shyly make eye contact.

“Want t’ watch you.”

You hear the vibrations rumble through the toy before you feel them, anticipation building between your legs as heat continues to pool, your stomach rolling with an unexplainable excitement.

“Gonna make it so good, darling, so good.” 

He presses the rounded head of the wand gently against your clothed core, the low setting making you yearn for more.

You moan first, a relief that he’s finally touching you, bucking your hips in desperation.

For a minute, he holds the device in place while you circle your hips to match the rhythm of the vibrator.

You whimper as he works you with the toy.

Harry rests a hand on one thigh, a reassuring gesture more than anything, rotating the device as your body desires. 

He can read your body like a book.

He knows what you like.

He knows what you need.

You moan again, breathless this time, as you tug against your restraints. 

Harry presses the device harder against you. Whilst your knickers are a frustrating barrier, his cock hardens at the sight of you sopping into his favourite pair.

An oxymoron of emotions overwhelm you.

You need control in every other area of your life but you give yourself to Harry, completely, in the bedroom. You trust him and allow him to dominate you.

The setting isn’t high enough, and your body is aching for a release that won’t come. You buck your hips again, unashamedly trying to fuck yourself against the vibrator, the tie only restraining you more.

“Thought you liked this one, hmm?” 

Harry tips his chin towards the tie, watching the material bite into your delicate skin every time you writhe in the tight binding.

You don’t answer with words. You can’t.

Instead, your body responds for you, sinking into the mattress as you spread your legs further apart, before raising your knees and rotating your hips, desperate to relieve your swollen nub.

“Uh huh,” you eventually manage, your eyes rolling into the back of your head as you work yourself over the vibrator. 

Harry leans forward, hovering over you, keeping the wand in place.

There’s something so intimate about the scene unfolding, both of you in only underwear, you drenched in your own arousal while Harry’s length strains against his pants.

His lips find your ear, hot breath fanning over you, his facial hair tickling your lobe.

“Then stop struggling—” he whispers.

His cock presses against your pubic bone, him and the vibrator working in tandem to pleasure you.

“—and take it like a good girl.” 

His words earn the moan he’d expected from you but he catches it with his mouth, his tongue dominating you as he steals a kiss.

You pant breathlessly into him, a series of Harry Harry Harry escaping you as you ache for him.

You’re sure you could come now, even with the device on its lowest setting, everything that has built to this moment — the bondage, the teasing, Harry’s words.

Taking the opportunity beneath him, you fuck yourself against his hardened cock within the confines of his pants, rubbing the soaked gusset of your underwear over his bulge.

“Harry—” you moan, the soft, floral tie biting into your flesh.

You’re close.

You’re so close.

Harry suddenly pulls away, kneeling back to his original position between your legs. His feet are tucked underneath him, as he sits cock first, the impressive length remaining his most prominent feature.

“No—” your bottom lip trembles slightly as he removes the vibrator from between your thighs.

The overstimulation that had washed over you has now been snatched away by him and you quickly realise he’s edging you.

“Harry—” you whine.

“Shh, angel. You’re gonna be good for me, aren’t you? Gonna take it for me?” 

Your breath hitches as you squirm in the restraint, pulling against the headboard harder now as you become restless. 

“What’s your colour?” he asks, immediately.

He’s not too concerned, but your slight distress makes him check in with you.

“Harry—” you whine again.

“Colour,” he demands. It’s not a question.

“Green,” you pant. “Green— please— H—”

He presses the wand to your stomach, rotating it on your skin. Your cheeks redden with embarrassment when you feel the bulbous head coated in your slick. 

Slowly and torturously, he drags the wand up your body and through the valley of your chest, his attention settling on your right breast. He rotates the head, your nipple pebbling through the lace material at the sensation as the blood flows to the surface of your skin.

Harry groans at the sight, shifting slightly to adjust himself. The damp patch forming on his pants is a mix of your own arousal from grinding against him and the pre-come from his leaky tip.

“Perfect tits,” he murmurs. “Made just for me.” 

His thumb skims the mound, hooking two fingers inside your bra. In a swift movement, he pulls the material down to expose you, the underwire sitting snugly beneath your left breast.

He follows suit with your right one, focussing his attention on arousing the nipple further, before mirroring the action and revealing both of your tits to him.

“Fucking perfect,” he whispers, his teeth grazing against your hard nipple, his attention flitting between both of them.

Biting, sucking and blowing cool air over the pebbled nubs earns himself a series of aaah’s and hisses as you arch your back, silently begging for the assault to continue.

“Harry—” you whimper, the plea having him groan above you, leaning down to grind his cock against your pubic bone again.

You shift your hips, meeting him rhythmically.

He groans again, clothes a barrier to your contact, as his lips hover over yours.

“Kiss me,” he almost pleads, a gentle demand.

You do as he asks, straining your neck to meet his mouth, squirming pathetically in your bondage as you desire to run your fingers through his damp, tousled hair.

It’s a searing kiss, one full of passion, Harry’s tongue dominant in your mouth as you whimper into him.

