mleestiles

[mleestiles]

Masterlist

Updated 5/31/25

* indicates smut

One Shots

Boyfriends - Where Harry hasn’t been the most present boyfriend. Based around Boyfriends by Harry Styles

Chocolate Hearts *- Based off CVS by Winnetka Bowling League

Ceilings- Based off Ceilings by Lizzy McAlpine

Too Sweet*- Based off Too Sweet by Hozier

The Alchemy*- AU where Harry is the star quarterback at his college and y/n is an English major.

Chapters- Where Harry stumbles into a book store and finds more than just his next read.

Alone Together- On a chilly New Year’s Eve, Y/N, seeking an escape from loneliness, finds herself unexpectedly swept into a night of warmth, fireworks, and romance when longtime crush Harry shows up at her bar table.

My Boss's Son Part Two*- Y/N, an assistant to Anne Twist, forms an unexpected connection with her son, Harry, when he comes home for the holidays.

I Want to Kill Her* Part Two* -Au where Y/N and Harry are neighbors who find out their spouses are cheating with each other.

Meet Me in the Hallway*- where y/n and harry cross paths in Paris. a quiet hotel. a hallway. a second chance.

One More Round (Then You)*- Where Y/N and Harry get bored, get drunk, and get each other.

Pillow Wall- Where Harry wants to blame the cold or the mattress or her gravity, but the truth is, he just sleeps better wrapped up in her.

You Found Me Here- Where Harry is a librarian who leaves notes poetry books.

Let's Call it Even- Where Y/N is an interviewer who pushes Harry Styles too far.

The Sound of My Voice- Where Y/N and Harry were once bandmates until a bitter fallout ended everything. And where, years later, a forced reunion puts them back on stage.

White Lie*- Where Y/N tells Harry a lie and she gets in trouble.

For the Both of Us- Where Y/N trains for a marathon with Harry, but an injury leaves her waiting for him at the finish line.

Like Us- Where Y/N and Harry thought they had lost each other, fate gives them a second chance.

A Real Good Doctor, part 2- Where Y/N is running and hurts herself but there happens to be a doctor who can help.

It's You*, part 2- Where Y/N never asked for anything, and Harry gave her something that meant everything.

Series

Love Bites (Au Vamprry)- A bookstore barista catches the attention of a vampire drawn to her scent, and everything changes when she invites him in.

Honey & Venom* ,2,3- Where Harry, a serial killer, believes he’s found someone exactly like him.

[mleestiles]

Pleased to Meet You

✨ summary: where y/n is a product designer for Pleasing and they’re launching a new product. 

📝 word count: 9k

⚠️ content warning: smut. 

💌 support my work

“You’re coming tonight, right?”

Y/N looked up from her laptop, blinking away the spreadsheet haze as her boss appeared in the doorway, espresso in hand and eyebrows raised.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I was thinking about it.”

Her boss gave her a look. “Thinking about it?”

“I have to go home and feed my cat.”

“Your cat will survive.”

“She’s sensitive.”

“You designed the damn thing, Y/N. You can’t not show up to the launch party.”

Y/N leaned back in her chair, tugging her hair off her neck and twisting it into a loose knot. “I’ve seen enough vibrators for a lifetime. I don’t need to toast to one.”

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

Y/N rolled her eyes.

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

That got her attention.

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

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

“I thought he was in Milan.”

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

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

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

Her boss grinned. “So. You’ll come?”

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

Y/N didn’t plan on going.

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

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

But her eyes kept drifting to the time.

8:03.

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

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

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

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

She wanted to match that energy.

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

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

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

Then she picked the bold one.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The first thing she noticed was the lighting.

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

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

And there it was.

The product.

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

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

She moved toward the bar slowly, letting herself observe.

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

“Is it heavy?” the other woman asked.

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

Y/N smiled to herself.

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

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

She raised her glass.

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

She turned.

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

“Sure,” Y/N said, curious.

“Did you work on it?”

Y/N blinked. “On…?”

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

Y/N smiled faintly. “Yeah. I did.”

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

Y/N nodded.

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

Y/N laughed. “Happy to help.”

“You deserve a raise.”

“I’ll pass that along.”

The woman grinned and disappeared into the crowd.

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

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

And when she glanced up, she saw it.

Not him. Not right away.

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

She felt him before she saw him.

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

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

Harry Styles.

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

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

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

Until he appeared beside her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That made her laugh under her breath.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He gave her a look. “That was bad.”

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

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

Her voice softened. “Glad you made it.”

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

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

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

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

Not because it was him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

No one else was in the room.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her brows lifted slightly. “Did I what?”

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

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

He grinned. “Was I that obvious?”

“A little.”

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

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

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

He was watching her.

And he looked… fascinated.

Her answer hung in the air—soft but sure.

“I did.”

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

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

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

“You test all the products yourself?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well, I am a professional.”

He grinned. “I’m sure you are.”

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

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

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

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

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

Her breath caught for half a second.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I do,” she said. “Care.”

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

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

She felt warm all over.

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

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

So she shifted.

Gently.

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

There was a pause.

Then a quiet, surprised laugh from across the table.

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

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

“True.”

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

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

She blinked. “Really?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Harry smiled again. Not wide. Just enough.

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

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

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

Maybe something flirtier. Maybe something bold.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then he looked at her again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was just a conversation.

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

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

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

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

Her boss narrowed her eyes. “With him?”

Y/N blinked. “What?”

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

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

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

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

“Sure.”

“I’m serious.”

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

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

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

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

Just once.

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

Y/N checked the time—almost eleven.

She wasn’t needed anymore.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Will do. Night.”

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

And she was.

She really, truly was.

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

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

She was okay with that.

She was.

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

It felt a little lonely. But also… peaceful.

Finished.

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

Then rounded the corner toward the door.

Then—

Click.

The soft sound of a door opening.

Her heart jumped.

“Y/N?”

She turned.

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

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

“Where are you going?” he asked.

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

He nodded once. “Yeah. Makes sense.”

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

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

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

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

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

She blinked.

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

“Sure,” she said.

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

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

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

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

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

But before she could tap the screen, he spoke.

“You don’t have to do that.”

She looked up.

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

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

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

She hesitated.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her thumb hovered over the screen for a second longer.

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

“Okay,” she said.

His grin deepened. “Good.”

And together, they turned down the sidewalk.

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

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

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

“You alright?” he asked.

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

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

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

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

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

She turned to look at him.

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

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

“More than I care to admit.”

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

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

“I wouldn’t offer if it were.”

She paused. Then smiled faintly.

“What the hell,” she said.

He looked over at her again, slower this time.

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

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

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

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

“Alright,” she said. “One drink.”

His smile deepened. “One.”

But neither of them believed that.

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

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

It felt real. Lived in. His.

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

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

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

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

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

Her cheeks warmed. “Thank you.”

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

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

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

For a moment, neither of them said anything.

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

“Can I ask you something?”

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

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

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

She nodded. “Okay.”

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

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

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

“What makes you happy?” he asked.

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

She hesitated. Swirled the liquid in her glass.

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

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

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

That made him smile.

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

He looked up, curious. “This?”

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

He let that settle. Didn’t push.

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

Harry’s gaze didn’t move.

“I am,” he said.

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

She didn’t say anything for a moment.

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

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

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

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

She nodded.

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

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

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

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

She didn’t rush her answer.

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

Harry stayed still. No interrupting. Just waiting.

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

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

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

She looked down again.

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

The room was quiet.

But it didn’t feel empty.

When she looked up again, his expression had changed.

Softer. Quieter. Like something had settled in him.

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

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

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

“It’s not,” she said. “Not really.”

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

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

Like she’d just surprised him.

And he loved being surprised.

He didn’t speak right away.

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

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

But he was still watching her.

And then, quietly:

“Can I ask you something else?”

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

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

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

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

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

Her breath stalled.

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

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

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

Harry nodded slowly, eyes still on her.

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

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

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

Like he was inching closer without moving an inch.

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

Her throat felt tight.

“I know,” she whispered.

Neither of them moved.

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

And still, he didn’t reach for her.

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

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

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

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

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

He didn’t pull back.

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

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

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

So she did.

“Do you want to try it?”

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

Harry didn’t move at first.

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

His fingers stilled against her thigh.

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

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

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

“You can do anything,” she said.

His eyes didn’t leave hers.

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

Then, slowly, he leaned back.

Brought his glass to his lips.

Tipped it.

Swallowed the rest of the whiskey in one long drink.

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

“Why don’t you show me?” he said.

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

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

“Come with me.”

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

It was gravity.

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

He stood, tugging her gently with him.

She followed.

Barefoot, quiet, pulse racing.

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

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

He turned to face her just inside the doorway.

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

Just looked.

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

“You sure?” he asked softly.

She nodded.

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

Her breath trembled on the way out.

“I’m sure,” she said.

And that was all it took.

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

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

The door clicked shut behind them.

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

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

He slipped them down with maddening care.

The fabric pooled at her feet.

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

Wordless.

Calm.

And crossed the room.

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

Her chest rose sharply.

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

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

He smiled, slow and dangerous.

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

Her knees nearly buckled.

“Lie back,” he said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She whimpered.

He smiled.

“I haven’t even turned it up yet.”

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

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

“You’re already shaking,” he murmured.

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

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

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

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

Her eyes fluttered open, already glassy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

She whimpered.

“You made it to ruin people.”

She nodded, helpless.

“Say it.”

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

He smiled against her skin.

“Exactly.”

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

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

Not all of it.

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

Her hips bucked. Her hands twisted in the sheets.

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

She moaned—frustrated, desperate, right there.

His eyes never left her.

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

Then he turned it up again.

And everything inside her broke.

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

Not yet.

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

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

She nodded, breathless. “Please.”

“Please what?”

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

He smiled, just slightly. “Not yet.”

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

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

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

“I can’t—I can’t—”

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

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

“I need—Harry—please, I need—”

That was the moment.

He kissed her jaw, soft and firm.

“Okay,” he said. “Now.”

And the second he said it, she shattered.

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

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

Then he turned it off.

Silence fell.

Except for her breath. Ragged. Unsteady. Alive.

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

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

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

And feel.

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

Just wanting.

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

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

Then his lips curled, low and wicked.

“You’re needy, aren’t you?”

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

She didn’t deny it.

Didn’t look away.

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

“I need to ride you,” she whispered.

The change in him was instant.

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

His voice came rough now, all gravel and tension.

“Fuckin’ hell.”

And then he lay back, pulling her with him.

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

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

And she did.

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

He watched her.

Silent.

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

Her lips followed her hands.

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

And she loved it.

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

But still—he didn’t rush her.

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

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

“Okay?” she whispered.

He groaned, head dropping back against the pillow.

“Fucking please.”

She smiled—just slightly.

And undid his pants.

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

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

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

She didn’t say anything.

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

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

Then she sank.

Inch by inch.

Slow.

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

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

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

They stayed there for a moment.

Just breathing.

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

“You okay?”

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

That made him smile.

“Good.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She rode him harder.

Faster.

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

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

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

And she did.

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

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

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

Neither of them said anything at first.

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

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

Just presence.

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

He carried her to the bathroom.

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

She nodded.

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

She let out a soft sigh as she sank in.

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

“You okay?” he asked.

She looked up. Met his eyes.

Smiled.

“Yeah. More than.”

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

He didn’t ask her to stay.

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

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

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

She curled into his side.

His fingers threaded into her hair.

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

His arm tightened around her, anchoring her there.

“I hope you know,” he said into the dark, “I’m not done with you yet.”

[mleestiles]

bestfriend harry!

i also have this friends to lovers fic rec list if you want to check it out!

BEST FRIEND!HARRY

Teach me by @freedomfireflies

changes by @sunflowervolvimp3

pleasing by @moonchildstyles

Mixed signals by @gurugirl

soft by @moonchildstyles

Friendly Favor by @be-with-me-so-happily

Lonely masterlist by @harrywavycurly

Oh, Anna! by @stylesloveclub

Pretend by @alohajix

[mleestiles]

please me slowly

(part three of the teach me slowly series)

Summary: Before he teaches you how to take him, he teaches you how to taste him.

Warnings: early stages of a relationship, age gap, lots of talk about virginity and sex, handjob, oral (m!receiving), brief accidental facefucking, gagging, praise kink, size kink

Based on: this ask!

A/N: part three is here who else cheered!!! lmk if you like this one, i get so happy when i hear from you guys :) also is this a safe space to say i used the my policeman bj scene for my descriptions..? omg who said that! enjoy lovelies x

Word Count: 4,633

...

Your breathing is finally beginning to level out, though your chest still rises and falls a little faster than usual. The air in the bedroom is warm and hushed, the only sound the soft whirr of the fan in the corner and the faint rustling of sheets as Harry shifts beside you.

One of his hands is resting on your back, rubbing lazy circles above the waistband of your shorts, his other arm curled beneath his head. He's quiet. So are you. It's not an uncomfortable silence, but it's loaded. Heavy with something unspoken.

You glance over at him, but he's already looking at you.

His eyes seem darker in the dim light, half-lidded and a little glazed over. His lips are pink and parted, and he looks utterly undone, his curls sticking out at odd angles, jaw shadowed with stubble, a flush blooming across his cheekbones. And yet, he's watching you like you're the most breathtaking thing he's ever seen.

That's when he says it.

''I think I'm in love with you.''

It's quiet. Barely more than a whisper, but the words hit you like a collision anyway, like falling into deep water. You don't move, don't speak, don't breathe. You feel the air between you tighten, like the universe itself is waiting for your reply.

He doesn't take it back. Doesn't panic or fill the space with anything else. He just stays silent, his thumb grazing your hip, waiting.

Your entire body goes still at the weight of those words, heart thudding wildly. The tenderness of them. How they sound in his voice, low and scratchy and still heavy with pleasure. You don't know what to say. You hadn't expected it. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

But as you lay there, staring at him, at his furrowed brows and the nervous twitch of his lips, you realize you've felt it for a while, too, your love for him blossoming with every day spent together.

You felt it the night he walked you home after your first date and respectfully kissed the corner of your mouth before stepping away, cheeks pink like he'd been psyching himself up for this moment since you left the botanical garden, hands shyly intertwined.

You felt it the time he picked you up for dinner, the sleeves of his blouse pushed up to his elbows and his hair a mess, like he'd brushed his hands through it too many times before knocking on your door. He handed you a bouquet of tulips and smiled nervously, dimples exposed; ''You said you liked the tulips in the garden on our first date.'' You blushed the entire drive to the restaurant.

You felt it the day you got sick out of nowhere, body aching, head spinning, tears on your cheeks from how miserable you felt. You'd called Harry to cancel your date, voice hoarse, nose stuffy, words interrupted by a constant stream of sniffles and sneezes.

He didn't hesitate.

He drove across the city with two bags of medication and your favourite snacks and let himself into your place with the spare key hidden under the doormat. When he stepped into your bedroom and saw your form tucked under the blankets, empty boxes of tissues surrounding you, he took a seat on your bed and brushed the sweaty hair from your forehead, startling you from your light slumber.

''Is this a fever dream?'' you'd asked timidly when you recognized his figure, making him snort softly. You scooted over on the mattress, and he pulled you into his chest. He picked up the book you had left on your nightstand and read to you until you fell asleep mid-sentence. You woke up hours later with his hand still stroking your hair.

You feel it in the little things. The way he presses a kiss to your temple when he slings his arm around your shoulders, making a soft 'mwah' sound every time. The way he puts his hand on the small of your back in crowded places because he knows they make you anxious.

The way he notices when you're quiet and asks questions, but never presses when you don't want to talk about it. The way he remembers how you take your coffee, the lyrics to all your favourite songs, the stories you tell when nobody seems to be listening.

But he always is.

You love him.

You're not even sure when it happened. It's like the tide, it snuck in slowly, pulling at your ankles, your knees, your ribs. And now it's pulling you under, and you can't do anything but drown in it.

Your voice wobbles when you speak, barely a whisper against his skin. ''I think I'm in love with you, too.''

His chest lifts under you. You feel it before you see it, the relief, the joy, the way his breath finally rushes out of him like he's been holding it since the moment he spoke. You lift your head, meet his eyes in the dim light. They're wide and hopeful. Happy.

''Yeah?'' he asks softly, grinning.

''Yeah. I really do.''

His lips brush yours, once, twice, before settling in, and you hum into it, curling your fingers against his collarbone. He kisses you, not with urgency, not with hunger, but with adoration. It's not just a kiss, it's a promise. A seal on something you both just admitted out loud.

You curl into him again, feeling the shift like sunlight through a window. This love is still new, still blooming, but it's real. You bury your face in the crook of his neck, smiling to yourself.

But now that your love has been laid bare between you, something else simmers beneath the warmth. You can feel the tension still in his body: how his breathing hasn't quite returned to normal, how his arm flexes just a little when you curl further into him. You're still basking in the lingering euphoria of your first orgasm, your limbs heavy and your skin tingling where he touched you.

It's only when you shift slightly against his body that you feel it, feel him. Hard against the soft cotton of his sweatpants, thick and hot, the outline unmistakable even under the fabric.

He spent tonight making sure you felt good, and he hadn't asked for anything in return. Hadn't even hinted.

You move your hand just enough to curiously brush across the outline of him. He tenses, not sharply, but noticeably, and when you glance up at him, his eyes have fluttered closed. He huffs a small breath out through his nose, like he's trying to collect himself, but there's still that same softness lingering in his expression.

"You're still…" you trail off, suddenly shy, like acknowledging it out loud makes it taboo somehow. Your palm stays right where it is, hovering close. His eyes open slowly.

"Still hard?" he supplies, voice low and amused, but not mocking. His thumb brushes lightly over the back of your hand. "I know, baby."

The words go straight to your stomach. You swallow, gathering the nerve, the question sitting heavy on your tongue.

''Does that make you uncomfortable? Sorry,'' he murmurs, brushing his lips over your temple. ''I've been trying to will it away, but...''

Your heart skips. The fact that he's still turned on after everything, still aching like that, makes something twist low in your belly, and as the haze of pleasure settles and the emotional weight of the night begins to anchor you back into your body, the thought forms, clear and certain. You want to make him feel good, too.

''Harry?''

He hums, the sound low in his chest. ''Mm?''

Your fingers trace a faint line along the waistband of his sweats, not quite bold enough to dip beneath it. ''Can I… I mean, would you teach me how to…?'' you trail off, unsure how to phrase it without sounding ridiculous. You huff out a soft laugh, flustered. ''I want to make you feel good. I just don't really know how.''

His eyes sharpen at that. He pushes himself up on one elbow, his hand moving to cup your cheek quickly.

"Hey, no, no, no. You don't have to do that, love," he rushes, and the tenderness in his voice is so immediate, so sincere, it almost makes you want to cry. "Not tonight. It's been an intense couple of hours."

You shake your head, leaning into his touch. "I know I don't have to, Harry. I want to. I want to learn. I want you to teach me."

He watches you for a long moment, searching your face for any sign of doubt, any trace of unease. But you hold his gaze. You know you want this. Want him. You've never felt more sure.

Harry exhales hard, eyes closing for a moment like he's trying to keep himself in check. When they open again, they're darker than before, lust pooling in his irises, but his tone stays gentle.

''You have no idea how badly I want to say yes right now,'' he assures you, voice strained. ''But only if you're certain.''

You nod shyly. His thumb traces the edge of your lip, and for a second, he just stares at you.

''Promise me something,'' he says.

You blink. ''Okay.''

''If you ever feel uncomfortable, or like you're doing it just because you think you have to… I want you to stop. Just tell me. I'll listen.''

Your heart squeezes. ''I promise.''

He smiles softly. ''God, you're perfect,'' he murmurs, more to himself than to you. Then his voice drops. ''Fuck, I can't lie to you, baby. I've been dreaming about this. About your hands on me. Your mouth. Do you know how many cold showers I've had to take since meeting you? My water bill's gone through the roof,'' he groans.

You snort. ''You're ridiculous.''

''I'm serious!'' he insists, chuckling. ''You really don't know what you do to me, do you?''

You laugh again, your face heating, but something in about his honesty disarms you, makes you feel a little bolder. You shift closer, resting your hand gently on his bare chest, over the tattooed swallows and the nervous thud of his heart.

''Then maybe you should teach me,'' you say softly, looking up at him through your lashes. ''So I can help you the next time you've got... a problem, hm? Save some water.''

Harry groans again, dramatically, and rolls halfway onto his side, pressing his face into the pillow. ''You'll be the death of me.''

But when he looks at you again, there's something tender in his eyes. Adoration. Pride. And just a flicker of hunger that makes your stomach flutter in anticipation.

''Alright,'' he says, voice a little rough. ''I'll teach you.''

You nod, anticipation humming low in your belly as he leans in and kisses you, soft and slow, soothing your nerves. Your breath is already shallow when Harry gets comfortable against the pillows, the soft cotton of his sweatpants stretched, tented, and you can see now just how hard he is, thick, long, and straining beneath the fabric.

You glance at his face, and he's watching you. Patiently, eyes half-lidded but full of warmth. ''C'mere,'' he encourages quietly, and reaches for your hand, guiding it to rest over him again.

You tilt your head questioningly, and he nods briefly. ''Just here,'' he instructs, his voice scratchy with restraint. ''You feel me?''

You nod, lips parted in awe. You do feel him, all of him, heavy and hard under the soft cotton. Your fingers twitch slightly, instinctively curling, and the quiet, shaky breath that leaves him is nothing short of ruined. His eyes flutter closed for a second.

''Start slow,'' he whispers, tilting his head to look down until his forehead brushes your temple. ''Just… cup me. Like that, yeah.''

You do as he says, more confident now that his hand stays with yours. Your fingers adjust and you cradle him through the fabric, the shape of him unmistakable now. You don't know what you expected, but this is… a lot. He's so warm even through the clothes, and so hard that it makes your stomach flutter in ways you've never felt before.

''Good girl,'' he says absentmindedly, and a shiver runs down your spine at the praise, but if Harry notices, he doesn't comment on it. ''Slow, baby. Light pressure. Move your hand like this.''

His hand moves yours, showing you a rhythm, the kind of touch that makes his jaw clench and his hips twitch upward. Your body is laid sideways next to his, and when you glance up at him, his lips are parted and his chest is rising and falling faster, tattoos stretching with every breath. You feel your cheeks heat. You've never made anyone feel like this before. You've never had this kind of power.

''Does that feel okay?'' you ask softly.

His breath hitches. ''More than okay,'' he rasps. ''Fucking incredible.''

The way he says it makes you press your thighs together instinctively. You keep stroking him the way he taught you, watching the way his eyes darken, how the crease between his brows deepens, the way his mouth tugs downward in that desperate kind of pleasure.

You feel pride bloom in your chest. Maybe you don't know exactly what you're doing, but he seems to be falling apart anyway.

It's your hand, but it barely feels like yours with how new this is, how electrifying. You cup him gently, and he exhales hard through his nose. The heat of him seeps through the layers, pulsing, and your fingers twitch, trying to figure out what he reacts to best.

''Shit,'' he breathes, hips tipping up just a little. ''That feel okay for you, baby?''

You nod, too breathless to speak.

It's intoxicating, the way his cock twitches under your palm, responding to the smallest movement, the way his muscles go taut beneath the surface of his skin. You drag your hand along the ridge of him, slow and curious, and it pulls another sound from his chest, a low, breathy groan that settles deep in your spine.

And then his hand slips back over yours, guiding you over the fabric. ''Try this,'' he murmurs. ''Not too hard, yeah? Just enough to tease.''

You do as he says, moving a little slower now, more deliberately. He twitches in your hand again and curses under his breath. ''That's it. You're doin' so good, baby.''

His praise makes you feel warmer than anything else. You hadn't realized how badly you wanted to be good at this until now. You want to be good for him. The idea that you can make him feel this way, that you're the one unraveling him, it's heady, addictive.

He watches you for another beat. Then, gently, he brings your hand to the waistband of his sweatpants.

''Can I…?'' he asks.

You swallow hard. ''Yeah. Okay.''

He nods once, giving you a reassuring smile, and then carefully slides your hand underneath. The moment your fingers brush hot skin, your breath catches. There's no fabric separating you now, just burning heat and firm skin beneath your palm. He groans, biting down on his bottom lip like he's trying to keep it together, but his hips stutter and rise to meet your touch anyway, like he can't help it.

''Oh my god,'' you whisper.

When you finally wrap your fingers around him, skin to skin, it feels like the air leaves both your lungs at once. He lets out a moan, low and guttural, his head tipping back against the pillow. ''Fuck, baby…'' His chest heaves, muscles flexing. His lips part around a soft moan and then he throws his arm over his face, overwhelmed.

It's the sexiest thing you've ever seen.

''You're doing so good,'' he mumbles into the crook of his elbow. ''So fucking good for me.''

The praise hits you hard. You keep your strokes slow and steady, adjusting your hand the way he guides you, your movements growing more natural, more confident with every second. He's warm and heavy in your palm, and you can feel every subtle pulse, every twitch under your touch. He's so responsive to you. It's intoxicating. You can't help but wonder what he looks like underneath the fabric.

His arm slips away from his face, and he looks at you again, searching to make sure you're still okay. But when he just sees curiosity burning in your eyes, he chuckles softly. ''Want me to take them off, love?''

You nod bashfully.

Slowly, he shifts his hips, hooking his thumbs into his waistband, and pulls his sweatpants down just far enough to free himself. You freeze.

Your mouth goes dry. ''Jesus,'' you whisper, stunned. ''How is that supposed to fit inside of me?''

That gets a huff of laughter from him, but when you glance up, he's biting down on the inside of his cheek, like he's trying not to smirk.

''Thanks, baby. Y'alright? We can stop if this makes you uneasy, love,'' he says with an amused smile.

''No! No,'' you say quickly, though your face is still burning. ''I'm just… surprised, is all. And maybe a little intimidated. You're...'' you trail off pointedly, biting your lip in embarrassment.

Harry's face splits into a grin so smug it borders on cocky, and his chest puffs out slightly. You see it, the pride, but he reins it in immediately, choosing instead to cup your cheek.

''We'll figure it out together when we get there,'' he promises, his voice velvet and reassuring. ''We've got time. No rush.''

You nod, eyes wide as you look down again. His hand returns to yours, helping you find the right rhythm again, the right amount of pressure. He's a mess for you in seconds, breath stuttering, eyes squeezed shut. His fingers flex in the sheets beside him.

''Fuck, baby,'' he groans. ''Don't stop. You're doing so fucking good. Look at you.''

You can't look away from his face, his flushed cheeks, the shine on his collarbone, the way his Adam's apple bobs with every desperate breath. He's beautiful like this. Raw. Real.

And the fact that you're the one making him fall apart makes something fierce bloom in your chest.

You look down. He's so much bigger than you expected. Thick and long and hot in your hand, silky-soft skin over rock-hard muscle, and the size of him alone has your brain reeling. You blink a few times, watching your hand slowly move over him. It's almost hypnotic.

He notices your gaze and strains to lift his head, a choked moan escaping his parted lips at the sight below him. His brows pinch together as he watches the way you please him. When you speed up slightly, he presses a quick, appreciative kiss to your temple before dropping back into the pillows with a loud groan.

''That's good, baby,'' he breathes. ''So good. Keep goin' like that, just—yeah, there.''

He's a mess already, sweating lightly, those gorgeous tattoos of his rising and falling with every breath. His abs contract every time you stroke a little tighter, a little faster.

''God, you've got no idea what you do to me,'' he curses.

You glance up, heart stuttering at the sight of him. His head is tipped back, exposing his sharp jawline, one hand resting on his chest, the other gripping the bedsheets, knuckles white. His breath is ragged, little hitches in his throat every time you stroke down to the base. You can't stop looking at him. He's everything at once: powerful and undone, masculine and gentle, controlled and unraveling.

All because of you. And that knowledge makes you bolder.

You lean in, pressing a soft kiss to the center of his chest, right over the butterfly tattoo. His breath catches, then spills out in a broken ''Jesus.''

You smile against his skin.

He drops one hand to your wrist, not to stop you, just to slow you down, to anchor himself. His eyes open again, and when they find yours, there's something unspoken there. Gratitude. Awe. Maybe a little disbelief, too, like he still can't believe you're real and not a fantasy he's made up in his mind on a lonely night.

''Just... just need to catch my breath. You okay?'' he asks carefully, barely above a whisper.

You nod, biting your lip, fingers still moving steadily. ''You?''

''On the edge,'' he says with a chuckle that bleeds into a moan when you squeeze him gently. ''Shit. I'm close. I don't want to... I don't want this to be over yet. Wanna stay in this moment forever,'' he rambles.

You press your forehead lightly to his shoulder, overwhelmed in the best way. You never thought giving could feel like this.

You've slowed down your movements at his instruction, your hand loose and wet around him, dragging in slow strokes that let him breathe again, let him hold on just a little longer.

One of his arms is slung across his face, mouth open with a shaky breath, and every now and then, when you hit a rhythm or twist your wrist the way he likes, a curse slips from his lips.

You watch him like he's art, tattoos shifting over his skin with every inhale, that crease between his brows digging in deeper. He's beautiful like this, and you don't want it to end either.

But curiosity burns through your chest like a forest fire, and he had told you that you could ask him anything you wanted to know. You shift closer, eyes flicking up to his face. ''Harry?''

His arm slides off his face immediately, revealing flushed cheeks and soft, concerned eyes. ''Yeah, baby?''

You hesitate. ''Does it… feel good when someone uses their mouth?''

The question makes his eyebrows jump, and for a second he just blinks at you, dazed. ''You mean a blowjob?''

You nod shyly, heart pounding.

''Yeah,'' he says slowly, cautiously. ''Yeah, they can feel really good. Why do you ask?''

''I've seen it in movies. Guys always seem to really like it.'' You glance at him, cheeks warm in the dim light. ''Do you?''

He exhales slowly, gaze drifting upward to the ceiling, as though considering how to answer honestly without overwhelming you. ''Yeah. It's… it's really nice.''

''I wanna try,'' you admit, barely above a whisper. ''Will you teach me?''

Harry sits up straighter, instantly more alert. ''Love. You don't have to. Seriously.'' His hand finds your wrist, and gently stills it. ''You've already done so much tonight. We don't have to rush anything.''

''I know,'' you tell him, and you do. ''But I want to. I just… I keep thinking about it. I want to know what it's like.''

He watches you for a long beat, breathing hard, like he's trying to gauge if this is really what you want or if you're just trying to be generous. ''You sure?''

You nod. ''I trust you.''

That makes something flicker in his expression.

Still, he hesitates. ''Alright, but we're going to take it slow. You tell me if anything feels wrong or uncomfortable, yeah? Just squeeze my thigh, or say you want to stop, and I'll back off.''

''Okay,'' you whisper, shifting onto your knees, your palms braced beside his thighs.

''Can I hold your hair back?' he asks for your permission. ''Just to keep it out of your face, baby.''

You nod again, and he reaches forward to delicately gather it into a loose ponytail in his hand. It's surprisingly tender, the way he gathers your strands, thumb brushing the back of your neck. It makes your stomach flip, nerves flaring.

''Start with your hand again,'' he instructs softly. ''Nice and easy, like before.''

You wrap your hand around him again, fingers trembling a little, but he's already twitching against your palm. You glance up at him for reassurance, and he gives you the softest smile, nodding once.

''Just lick the tip first,'' he tells you, voice gone hoarse.

You close the gap and drag your lips along the underside in a soft, feather-light kiss at first. Your cheeks are warm with nerves, but Harry's encouraging grunt makes your confidence grow.

''That's it… good girl.''

The words hit something in your chest. You lean back in, tongue flicking experimentally over the head of him, tasting salt and skin and something deeper. It's strange, but not bad. He groans, hips shifting subtly beneath you, and you feel the tremor run through his thighs. You keep going, tentative licks and kisses, building your confidence as he murmurs encouragements, his voice wrecked and reverent.

''You're doing so good,'' he breathes. ''Feels fucking incredible, angel.''

You wrap your lips around him slowly, taking him shallow at first, cheeks hollowed. It's more than you expected, thick and heavy on your tongue, but you take your time, getting used to the new sensation. Harry's breathing gets rougher, his hand tightening ever so slightly in your hair. He's not pushing, not guiding, just grounding himself. You like knowing you have that kind of effect on him.

But then, as you grow bolder and take him a little deeper, his hips buck at the sudden pleasure. You gag, eyes watering instantly as you pull back with a surprised sound, coughing lightly.

''Fuck! Fuck, I'm sorry,” Harry blurts, immediately sitting up and reaching for you, his face filled with panic. ''I didn't mean to. I swear, baby. Are you okay?''

You nod, eyes still watering, hand on your chest as you catch your breath. He's already brushing your hair out of your face, kissing your forehead, his whole body practically vibrating with guilt.

''That was too much,'' he says, clearly shaken. ''Let's stop. You've done enough for today.''

But you grab his wrist. ''No,'' you say, voice soft but steady. ''I want to keep going. Let me try again.''

He stares at you suspicious, brows lifting. ''You sure?''

''Mhm. Just maybe don't shove it down my throat this time?'' you joke, trying to lift the mood.

A beat of silence, then a laugh slips out of him. ''Duly noted.''

You grin, leaning back in, and this time it's smoother. You find a rhythm, guided by the whimpered moans and muttered praises leaving his lips. His hand stays in your hair, occasionally brushing the back of your neck or guiding you just a little. You feel powerful, beautiful, despite how new it all is.

At one point, his free hand covers his eyes again, and his stomach flexes so hard you have a feeling he'll be sore tomorrow morning. He mutters your name like a prayer, hips subtly rocking into your mouth. ''So good,'' he pants. ''Fuck, darlin', you're so good at this. Can't believe this is your first time. You're a natural, love.''

You hum around him, and the vibration from the sound makes him curse under his breath.

He's breathing hard, thighs tense under your hands, and then he gasps. ''Gonna come, baby, get off if you don't wanna—''

But you don't move. You look up at him with wide, determined eyes, and keep going.

''Shit,'' he curses under his breath when you look up at him through your lashes. ''You're so fucking stubborn—''

He breaks with a sound that wrecks you, long and guttural. His hand tightens in your hair, his whole body shuddering as he spills into your mouth, and you do your best, swallowing carefully, surprised by the heat and taste. You pull off when he hisses from the overstimulation, and he falls back against the pillows like he's been hit by lightning, chest rising and falling in deep, ragged breaths.

You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand and crawl up next to him, shy again, suddenly unsure. ''Was that… okay?''

''Baby, I think I saw heaven.''

...

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

general tag list

@2601-london @mads3502 @angeldavis777 @run-for-the-hills @postsexfistbump @hobireasns @madilee7802 @spinninc @practistyles @qrapejuices @fangirl509east @sstylezzz @hontpwk @lichi-dunkera @prettygurl-2009 @violinheartxx @gotthecinema @ghstyles @triski73

teach me slowly series tag list

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

...

[mleestiles]

explore me slowly

(part two of the teach me slowly series)

Summary: Firsts aren't always easy. Lucky for you, Harry's got patience— and a plan.

Warnings: early stages of a relationship, age gap, lots of talk about virginity and sex, fingering, brief oral (f!receiving), sexual guilt (it's so common and it's time we start talking about it)

Based on: this ask!

A/N: hi lovelies! sorry this update took foreverrr. i've had a rough week, but i'm back now and working hard on creating new content for you guys :) i'm so happy to see the love i received on part one of this, thank you all sososo much. series tag list is open x

Word Count: 4,319

...

You're nervous.

Not the jittery, wide-eyed kind of nervous, but the quiet kind. It simmers just beneath the surface, where your stomach feels light and fluttery, and your thoughts are buzzing too fast to catch.

You're sitting with Harry on his couch, tucked beneath the blanket that always smells like him, like fresh, warm laundry and cedarwood and something a little sweeter underneath. The movie he put on a while ago has turned to static now, background noise, barely audible under the sound of your pulse in your ears.

Your mind keeps drifting back to last Friday night, to that first conversation you and Harry had about your virginity, turning it over in your head, trying to decide what you want.

But now you know.

You pull back a little, tilting your head to look at him properly, and your voice is smaller than you mean it to be when you speak up. ''I think… I want to try something tonight.''

That gets his attention.

His arm, which had been draped along the back of the couch and absentmindedly stroking your shoulder, stills. He turns to face you, scanning your features with those sharp, observant eyes like he's trying to understand everything you're not saying. ''Try something?'' he echoes, but it's not teasing. It's curious. Encouraging.

You nod. Your fingers curl in the hem of your shorts, anchoring yourself. ''I don't know what exactly. I just… I trust you. And I want to explore. Whatever you think is best to start with.''

He stays quiet for a beat, his thumb brushing the side of your thigh under the blanket. ''Are you sure?''

You nod again, firmer this time. ''Yeah. I've been thinking about it a lot. I'm not trying to rush into anything I'm not ready for. And I'm not ready for... everything, but we could do something else, right?''

Harry's expression softens into something tender. You can see it shift, the subtle change in how he's holding himself. The way he sinks a bit deeper into the cushions, like the weight of your blind trust, and his responsibility for it, slowly settles onto his shoulders.

''Okay,'' he says. ''We'll go slow. If you're okay with it, I'd like to understand where you're at. What you're comfortable with. What you like, what you don't like, y'know?''

You inhale deeply, your shoulders relaxing at the sound of his calm voice. You hadn't realized how much tension you'd been holding until now. You hum in response, heart thudding steady in your chest.

Harry's eyes flick to your lips, your eyes, your hands in your lap. He shifts slightly so he's facing you more directly. ''So… when you say you want to try something, what does that look like for you tonight? Is there something you've been curious about?''

You chew your lip. ''I don't know, really. That's the thing. I've never done any of this before, so I don't really know where I'm supposed to start, what I'm supposed to explore. That's why I'm asking you to... I don't know, lead. To tell me what to do.''

''I can do that. Is there anything that's off-limits tonight?'' he asks carefully, his hand moving to rest lightly on your bare knee.

You think about it for a moment, then shake your head. ''I don't want to… you know. Go all the way. Not yet.''

''Okay,'' he smiles, squeezing your knee softly in reassurance. ''What about me touching you? With my hands, or my mouth?''

Your breath catches, heat rushing to your cheeks. The words make you squirm, but you manage to give him a curt nod, forcing a tight-lipped, nervous smile. ''Yeah. I think I'd like to try that.''

He smiles gently, fingers brushing your neck, waiting for any sign of hesitation. When all he sees is curiosity etched onto your features, he dips his head under yours, pressing soft kisses to your neck.

Your heartbeat pounds under your skin as Harry caresses your arms, rubbing them up and down soothingly. You gasp when he sucks lightly on your skin, taking his time getting you in the mood.

''Do you want me to show you what feels good? Or do you want to tell me what to do?'' he murmurs, his lips brushing your collarbone.

You bite your lip, throat dry. ''I… I want you to show me.''

He stands up, then holds out a hand.

''Come here, love.''

You take it, and he tugs you to your feet, pulling a huffed laugh from you. He puts his hands on your waist and begins slowly walking you backward, firm and deliberate, toward his bedroom, not breaking eye contact once. Something about it, the effortless confidence he exudes, the air of nonchalance, makes your breath hitch.

And when your back hits his bedroom door, he pauses. He leans in, foreheads touching, his breath mingling with yours.

''You're sure?'' he whispers.

You nod. ''I'm sure.''

And then he kisses you, deep and passionate, his hand fumbling for the door handle behind you. He chuckles against your lips when he clumsily opens the door, and you both stumble in with a laugh.

Harry's bedroom is dim, the lamp on his bedside table painting the room in a soft yellow. You turn around, taking in his space. It feels intimate. It's simple, minimalistic, but so Harry.

There are sticky notes attached to the small notice board above his desk, filled with hasty scribbles like yoga pushed to 7 this Thursday!!! and pick up mum from the airport!!! and a nonsensical jumble of random words and phrases. Lyrics for new songs, you think.

The door clicks shut behind him and you feel his presence behind you, steady, unfaltering, unlike the beat of your heart. For a second, neither of you speak. You're not sure when the room got so quiet, but your pulse thrums in your ears, the sound of your shallow breathing seeming to mute everything else.

Then his arms slide around your waist from behind, pulling you back into the solid heat of his chest. He dips his head to your height and presses a kiss just behind your ear, then another one to the slope of your neck, and you melt into him by instinct.

His fingers find the hem of your hoodie, his hoodie, technically, the navy one you borrowed weeks ago and never gave back. It still smells faintly like his cologne, the way his clothes always do when he forgets them on your couch. He gathers the fabric, lifting it inch by inch until it bunches beneath your waist, right above your grey shorts.

It had felt a little silly when you put it on after your shower this morning, but his mouth twitches into a smile when he recognizes it, his fingers toying with the material. ''This mine?''

''Yeah. You were outgrowing it anyway,'' you tease, turning around in his hold and playfully squeezing his biceps. He's been frequenting the gym increasingly more often, and it shows. You assume it's his way of blowing off steam now that he's not performing.

''Hm. It does look better on you,'' he grins, pressing a kiss to your temple as his hands trail lower. He gently tugs at the hem, waiting for your approval. ''Can I take this off?''

You hesitate, just a second, but it's enough to make him pause, watching you closely. It's not that you don't trust him, or don't want to, but you can already feel the air on your thighs, your stomach, the dip of your lower back. And the idea of being completely bare under his gaze, no barriers, no fabric, no layers to hide behind, suddenly feels a little too exposed. Too vulnerable.

Your hands catch his quickly, wrapping around his palms, though you know that Harry wouldn't move an inch without your consent.

''I… would it be okay if I kept it on? Just for now?'' you ask, cheeks burning. ''I don't think I'm comfortable being fully naked yet.''

There's not even a beat of silence before he nods, brushing your hair back behind your ear. ''Of course. You don't have to do anything you don't want to. You look beautiful like this, too.''

Your hesitation doesn't frustrate or deter him. Instead, he reaches for the hem of his own shirt, and in one smooth motion, he pulls it up over his head and carelessly tosses it aside.

Your breath catches. He's so close that you can see the faint freckles adorning his collarbone, the gold cross nestled between his pecs, the trail of ink curling down his strong arms.

You reach out before you can second-guess it, fingers brushing across the small tattoos above his heart, the ones you've only ever seen half-hidden beneath his clothes. Your hand grazes the tattoos that trail down the skin of his left shoulder, his bicep, his arm, like a river that meanders delicately through a forest.

He watches you, quiet and confident, as your palm flattens over his chest. His skin is warm under your fingers, smooth and solid and real. You trace one of the swallows across his collarbone, then dip lower, brushing your knuckles down the line of his sternum. The ridges of his abs flex slightly beneath your touch.

''You're so…'' you trail off, suddenly embarrassed by your own awe.

Harry gives you a lopsided smile, like he knows what you mean without needing to hear it. ''Thank you, baby. You can touch me as much as you want,'' he says, voice thick with something more tender than lust. ''Take your time, darlin'. I'm not going anywhere.''