He takes your bottom lip between his teeth, biting softly at the plushness.

“Y’taste like strawberries,” he breathes.

His tongue swipes across your lips, hungrily licking at the strawberry balm you’d applied earlier this evening.

“So fucking sweet.”

Effortlessly, he changes the setting of the vibrator, increasing the speed from the low hum to the highest setting.

“Christ, darling—” he grunts at how responsive you are for him, drenching you both with your arousal.

He remains above you, his hand dipped between your thighs to control the wand, whilst simultaneously grinding his straining cock against your knickers. 

“Harry—” you desperately pant, that rubber band feeling deep within your stomach, constricting, loosening, constricting again, threatening to snap.

“Harry—” it’s a whimpered plea, a beg.

“Harry—” you moan his name now.

“Please—” you’re not really asking for permission, you know he’s going to give it to you.

The wand batters against your clit, the swollen nub trembling, intensity rising in your core as you grind against the silicone, frantically searching for your release. 

“Yes,” he clarifies, permission granted.

Ethereal sounds escape you, whimpers and moans filling the room as you tug against the tie and buck beneath him, greedily fucking yourself against the device and Harry’s erection, your knickers sopping in your arousal.

“Yes, mi amor, come for me.”

His words coax you through your orgasms as you moan for him, waves crashing over you as you’re brought to the edge over and over again, the wand relentless on your throbbing clit as you find your release each time.

“There she is,” he coos softly, smirking against your lips as you emit a breathy sob, each orgasm more intense than the previous.

You shake beneath him, thighs trembling around him, whimpering as your toes curl, and your chest heaves, and your attempts to escape your restraints have stopped.

“There’s my good girl.” 

He talks you through it, removing the wand from between your legs and discarding it beside you. His frame remains above yours, although parting ever so slightly, leaving a sliver of a gap between the two of you.

You whine at the loss of contact.

“Shh, angel, ‘ve got you.” 

He cups your face, encouraging you to look at him as you nuzzle into the palm of his hand, his thumb affectionately skimming your cheek.

“Open your eyes for me, darling.”

You do.

He drinks in your glossy expression; not sad, just exhausted.

“Intense?” he asks, knowingly.

A breathy laugh escapes you in response as you continue to come down from your high, your legs still shaking around him.

“Did so good for me, darling.”

Your breath hitches at his words, the aftershocks of your orgasm pulsing through you, as you try desperately to regulate your breathing.

“Need you t’ come back to me, darling.” 

“‘m here,” you mumble, softly.

He can tell by your exhausted tone itself that you’re well spent and overstimulated, your eyes fluttering tiredly. He allows you a few minutes to recover, your body still coming down from the multiple orgasms he’d inflicted upon you.

His lips find yours, occasionally sweeping across your jawline as he cups your neck in his palm, mindlessly rubbing circles on your skin.

You whimper when he brushes your hair off your forehead, tucking the loose strands behind your ear, and the beads of sweat that finally begin to evaporate are proof of how hard he’d worked you.

Your thighs are no longer shaking as intensely as before, but there’s a slight tremble to them, the occasional bucking of your hips, an indication to him that you need more.

“You still with me?” he asks.

“I’m here,” you tell him again, more conviction in your voice this time.

He pulls his face away and scans your features, settling for eye contact with his next statement.

“Need t’ know where we’re at.” 

Your laboured breathing had settled completely, and you’re no longer drunk on orgasms, able to give him a coherent and clear-minded answer.

“Green.”

He licks his lips, a hunger igniting within him.

“Need t’ taste you, sweetheart.” 

He dips his hand between your thighs, his fingers circling your clothed clit, massaging the wetness that had pooled in your underwear throughout the course of the night.

You moan at his action, cheeks flushing as you try fucking yourself against the palm of his hand.

“So fucking wet,” he murmurs, coating his fingers in your arousal, the sound of your slick toyed between his digits, reverberating around you.

He leans back, sitting on his heels again, watching over you while he plays with you, confident in his ability in having you like this — putty in his hands.

“Who made you this wet, darling?” 

You circle your hips again, searching for relief from him.

The pad of his thumb presses down harder onto your swollen clit, and a breathy moan escapes you.

“Who made you this wet?” he asks again.

“Uh— aah— you— Harry, please,” you gasp.

“Good girl,” he praises, bringing his hand to his lips as you’re forced to watch him tauntingly lick your arousal off each of his fingers, one by one.

You blush again, tugging desperately at the restraint around your wrists, wishing you could hide your embarrassment.

“Need t’ taste you, properly,” he smirks.

You moan at his teasing words.

“May I?” he asks.

“Please,” you practically beg him, from your bound position, to take you with his mouth.

Harry doesn’t need any further encouragement.

He dips his head between your thighs, pressing sloppy kisses along the inside, his facial hair tickling you as he does so.

He can smell your arousal, his cock straining for you as he tastes the last remnants of you on his tongue, having licked his fingers clean.