You lean up to kiss him, and when your hands settle around his hips, he presses forward just enough to guide you backward toward the bed. Your knees hit the edge of the mattress and you land with a soft thud. Harry follows, kneeling between your legs, one hand curling around the back of your thigh to pull it around his waist.

You shiver when his knuckles graze the edge of your shorts, and he catches the reaction immediately.

''Still okay?'' he murmurs against your lips.

''Yeah,'' you whisper. ''I just… don't know what I'm doing.''

''You don't have to,'' he insists. The sheets are cool against your skin, grounding, while Harry hovers over you, broad and warm and impossibly gentle and patient. ''That's what tonight's for, yeah? You tell me what feels good. What doesn't. I'll listen.''

His fingers stroke over the outside of your shorts first, featherlight at first, then with a little more pressure. Just enough to let the heat pool low in your belly, your thighs pressing together instinctively at the unfamiliarity of it all. You let out a soft, shaky breath.

He looks up at you, lips curved, eyes kind. ''That feel alright?''

''Mhm.''

''Use your words for me, baby,'' he teases lightly, but there's no pressure. Just playfulness.

You swallow. ''It feels… really good.''

That earns you a kiss, warm and sweet, and this time his hand drifts over your stomach, fingers brushing under the hem of your hoodie. He doesn't try to lift it again, just slips his palm beneath the fabric, splaying it over your skin, stroking your bare side.

His hands don't rush. They just keep tracing the shape of you, mapping the curves and valleys like they're sacred terrain. Then his fingers slide down past your navel, knuckles grazing your skin, brushing the waistband of your shorts.

You draw in a shaky breath.

''Still good?'' he asks, watching you.

You nod. ''Yes. Please.''

He smiles reassuringly and continues his trail down your shorts. His fingers move over the cotton, just the faintest pressure, barely there. But even that is enough to send a jolt through you, hips twitching in surprise when he brushes against your clothed clit.

You're more sensitive than you expected. Everything feels heightened: his breath on your cheek, the press of his fingers through the fabric, the weight of his gaze on your face.

''Feels good?''

You nod, unable to speak.

He strokes over the same spot a little more firmly this time, slow and rhythmic. ''You're already wet,'' he groans, almost like he's in awe. ''I haven't even done anything. Fuck, that's so hot.''

You flush, turning your face into his shoulder, and he chuckles softly. ''You don't have to be shy with me,'' he whispers. ''Nobody's around. It's just you and me, yeah? I've got you.''

You nod bashfully. His hand slips under the waistband of your shorts and slides your panties aside with a gentle tug. For the first time ever, someone else touches you where you've barely explored yourself, the pad of his finger dragging softly through your folds.

You tense instantly, just from the unfamiliarity of it, but he doesn't push. Just keeps it slow, gentle, careful, learning the way your body responds, noting every soft whine and every stutter of breath. It's a different kind of touch than your own. More assured. Confident, but not cocky. He's paying attention to every shift in your body, like your pleasure is a language and he wants to be fluent.

He finds your clit and circles it with the pad of his finger, light and teasing, until your hips lift from the bed with a choked whimper, and his pace quickens. You didn't know it could feel like this. Every nerve is lit up, like your skin is catching fire in the best way.

''Oh,'' you breathe out, your body sinking into the mattress as you sigh contently, the tension in your muscles melting away.

Harry smiles. ''Yeah?''

You nod, eyes fluttering shut, head thrown back against the pillow.

Harry glances up again, pride flickering in his expression. ''That good?''

''So good,'' you whisper.

He grins, but it's soft, not smug. He eases you further back onto the bed, and you go willingly, your legs falling open around his waist as he crawls down your body, pulling your shorts down with him as he goes, just enough to expose your panties to him.

Then he leans in and presses an open-mouthed kiss to your inner thigh. And another, closer to the edge of your underwear. He hums low in his throat, like the scent of your arousal has undone something in him. His hand is still between your thighs, and he pushes a finger inside, just one for now, testing, studying your reaction, while his thumb keeps stroking your clit to keep you relaxed.

Your breath catches at the stretch. It's not painful, just… new. Unfamiliar. Full.

But it feels good. Better than anything you've ever felt on your own.

Harry leans his cheek against your inner thigh, watching your pussy accomodate to the stretch of his finger with awe etched onto his face. His eyes flick up to your face, searching your expression for any discomfort or pain. ''Too much?''

You shake your head. ''No. Feels… good.''

Then he kisses your thigh again, hooking one of your legs over his shoulder. A shiver runs down your spine when you feel his hot breath against your cunt, and you realize what he's planning.

But when you feel the first swipe of his tongue, it's too much.

You gasp and your hand flies to his hair, not tugging hard, just enough to pull him back. ''Wait. Sorry. That's... a little overwhelming.''

He pulls back instantly, looking up at you with such gentle understanding it nearly makes your heart burst out of your chest. ''Don't apologize. That's totally okay.''

''I don't know why,'' you say, cheeks warm. ''It's just… a lot.''

''It's okay, love. This is all brand new to you,'' he soothes, pressing a kiss to your thigh. ''We can save that for another night, yeah? We have all the time in the world to go slow, baby.''

There's no disappointment in his voice. No pressure. He's just... here. With you. For you. The realization tugs at your heartstrings.

You nod, and he climbs back up your body, propping himself up on one arm, letting you catch your breath as he hovers over you. The warmth between your legs lingers, building slowly as his hand starts to move again, hushed praises falling from his lips.

His touch is focused, fingers slow, right where you need them. This time, you relax into it. Let the tension coil in your belly, growing tighter and tighter with every slow circle of his fingers, every kiss he presses against your shoulder, your jaw, your temple.

Your breathing stutters. Your thighs clench. Your fingers dig into his forearm, making him groan. He curls his finger slightly and your back arches with a sudden, gasping moan.

''Harry, fuck—''

''There she is,'' he breathes. ''There you go, darlin'. That's it. Let go for me. You don't have to think. Just feel. I've got you.''

He keeps the rhythm steady, his thumb circling your clit, his finger curling inside of you. Your thighs tense, your hips stutter, and then your whole body locks up with a choked sound as the pleasure spills over all at once. Your orgasm crashes into you like a wave, sharp and sweet and overwhelming in the best way. Your fingers grip the bedsheets, and you can barely hear yourself moaning his name like a prayer, your breath stuttering out in broken gasps.

Harry's voice is low and tender as he eases you through it. ''That's it, baby. So good. So fucking good. You did so well for me.''

You're shaking while he helps you ride it out, only pulling his hand out of your shorts when you whine quietly in overstimulation, your chest heaving. His attention shifts to you immediately, cradling your face in his palm, brushing sweaty hair from your temple.

''You okay?''

''Yeah. Just…'' you swallow, blinking up at him, dazed. ''I think… I think that was my first real orgasm, Harry.''

He stills, his mouth curving into a slow smile. ''Yeah?'' he says, and he sounds so proud you could cry. ''That was your first?''

You nod again, cheeks hot. ''I thought I'd already had one, but it's never felt like that before. Not even close.''

He leans in to kiss you, cradling your cheek like you're the most precious thing he's ever laid his hands on. ''Fuck, baby. Thank you for letting me be the first. That means more than you know.''

He rolls over and plops down on the mattress with a content sigh, one arm falling over his eyes. You rest your head on his heaving chest, heart still pounding, and his other arm instantly wraps around you, his fingers tracing lazy circles on your back.

Your body feels weightless, boneless, like you've melted into the sheets completely. The air around you is warm and still, the silence only broken by Harry's pants beside you.

The hem of his hoodie is still bunched around your thighs, and you're vaguely aware of the dampness between your legs and the faint throb in your muscles. It doesn't hurt, it just lingers, like your body is still catching up to the memory of being touched.

Harry presses a kiss to your temple, then leans up on one elbow, brushing your hair back gently.

''Stay here,'' he whispers. ''Gonna get you some water and a towel to clean you up, alright? I'll be right back, promise.''

You nod, dazed. His voice is so soft. So safe.

A few minutes pass while he moves around the room. You hear the faucet turn on in the bathroom, the clink of a glass against porcelain, the shuffle of his feet across the floorboards.

Everything is ordinary. Normal.

But the longer you lie there, the tighter your chest becomes.

It starts slow. A little whisper in the back of your mind. You did that. You let someone do that to you. You gave it away. It's over.

Your thighs are still damp. You feel the stickiness on your skin and suddenly you can't breathe quite right. Your heartbeat starts to pick up. A sour kind of shame crawls up your throat, thick and hot, choking you before you can swallow it down.

You shift in the bed, curling your legs up to your chest. Your fingers tighten in the sheets, knuckles turning white from your grip.

It was good. He was kind. You wanted it. So why do you feel like this?

The door creaks open again. Harry enters quietly, carrying a glass of water and a warm washcloth. His eyes go to you first, always to you, and the second he sees how you're curled in on yourself, his face tightens, his brows furrowing.

''Hey,'' he calls out gently, setting everything on the nightstand. ''What's wrong?''

You try to speak but your throat closes up. The tears come suddenly, a choked sob leaving your chest. One moment your eyes are just stinging, the next they're spilling over, silent and hot, streaming down your cheeks faster than you can wipe them away.

Harry's at your side in an instant.

''Baby…'' He kneels beside the bed, cupping your face in both hands, eyes scanning yours like he's desperate to read your mind. ''Talk to me. Did I hurt you? Was I too rough?''

You shake your head, but your voice is caught in your chest.

''Do you… do you regret it?'' he asks, and you hear the break in his voice. ''Did I do something wrong?''

''No,'' you whisper, your voice hoarse and cracked. ''No, it's not you. You didn't, Harry. You didn't do anything wrong. You were perfect.''

His brows pinch together, eyes searching, lips parting like he wants to understand so badly, but can't. ''Then what is it? What's hurting you, love? Please talk to me. Tell me so I can fix it.''

You swallow hard, wiping your tears in silent frustration, your voice small and scared. ''I just feel… gross. I feel dirty. I don't know why. I wanted it, and I don't... I don't regret it, but now that it happened I...'' you hiccup a sob. ''I feel so fucking ashamed.''

The words are like acid in your mouth. Saying them aloud makes them more real.

Harry's eyes soften instantly, his whole body folding toward you. He takes a seat next to you on the bed, pulls you into his arms gently. ''Oh, baby,'' he breathes out, cradling you against his chest. ''I'm so sorry, love. I should've realized how you were feeling sooner.''

You press your face into his shoulder, fists curling in the fabric of his sweatpants. ''It's not your fault,'' you whisper. ''I promise. I just… it's me. Something's wrong with me.''

''Nothing's wrong with you,'' he says, kind, but firm. Definitive. ''Nothing. This is so much more common than you think, baby. Especially when it's your first time.''

''Really?'' you ask, timid.

He pulls back slightly to look at you. ''Yeah, love. You can want it, and it can feel amazing, and you can still feel overwhelmed after. It's okay to feel both things at the same time,'' he gives you a pained smile, his thumb brushing a tear from your cheek. ''It's not because you did something bad. Not at all, baby. It's because we're taught to feel shame around sex. Especially women.''

You sniffle, the words loosening something in your chest.

''I just feel like I lost something,'' you say quietly, shame sinking into your bones. ''Something I can't get back. And I know I chose it. I don't regret it, I really don't, but it feels... sinful, almost. Like I should've saved it longer, or done it differently, or just… I don't know.''

Harry kisses your forehead, his lips lingering there. ''You didn't lose anything, darlin'. You shared something. With someone who loves being trusted by you. You didn't lose anything.''

Your eyes blur again at the softness in his voice. ''But it feels so wrong, and I know that doesn't make sense. You were gentle, and I wanted it, I loved it, and I still feel like I did something wrong.''

Harry wraps his arms tighter around you, holding you close like he can protect you from your own insecurities. ''It makes perfect sense,'' he says. ''You're not wrong for feeling this way. You're human. You're taught that virginity is something that gets taken from you. It's not. It's an experience you share, but nothing fundamental changes.''

You bury your face in his neck, your voice muffled. ''But why do I feel so small?''

''Because it was a big step,'' he says simply. ''Because it mattered. You've built this up in your head for so long, and maybe part of you started to think doing this would change you forever. But you're still the same person you were yesterday, baby.''

Your breath shudders and you collapse into him, wrapping your arms tightly around his waist, and he just holds you, rocking you softly and murmuring sweet reassurances and praises into your hair.

Eventually, the tears ease. The ache in your chest dulls. You feel whole again, grounded. And you stay there, in his arms, breathing in the safety of his skin, until the world feels quiet again.

Harry kisses your hair and whispers, ''Wanna try that water now?''

You sniffle and nod, still tucked against him. ''Yeah. Thank you.''

He reaches for the glass and hands it to you, his fingers brushing yours. You bring it up to your lips and gratefully take a few sips before handing it back to him with a shaky smile.

''You okay to stay here with me tonight?'' he asks as he puts the glass back on his nightstand.

You nod again, taking in a shuddering breath. ''Please.''

He helps you under the covers and slips in beside you. You curl into his chest and he strokes your hair like it's second nature. Like holding you is something he was made to do.

''I think I'm in love with you.''

...

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

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...

[mleestiles]

UNDONE II.

A/N: sooo 👀 i feel like we all wanted more of them, so here it is! and i think there could be maybe a part 3 as well, let me know if you agree!

WORD COUNT: 5.8k

WARNING: sexual content

SUMMARY: What happened between Harry and Y/N on that one night in his office can't be undone and it is now bringing them to a whole new territory.

MASTERLIST | SUPPORT ME! | PART I.

Presenting was never Y/N’s thing. All the attention aimed at her, watching all of her moves and listening to what she is saying, it puts such a pressure on her that always gets her palms sweating and her speech stuttering. But today, as she presents her latest report at the bi-weekly meeting, she feels extra anxious.

And that’s because of Harry.

He has always been part of this meeting, he is sitting in the same spot as usual with the same gruff expression on his face while Y/N is talking through the numbers, but today his presence is entirely different to her.

Because just three days ago he watched her come as she grinded on him in his office. 

The memories still live vividly in her mind and that’s probably because she hasn’t stopped replaying them: sitting at her desk, making her third coffee of the day, on her route home, cooking in her tiny kitchen or lying in bed late at night, it’s all she thinks about. 

It’s a shame nothing more has happened though. 

The past few days have been quite hectic, mostly for Harry. An unexpected issue has been keeping him at work late, not leaving him any time to focus on Y/N and his promise to her. All they had was a couple longing gazes, a handful of hidden touches when passing by each other and murmured questions asking if they could postpone their meeting another day. 

Y/N understands it, he is busy, a whole department relies on him and great responsibility. That doesn’t take her disappointment away every time he apologizes when he asks to reschedule. 

Now that they are locked in a room with other people when the tension between them is palpable and Y/N is trying her best to control the ache for him in her chest and lower as well.

Once her presentation is over, a few questions are thrown her way, then she returns to her seat while feeling his burning gaze on her all the way. When she dares to look up from her notes he is still looking at her, but there’s a bit of softness in them now. Maybe even a tiny smile is hiding in the corner of his mouth, but maybe she is just imagining it.

People start flowing out of the room when the meeting ends, while Y/N and Harry are lazily gathering their stuff in hopes of having just a couple of moments alone, but that’s entirely crushed when the HR manager barges in and her eyes settle on Harry.

“Harry, can I have a word with you?”

Swallowing his disappointment, he shoots a short look at Y/N who just nods and leaves and it takes everything in him not to go after her. 

The past few days have been pure torture for him as well, having her so close yet he can’t even touch her. He’s been doing everything in his power to bend his schedule so he could at least put work down early enough that she is not asleep by the time he heads home, but he did not succeed. 

“Sorry to steal you away, but I wanted to chat with you about the new team lead’s onboarding,” Rita, the HR manager explains as they head to his office. He gives her a puzzled look. “You know, Rowan, the analyst lead you interviewed.”

“Oh… but that was so long ago, I thought he didn’t accept the offer.”

“He did, but he had a 2 month long notice period. He starts tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” his eyes widen. He completely forgot about it, though now he has a faded memory of Rita asking him about when he should start. To which he apparently said this week. “Uh, okay, tomorrow it is then.”

“He is coming at ten, I’ll do the paperwork with him and then bring him down here probably before lunch. He has the ‘meet the team’ event at two. Sam, Brian, Tate and Y/N already accepted, you haven’t, but it’s in your calendar.”

“Wait, who? Meet the team with…”

“Sam, Brian, Tate and Y/N. The analysts,” Rita repeats just as they step into his office. “Since Rowan will be their team lead.”

That’s right. Now Harry remembers. Rowan James is going to fulfill the Analyst team lead position that Harry has been substituting since what feels like forever, because they couldn’t find the right person. The vacancy has also been the only reason why Harry has been Y/N’s immediate boss since she’s joined the company.

But that comes to an end with Rowan’s arrival. 

***

It’s once again past nine when Harry finally shuts his computer off. His eyes hurt from staring at the screen all day and he already has a mile long to-do list for tomorrow. This week sucks, he thinks to himself as he stands from his desk, expecting complete darkness outside his office, but he is surprised to see a sliver of light at one of the desks.

It’s Y/N.

She is sitting at her desk, phone in hand as she scrolls with a tired look on her illuminated face. Harry’s chest warms at the sight.

Walking out he approaches her and he notices the nervousness in her eyes once she spots him, locking her phone. 

“What are you doing here so late?” he asks, grabbing a chair from the neighboring desk and rolling it over so he sits right in front of her. 

“I just… thought that I could… wait for you.”

“You should be home, resting.”

“You too,” she retorts and he can’t help the smile that tugs on his lips. She looks so soft and warm, he must reach out and touch her, so leaning forward he places a hand on her thigh and he doesn’t miss how she sucks on her breath at the contact. 

He grabs onto her with his other hand as well and pulls her closer, until he can reach her face and cup her cheek in his hand. She melts into his touch instantly and Harry realizes how much he craved to touch her for more than just a fleeting second. 

“Why did you want to wait for me, Y/N? Hm?” he murmurs lowly, leaning forward until his forehead meets hers. She just hums in reply, her eyes fluttering close. “Did you miss me?”

“Yes,” she breathes out.

“But I’ve been right here all week,” he teases her.

“But not… like that.” It comes out as a whine, her hands grab onto his shirt at his stomach, tugging on the fabric needily. 

“Like what?” His nose brushes against hers, his lips only a breath away from mouth. She squirms when one of his hands slips down to her neck. He is going insane at how responsive she is, just one touch and she trembles, giving away just how much she wants him. 

Fucking addictive. 

“I want you, like… last time…” 

It’s clear to him how bashful she is, talking about what happened between them, but he is eager to hear her say it out loud.

“What did we do last time?” He angles her face so his lips could press against her cheek while his other hand wanders down to her lap, sneakily slipping between her legs. He feels the heat instantly and when he gently presses against her clothed center, she moans shamelessly and Harry’s cock twitches in an instant. 

“We… we…” Now she is struggling, because he is slowly stroking her, teasing and playing with her.

“Come on, baby. Say it for me.”

“We… Y-you made me come,” she finally answers and Harry hums approvingly before gently biting her jawline, then presses a kiss to the same spot. 

“That’s right, how?” He pushes his fingers against her slightly harder and faster now, her hips start rocking at the same pace, eager for more friction. She lets go of his shirt and her hands grab onto the base of his neck as if she is about to fall and she needs leverage.

“I was… It’s…” Words get lost on her tongue, her thoughts are a mess and incoherent as she feels herself inching towards her orgasm. 

“Come on, Y/N. I want to hear from you. I won’t make you come now until you say it.”

To emphasize that he is serious, he retreats his hand and she hisses unhappily at the lack of it instantly. Her eyes pop open and he loves the fire in them, almost angry at him. It’s such a turn on for him, he would love to fuck her until she turns back into her soft, sweet, submissive self. 

“You made me grind on your hard cock until I came.”

Her words come out crystal clear, none of the shyness is there that kept her stuttering before. Harry’s grin grows wide and his hand returns between her legs to finish what he started. 

It doesn’t take long before her breath hitches as her orgasm blows up and when her lips part, he is quick to swallow her moans, kissing her so roughly it’s almost painful, but it just makes her climax even stronger. 

“You are so fucking beautiful when you come undone from my touch.” He keeps kissing her, softer and softer until he is basically just pressing his lips against hers while she is still trying to catch her breath. 

Once her head clears her eyes instantly snap down at his lap, the outline of his hard cock making his lust quite undeniably. 

“No, Y/N.”

“Again?” She almost pouts, her hands falling to his thighs, gently rubbing them up and down. 

“I told you. If you touch my cock right now, there is no going back, but this is not the right time and place.”

“But when?” she practically whines. 

“Friday? I’m hoping to finish at a human time,” he chuckles softly, placing a kiss to the corner of her mouth. 

“Okay,” she nods, defeated.

“Don’t be so sad. I promise to make up for the delay.” He flashes a devilish smile at her before kissing her hard, then standing up. “Come on, let’s get you home.”

***

Y/N arrives at work with a buzz and it’s not because of the end of the work week. Well, kind of, because that also means she is finally meeting Harry outside of the office. 

He texted her last night, assuring her that he will put everything down once the clock hits 5 o’clock and then asked for her address so he could send a taxi to pick her up and drive her to his place later in the evening. And now Y/N can’t wait for the day to be over so she could head home, have an everything-shower and then finally do what she’s been wanting to do not just all day but probably since her interview months ago.

Focusing on her work is harder now, but she somehow manages to get into the flow, so when her calendar’s reminder pops up about a meeting starting in ten minutes, she has to snap out of all those numbers and tables that sucked her right in. 

Then she realizes she is about to meet her new boss. 

She meets her teammates halfway to the meeting room and they walk in, finding Harry already in there with an unknown man. Harry’s eyes flicker at Y/N for a short second, but she can’t read anything in them as he stands from his seat.

“Hello everyone. I would like to introduce you to Rowan James, your new team lead,” Harry announces.

Rowan James is an objectively attractive guy, Y/N can’t deny that. In his tailored navy blue suit and crispy, white shirt, hair tousled just enough to give him that slightly unfinished look while still appearing put-together. His warm brown eyes swipe over the team before he walks over and shakes hands with everyone. 

His hold is firm, but not painful and he pays extra attention to listen to their names to learn them as fast as possible. If Y/N met him a couple of months ago or even two weeks ago, she probably would have had a fleeting crush on him. But now, as her gaze slides over to Harry all she can think about is what he has planned for her for tonight. 

She cannot look at other men the same way she did before him. 

“It’s so nice to meet you, I’m looking forward to having a one-on-one session with all of you.”

“I will be onboarding Rowan in the next weeks, gradually handing over all tasks, but I would like you all to evaluate the tasks you currently have and should be handed over as well.”

Y/N straightens her back as if she is sitting across from a teacher. Harry is radiating  authority, he has that expression on that’s all business, focused and professional. It could be scary, but for Y/N it has always brought an odd sense of comfort, because she knew whatever they had to handle, they would succeed no matter what if Harry looked like that. 

They talk a bit about themselves, hobbies, interests and then start to map out how they can all work together to make Rowan’s onboarding as smooth as possible. When the meeting is over everyone has their own action items and Y/N knows they got this. However, Harry seems somewhat… grumpy. As people start going their own way she tries to have a word with him, but he is busy instructing Rowan about something on his computer, so she leaves as well and carries on with her day. 

***

Harry feels off. 

He’s been having non-stop meetings with Rowan and everyone else he will be working with and he is trying his best to do a thorough handover while taking care of his own tasks as well, so it’s a crammed day. Rowan is nice, has good humor, a pleasant guy to be around and yet…

Something feels off. 

Harry can’t put his finger on it, the feeling settles in his chest and keeps bugging him all day, but realization hits him sometime in the afternoon when he sees Rowan sitting next to Y/N at her desk, looking at her screen.

It’s a simple scene, Y/N is talking about their ticketing system and how they usually assign tasks between each other, nothing unusual, but when he sees them share a laugh at something, everything clicks. 

He is jealous. 

Rowan is a good looking bloke, nice and smart, exactly like the kind of guy Harry imagines Y/N go for and seeing them work together just amplifies that thought in his mind. As he returns to his office and joins another call he is still musing over how he feels possessive over her even though she is not even hers. 

But he’s the one who’s made her come the last two times… Or is he?

The thought of Y/N messing around with someone else makes him feral. The call he is in is long forgotten, all he can think about is how crazy he is going over her and by the time he ends the call he knows he should clear the air out before he touches her tonight. 

***

She feels like before her first ever date in high school. Jittery, nervous, kind of lost. 

The taxi picks her up at seven, sharp, and then she is on her way to Harry’s place. Even the thought makes her stomach churn, it all kind of feels like a fever dream still. 

How is it going to be? What will happen? What if she messes up? Will he kick her out right after? 

When she gets out of the taxi in front of the luxurious apartment building, her hands are shaking and she thinks about just walking away, but she also wants this so much, she would regret not even trying. In the elevator she watches the numbers change, taking deep breaths after every fifth floor. And then she arrives at the twenty-seventh floor, the door opens and there she is, standing in front of his front door. Just when she is about to knock, it opens, revealing him. 

Harry stands there barefoot, in the same outfit he wore today, but the first few buttons are now undone on his shirt, revealing his tattooed chest, some hair and also a thin chain with a pendant that’s hidden from her eyes for now. 

“Come on in,” he softly murmurs, holding the door open for her. 

The place is somewhat what she expected, tasteful, expensive but not loudly, though it’s cozier than she imagined. Seemingly, Harry likes art, paintings, sculptures, books, there is something in almost every corner. 

Harry leads her into the open concept kitchen and she spots two wine glasses on the counter already. 

“Would you like a glass?”

“Sure,” she nods and lets out a shaky breath that catches his attention. 

“You don’t have to, Y/N. It’s all on you.”

He is talking about the wine, but at the same time, something else too. 

“I know. A glass sounds good,” she nods with a soft smile and watches him grab a bottle from the fridge and then pour some into both glasses, handing her one. 

She feels out of place and quite unsure what should be happening right now. Are they just gonna drink and talk? Or shouldn’t they just jump right into the fun?

“I wanted to talk to you first,” Harry says as if he could read her mind. He is leaning against the counter while Y/N is by the kitchen island, they have a decent distance between them, but it could be crossed with just one stride. 

“Okay.”

“I assume that since you’re here, you still feel the same way about… me.”

Heat creeps up her neck, to her cheeks and ears. She just nods, confirming his words.

“Good.” A tiny smile tugs on the corners of his mouth and it’s a relief, seeing this reaction, because he’s been acting quite distant towards her all day. 

Harry takes a sip from his wine and she mirrors him, doing the same, then he puts the glass down while she keeps it in her hands, just to busy them. 

“Are you in any type of relationship with someone else?”

Her mouth runs dry at his question.

“N-no. Are you?” 

“No,” he answers firmly. “Are you planning to be sexually active with someone else if we take this further?”

“I’m not a hooker,” she scoffs, finally understanding what it’s about. 

“I’m aware. But you’re an attractive, smart, wonderful woman who has every right to have fun with multiple men parallelly.”

She finds it hilarious that Harry thinks she is one, the type to hook up with more guys at the same time and two, she can get more than one guy to hook up with her. 

Because finding just one had been hard for her. 

Harry exhales through his nose and she notices a change in him. His shoulders fall and his expression looks almost… tortured.

“I don’t share, Y/N. If you plan on hooking up with others, then just tell me now, because I can’t–”

“I don’t want to hook up with others,” she blurts out. “I only want you.”

The vulnerability of her confession tightens her chest and the way he is inspecting her doesn’t change, but then she sees the fire in his gaze, though he is obviously trying to hold it back. 

“What about if you meet someone new?” he challenges. She narrows her eyes at him.

“Is this… about my new team leader?” Harry’s lack of answer talks for him. “I don’t want anything from him. I don’t want anything from anyone else.”

It’s hard for her to believe Harry is asking her all these questions because he’s jealous, but the look on his face clearly gives away his doubts right now. 

“He just seemed like… a great guy.”

“Yeah,” she nods, putting her own glass down before folding her arms over her chest. “He is a great guy.”

Harry’s jaw flexes and he nods, his annoyance and jealousy is now quite amusing to her, but she doesn’t want to push him more.

“But I don’t want him to bend over his desk and fuck me until I forget my own name.” 

The fire she saw in his eyes earlier is now a full on, raging wildfire that’s consuming everything around. His eyes drag down her body, taking his time without any shame as he drinks in the sight of all of her curves before his gaze drags back up to her eyes. She is throbbing just from his look.

“I need your consent, Y/N,” he firmly says. “I need to hear that you’re not here because you feel obligated, because I’m in a higher position. You have to say it before I touch you.”

“I’m here because I want you, it has nothing to do with your position or your power in the company. You have my full consent–”

That’s all he needed. He finally takes that one long stride and his lips smash against hers in a hungry, demanding kiss as his hands grab her face, pulling her into him even though she possibly can’t be closer as he is pushing her against the kitchen island with his hips. Suddenly, everything is forgotten, her nervousness and fears, his doubts and jealousy, it’s just their combined want and lust for each other. 

Harry loosens up his push against her just enough so that he can grab the hem of her shirt and get rid of it, throwing it to the side while her fingers start working his shirt’s buttons. Once his chest is revealed, she wastes no time gluing her palms onto his pecks, fingers digging into his flesh, loving the feeling of the muscles moving underneath them as Harry takes the shirt off. 

She gasps shortly when he grabs the back of her thighs and lifts her up into his arms while his lips start kissing and nibbling on the soft skin right underneath her jawline. Y/N can sense that they are moving somewhere, but her eyes are rolled back from the sensation his tongue is giving her against her heated skin. They don’t move too far though and Harry puts her back down to her wobbly feet, she is standing now on something softer, a rug, then pulls away and she almost starts protesting, but then her gaze meets his and the words die on her tongue. 

He doesn’t say anything, just reaches down and starts undoing his pants, pushing them down his legs until he can just step out of them, leaving him only in his boxer briefs. It’s an invitation, an unsaid one, but Y/N understands it clearly. 

Now is the time to do what I didn’t let you do before, his look says and she is more than eager to take on the task. 

She sinks to her knees with ease, her hands reaching back to gather her hair with the elastic she put on her wrist before leaving, but he is quick to stop her.

“I’ve got this,” he murmurs lowly, his palm closes around her hair and twisting it he makes sure he is pulling it just enough that he is not hurting her, but gives her scalp tingles. 

She grabs the elastic of his underwear, almost expecting him to stop her again, but when he blinks up at him, she only sees him expectantly staring down at her with slightly parted lips. So she tugs on the fabric and a moment later his cock springs free, hard and throbbing and fucking mouthwatering. 

She glances up at him again and wraps her hands around the base, feeling up the girth and length at first, giving him a few gentle tugs and judging from the way his hold on her hair tightens, he is very much enjoying her touches. Then she leans closer, eyes still up on his face as she sticks her tongue out and swirls it around the head. His cock twitches in her hands and he hisses at the sensation. Loving the reactions so far she gains confidence and then moves her head further forward, his cock sliding into her wet mouth inch by inch until the head hits the back of her throat and she pulls back. 

“Fuck, you look so good with my cock in your mouth,” he groans as she slowly starts moving back and forth, trying to take as much of him as possible, her hand playing with the rest of his length and his balls, fighting the urge to reach between her legs and touch herself as well. 

She tries to change up the angle a few times, push herself some more and make him go deeper into her throat and every time she earns a deep, guttural groan from him, a clear sign that she is doing well. 

His hold on her hair tightens then and when she is going forward, he pushes on her head just a little more, until she is gagging on him and then he pulls her back and up onto her feet. She is still a mess, tears and her own saliva is smudged on her face, but he doesn’t hesitate to kiss her, hard and eager as his hands work the front of her pants. She is quick to give a helping hand and once the pants are pooling on the floor, he picks her up again and carries her into the bedroom this time.

She gasps when she is thrown onto the firm, but comfortable mattress and Harry is quick to climb on top of her, his lips smashing against hers. His briefs are still on, though his erection is free, Y/N blindly reaches down and pushes the fabric further down until she can sink her fingers into his ass, bringing him closer, his cock pressing against her soaking wet center. 

Harry pulls back so he can get rid of his underwear and then in all of his naked glory, he takes a few seconds to admire the sight of her sprawled out in front of him in her underwear, the fabric of her panties has a clear darker spot between her legs and her nipples are poking against the thin material of her bralette. 

“Fucking hell,” he breathes out, one hand wrapping around his cock, giving it a few lazy tugs

Y/N has never felt more beautiful and wanted in her life, the burning lust in his eyes, the heat radiating from his body, she is now questioning every previous experience she has had, because they didn’t bring her this kind of explosion in her veins. 

Harry climbs on top of her again, he kisses her, but he is a tad bit softer this time, like he wants to savor this moment. He slips one hand under her back and easily unclasps her bralette. She wiggles it off her arms and pushes it to the side right before Harry slides lower, his mouth finding one of her pebbled nipples. 

“Fuck!” she gasps, when he gently bites it. He flashes her a smug grin before pressing a kiss on it and moving to the other one. 

He takes his sweet time kissing all over her chest and stomach, then he moves down to her thighs, avoiding to even touch her anywhere near her underwear that’s the very last item she is wearing. With every teasing kiss he presses to her soft skin, she starts wiggling more underneath, desperate to feel more of him, but it seems like he is sticking to torturing him. 

“Harry, please!” she begs when his lips are so damn close to her cunt, but still not there. 

“Please what?” he asks, hooking a finger into the elastic, but not pulling on it yet. 

“I need more!” she whines, chest heaving, hips grinding. 

“More of what?”

“You!”

Her answer surprises him, not what he wanted to hear, but… it might be even better and enough for him to give up the game he’s been playing. Finally, he pulls her panties down, throwing it to the side and when Y/N instinctively tries to snap her knees together to cover herself, something she doesn’t do on purpose, he is quick to wedge his hands between them, forcing them apart, wide open so he has a great view of her cunt, glistening from her arousal. 

Harry reaches out and drags two fingers down between her folds, softly and almost shyly, as if he couldn’t believe he is touching her and she is this wet, all for him. Then he gets comfortable between her legs, his hands on her inner thighs to keep them open and he wishes he could record the moan she lets out once his mouth is on her cunt. 

She grinds her hips against his face, his tongue moving perfectly against her clit and then teases her opening. He pays close attention to her reactions, making sure to keep doing what makes her shiver or gasp for air. When the muscle on her inner thigh starts twitching he assumes she is close, so he pulls back, climbing off the bed all together, walking over to his nightstand to grab a condom. In the meanwhile, Y/N is trying to catch her breath and fight the urge to cry at the lack of him all of a sudden. Turning her head to the side she catches as Harry rolls the condom on and then he is back on the bed next to her. He kisses her, lazily but deep, their tongues melting together before he pulls back and gently starts to rearrange her on the mattress. She obeys like a doll, ready to do anything he asks from her just to feel him some more. 

Soon, she finds herself on all four facing the end of the bed, Harry kneeling behind her and when she lifts her head she notices there is a big mirror right in front of her, allowing her to see him clearly even despite the position. Harry’s gaze catches hers in the mirror as his hands grab onto her hips, squeezing them and before moving to the next step he leans down and presses a gentle kiss to her spine at her waist. 

“Let me know if it’s too much,” he tells her and she just nods eagerly, only wanting to feel him inside her already. 

When she feels his head poking at her cunt her arms shake for a moment. He wedges his shaft between her folds at first, thrusting back and forth a few times, gathering her juices before he grabs the base and positions himself to her center. 

Her mouth hangs open as he starts pushing in, watching his face twitch in the mirror as he tries to hold himself back from pounding into her without a care. Her walls are stretching, trying to shape to his size, painful and blissful at the same time. He pushes in halfway at first, stops for a few seconds, then pulls out and goes in again, this time deeper. He goes like this, inching further with each thrust until she is taking his whole length. 

He starts off slowly, but the pace quickly changes when he feels like she is used to him. His grip tightens on her hips as his thrusts get rougher, his hips smacking against her ass. Every time she feels like her arms and legs might give up she looks into the mirror and seeing him pound into her keeps her together. She watches as his skin starts glistening from the sweat and especially loves it when he moves a bit, finds a new, better angle and his head falls back as he moans her name. 

A sight and sound straight out of heaven. 

Harry notices that she is struggling to hold herself up, so leaning forward he circles his arms around her and pulls her up until she is kneeling as well, her back against his chest. She lets her weight push against him as he keeps fucking her in this new position. She looks into the mirror again, the sight of his hands gripping her stomach and breasts is so pornographic. Then he buries his face into her neck, sucking on the skin as she reaches back and rakes her hand through his damp hair. 

“I’m close,” she pants. She is practically sitting on his lap as he is fucking her from behind, the position is allowing him to reach a spot that’s rapidly pushing her towards the edge. 

“Go on, want to feel you come on my cock. Give it to me.”

His hands grope her breasts hard, his fingers might leave marks, but it feels so good, the pain paired with her nearing orgasm. 

When she finally tips over the edge her hands snap against his thighs, her walls grip his cock tight as he keeps moving. She is still riding the last waves of her orgasm when he follows, his thrusts fall out of rhythm and go even deeper if that’s possible as he releases himself into the condom. 

His movements become sloppy until he stops, but they remain in the same position, neither of them wanting to break the connection between them. 

Then gently, he pulls out of her, a disapproving whine bubbling from her throat that just earns a chuckle from him as he carefully moves them around until they are lying on the mattress again. Her whole body feels like noodles, sweat is drying on her skin, the coldness slowly wraps her in its arms, but she is way too sent to cover herself. 

Harry slips off the bed, he doesn’t fight the urge to kiss her swollen lips softly before he disappears in the bathroom. He returns with a damp towel and he carefully cleans her up while she just enjoys the sight of him taking care of her. He quickly disgards the towel and then leans down, hands on each side of her head as he holds himself up. 

Now she notices the necklace again, the cross pendant is hanging in front of her, along with a…

She reaches up to grab it and takes a closer look and when she realizes it’s a banana, she can’t help the soft chuckle.

“What?” he grins down at her.

“Has this been under your shirt all along?”

“Never take it off.”

Instead of a reply, she just hooks a finger into the chain and pulls him down until their lips meet again. 

“Do you want something to wear for the night?” he asks between kisses. She swallows back her smile, because his question means he wants her to stay. 

“No.”

“Good answer.”

Harry climbs back to bed and peels the covers from under her so he can wrap themselves, though she is enjoying him wrapped around her a lot more. Their limbs are tangled, her head is pressed against his chest, listening to his steady heartbeat while he plays with her hair, occasionally kissing the crown of her head. 

“Good night, Y/N,” she hears him murmur and a moment later she is drifting off to sleep.

Thank you for reading, please like and reblog if you enjoyed and buy me a coffee if you want to support me!

[mleestiles]

UNDONE I.

A/N: i've started like 3 wips these past weeks but finally finished one! so here is some boss!harry for you, let me know if you want more of it, bc i feel like i could def add to this story!

WORD COUNT: 8.1k

WARNING: sexual content

SUMMARY: Harry is obsessed with Y/N. The only problem is that he is her boss, so he keeps this obsession to himself. But everything changes after one drunken night.

MASTERLIST | SUPPORT ME!

Harry has a love-hate relationship with the glass-walled meeting rooms in the office. Aesthetically they are bringing that well-known, usual vibe of every corporate office, nothing new, nothing unusual. Often, he is irritated that people tend to peek inside as they walk past towards the coffee machine or the restroom. He knows it’s second nature, they don’t necessarily try to intrude, but it tends to frustrate him when he is in the middle of a meeting and a random guy is just staring him down from outside. He tried to get the glass covered, but HR declined, they said something about transparency that just pissed Harry off even more, then he just gave up.

But lately, there’s been an advantage of those see-through dividers, because if people from outside can see in, that means Harry can see everything and everyone outside.

Like right now, as he is sitting by the oval table, laptop in front of him while the lawyers are talking about all the legal documents that are needed for their next deal, it’s an important step and Harry is usually great at focusing on what matters, but today his attention is somewhere else.

Outside of the meeting room, right by Y/N’s desk. 

She is the latest addition in the department, a talented analyst who joined a little over three months ago. Harry knows she is great, because he was there at her interview. He is usually not one to attend interviews, but the hiring manager got sick and they needed someone from management to be there as well and Harry had a spare hour he wanted to use to get a little ahead on that tender he’d been working on, but that got thrown right out the window. 

It was the last thing he wanted to do, listen to some random analyst who probably never even saw a DWH system, they always think they are qualified to deal with anything, but then they see just how much data they need to work with and then freak out. Harry was convinced it would happen that time too, but he was wrong.

Y/N walked in there, seemingly nervous, fidgeting with the hem of her cardigan, looking like a frightened little rabbit, so innocent, so sweet, something surprising happened. 

Harry was in awe. 

He found himself being drawn towards her, interested in how she’d perform at the interview. He kept a straight face as the recruiter beside him asked her some basic questions and then he took over for the professional part. 

He gave her his hardest questions, things even seniors might not know, he quizzed her about topics that are way too specific to work around and… she excelled. She couldn’t answer every question, but she worked up a logic she would use to at least try to tackle the matter and Harry knew she would succeed if she had the right materials. 

She blew his mind away. Once she left, he turned to the recruiter and said:

“I want her. Get her to start next week.”

And she did. Next monday, she was holding her onboarding package, eyes bright as she got seated at her desk, ready to start working. 

Now she is sitting at the same spot, wearing her blue light glasses, her eyebrows slightly furrowed behind them as she is working on something on her computer. She is wearing a long sundress today with a yellow cardigan to cover her shoulders. Harry has noted her colorful outfits every morning when she strolled into the office, brightening the otherwise dull atmosphere. It’s a whole floor full of developers, analysts and other IT professionals, they are not known for their exquisite fashion taste, but Y/N is different. Her wardrobe is full of colors and pieces others wouldn’t consider as business casual, but somehow she always makes it work. 

She is the kind of person that has a nice word for everyone, she often brings coffee to Linda, whose desk is across from hers and they usually have lunch together, Harry has noted. She is always happy to help others, she is great at seeing problems differently and quick to come up with solutions. She is definitely a favorite among her colleagues.

Unlike Harry.

Not that he wants to be liked, he is head of IT, he needs to lead, keep everything under control and make hard decisions. He is not stupid, Harry knows most people in the department fear him, he is not known for being friendly and chatty. He usually has so much work he doesn’t have time left to get a coffee with anyone, not that he would have anyone to invite. He is the gruff boss who is always busy and people try not to cross paths with. 

He doesn’t mind it. He likes to be focused on his work and most people don’t realize how hard it is to be the one to decide about budget cuts, downsizing and restructuring, because they don’t see what goes down behind these decisions, they just want to blame someone and that’s usually him. They don’t want to be friends with the big boss who fired their work bestie, even if it was a known fact they never did their job.

It was never an issue for him how his employees saw him. Until her. 