His moans of appreciation have you shifting towards him, unashamedly squirming to get closer to his face, desperate for him.

“Fucking hell, darling,” he groans, as he presses his lips to the gusset of your knickers, inhaling your scent.

You moan loudly, eyes averting down at him through the valley of your exposed breasts.

Harry going down on you is one of your favourite things, and his experience in performing oral sex is second to none.

Usually, you’d vocalise your arousal — moaning and gasping and whimpering — but hair pulling was always a given. To have your fingers freely roaming his curls, earning groans from him, and tugging at them when you were close.

You sob, the mere thought of touching him a distant memory as you struggle in your bonds, fighting against the tie that secures you in place.

“I know, angel, I know,” he sighs, nuzzling himself into your underwear.

You buck your hips, desperate for release.

“Y’fucking my face, doll? Hmm? ’s that what you want, ‘s it?” he asks, smirking into the material that does nothing to maintain your dignity now.

Your core aches for him.

“Gonna give it t’ you properly, now.”

He pulls your knickers to the side, exposing you. Placing his hands on your thighs, he keeps them open, holding them down with a gentle force, his access to you so easy.

“You’re gonna love this, doll. Promise.” 

He blows against your core, cool air a stark contrast to the heat pooling between your legs. He wastes no time in delving inside of you, spreading you apart with a practiced ease, the flat of his tongue pressed heavily against you as he licks a stripe up through your cunt.

His tongue oscillates, up and down, left to right, your increased arousal showing him where needs more attention.

Your struggle entices him further, thighs attempting to clench around his head which he stops every time with a warning.

“Keep ‘em open for me.”

He holds them down, palms flat against your fleshy skin, his nails pressed gently into them.

Unable to escape his welcome assault, your body begins to shudder, your nipples hardening again, your whimpers and moans become progressively louder. 

“C’mon darling,” he begs.

“Mmhmm,” you hum, focussing on the pleasure building, that invisible rubber band threatening to violently snap again, as it had done earlier.

“Give me a good one,” he pleads.

You whimper at his words this time, desperate to please him.

“C’mon angel, make a mess for me,” he goads, coaxing you as you near your high.

“Harry—” you cry out.

You try to clench your thighs together, but Harry holds them down with a little more force than before, knowing you’ll come harder that way.

“Harry— please please please— Harry— H—” you moan his name like a prayer, unravelling before him as you release yourself all over his tongue.

He feasts on it, sucking on your clit and cleaning up your arousal. Your aftershocks have you continuing to buck into him. His lips close around the bud, suctioning it, draining you of everything you have.

“So fucking sweet,” he moans.

Your taste dances on his tongue.

He wants you to taste it, too.

Removing his head from between your legs, he comes to lean over you, dipping down to passionately kiss you. He bites your bottom lip and runs his tongue across it, sharing every last drop of your arousal. 

“Tell me what you can taste,” he demands.

You respond, kissing him back, with equally as much fervour, swallowing down your own taste.

“Strawberries,” you whisper.

He groans, grinding down on you, matching your rhythm as you fuck each other through your clothes, a breathless whimper leaving him as he reaches his high.

“Coming,” he tells you, breathlessly.

The sudden intake of breath has him gasping your name, a mantra on his lips as he swallows your taste.

“Coming, coming, Christ, love.”

He grunts as his cock twitches within the confines of his underwear, his manhood threatening to explode into the material.

“Fuck,” he whispers, as he empties himself, his cock spasming as he stains his pants with the release of his creamy substance.

You buck against him, your knickers sopping wet, a combination of both of your releases.

“Y’milking me dry, darling,” he breathes, as he holds his weight above you, hands either side of your head, whilst his shaky thighs threaten to give out beneath him.

You stay like that for a while, both shaking from your orgasms, coming down from your high.

“You ok?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you give him a small smile.

You share breathless kisses in between, a silent reassurance to each other. Whimpers and moans escape you both as you regulate your breathing, your bodies occasionally twitching from the aftershocks.

Harry presses a tender kiss to your lips, before his hand reaches for the knot in the tie.

He’ll massage your wrists later to ease any discomfort, tell you that you’ve been such a good girl, and then fuck you properly. He grins at the thought.

“Did so good for me, darling, so good.”

His words ground you and you sigh contentedly when you’re released from your bonds. Harry takes you into his arms immediately, enveloping you in his embrace.

With your head upon his chest, you can hear his rapid heartbeat thrumming beneath you, a sign that he’s exhausted the both of you tonight.

The aftercare is affectionate. Harry presses kisses to your hair and absentmindedly strokes your upper arm, his fingertips dancing on your skin.

“Harry?” you whisper in question.

The room is mostly dark, with only the glow of the lamp in the corner radiating a warm white.

“Yeah, angel?” his eyes gaze down at you.

You feign confidence and meet his.

He continues caressing your skin and presses another kiss to your temple, encouraging you to go on.

“I like—” you clear your throat.

You draw in a shaky breath, steadying yourself.

It’s just Harry. Your Harry.