Someone stops by Y/N’s desk and he watches her face light up as she gives them her attention. He can’t hear what she is saying, but when she laughs, it rings in his ears. He loves hearing her laugh.

“So what do you think?” one of the lawyers asks him and he snaps back, realizing he has no idea what they were talking about in the last five minutes. He quickly looks down at his notes so far, but there’s no use. 

“Uh, I’ll leave it to you. I have to go now, do you think you can have everything set by the end of next week? We need it for the next sprint.”

“Sure,” the guy nods, his name is something with a J, but Harry can’t remember what it is. 

He is relieved that he could dodge admitting he has no idea what was talked about, shutting his laptop he murmurs a thank you for the group and he is the first one to walk out of the room, heading towards his office. 

Y/N is not at her desk when he walks past and he looks for her, hoping he is not too obvious, but he sees no trace of her. Is she having coffee with that guy who walked up to her desk? Are they planning something outside of work? Does he want to date her?

Harry’s thoughts are racing as he closes the door behind him, shutting out the general buzz of the open office outside. With a sigh, he sits down in his chair, places his laptop onto the desk, but leaves it unopened for a bit as he rubs his face with his hands. 

He always has control. He plans and keeps himself to his plan, he gathers data, analyses and then makes a new plan. Easy as it is. This is why he likes his job, IT is usually exact, the problem might be deeply hidden, but it’s always exact, he just needs to find the data.

But he’s been feeling chaotic lately. He is disoriented, can’t focus at meetings and finds himself thinking about her when he is supposed to be working. He just can’t help it. 

“Fuck,” he breathes out, then rolls his head, his neck cracks and he lets out a groan before opening his laptop and trying his best to get back to working. The code opens in front of him and he focuses on the lines he’s been trying to rewrite, but right when he is about to start typing, there’s a knock on his door. For a second, he feels irritated that he was interrupted again, but then he looks past the screen and sees her.

Harry nods and Y/N walks through the glass door, holding her laptop to her chest, smiling shyly. Harry likes to think that this smile is for him only, that he is the reason to bring it to her lips, though he doubts he has such an effect on her. But still, it’s a nice thought. 

“Hey,” he greets her as she crosses the room and sits across from him. 

“Hi. Am I disturbing you?”

“No,” he shakes his head.

“I finished those tables you asked for yesterday, but I wanted to run a few things with you.”

“You… finished?” he asks as Y/N unfolds her laptop, nodding. 

“Yeah.” She places the laptop onto his desk and he leans closer, focusing on the screen as Y/N explains what she found unclear, but Harry is still stunned when she is done talking.

“Is it… Is it bad? Not what you thought of?” she asks, seeing his face.

“No, it’s… Y/N, you did this all by yourself?”

“Yes?” Her answer sounds unsure and panic settles in her visibly. “I-I’m sorry if it’s–”

“Y/N, this is brilliant.”

She is taken aback by his compliment, it wasn’t the first time, but it feels like a gift every time for her. 

“It is?”

“Yeah. I mean, I didn’t doubt you could do it, but I didn’t think it would turn out this great and you also finished so fast, I thought it would take you the entire week at least.”

“Well… I did stay in a little longer last night,” she admits with a soft chuckle and it tugs on his chest right away. He looks at her over the desk, their eyes meet and for a second, warmth spreads through his veins as he fights the urge to reach out and touch her. 

Clearing his throat he leans back in his chair.

“Send it over, I’ll leave comments on those sections and then you can start the migration.”

“Thank you,” she nods, taking her laptop and heading to the door.

“And well done, Y/N,” he calls after her. She just nods and smiles at him before walking out. 

Harry watches her return to her desk, takes some deep breaths and forces himself to return to the code on his own computer. 

***

Linda wiggles her eyebrows at Y/N once she is sat at her desk. 

“Did you two eye-fuck again?” she asks and Y/N gapes at her, quickly looking around to see if anyone heard her, but luckily, everyone is too busy.

“Linda! That’s–We don’t do that.”

“Oh please,” she scoffs, twirling her pen around between her fingers. 

“We just went over the tables. He said I did a good job.” She shrugs, but Linda doesn’t miss how the corners of her mouth curl up, though she tries to hide it. 

“You do realize you’re the only one in this whole department he has ever complimented, right?”

“That’s not true.”

“It is. Zach go the best reaction from him last spring, when he spent two weeks refactoring a fucked up code, Harry said it was acceptable. That’s all. The fact that he said you did a good job is just another proof that he is into you.”

“Would you stop talking about the head of IT being into me?” Y/N hisses. “Come on, let’s get a coffee before you start screaming it.”

They go down a floor where the coffee station has better options and once they both have a mug full of coffee, they settle by a high table in the common area. 

“I have a confession to make,” Y/N admits, but avoids looking her in the eyes. “Okay, go for it.”

“I’m meeting Archer today.”

“Y/N! Not your fucking ex! Why?!” Linda gasps. “Do you really hate yourself that much?”

“I don’t hate myself,” she gives her a look, before returning her gaze to her mug. “He texted me the other day.”

“And you texted him back?”

“Well, yes, of course.”

“Boo! You should have blocked his number a long time ago!”

Y/N has thought about that. A lot. Her asshole ex has come back a couple of times since they broke up about a year ago, they shared one or two nights, but it always ended with him disappearing and leaving her shattered. His comebacks slowed down the process of getting over him a lot and though she feels like she is finally okay, she couldn’t just ignore his text.

“That’s not like me,” she shrugs, ignoring the thought that she knows Linda is right. 

“Hun, what do you think will happen today that hasn’t happened before?”

The question stings, right in her chest, because she knows it’s true. Her logical side knows Archer won’t just magically apologize for the way he treated her, even though it’s the only thing she wants from him at this point. To admit that he was in the wrong. 

“We’ll talk. That’s it.”

“Please don’t sleep with him,” Linda sighs desperately. “He doesn’t deserve your time.”

“I won’t,” she says, though she is not entirely certain it’s the truth. 

“Uh-huh, okay.” Linda checks the time on her phone. “I gotta go, I have a meeting in ten.”

“I’m coming too, I have a lot to do.”

Grabbing their mugs they head out of the common area, back to the upper floor. 

***

Harry didn’t mean to eavesdrop. He is the last person to be interested in anyone’s private life in the office. 

But when he heard Y/N’s voice as he was about to walk into the room, he stopped and hid behind the wall, listening to a conversation that was truly not meant for his ears. 

Hearing the two women talk about Y/N’s ex has ignited something new in him, especially when it became clear that he has hurt her in the past. Harry is not one to become violent, he channels all his tendencies in the gym while boxing, but from what he heard of the guy, he would have gladly punched him in the face. A few times.

Maybe more than a few.

The short conversation tickled his curiosity about what happened, but when he heard that they were about to leave, he quickly walked away so they didn’t see him. 

Now as he is back by his desk he can’t focus on the code in front of him at all, his thoughts are only about this mysterious ex Y/N is apparently meeting today. At one point, he even considers giving her some extra work to keep her in late and preferably miss the meeting, but that would be too petty even for him. Instead, he spends the next hour pretending to work while he just keeps fantasizing about different scenarios of what happened between Y/N and the guy. 

Slowly, the office starts to empty out as the end of the day nears. Desks get abandoned, lights are turned off and Harry is still there, since he barely got anything done that day. 

He sees when Y/N packs up her stuff and leaves and his jaw almost breaks as he holds himself still and just watches her walk out. 

“I’m fucking insane,” he mumbles under his breath, willing himself to do some work now that he can’t get distracted by Y/N every time she leaves her desk. 

It’s all new to him. This obsession he’s been feeling since the moment he saw Y/N at the interview. An invisible string has been pulling him towards her and it’s unlike anything he has felt with his exes before. 

He wasn’t obsessed. He didn’t think of them all the time. He didn’t lose focus when he was seeing someone. But with Y/N, he is losing his precious control and it’s almost scary. 

He finally manages to lock in for some work and time flies by. Next time he looks up from his screen the whole office is empty, only his desk lamp giving light and the green haze of the exit signs. It’s past nine and he can hear the cleaner vacuuming somewhere on the floor, so with a tired smile he shuts his computer off, gathers his things and heads out. 

He moved less than a year ago and the place he bought is within walking distance of the office. He knows it might have been a stupid idea to get a place just because it’s close to his working place, he probably won’t work there his whole life, but he doesn’t see himself switching for a long time, so it’s convenient. 

With his backpack hanging off one shoulder he steps out into the warm evening, the afternoon rush is over, now the nearby bars and restaurants are full of workers desperately needing to let some steam off before heading home. 

There’s a small park he walks through before reaching his street and it has always been dear to him, a nice change in the scenery of concrete and glass in the middle of the city. There’s even a small pond along the path that takes him across the park with benches and a handful of ducks are usually circling in the water peacefully. 

Older people from around like to come here and sit or take a short walk and they are the only people Harry likes to watch. He admires their slow pace, no rush, just enjoying what they have, a state he dreams of reaching too. 

Tonight, as he passes by the pond his eyes spot a familiar figure sitting on one of the benches. He stops in his tracks, questioning if his sight is right, because the person sitting there with her head hanging low looks just like Y/N. As he slowly approaches he notices the soft shaking of her shoulders.

She’s crying. 

***

Y/N has been sitting on that bench for… God knows how long. Could have been minutes, could have been hours. She was planning to cry her eyes out at once, then move on by the time she gets home, but apparently, she needs more time to get herself over than she estimated. This spot seemed like a great one, it’s far enough from the lights so people don’t notice she is crying, but she definitely did not expect to be noticed by her boss.

“Y/N?”

Harry’s voice makes her jump and as her head snaps up, she finds herself staring up at the person she least expected to see. His eyebrows are furrowed, concern is written all over his face as he stands a few feet away from the bench, as if he can’t tell if it’s a good idea for him to get closer. 

“Oh, hi!” She quickly forces a smile on her face, but she knows she is fooling no one. She wipes her tear-soaked cheeks with the back of her hand and prays her mascara is not smudged all around her eyes in panda style. “What–What are you doing here?”

“I live nearby, I’m on my way home. What are you doing here? Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just… I was just taking a walk and now I’m… not.”

Her brain does not function. She knows what she said didn’t make any sense, but she can’t think of something else to say. She is way too busy thinking about how Harry is standing right there just after her ex made her wait for him for an hour before texting her he is not coming and when she called him to confront, a woman answered his phone.

It didn’t take long for Y/N to draw the conclusions: Archer was only trying to hook up with her tonight, but apparently found someone else and ditched her. A classic move from an asshole like him, but that doesn’t make her feel less like shit. Mostly because she should have known better and not believe he would do anything other than hurting her. 

Harry just stands there for a few moments and Y/N is expecting him to walk away and pretend like he didn’t even see her, but he surprises her when he walks over to the bench and sits beside her. 

“Do you want to… talk about what happened?”

“Nothing happened,” she answers right away, but when she looks at him, it’s obvious he doesn’t believe her. With a sigh, she turns her gaze back towards the pond. She is hesitating between keeping it all to herself or just dumping it on Harry and then deal with the consequences later, but right when she is about to make up her mind, he speaks up.

“Is this about… your ex-boyfriend?”

She turns to him with wide eyes. 

“How do you…”

A guilty look takes over his face before he shrugs.

“I heard you talking about him earlier. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to eavesdrop.”

“I shouldn’t talk so freely with Linda in the office,” she chuckles, shaking her head. They sit in silence, when Harry peeks at her she seems deep in her thoughts and he is desperate to get her to talk, but doesn’t want to push her too much. 

As a last resort, he says:

“Do you want to have a drink?”

***

The tequila is burning her throat, she can’t help the frown as she bites into the lemon. When she looks at Harry, she is not even surprised he has the same, unbothered look on his face he had after the previous two shots. 

“Uh, how are you taking it so well?” she coughs and then takes a sip from her beer. They were lucky enough to find a table at a bar nearby and she was quick to accept that maybe getting drunk is what she needs right now, even if the alarms are still going off somewhere in the back of her mind, because doing it with Harry might not be her brightest idea. 

“I guess I still have some left of my college years,” he shrugs and she starts laughing. 

“Don’t tell me you were a party animal in college,” she snorts. The three shots and half a beer has definitely set her tongue free and took away her sense of embarrassment after saying everything that’s on her mind. She will surely regret it in the morning, but right now she couldn’t care less.

Harry likes this version of her. She is always bubbly and talkative, but in his presence he often senses her nervousness. Now there’s no trace of that and he is sinking in every moment of it.

“What do you think I was like in college?” he asks, tilting his head to the side. 

“I don’t know,” she shrugs, the words slurring a bit on her tongue. “Like a… hot nerd?”

He quirks an eyebrow at her and she realizes only then that she just called him hot. 

“I-I mean… I don’t–What I meant is–”

“I was a nerd,” he says, saving her from her rambling. “I was in the robotics club, spent a lot of time in the library, trying to hack their system so I didn’t have to return some books I wanted to keep.”

She can’t help, but laugh as Harry is smiling at the memory as well.

“Did you succeed?”

“What do you think?”

“For sure.”

“Correct,” he chuckles, taking a sip of his beer. “But I went to parties. I had this friend group from highschool, some of them were friends with the popular kids so we were always invited.”

“I can’t picture you with a red solo cup, filled with cheap booze.”

“But it happened,” he chuckles. “Luckily, photos have been deleted from social media.”

“Did you wipe the internet?” she asks, leaning closer as if she was asking him about a secret.

“No, but I did message those who had the photos posted when I was getting higher in my career.”

“Clever,” she nods and grabbing her beer, she takes a few swigs. Then her smile fades. “Maybe I should tell you what happened, right?”

“Only if you want to.”

Sighing she leans back, pursing her lips as she squints her eyes, looking back at him. She can’t think straight. Her thoughts are jumping, one moment she is thinking about Archer, the next all her attention is on how plump his lips look when they are wet from the beer, or the way his top two buttons of his shirt have come undone and she is seeing fucking tattoos, along his collarbones. 

She wants to kiss them. 

“I was stupid enough to think that I matter to him and he wouldn’t… hurt me. But he did. That’s it, lesson learned.”

She would love to look unbothered, like it doesn’t affect her, but she can’t. Her throat is closing up and when Harry calls out her name softly, she looks up at him with tears in her eyes and wobbling lips. 

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be crying, I know. I’m sorry!”

“Don’t apologize,” Harry shakes his head, but it’s like she didn’t even hear him.

“I know it’s stupid, but I just thought it might be different this time, that he might apologize and I can finally… I don’t know.”

“It’s not stupid. It’s not. You’re allowed to hope, to want to be treated the right way.”

“But I should have learned my lesson before!”

“You could have, but it’s okay. You will now. You’re smart, smarter than you think. You’ll get over it, doesn’t matter how long it takes, you will get there. I know it.”

“How?” she asks in a whisper, unable to break the eye-contact. 

“I don’t know how you’ll do it, but–”

“No,” she shakes her head. “How do you know it?”

He slowly runs his tongue over his lips, thinking his words through before speaking them.

“I just do. Do you believe me?”

Without hesitation she nods.

“I do.”

***

“If someone said one day I would be waiting for an Uber with my boss, drunk out of my ass at two am, I would have laughed them in the face.”

Y/N is holding onto a lamp post with one hand, twirling around it like a little kid as Harry stands by the curb, one hand in his pocket, the other one holding his phone, tracking the Uber that’s supposed to pick Y/N up and take her home. He is watching her with a tiny smile, it’s great to see her so carefree after her breakdown earlier. 

“Which part is so unbelievable?” 

She stops and steps closer to him. She can’t stand still, keeps shifting her weight between her feet and Harry is on alert in case she loses her balance. 

“All of it,” she grins up at him, blinking lazily. “Except the drunk out of my ass. That happens sometimes.”

“Really?” 

“Ooh, maybe I shouldn’t have said that. Am I in trouble?”

“Because you get drunk sometimes? You’re an adult, you can do whatever you want.”

“Yeah, but… you’re my boss,” she giggles, then starts swaying as if she could hear some music. “It’s not professional to get drunk.”

“Not when you’re working. But you’re not at work right now.”

“Nope,” she shakes her head, popping the ‘p’ sound. “I’m on the street, with Harry Styles, after drinking with Harry Styles! And now I’m gonna go home in an Uber that Harry Styles ordered for me!”

“Are you enjoying saying my name?” he chuckles, glancing at his phone again, The car is five minutes away. He is already dreading the moment it arrives, because that means the night ends. But he knows she has to get home and sleep it off.

“I do,” she sings. “It has a nice ring to it. It’s a cool name for a cool guy.”

“Oh, so I’m cool?” He knows he shouldn’t take advantage of her drunken state and keep her talking, but he just can’t get himself to stop.

“Yeah. You’re cool and smart and scary sometimes and mysterious, but not tonight,” she giggles as she keeps swaying around, while Harry can’t take his eyes off her, not when she is talking about him. “People at the office are scared of you, but I think you’re great.”

“You do?”

“Yeah. You’re amazing, I always look forward to seeing you. Sometimes I…” She giggles at whatever she is thinking about, completely oblivious at how intently Harry is listening to her. “Sometimes I ask you about things I know just so we can talk.” She shakes her head with a chuckle, but it’s enough for her to lose balance.

She gasps when she starts falling, but he is quick to grab her by her arms, yanking her towards him to keep her from smashing against the concrete. She is not laughing anymore, especially when she realizes that her chest is pressed against his, hands still holding her arms firmly. And his eyes are piercing into her gaze in a way that takes her breath away. 

“I love when you come asking questions,” he admits. “That’s usually my favorite part of the day.”

Her eyes widen at his words and when his gaze shifts down to her lips, they part as she gasps for air. Her chest presses even more against his as she fills her lungs and she feels even more dizzy now than before. 

“I want to kiss you.”

The words blurt out of her before she could think them through, unaware of the effect they have on Harry. His gaze darkens and it moves down at her lips again. But before he could say or do anything, the Uber pulls up beside them. 

Harry lets go of her, then opens the door.

“Get some sleep, Y/N. I’ll see you on Monday.”

She blinks at him a few times as he just stands there, waiting for her to get inside. She is confused. Drunk and tired and the longer she stays there the more awkward she feels, so she finally gets into the car, then Harry shuts the door and the car starts moving. 

Y/N turns around and sees him still standing there, hands in his pockets, his head hanging low. Then she slides down in the seat, closes her eyes and then replays those couple of moments when she was pressed up against him over and over again until the car stops at her apartment building. 

***

Sunday evening Y/N contemplates calling in sick. Preferably with something that keeps her away from the office… forever. 

Once she woke in the afternoon of Saturday, sobered up, with a killer headache, memories from last night came crashing down on her and the embarrassment took over instantly. She spent the rest of the weekend in agony, cursing herself out for being so stupid. 

Did she really tell her boss she wanted to kiss him?

Yes, she in fact did. After getting drunk with him, crying about her ex and telling him all kinds of stuff she never planned on admitting to him. Like that she finds him cool and smart and sometimes scary. 

But the kissing part is obviously the worst.

No matter how badly she dreads Monday morning, time doesn’t stop or slows down, the week starts and she has to go to work and face the consequences of her actions. 

Maybe Harry won’t be there. But he is always there. 

Maybe she can hide all day and avoid him… until the rest of her life or until she finds a new job. Very unlikely, but whatever. 

Her palms are sweating as she swipes her card at the gates and heads up to her floor. She’s getting paranoid, thinking that everyone in the elevator knows what happened on Friday, even though no one even bats an eye in her direction. 

Luckily, as she logs into her computer at her desk, work swamps her and provides enough distraction to stop her from throwing up when she sees Harry for the first time.

It seems like he is having a busy day too, he is in and out of meetings for the most part of the noon, she only sees him passing by or sitting in his office with his AirPods in, a sign that he is in an online meeting. But even when he is free for a short time, Y/N makes sure she avoids facing him. She even considers moving to another floor’s common room with her laptop for the day if it means she can survive without running into him and God forbid, talking to him. 

But then comes an email. 

It’s a bit after lunch time when it pops up in her inbox and her stomach drops to the floor right away when she sees it’s from Harry. Then another wave of anxiety washes over her when she reads it.

FROM: Harry Styles

Come to my office at your earliest convenience. -H

“Oh shit,” she mumbles under her breath and it catches Linda’s ears across from her, who gives her a questioning look. “Nothing.” She just shakes her head, grabs her laptop and then heads to Harry’s office with shaking knees. 

Is this the part where he tells her behavior was unacceptable? Did he maybe report her to HR for what she said?

She knocks on the door with a sweaty hand, Harry looks up from his screen with a blank face and nods at her to go inside. 

“Hey. I got your email.” She sounds like a frightened little girl as she closes the door behind her and stills, hugging her laptop to her chest. 

“Thanks for coming right away.”

Harry pushes his chair back lazily, stands and rounds the desk before leaning against it leisurely, his eyes glued to Y/N who is still standing by the door, too scared to go further. He doesn’t like the distance.

“Come, sit,” he nods towards one of the chairs in front of his desk. 

Obediently, she walks over and takes a seat, blinking up at him with wide eyes while he looks unbothered and almost… bored. He squints his eyes at her, tilting his head to the side a bit before finally speaking up. 

“Is there a specific reason why you’re avoiding me all day?”

Her lips part at his question and her first instinct is to deny.

“I-I’m not–”

“Y/N, you are. Normally, you would have already asked me at least two questions, but instead you walk out of the office every time I step out of mine. You are avoiding me.”

She shuts her mouth, trying to come up with something to say that could save her, but nothing comes to her mind. 

“I’m sorry.” Her gaze drops to the floor, his stare is too intense for her. “I’m so ashamed about… everything I said on Friday, I didn’t know how to face you. I said all that… inappropriate stuff you definitely shouldn’t have heard. like… ever. I’m sorry.”

“Y/N,” he softly says, but her gaze remains on her shoes. “Y/N, look at me, please.”

Finally, she dares to move her eyes back to meet his and then he continues… in the most surprising way.

“What I’m about to say, it’s going to be fully unrelated to work. Can you treat it as something outside of this setting?” Y/N nods. “Use your words, I need to hear you say it. Do you understand that this conversation is outside of work?”

“I understand,” she answers weakly, her mouth running dry. 

“Good.” He nods and then continues. “Do not feel sorry for anything you said. I’m glad I know all of that. The only downside of it is that now I need every ounce of self-control not to bend you over this desk and fuck you until you forget your own name.”

This time her mouth hangs open. For a moment she is not entirely convinced she hasn’t just imagined it all. That it wasn’t just her sick mind playing tricks on her. But then he speaks again.

“Did you hear what I said? That I want to fuck you into oblivion on this desk?”

“Yes,” she breathes out, trembling. 

“Good. Now I want you to go back to your desk and think it through whether you want that too or not. If you decide that you feel the same way, stay late and come back here when everyone is gone. Understood?”

“Yes.”

She feels dizzy, but not the same kind she felt on Friday, this is entirely different. Turning around she walks out of the room, but she’s on auto pilot as she returns to her desk. She leans back in her chair and slowly looks around.

No one in the room knows what just happened. Everyone is just minding their own business while Y/N is on the verge of fainting.

“You alright?” Linda peeks out from behind her screen with a concerned look on her face. “What did he want?”

If only she knew! Y/N thinks. She is dying to share, to take the whole conversation apart and analyze every bit, but she can’t. Instead, she forces a smile to her face.

“Just checked in with me about the migration.”

Linda examines her suspiciously for a second, but then her phone rings and she returns to her work while Y/N opens her laptop as well, but as she stares at the document in front of her she was working on before Harry’s email, she can’t even make out a word. 

Instead, she is busy thinking about what happens when the office empties out. 

***

Harry was dragged into some urgent issue sometime in the afternoon and it gave him enough work to take his attention away from prying outside, impatiently waiting for everyone to leave while making sure Y/N is still there. 

He answers one call after the other while emails keep popping into his inbox and he loses track of Y/N. When he finally drags his gaze away from the screen he looks up and finds the whole floor empty. All of it.

Meaning that Y/N left as well. Groaning he stands from his desk and walks over to the window, staring out into the night that has slowly creeped up on him. He truly thought she would stay. That she felt the same desire and thirst as him and she wants to explore whatever it could be, but maybe he read it all wrong. 

How will this affect their work? He should have thought of that before telling her he wants to fuck her on his desk. Who even does that? He is supposed to be her boss, her mentor, this was so incredibly inappropriate, he is thinking about reporting himself to HR and–

There’s a knock on his door. 

Turning around he freezes when he sees Y/N standing there with doe-like eyes and with just one look she is already making his pulse jump. He nods, barely noticeably, but she sees it and lets herself inside, closing the door behind her even though it’s truly just the two of them now. 

“Hey,” she sheepishly says, stopping exactly where she did earlier when he wrote her that email. This time however, Harry is the one to cross the room and then stop just inches away from her. She wonders if he could hear the wild hammering of her heart in her chest, the dizziness is back and she hides her hands behind her back so he doesn’t notice them shaking. 

“Did you think about what I said?”

Harry talks slowly and clearly and she couldn’t tell just moments ago he was freaking out too. But now that she’s there, every racing thought is gone from his mind, all he is thinking about is… her. 

“Yes.”

“And what’s your conclusion?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?” There’s a tiny bit of sassiness in her tone, just enough to start a fire in him. 

She catches the way one corner of his lips curls up as he takes another small step towards her, his hands come up to cup her jaw on either side and he gently tilts her head back, angling it perfectly. Then slowly, he leans closer until his lips are almost touching hers, but then stops. As if he is giving one last chance for her to change her mind, but she is still there, waiting for him to finally break down the wall between them and he gives in. 

He lets his hunger take over instantly. There’s no testing the waters, feeling each other up, he kisses her in a demanding, needy way that takes her breath away at first, but she is quick to react the same way. 

Her hands move to his shirt, grabbing the fabric at his stomach while his hands are still holding onto her face, but then they slide down her sides, settle on the back of her thighs and she knows exactly what he wants her to do. So without breaking them apart, she jumps up, he catches her with ease as she wraps her legs around his waist and he blindly carries her to the small sofa by the wall. 

He sinks into the cushion and she straddles him, giving her a bit of advantage in height this way, so now he is the one to crane his neck while she is leaning down to meet him. 

It’s a mess, lip biting, tongues crashing, soft moans and grunts, his palms wander over his thighs and ass and then he sneakily peels her soft pink shirt out of her tight jeans so his hands can slip under the fabric and feel her heated skin. 

She is desperate to feel more, to ease the aching throbbing between her legs, so when she starts rolling her hips and grinding against his rapidly growing bulge, he can’t help the moan that slips out of his mouth, right into hers. 

His head drops to the back of the sofa and she takes the chance to kiss her way down the column of his neck. After dozens of fantasies doing the same thing during meetings, now she is finally tasting his skin, gently nibbling on a spot that has his hands grab onto her ass, pushing her even more into him. 

When their lips meet again her fingers dance down his chest, feeling up his abdomen through his shirt and then settle on his belt, she starts undoing it, but he is quick to stop her, which breaks her out of her trance., scared that she did something wrong. 

Reading her from just one look, Harry shakes his head softly.

“I know I said I want to bend you over my desk, but I don’t want the first time I’m inside you to be here. So we are gonna do it differently for now.”

As he speaks, his fingers work the buttons of her shirt, one after the other until the white, lacy bra is revealed underneath. 

“Is it fucking Christmas?” he breathes out, hooking a finger into one of the cups and tugging it down so your breast spills out of it. An airy chuckle slips out of her, but it quickly turns into a gasp when he sucks her pebbled nipple into his mouth, even gently biting and tugging on it. Her fingers comb through his hair, his fingertips massaging his scalp as her grinding continues. 

“I’ll tell you what we’re gonna do,” he murmurs against her chest, one hand freeing her other breast from the bra as well, so he can pay equal attention to them both. “You’re gonna grind that needy cunt of yours against me until you come, just so you can see what it is like when you’re not even undressed and imagine what will happen once I get to unwrap you.” He smacks her ass gently, a moan slipping out through her parted lips. “And I’m gonna leave marks all over tits and suck your nipples until they are so tender you can barely touch them, so when you go home and see yourself in the mirror, you’ll remember every moment of what’s happening right now.”

His hands grab her hips and make her roll them harder, his erection and the seam of her jeans rubbing into her soaking wet cunt. She eagerly takes the pace he dictated, desperate to chase her release that’s building in the pit of her stomach rapidly. 

“Do you like that? Do you like my plan?” he asks, his lips brushing against her nipple, teasing her with his touch just enough to make her whine and ache for more. 

“Yes,” he nods eagerly, hands clasping the back of his head to pull him closer to her chest and feel his lips on her heated skin again and he complies happily. 

“Then let me feel how badly you want to come.”

If someone told Y/N in the morning, that tonight she would be dry humping her boss like a horny teenager, she would have checked that person into a mental hospital. Yet here she is, grinding against Harry’s massive bulge, shamelessly rubbing her cunt against his erection while his mouth is full of her breast. 

He has already left a few marks on her and she knows she’ll have to wear turtlenecks for the next 2 weeks, but she couldn’t care less. 

“Fuck, I’m so close,” she cries out when she finds just the right angle where the seam of her jeans and the tip of his restrained cock rub her clit perfectly, sending sparks through her nerves. 

“Go on, want to see you come undone.” He bites the side of her left breast and she hisses, but it feels so good, so fucking great she moans loudly, her head falling back at the sensation.

“Harry, I–Ah!”

His hands grab her ass and he pulls her in, making her fall forward, her chest pressing up against his as she buries her face into his neck, fastening her movements as her orgasm is nearing. 

“Come on, Y/N. Let me see you come undone.”

“Wanna feel you inside,” she whines, but keeps moving.

“I know and you will. Just not now.”

She whines again in a disapproving manner, but doesn’t stop and Harry’s hips start moving as well. He encourages her a few more times, his lips brushing against her ear, sending shivers down her spine and right when she thinks she can’t take it anymore, the bubble pops. 

She gasps and moans, her movements get dragged out and Harry forces her to look him in the eyes as she rides out her joy. She loses track of time, can’t tell if it lasts for seconds or hours. But when it’s over she collapses into his arms. 

“You did so good. So fucking good,” he murmurs into her ear, kissing the side of her face wherever he can reach. When she finally catches her breath she sits up straight and looking down she sees that he’s still hard underneath her. 

Instantly, she reaches down, ready to take him out and take care of him, but he stops her again. 

“Not now.”

“But you… didn’t–”

“I know,” he smiles softly. “But if we go further now, I won’t be able to stop and I told you, I want the first time I’m inside you in a different setting.”

She understands and it’s flattering knowing he wouldn’t be able to control himself if they continued, but it feels unbalanced now that only she came. 

“Are you sure?” she asks, hands flattening on his stomach. 

Smiling, he nods. “Very sure.”

She thinks to herself for a bit and reaching up Harry brushes a lock of hair behind her ear as a smile stretches slowly across her face.

“What is it?”

“So… this means there will be a next time?”

The playful glint in her eyes amuses him. She is sitting on his lap, her chest still exposed, lips swollen from his kisses while his erection is still straining against his pants and she asks if there will be a next time. 

“Oh yeah. I will watch you come undone over and over again in every possible way. If you let me.”

She bites into her bottom lip, sheepishly blinking down at him, but her answer surprises him for a moment.

“I’m not letting you.” His face falls and his heart drops into his stomach, but she is quick to continue: “I’m begging you.”

“Oh baby, for that, now I’m adding  spanking to when I’m bending you over my desk and fuck you.”

Her smile only grows wider.

“Please, Boss!”

PART II.

Thank you for reading, please like and reblog if you enjoyed and buy me a coffee if you want to support me!

[mleestiles]

explore me slowly

(part two of the teach me slowly series)

Summary: Firsts aren't always easy. Lucky for you, Harry's got patience— and a plan.

Warnings: early stages of a relationship, age gap, lots of talk about virginity and sex, fingering, brief oral (f!receiving), sexual guilt (it's so common and it's time we start talking about it)

Based on: this ask!

A/N: hi lovelies! sorry this update took foreverrr. i've had a rough week, but i'm back now and working hard on creating new content for you guys :) i'm so happy to see the love i received on part one of this, thank you all sososo much. series tag list is open x

Word Count: 4,319

...

You're nervous.

Not the jittery, wide-eyed kind of nervous, but the quiet kind. It simmers just beneath the surface, where your stomach feels light and fluttery, and your thoughts are buzzing too fast to catch.

You're sitting with Harry on his couch, tucked beneath the blanket that always smells like him, like fresh, warm laundry and cedarwood and something a little sweeter underneath. The movie he put on a while ago has turned to static now, background noise, barely audible under the sound of your pulse in your ears.

Your mind keeps drifting back to last Friday night, to that first conversation you and Harry had about your virginity, turning it over in your head, trying to decide what you want.

But now you know.

You pull back a little, tilting your head to look at him properly, and your voice is smaller than you mean it to be when you speak up. ''I think… I want to try something tonight.''

That gets his attention.

His arm, which had been draped along the back of the couch and absentmindedly stroking your shoulder, stills. He turns to face you, scanning your features with those sharp, observant eyes like he's trying to understand everything you're not saying. ''Try something?'' he echoes, but it's not teasing. It's curious. Encouraging.

You nod. Your fingers curl in the hem of your shorts, anchoring yourself. ''I don't know what exactly. I just… I trust you. And I want to explore. Whatever you think is best to start with.''

He stays quiet for a beat, his thumb brushing the side of your thigh under the blanket. ''Are you sure?''

You nod again, firmer this time. ''Yeah. I've been thinking about it a lot. I'm not trying to rush into anything I'm not ready for. And I'm not ready for... everything, but we could do something else, right?''

Harry's expression softens into something tender. You can see it shift, the subtle change in how he's holding himself. The way he sinks a bit deeper into the cushions, like the weight of your blind trust, and his responsibility for it, slowly settles onto his shoulders.

''Okay,'' he says. ''We'll go slow. If you're okay with it, I'd like to understand where you're at. What you're comfortable with. What you like, what you don't like, y'know?''

You inhale deeply, your shoulders relaxing at the sound of his calm voice. You hadn't realized how much tension you'd been holding until now. You hum in response, heart thudding steady in your chest.

Harry's eyes flick to your lips, your eyes, your hands in your lap. He shifts slightly so he's facing you more directly. ''So… when you say you want to try something, what does that look like for you tonight? Is there something you've been curious about?''

You chew your lip. ''I don't know, really. That's the thing. I've never done any of this before, so I don't really know where I'm supposed to start, what I'm supposed to explore. That's why I'm asking you to... I don't know, lead. To tell me what to do.''

''I can do that. Is there anything that's off-limits tonight?'' he asks carefully, his hand moving to rest lightly on your bare knee.

You think about it for a moment, then shake your head. ''I don't want to… you know. Go all the way. Not yet.''

''Okay,'' he smiles, squeezing your knee softly in reassurance. ''What about me touching you? With my hands, or my mouth?''

Your breath catches, heat rushing to your cheeks. The words make you squirm, but you manage to give him a curt nod, forcing a tight-lipped, nervous smile. ''Yeah. I think I'd like to try that.''

He smiles gently, fingers brushing your neck, waiting for any sign of hesitation. When all he sees is curiosity etched onto your features, he dips his head under yours, pressing soft kisses to your neck.

Your heartbeat pounds under your skin as Harry caresses your arms, rubbing them up and down soothingly. You gasp when he sucks lightly on your skin, taking his time getting you in the mood.

''Do you want me to show you what feels good? Or do you want to tell me what to do?'' he murmurs, his lips brushing your collarbone.

You bite your lip, throat dry. ''I… I want you to show me.''

He stands up, then holds out a hand.

''Come here, love.''

You take it, and he tugs you to your feet, pulling a huffed laugh from you. He puts his hands on your waist and begins slowly walking you backward, firm and deliberate, toward his bedroom, not breaking eye contact once. Something about it, the effortless confidence he exudes, the air of nonchalance, makes your breath hitch.

And when your back hits his bedroom door, he pauses. He leans in, foreheads touching, his breath mingling with yours.

''You're sure?'' he whispers.

You nod. ''I'm sure.''

And then he kisses you, deep and passionate, his hand fumbling for the door handle behind you. He chuckles against your lips when he clumsily opens the door, and you both stumble in with a laugh.

Harry's bedroom is dim, the lamp on his bedside table painting the room in a soft yellow. You turn around, taking in his space. It feels intimate. It's simple, minimalistic, but so Harry.

There are sticky notes attached to the small notice board above his desk, filled with hasty scribbles like yoga pushed to 7 this Thursday!!! and pick up mum from the airport!!! and a nonsensical jumble of random words and phrases. Lyrics for new songs, you think.

The door clicks shut behind him and you feel his presence behind you, steady, unfaltering, unlike the beat of your heart. For a second, neither of you speak. You're not sure when the room got so quiet, but your pulse thrums in your ears, the sound of your shallow breathing seeming to mute everything else.

Then his arms slide around your waist from behind, pulling you back into the solid heat of his chest. He dips his head to your height and presses a kiss just behind your ear, then another one to the slope of your neck, and you melt into him by instinct.

His fingers find the hem of your hoodie, his hoodie, technically, the navy one you borrowed weeks ago and never gave back. It still smells faintly like his cologne, the way his clothes always do when he forgets them on your couch. He gathers the fabric, lifting it inch by inch until it bunches beneath your waist, right above your grey shorts.

It had felt a little silly when you put it on after your shower this morning, but his mouth twitches into a smile when he recognizes it, his fingers toying with the material. ''This mine?''

''Yeah. You were outgrowing it anyway,'' you tease, turning around in his hold and playfully squeezing his biceps. He's been frequenting the gym increasingly more often, and it shows. You assume it's his way of blowing off steam now that he's not performing.

''Hm. It does look better on you,'' he grins, pressing a kiss to your temple as his hands trail lower. He gently tugs at the hem, waiting for your approval. ''Can I take this off?''

You hesitate, just a second, but it's enough to make him pause, watching you closely. It's not that you don't trust him, or don't want to, but you can already feel the air on your thighs, your stomach, the dip of your lower back. And the idea of being completely bare under his gaze, no barriers, no fabric, no layers to hide behind, suddenly feels a little too exposed. Too vulnerable.

Your hands catch his quickly, wrapping around his palms, though you know that Harry wouldn't move an inch without your consent.

''I… would it be okay if I kept it on? Just for now?'' you ask, cheeks burning. ''I don't think I'm comfortable being fully naked yet.''

There's not even a beat of silence before he nods, brushing your hair back behind your ear. ''Of course. You don't have to do anything you don't want to. You look beautiful like this, too.''

Your hesitation doesn't frustrate or deter him. Instead, he reaches for the hem of his own shirt, and in one smooth motion, he pulls it up over his head and carelessly tosses it aside.

Your breath catches. He's so close that you can see the faint freckles adorning his collarbone, the gold cross nestled between his pecs, the trail of ink curling down his strong arms.

You reach out before you can second-guess it, fingers brushing across the small tattoos above his heart, the ones you've only ever seen half-hidden beneath his clothes. Your hand grazes the tattoos that trail down the skin of his left shoulder, his bicep, his arm, like a river that meanders delicately through a forest.

He watches you, quiet and confident, as your palm flattens over his chest. His skin is warm under your fingers, smooth and solid and real. You trace one of the swallows across his collarbone, then dip lower, brushing your knuckles down the line of his sternum. The ridges of his abs flex slightly beneath your touch.

''You're so…'' you trail off, suddenly embarrassed by your own awe.

Harry gives you a lopsided smile, like he knows what you mean without needing to hear it. ''Thank you, baby. You can touch me as much as you want,'' he says, voice thick with something more tender than lust. ''Take your time, darlin'. I'm not going anywhere.''

You lean up to kiss him, and when your hands settle around his hips, he presses forward just enough to guide you backward toward the bed. Your knees hit the edge of the mattress and you land with a soft thud. Harry follows, kneeling between your legs, one hand curling around the back of your thigh to pull it around his waist.

You shiver when his knuckles graze the edge of your shorts, and he catches the reaction immediately.

''Still okay?'' he murmurs against your lips.

''Yeah,'' you whisper. ''I just… don't know what I'm doing.''

''You don't have to,'' he insists. The sheets are cool against your skin, grounding, while Harry hovers over you, broad and warm and impossibly gentle and patient. ''That's what tonight's for, yeah? You tell me what feels good. What doesn't. I'll listen.''

His fingers stroke over the outside of your shorts first, featherlight at first, then with a little more pressure. Just enough to let the heat pool low in your belly, your thighs pressing together instinctively at the unfamiliarity of it all. You let out a soft, shaky breath.

He looks up at you, lips curved, eyes kind. ''That feel alright?''

''Mhm.''

''Use your words for me, baby,'' he teases lightly, but there's no pressure. Just playfulness.

You swallow. ''It feels… really good.''

That earns you a kiss, warm and sweet, and this time his hand drifts over your stomach, fingers brushing under the hem of your hoodie. He doesn't try to lift it again, just slips his palm beneath the fabric, splaying it over your skin, stroking your bare side.

His hands don't rush. They just keep tracing the shape of you, mapping the curves and valleys like they're sacred terrain. Then his fingers slide down past your navel, knuckles grazing your skin, brushing the waistband of your shorts.

You draw in a shaky breath.

''Still good?'' he asks, watching you.

You nod. ''Yes. Please.''

He smiles reassuringly and continues his trail down your shorts. His fingers move over the cotton, just the faintest pressure, barely there. But even that is enough to send a jolt through you, hips twitching in surprise when he brushes against your clothed clit.

You're more sensitive than you expected. Everything feels heightened: his breath on your cheek, the press of his fingers through the fabric, the weight of his gaze on your face.

''Feels good?''

You nod, unable to speak.

He strokes over the same spot a little more firmly this time, slow and rhythmic. ''You're already wet,'' he groans, almost like he's in awe. ''I haven't even done anything. Fuck, that's so hot.''

You flush, turning your face into his shoulder, and he chuckles softly. ''You don't have to be shy with me,'' he whispers. ''Nobody's around. It's just you and me, yeah? I've got you.''

You nod bashfully. His hand slips under the waistband of your shorts and slides your panties aside with a gentle tug. For the first time ever, someone else touches you where you've barely explored yourself, the pad of his finger dragging softly through your folds.

You tense instantly, just from the unfamiliarity of it, but he doesn't push. Just keeps it slow, gentle, careful, learning the way your body responds, noting every soft whine and every stutter of breath. It's a different kind of touch than your own. More assured. Confident, but not cocky. He's paying attention to every shift in your body, like your pleasure is a language and he wants to be fluent.

He finds your clit and circles it with the pad of his finger, light and teasing, until your hips lift from the bed with a choked whimper, and his pace quickens. You didn't know it could feel like this. Every nerve is lit up, like your skin is catching fire in the best way.

''Oh,'' you breathe out, your body sinking into the mattress as you sigh contently, the tension in your muscles melting away.

Harry smiles. ''Yeah?''

You nod, eyes fluttering shut, head thrown back against the pillow.

Harry glances up again, pride flickering in his expression. ''That good?''

''So good,'' you whisper.

He grins, but it's soft, not smug. He eases you further back onto the bed, and you go willingly, your legs falling open around his waist as he crawls down your body, pulling your shorts down with him as he goes, just enough to expose your panties to him.

Then he leans in and presses an open-mouthed kiss to your inner thigh. And another, closer to the edge of your underwear. He hums low in his throat, like the scent of your arousal has undone something in him. His hand is still between your thighs, and he pushes a finger inside, just one for now, testing, studying your reaction, while his thumb keeps stroking your clit to keep you relaxed.

Your breath catches at the stretch. It's not painful, just… new. Unfamiliar. Full.

But it feels good. Better than anything you've ever felt on your own.

Harry leans his cheek against your inner thigh, watching your pussy accomodate to the stretch of his finger with awe etched onto his face. His eyes flick up to your face, searching your expression for any discomfort or pain. ''Too much?''

You shake your head. ''No. Feels… good.''

Then he kisses your thigh again, hooking one of your legs over his shoulder. A shiver runs down your spine when you feel his hot breath against your cunt, and you realize what he's planning.

But when you feel the first swipe of his tongue, it's too much.

You gasp and your hand flies to his hair, not tugging hard, just enough to pull him back. ''Wait. Sorry. That's... a little overwhelming.''

He pulls back instantly, looking up at you with such gentle understanding it nearly makes your heart burst out of your chest. ''Don't apologize. That's totally okay.''

''I don't know why,'' you say, cheeks warm. ''It's just… a lot.''

''It's okay, love. This is all brand new to you,'' he soothes, pressing a kiss to your thigh. ''We can save that for another night, yeah? We have all the time in the world to go slow, baby.''

There's no disappointment in his voice. No pressure. He's just... here. With you. For you. The realization tugs at your heartstrings.

You nod, and he climbs back up your body, propping himself up on one arm, letting you catch your breath as he hovers over you. The warmth between your legs lingers, building slowly as his hand starts to move again, hushed praises falling from his lips.

His touch is focused, fingers slow, right where you need them. This time, you relax into it. Let the tension coil in your belly, growing tighter and tighter with every slow circle of his fingers, every kiss he presses against your shoulder, your jaw, your temple.

Your breathing stutters. Your thighs clench. Your fingers dig into his forearm, making him groan. He curls his finger slightly and your back arches with a sudden, gasping moan.

''Harry, fuck—''

''There she is,'' he breathes. ''There you go, darlin'. That's it. Let go for me. You don't have to think. Just feel. I've got you.''

He keeps the rhythm steady, his thumb circling your clit, his finger curling inside of you. Your thighs tense, your hips stutter, and then your whole body locks up with a choked sound as the pleasure spills over all at once. Your orgasm crashes into you like a wave, sharp and sweet and overwhelming in the best way. Your fingers grip the bedsheets, and you can barely hear yourself moaning his name like a prayer, your breath stuttering out in broken gasps.

Harry's voice is low and tender as he eases you through it. ''That's it, baby. So good. So fucking good. You did so well for me.''

You're shaking while he helps you ride it out, only pulling his hand out of your shorts when you whine quietly in overstimulation, your chest heaving. His attention shifts to you immediately, cradling your face in his palm, brushing sweaty hair from your temple.

''You okay?''

''Yeah. Just…'' you swallow, blinking up at him, dazed. ''I think… I think that was my first real orgasm, Harry.''

He stills, his mouth curving into a slow smile. ''Yeah?'' he says, and he sounds so proud you could cry. ''That was your first?''

You nod again, cheeks hot. ''I thought I'd already had one, but it's never felt like that before. Not even close.''

He leans in to kiss you, cradling your cheek like you're the most precious thing he's ever laid his hands on. ''Fuck, baby. Thank you for letting me be the first. That means more than you know.''

He rolls over and plops down on the mattress with a content sigh, one arm falling over his eyes. You rest your head on his heaving chest, heart still pounding, and his other arm instantly wraps around you, his fingers tracing lazy circles on your back.

Your body feels weightless, boneless, like you've melted into the sheets completely. The air around you is warm and still, the silence only broken by Harry's pants beside you.

The hem of his hoodie is still bunched around your thighs, and you're vaguely aware of the dampness between your legs and the faint throb in your muscles. It doesn't hurt, it just lingers, like your body is still catching up to the memory of being touched.

Harry presses a kiss to your temple, then leans up on one elbow, brushing your hair back gently.

''Stay here,'' he whispers. ''Gonna get you some water and a towel to clean you up, alright? I'll be right back, promise.''

You nod, dazed. His voice is so soft. So safe.

A few minutes pass while he moves around the room. You hear the faucet turn on in the bathroom, the clink of a glass against porcelain, the shuffle of his feet across the floorboards.

Everything is ordinary. Normal.

But the longer you lie there, the tighter your chest becomes.

It starts slow. A little whisper in the back of your mind. You did that. You let someone do that to you. You gave it away. It's over.

Your thighs are still damp. You feel the stickiness on your skin and suddenly you can't breathe quite right. Your heartbeat starts to pick up. A sour kind of shame crawls up your throat, thick and hot, choking you before you can swallow it down.

You shift in the bed, curling your legs up to your chest. Your fingers tighten in the sheets, knuckles turning white from your grip.

It was good. He was kind. You wanted it. So why do you feel like this?

The door creaks open again. Harry enters quietly, carrying a glass of water and a warm washcloth. His eyes go to you first, always to you, and the second he sees how you're curled in on yourself, his face tightens, his brows furrowing.

''Hey,'' he calls out gently, setting everything on the nightstand. ''What's wrong?''

You try to speak but your throat closes up. The tears come suddenly, a choked sob leaving your chest. One moment your eyes are just stinging, the next they're spilling over, silent and hot, streaming down your cheeks faster than you can wipe them away.

Harry's at your side in an instant.

''Baby…'' He kneels beside the bed, cupping your face in both hands, eyes scanning yours like he's desperate to read your mind. ''Talk to me. Did I hurt you? Was I too rough?''

You shake your head, but your voice is caught in your chest.

''Do you… do you regret it?'' he asks, and you hear the break in his voice. ''Did I do something wrong?''

''No,'' you whisper, your voice hoarse and cracked. ''No, it's not you. You didn't, Harry. You didn't do anything wrong. You were perfect.''

His brows pinch together, eyes searching, lips parting like he wants to understand so badly, but can't. ''Then what is it? What's hurting you, love? Please talk to me. Tell me so I can fix it.''

You swallow hard, wiping your tears in silent frustration, your voice small and scared. ''I just feel… gross. I feel dirty. I don't know why. I wanted it, and I don't... I don't regret it, but now that it happened I...'' you hiccup a sob. ''I feel so fucking ashamed.''

The words are like acid in your mouth. Saying them aloud makes them more real.

Harry's eyes soften instantly, his whole body folding toward you. He takes a seat next to you on the bed, pulls you into his arms gently. ''Oh, baby,'' he breathes out, cradling you against his chest. ''I'm so sorry, love. I should've realized how you were feeling sooner.''

You press your face into his shoulder, fists curling in the fabric of his sweatpants. ''It's not your fault,'' you whisper. ''I promise. I just… it's me. Something's wrong with me.''

''Nothing's wrong with you,'' he says, kind, but firm. Definitive. ''Nothing. This is so much more common than you think, baby. Especially when it's your first time.''

''Really?'' you ask, timid.

He pulls back slightly to look at you. ''Yeah, love. You can want it, and it can feel amazing, and you can still feel overwhelmed after. It's okay to feel both things at the same time,'' he gives you a pained smile, his thumb brushing a tear from your cheek. ''It's not because you did something bad. Not at all, baby. It's because we're taught to feel shame around sex. Especially women.''

You sniffle, the words loosening something in your chest.

''I just feel like I lost something,'' you say quietly, shame sinking into your bones. ''Something I can't get back. And I know I chose it. I don't regret it, I really don't, but it feels... sinful, almost. Like I should've saved it longer, or done it differently, or just… I don't know.''

Harry kisses your forehead, his lips lingering there. ''You didn't lose anything, darlin'. You shared something. With someone who loves being trusted by you. You didn't lose anything.''

Your eyes blur again at the softness in his voice. ''But it feels so wrong, and I know that doesn't make sense. You were gentle, and I wanted it, I loved it, and I still feel like I did something wrong.''

Harry wraps his arms tighter around you, holding you close like he can protect you from your own insecurities. ''It makes perfect sense,'' he says. ''You're not wrong for feeling this way. You're human. You're taught that virginity is something that gets taken from you. It's not. It's an experience you share, but nothing fundamental changes.''

You bury your face in his neck, your voice muffled. ''But why do I feel so small?''

''Because it was a big step,'' he says simply. ''Because it mattered. You've built this up in your head for so long, and maybe part of you started to think doing this would change you forever. But you're still the same person you were yesterday, baby.''

Your breath shudders and you collapse into him, wrapping your arms tightly around his waist, and he just holds you, rocking you softly and murmuring sweet reassurances and praises into your hair.

Eventually, the tears ease. The ache in your chest dulls. You feel whole again, grounded. And you stay there, in his arms, breathing in the safety of his skin, until the world feels quiet again.

Harry kisses your hair and whispers, ''Wanna try that water now?''

You sniffle and nod, still tucked against him. ''Yeah. Thank you.''

He reaches for the glass and hands it to you, his fingers brushing yours. You bring it up to your lips and gratefully take a few sips before handing it back to him with a shaky smile.

''You okay to stay here with me tonight?'' he asks as he puts the glass back on his nightstand.

You nod again, taking in a shuddering breath. ''Please.''

He helps you under the covers and slips in beside you. You curl into his chest and he strokes your hair like it's second nature. Like holding you is something he was made to do.

''I think I'm in love with you.''

...

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

general tag list

@2601-london @mads3502 @angeldavis777 @run-for-the-hills @postsexfistbump @hobireasns @madilee7802 @spinninc @practistyles @qrapejuices @fangirl509east @sstylezzz @hontpwk @lichi-dunkera @prettygurl-2009 @violinheartxx @gotthecinema @ghstyles @triski73

teach me slowly series tag list

@maddiesalvatore1839 @mleestiles @imaginexxharry

...

[mleestiles]

just a little taste

Summary: You're the angel in his songs, but dancing in his kitchen, you're nothing short of sin.

Warnings: established relationship, lots of mentions of past sex, handjob, oral (m!receiving), some praise, lots of licking food idk what the name is for that, it's just generally really filthy honestly

Based on: this ask!

A/N: it took me a while to post this one, though i'm still not fully satisfied with it because it feels so repetitive to me. let me know if you guys like it! i mostly listened to ''cinema'' by our very own mister harry styles while writing this, so i definitely recommend listening to that as you read ;) hope you enjoy lovelies x

Word Count: 4,068

...

Morning stretches soft and slow across your shared apartment, sunlight cutting warm ribbons through the gauzy curtains. It's quiet except for the crackle of a vinyl turning gently on the record player, and the unmistakable start of a song you know all too well.

Harry's song. Only Angel.

It winds through the apartment like honey, thick and teasing. You're humming along before you even realize it, your lips mouthing the lyrics you know by heart as you sway in front of the stove, flipping pancakes in your boyfriend's blouse. The buttons are done unevenly, the collar slipping off one shoulder to reveal the curve of your neck and shoulder marked with fading bruises.

Underneath the crumpled white fabric, you're only wearing your underwear and bra, simple, lacy. Your hair is a tangled mess, curling at the ends from sweat and friction, and your skin is a mosaic of hickeys, some delicate, others brutal in their intention. The base of your throat, the swell of your breasts, your inner thighs, all painted with evidence of how he'd needed you. How he'd taken you.

Your hips move to the rhythm of the song as you stir a bowl of pancake batter, sticky on your fingers. You hardly notice the dull ache between your thighs as you shift your weight from one foot to the other, used to the aftermath of wild sex with Harry by now. You've grown to love it, a trophy of a night you'd both barely survived, panting and tangled in the sheets.

It's the smell that wakes Harry, the vanilla sweetness floating in from the kitchen. Something so warm, so you, it makes his chest ache. He groans softly and blinks the sleep from his eyes, pushing himself up on one elbow and squinting into the morning light. He's sore. In a good way. In a fucked senseless the night before way.

His muscles ache from holding himself up, from his hips slamming into yours with so much force he had to put his hand on your hair to shield your head from thudding against the headboard. His cock twitches beneath the sheets at the memory.

He runs a hand over his face, willing away his arousal before getting out of bed. You're likely still sore, and he's always been strict about taking care of you properly after he's been rough with you, which, to your frustration, means he'll refrain from having sex with you until he's sure that you're fully healed and comfortable.

You don't see him at first.

Harry saunters into the kitchen, leaning against the doorway in nothing but a pair of grey sweatpants slung low on his hips, his chest bare and glowing in the sunlight, curls tousled from sleep and last night's activities. He carefully stretches his sore arms, showing off a trail of angry purple hickeys that dips beneath the waistband of his sweats, like a roadmap of where your mouth had been.

Scratchmarks adorn his back in violent red lines, dull and satisfying. Your doing. You always raked your nails down his back when you were close, clawing at him like you needed something to hold onto as you came apart. Harry wore the marks like a badge of honor.

He watches you, shamelessly, biting back a grin as you sway to the chorus of a song he'd recognize anywhere.

His song.

He'd written it about you the first time he'd seen you, years ago, though you didn't know it at the time.

He was in a club in an exotic country, back when he still used alcohol and parties and women to forget about his problems. You were stood in the middle of the dancefloor, body moving under the tacky strobe lights, eyes closing like you were lost in your own little world.

He went home and wrote Only Angel that night, driven by the desperate need to immortalize the way you had looked when you came on his cock in a cramped bathroom stall barely an hour later, your nails digging into his back deliciously.

And now here you were, singing it in his shirt, in your shared home, after a night of mind-blowing sex, and suddenly he felt like he was twenty-something again, completely enamored by a girl he's hardly even said a word to, unable to look away. The nostalgia strikes him in the middle of his chest. God, he's the luckiest man alive.

And you're not just mouthing the words like you usually do. You're into it, smiling to yourself as you alternate between humming along and singing the lyrics under your breath.

You know he thinks it's weird when you listen to his recorded music, told you it makes him feel ''a bit awkward, love, hearing myself come from the speakers when I'm right here.''

But seeing you like this? Hair messy, wearing his clothes, dancing in your kitchen to a song he wrote about you long before he even knew your name? It does something to him.

He wordlessly pads across the room, his arms wrapping around your waist and pulling you flush against his chest. You let out a startled yelp and instinctively smack the wooden spoon you were holding against his cheek, a loud splatter of pancake batter echoing against his skin and the kitchen tiles.

''Fuck!'' he hisses, stepping back as a glob of sticky yellow goo slides down his jaw. ''What the— babe!''

You whip around, eyes wide, realizing it's just Harry, then burst out laughing when you see the stunned expression on his face. ''Oh my God, I'm so sorry!''

''Jesus Christ,'' he mutters, dragging the back of his hand across his face in exaggerated offense. ''Didn't know you were armed. You tryin' to kill me with a fuckin' spoon, love?''

You scowl at him playfully, grabbing a paper towel to dab at his hand. ''Serves you right for creeping up on me.''

He glares at you, but it's half-assed at best. ''That's how you greet the man who gave you four orgasms last night? I did some of my best work there, y'know? I was expecting more of a fanfare when I woke up. Maybe even you dropping to your knees and thanking me.''

''You mean me dropping to my knees and giving you a blowie?'' you guess with a smirk, seeing the faraway look on his face and knowing exactly what he was really imagining.

''Mm,'' he hums noncommittally, eyes dropping to where the mixture now clings to your fingers, too. ''Can't a man show his girlfriend some love without being attacked?''

''I was making pancakes,'' you say sternly, as if that somehow explains everything.

''Right,'' he rolls his eyes affectionately, putting his hands on your waist absentmindedly: force of habit. ''Pretty sure your pancakes are currently dripping down my cheek, babe.''

Instead of quipping back, you bring your fingers to your mouth to suck the batter off, and the moment your tongue touches your skin, Harry's eyes go dark. He blinks, jaw twitching. You feel his cock stir beneath his sweatpants, pressing against your hip.

''Fuckin' hell,'' he mutters, letting out a pained groan before crudely adjusting himself in his pants. Whatever, you're his girlfriend. You're used to it by now.

You huff out a laugh, stepping toward him and wrapping your arms around his neck. ''You look like someone jizzed on your face.''

''Do not give me ideas,'' he deadpans.

You bite your lip, clearly enjoying this. ''Sorry for smacking you,'' you whisper soothingly, leaning up to kiss the corner of his mouth. ''Let me make it up to you.''

Your tongue darts out, licking the leftover batter from his cheek, and his breath catches. You meet his gaze through your lashes, teasing, slow. Your fingers trace the waistband of his pants, dipping lower. He's still hard. Has been since the second he saw you.

''You're a menace,'' he mutters.

''And you,'' you say sweetly, languidly dragging your tongue down to his jaw, ''are so predictable.''

You stand on your tiptoes to press a soft kiss to his lips, the taste of sugar lingering on your tongue. His hand slides up your thigh under the hem of his shirt, fingers tracing the lace of your underwear.

''You look too good like this,'' he murmurs against your mouth. ''Too fuckin' good.''

You grin and peck his lips in response before rotating in his hold to flip a pancake before it burns. His hands greedily roam your body as his eyes unabashedly drag down your back, your ass, your legs.

''Didn't realize you listened to my stuff on vinyl,'' he comments when he hears you humming along to the bridge of Only Angel, coming from their record player in the corner with their little collection.

You shrug, not turning around. ''Got the pink one. Limited edition. Perks of sleeping with the artist, right?'' you smile innocently.

He chuckles softly as you scoop more batter onto the pan, fingers trailing down your waist, finally settling on your hips again. ''Didn't know you liked this one.''

You flip the pancake and glance over your shoulder. ''It's about me, isn't it?''

He smirks. ''You're not supposed to know that.''

You snort. ''You're not slick, Harry. You wrote 'Can't take you home to mother in a skirt that short.' You said that to me the night we met, remember? When you fucked me in the—''

''That was a joke.'' He cuts you off, blood rushing to his cheeks as he pinches your thigh, lightheartedly scolding you. ''Sort of.''

Your laughter is soft, tangled in the steam rising off the stove. The tension from last night, the kind that always finds its way into your bedroom, lingers like a shadow.

But right now, it feels lighter. Sweeter.

You feel his hands slide lower, brushing against the waistband of your panties.

''Don't,'' you warn, ''I'm cooking.''

''I'm starving.''

''You'll get a pancake when it's ready, Styles.''

He pauses. Then dips his finger into the bowl of pancake batter on the counter.

You freeze. ''Don't you—''

Before you can finish your sentence, he smears a broad streak across the swell of your exposed cleavage, right above your bra.

You gasp. ''Harry Edward Styles!''

He grins, eyes gleaming with mischief, and dips his head to leisurely lick it off, tongue flattening over your sticky skin. You slap his shoulder weakly as he hums against your breasts. It sends a shockwave through your chest.

''Insatiable menace,'' you scoff with a chuckle, breath catching.

He pulls back just enough to look at you. ''Say that again.''

''You're—''

He cuts you off with a kiss, and it's slow and dirty and dangerous. One of those kisses that means you're not leaving this room untouched, his hands squeezing your ass playfully before moving down and ghosting over your thighs. You shiver.

''C'mon,'' he breathes against your lips, then pressing featherlight kisses to your neck. ''Let's go, love.''

''To bed?''

''Mhm.'' Another kiss, longer this time. ''Bring the batter.''

You blink. ''You're not serious.''

He quirks a brow. ''Dead serious. I've got some ideas.''

You stare at him, torn between horrified and aroused. ''You're weird.''

He nips at your earlobe. ''And you love it.''

He scoops up the half-full bowl of pancake batter and tugs your hand, leading you through the apartment with a cocky little smirk.

''C'mon, angel,'' he says softly, voice low and thick with promise.

The contents of the bowl jostle dangerously as Harry kicks the bedroom door shut with his heel, his free hand moving to your hip before guiding you backward to the bed. Your laughter curls through the space, soft and breathless, until the backs of your knees hit the mattress and you fall onto it with a bounce, legs splayed open and blouse riding up your thighs.

Harry's gaze darkens the second you settle there, backlit by the early sun filtering through the curtains, his shirt hanging crooked and open across your body, collarbone and cleavage marked with proof of his mouth. The sight of you like this, knees bent, one strap of your bra slipping down your shoulder, flushed from giggles and sleep and still glowing from the night before, makes something in him snap.

''Gonna ruin you,'' he says, setting the bowl on the nightstand with a sharp clink. ''You were shaking your ass on purpose,'' he growls. ''You knew I was gonna lose it.''

You huff in protest. ''Didn't even know you were watching,'' you shoot back, smirking as you crawl across the bed, making a show of it, dragging your blouse open with exaggerated slowness until it slips off your shoulders completely.

''Always watching you,'' he murmurs, eyes softening.

He crawls after you, kissing you the second he gets on top of you, needy, no finesse, all teeth and hunger, tongue licking into your mouth with a groan like he's starving.

Harry always kisses you like you just came home from war, like he's been missing your touch for years, despite having been buried in you less than twelve hours ago. His hands are everywhere, palming your thighs, cupping your breasts through your bra, slipping underneath your underwear just to squeeze your ass again.

''You know this is gonna be a mess, right?'' you deadpan, breath catching when his thumbs dip into your panties.

Harry chuckles, unbothered, his voice gone deep and hoarse. ''Already is. Might as well make it worse.''

He strips your underwear and bra first, tosses both across the room without a care, and pauses only to kiss down your stomach in a slow, open-mouthed trail. He's feral but reverent, hungry but focused, like he's worshipping your body in a sacred ritual.

Then his fingers dip into the bowl.

''Wait, Harry, that's gonna be cold—''

Too late. The pancake batter hits your nipple, making your back arch immediately. He chuckles low in his throat, swirling it across your breast, sticky and sweet.

''Told you it'd be fun,'' he grins.

You gasp when his tongue follows, licking a path from the curve of your tit to your now peaked nipple, sucking hard as he hums in approval. ''Sweet,'' he says. ''Just not as sweet as you.''

''Corny,'' you pant, writhing when his other hand scoops up more of the sticky goo and smears it across your other breast.

''Genius,'' he corrects, before trailing it down your sternum in broad strokes. ''Just you wait. Gonna find every place you taste good.''

You realize, quickly, this man isn't bluffing.

He dips into the bowl again, moving lower, this time tracing the line of your thigh with more batter, smearing it along your soft skin before pressing his lips to your inner thigh, kissing it softly, then sucking a little harder at the tender skin.

''Shit, you're sexy,'' he groans against your skin. ''Every fucking inch of you...''

''Your turn,'' you tell him breathlessly, pulling his hand back toward him. You want to return the favor, find out what makes him feel good too. The two of you have recently been exploring this new rhythm, how to experiment, how to let things unfold naturally and just have fun, even if it's not perfect.

Harry's gaze meets yours, dark, glimmering with the trust you've built together and the heat that lingers between you both. You reach for the bowl, dipping your fingers in and running them over his chest, slow and deliberate, trailing lines of pancake batter down his tattoos and across the rippling muscles of his abdomen. His breath hitches at the unexpected sensation, his eyes never leaving yours as you gently smear it across his skin.

''You don't have to be so careful with me,'' he points out, his voice gravelly, a hint of reassurance evident in his tone. ''We're just experimenting, yeah?''

''Yeah,'' you repeat softly, then lean down to kiss the streak of batter on his stomach, tasting his skin and the sweet mess on it at the same time. ''But I want to make sure it's good for you, too.''

''God, baby,'' he growls lowly, reaching out to grab your wrist and guide it lower. ''You make it so good. My good girl. My best girl.''

''Your only girl, I hope,'' you say teasingly, tracing the outline of his abs and kissing each one when he mumbles a soft ''obviously'' in response, hips lifting subconsciously. You know what he wants. You tut at him, a wicked smirk playing at your lips before you dip your fingers lower, grazing the waistband of his sweatpants.

''What do you say we see how it feels down here?'' you ask, voice low and sultry, capturing his full attention. You hand disappears inside his sweats, teasing at the bare skin just below his navel.

''Fuck yes,'' he growls, his chest rising and falling more rapidly now. ''I was wondering when you'd get to the fun part.''

You laugh softly but comply, guiding your fingers down. Harry sucks in a breath, looking down at where your hand wraps around him, a choked moan leaving his throat.

''God, I can't... Fuck, you're making me lose my mind.'' His voice cracks, desperation flooding through his words.

You giggle, teasing him as you lick your lips. ''God, you're so fucking sexy, Harry. I'm the luckiest girl alive,'' you groan at the sight of him, this absolute god of a man, coming undone from your touch, chest heaving as he whimpers. Whimpers. It swells your chest with pride.

He smiles softly to himself. He was thinking the same thing earlier. Sometimes it terrifies him how in sync you two are.

''You drive me fuckin' crazy, babe,'' he whines, reaching down to grab your wrist and stop your movements when he gets close. ''So fuckin' hot, watching you sing the song I wrote about you. I wanted to bend you over the stove.''

You smile devilishly, leaning in to kiss him hard, your tongue slipping into his mouth, tasting the remnants of batter still on his lips. You pull back for a moment, your breath hitching at the way his chest rises and falls with anticipation.

He watches you closely as you kneel down between his legs, feeling a wave of heat surge through him. You swirl the batter all around the sensitive skin of his inner thighs, stretching the fabric of his sweats as you go, gliding your fingers up and down with purpose. Your other hand moves lower, teasing along the tight muscles of his legs before you slowly move your fingers toward the one place he's desperately trying to keep control over.

His stomach jumps beneath your touch. ''You wouldn't.''

''Oh, I would.''

''Fuck, baby,'' he hisses when you trace the line around his cock, just teasing, never quite touching him exactly where he wants it. He grabs your wrist again, this time pulling you up by the arm, almost aggressively, to meet his lips in another bruising kiss, the smell of vanilla thick between your bodies.

You move back down his body, maintaining eye contact. You trace the batter across the tattooed ferns on his V-line, deliberate and slow, and then press your tongue against the trail, tasting skin and sugar and something so deeply Harry it makes your stomach tighten. He moans softly, a sound low and needy, and his hand cups the back of your head, silently begging you to keep going.

When your mouth reaches his hip bone, you nip at him gently. ''You like that?''

He let out a shaky laugh. ''Yeah. Yeah, babe, I fuckin' like that.''

You grin up at him, flushed and cocky. ''We should make pancakes more often.''

Harry pulls you up by the waist, spinning you so your back hits the mattress. You giggle when he reaches for the bowl again, but your laughter dies in your throat when he straddles your thighs and slowly pours a ribbon of batter across your bare stomach. It runs down your navel, sticky and warm.

''Don't move,'' he warns, playfully stern, then bends to lick it all up in slow, open-mouthed kisses. His tongue swirls into your bellybutton, making you squeal, squirming as he chuckles against your skin.

''That's disgusting,'' you breathe, half-laughing.

''You love it.''

You do. Every second of it. You love how fun it feels, how messy and silly and fucking filthy.

When he starts trailing his kisses lower, you gasp. He runs batter along your lower stomach, dragging it across your skin like you're a canvas he's painting on. He licks down the path he made, tongue hot and slow, teeth grazing your skin when he sucks a bruise into it.

You hips buck at the feeling. ''Harry…''

''I know,'' he soothes you. ''I've got you.''

You switch places after that, an unspoken agreement in the air about taking turns. It feels equal. And when you push him down onto the bed and trace the mixture along the lines of his ribcage, he grunts.

''Feels fuckin' weird,'' he admits with a hearty laugh when your tongue follows the trail.

You stop and look at him, amused. ''Bad weird?''

He shrugs with a crooked grin. ''No, love. Just different.''

You pour more batter over the curve of his hip, lower, down to the place where he's painfully hard under his sweatpants, straining and twitching with every move you make.

You raise a brow. ''What about here?''

His eyes darken. ''Careful.''

You wordlessly smear the mix across the outline of him under the fabric, making sure to cup him while you do so, and watch his jaw clench, his knuckles turning white as he grips the sheets.

''You're such a fuckin' tease,'' he growls.

''I'm just exploring. That's what you said, right?'' you say sweetly, feigning innocence, licking a drop off the edge of his waistband.

And then he was on you again, rolling you over, tugging your panties down your legs with a grin like sin and batter drying on his mouth.

At one point, you're giggling helplessly as he trails it behind your knee and bites down on the soft skin there, your laugh dissolving into a gasp when his tongue replaces his teeth. Another time, you try it behind his ear, where you know he's sensitive. You both end up laughing when the batter gets in his hair and he curses, rubbing a hand through the sticky mess.

You straddle him and dip your fingers into the nearly empty bowl, then paint lazy circles around his nipples, grinning wickedly as you lean in to suck one, then the other, tasting the salt of his sweaty skin under the sweetness of the vanilla. His chest rumbles with a groan, hips twitching up into yours with a stuttered thrust.

''I swear to God,'' Harry mutters, breathless, ''You're gonna kill me.''

''You'll die happy,'' you shoot back, right before trailing the batter lower, right to the thin line of hair leading down into his sweats. He hisses when your fingers curl into the waistband and finally drag them down, his cock springing up, flushed and dripping.

You meet his eyes, smirking, and then slowly, almost reverently, dip two fingers into the remaining batter and brush them up the underside of his shaft, letting it drip in thick, gooey lines, the coolness of it making him shudder as you coat him.

He curses, head tipping back into the pillows. You don't rush, just lean in and lick the sticky trail upward in one long, languid motion, tongue pressing into the vein along the side the way you know he likes. You circle the tip once, twice, before taking it into your mouth, the taste of him and the sweet batter a heady mix.

He makes a sound then, somewhere between a moan and a growl, and pushes your hair back to get a better look at your face as you take him in. ''Filthy fuckin' girl,'' he whispers. ''My filthy girl.''

Harry flips you over so fast the bowl nearly tips, but he catches it without breaking focus. He crawls down your body, settling in between your thighs and licking his lips as his gaze trails down your body like he's drinking you in.

A shrill wail echoes from the kitchen.

The fire alarm.

''Oh my God,'' you gasp, sitting up quickly. ''The pancakes!''

Harry groans and flops onto his back, an arm covering his face. ''Well… breakfast is ruined.''

You laugh, breathless. ''Your fault.''

''Worth it,'' he mutters, already reaching for you again.

...

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

general tag list

@2601-london @mads3502 @angeldavis777 @run-for-the-hills @postsexfistbump @hobireasns @madilee7802 @spinninc @practistyles @qrapejuices

...

[mleestiles]

teach me slowly

Summary: Harry doesn't mind waiting, as long as it's you he's waiting for. a harry styles x inexperienced!reader series

Warnings: early stages of a relationship, age gap, sexual advances, lots of talk about virginity and sex, that's it for now

Based on: this ask!

A/N: hi lovelies! this is the new series i'll be writing now that we've parted ways with the sugar, baby series for now (sobbing). huge shoutout to anon who submitted the request this is based on. while exaggerating things for fiction is fun, i tried to also be relatively realistic about virginity. tag list is open :) this first part is, as always with my series, kind of a prologue to the story. have fun x

Word Count: 2,529

...

The first time you stopped him, it was subtle. A hand against his chest, a breathless ''maybe not tonight,'' and a kiss that lingered just long enough to prove you still wanted him, just not like that, not right now. He didn't push, didn't ask questions, just smiled against your lips and said, ''Alright, love. Another time.''

It wasn't the last time it happened.

You've been seeing Harry for a few months now, longer than you expected when he'd first spotted you across a room you didn't belong in, some industry party you'd been dragged to by a friend of a friend, too many faces and too many flashes. Harry was in the spotlight, the center of attention, you were hidden away in a dark corner, and yet his eyes managed to find yours through the sea of faces.

When he walked over, laid-back, confident, too pretty for his own good, you expected it to be fleeting. Maybe flirtation, a drink or two, something to roll your eyes about later.

But then he asked for your number. And not even two days later, he actually used it. And now here you are, tucked under his arm with his heartbeat thudding steadily beneath your ear.

It's late. A slow Friday night, the familiar sounds of reruns of Friends filling Harry's apartment as you're curled into his side, your fingers absently tracing a pattern against the slope of his ribs. The scent of cheap takeout still lingers in the air, mixing with the cologne he wore earlier, now faded into the cotton of his worn-in hoodie.

You feel it when his hand shifts. When it goes from lazily draped around your waist to something more deliberate, fingers tracing a purposeful path under the hem of your sweatshirt.

He leans down, pressing his lips to yours, making you smile at the faint taste of wine still lingering on his tongue. Your breath hitches, deepening the kiss, one hand fisting in his shirt. His hands graze your bare skin, curling at your waist, pressing you closer to him.

But the moment they start to travel higher, sliding up your midriff toward your chest like it's second nature, your stomach drops, and before you've fully thought it through, your hand slides over his and stops him, gently, but definitively.

''Sorry,'' you whisper against his lips, squeezing your eyes shut so you don't have to see the disappointment likely flashing across his face. ''I… Sorry, can we not tonight?''

Harry opens his eyes, confusion etched into his features like he was just abruptly woken from a peaceful dream. He blinks down at you, clearly startled by your tone. ''Yeah, of course,'' he says, pulling his hand back immediately. ''You okay?''

You nod quickly ''Yeah. Just… tired.''

It's not a lie. But it's not the whole truth either. You feel him hesitate, like he wants to press, wants an explanation, answers, but chooses not to. Just kisses the top of your head and settles back into the cushions, shifting so you're still cuddled into his side.

The silence stretches between you, not uncomfortable, but different now. Tense. Loaded. You let it sit there, unsure how to break it. Not yet, at least. But soon. You have to.

It takes you a few more minutes, waiting for the episode to end, for Harry's breathing to even out slightly, having willed away his arousal. When you turn your head to look at him, he's watching you with the kind of quiet patience you've come to recognize.

''I need to tell you something,'' you say finally. Your voice doesn't shake, but your heart is beating erratically. You sit up on the couch, just enough to give yourself some room to breathe. ''I've been meaning to. I just... I didn't know how.''

Harry sits back a little, his hand moving to lightly rest on your leg, calming you. Concern flickers across his eyes, focused frown on his face, his curiosity piqued. ''Okay. What is it?''

You push your hair behind your ear, fingers suddenly clammy. ''I've... I've noticed you've tried to take things further a few times now. And I always stop you.''

His eyes stay on yours, steady, unreadable. ''Yeah. I've noticed. I don't mind waiting, love.''

You inhale. ''It's not that I don't want to. It's just… I've never actually done it before.''

For a moment, Harry says nothing. His brows knit together, like he's processing, like the words don't quite click at first. Then something shifts. Not judgment, not disgust, just genuine surprise.

''You mean… you're a virgin?''

You nod once, jaw tight. Your heart stutters, bracing yourself for his inevitable rejection, already regretting bringing it up. ''Yeah.''

There's a pause. A long one.

But then Harry exhales, a soft smile tugging at his lips, head ducking to meet your gaze. ''Okay,'' he says softly. ''That's okay.''

You blink at him. ''You're not weirded out?''

He smiles, kind. ''No, of course not. I just… I wasn't expecting it. You're so confident. So sure of yourself. I guess I assumed…''

''That I'd done all of that already?'' you finish for him, smiling weakly.

He shrugs. ''Yeah. Doesn't change anything, though.''

Your bite your lip. ''You're older than me. More experienced. I thought maybe you'd be… disappointed.''

''I'm not,'' he tells you firmly, his hand finding yours, leaving no room for your doubts and fears.

You swallow the lump in your throat, feeling the warmth of his raw honesty settle somewhere deep in your chest.

Then, a beat later, his voice drops slightly, light-hearted but still earnest. ''So… would you want me to be your first?''

You look up at him, fidgeting with your fingers anxiously. ''I don't know. But if I did… would you want to be?''

His eyes search yours. ''If you decided you wanted that, I'd be honored.''

You sigh in relief. After the initial heaviness of the moment has passed and you've both found your way back into the soft cushions of the couch, it's quiet for a while. Not the kind of silence that stretches with discomfort, but something gentler. Pensive.

His fingers trace idle shapes over the back of your hand, and every now and then you catch him glancing at you like he's thinking about saying something, but keeps deciding against it.

Until finally, he does.

''Can I ask you something?'' His voice is soft, almost sheepish. Like he's worried you might shut down again.

You turn to face him, tugging the throw blanket around your legs a little higher. ''Of course.''

His thumb slides along your knuckles, thoughtful. ''Are you saving yourself for marriage? Or was it just... situational?''

The question doesn't surprise you. You were expecting it. Still, there's something about him saying it aloud that makes your chest ache. It's the explanation people seem to instantly assume, like there couldn't be any other possible reason to not want to have sex in your early twenties. The prejudice bothers you sometimes.

You shake your head with a chuckle. ''Not marriage, no. I just…'' You pause, choosing your words carefully. ''I never found someone I wanted to give it to. It never felt right. It always felt like… I don't know, something I'd be giving away for the wrong reason.''

Harry nods like that makes perfect sense, like you've just confirmed something he suspected about you all along. That you don't move through the world withholding things, you move through it protecting them. ''You wanted it to matter.''

''Yeah.'' You smile faintly. ''I guess I figured that the first time should be something I remember fondly. Not something I regretted five minutes after.''

''That makes sense,'' he says, reaching up to brush a fallen strand of hair out of your face. ''I kind of figured something was holding you back. I just didn't know if it was because you were nervous, or waiting for something specific… or someone specific.''

Your cheeks flush. ''I guess it's both.''

A smile spreads across his face, slow and reverent. ''And you think that... might be me?''

You glance away, trying not to look too embarrassed. ''Maybe,'' you admit quietly, before glancing at him, raising a brow. ''And you? First time with someone special?''

He huffs out a laugh, scratching at the side of his jaw. ''Not exactly. I was young, dumb, and too eager to impress someone older than me. Regret's not the word, but I wouldn't say it was magical.''

You both laugh softly at that, and the tension that had crept in between your ribs eases again. There's a pause. He meets your eyes carefully, trying to phrase his question without making you squirm. ''Have you ever... touched yourself?''

The heat rises to your cheeks instantly, not from shame, but from the sheer boldness of the question. Your relationship with Harry is still relatively new, and for a moment, you don't know how to respond.

Your eyes flicker down to the curve of his smile, cheeky but careful, like he's testing the waters. You tuck your knees up slightly under the blanket. ''I mean... Yeah, of course.''

That earns you a grin. He shifts slightly, propping himself up on one elbow so he can look at you properly, his other hand rubbing up and down your arm soothingly. ''And? Has it ever felt... good?''

Your eyes narrow a little, teasing. ''Are you asking if I've had an orgasm before?''

''Yeah,'' he admits, unabashed now. ''Not trying to be weird. I just want to know where we're starting from.''

You shrug, a bit self-conscious. ''I think I've had a few? But like… nothing crazy. I don't know if it's something wrong with me or—''

''Hey,'' he cuts you off gently, hand brushing your hip. ''There's nothing wrong with you. You know that, right?''

You nod, but it feels like a reflex, not something you fully believe yet. He must sense it, because he dips forward and presses a kiss to your shoulder, warm and grounding. Then another, just beneath your jaw. ''It's harder for women, y'know? But it'll get better. Some things just take time. Patience. And the right person. I'm glad you've tried.''

You snort. ''Why? Would it have been a red flag if I'd said no?''

He chuckles, pressing another sweet kiss against your skin before pulling back. ''No, not a red flag. I just think it's important. Knowing your own body. Knowing what feels good.''

There's something so matter-of-fact in the way he says it that it makes the conversation feel less intimidating. Less taboo. You inhale deeply, a weight lifted off your shoulders now, and you run your fingers along his biceps to ground yourself.

''I haven't explored much. It felt... underwhelming. But with the way everyone raves about sex, I must be doing something wrong.''

His thumb stills over your hand, his expression softening. ''That's okay. It'll be different when you're with someone else. With me.''

You glance at him, curious. ''How so?''

He shifts toward you, arm slung over the back of the couch now. ''It's a mix of things. Trust. Communication. Timing. Like… it's not just friction, right? It's being seen. It's vulnerability. Intimacy. And if that isn't there, if you don't feel comfortable, it's hard to get there.''

Your stomach flutters at the way he says it, so attentive, so considerate. ''That's kind of what I'm scared of. That it'd be awkward. Or disappointing.''

Harry's voice dips lower, more serious now. ''It doesn't have to be. Especially if you're honest. If we are.''

You tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear and smile bashfully, ''That's what I want, I think. Just... honesty. I don't want to have to pretend I know everything. Because I don't, and I don't want to have to act, to perform.''

He nods, the corner of his mouth tugging into something fond. ''I don't want you to do that either.''

You settle into the cushions, knee brushing his thigh. ''Have you ever been with someone inexperienced before?''

He thinks for a second, then shakes his head. ''Not really, no. I mean, I've been with people who had less experience than me, sure. But never… never someone completely new to it.''

Your eyes find his again. ''Does that scare you?''

He gives you a look, a lopsided smile on his face. ''No. If anything, it makes me want to be better. I want to make it good for you.''

That does something to you, sends a warmth crawling up your spine. ''You're already doing everything right, Harry.''

''Am I?'' he teases, bumping his shoulder with yours.

You laugh shyly. ''Yeah. You ask questions. You listen. You make me feel… like it's okay to not have all the answers yet.''

''It is okay,'' he reiterates.

You smile gratefully, but your insecurity creeps back in quickly. Your voice is timid when you speak again. ''So you don't think it's weird? That I haven't… done any of it?''

''Not even a little,'' he says, cupping your face gently, thumb brushing along your cheekbone. ''I think it's admirable, actually. You're twenty-three, and you've gone this long without letting someone touch you, just because nobody earned it? That's sexy as hell.''

You huff out a laugh, surprised. ''Really?''

''Really,'' he says, lips quirking. ''It means you know your worth. You know what you want. I wish I'd had your strength of will at that age.''

You smile gratefully, tension slowly uncoiling from your shoulders. ''Thanks. I don't always feel that way.''

Harry dips his head down, pressing a short, sweet kiss against your lips, effectively shutting up your mind. He sinks back into the couch with a satisfied smirk, cushions dipping under his weight.

You swallow nervously. ''Hey, just out of curiosity. What… what would you have done if I'd told you I was waiting for marriage?''

He raises a brow. ''You mean, like… completely off-limits?''

You nod.

He considers that. ''I would've respected it. Obviously. But I probably would've asked what else we could do instead. Would still want to be close to you, in whatever way you'd be comfortable with.''

You nod. ''I think that's the thing. I do want to be close. I just… I want it to mean something.''

He hums in response. There's a peaceful silence then. You're both thinking, processing. It's the kind of silence that only happens when you feel truly at ease with someone.

''So… if we did want to start exploring things… slowly…''

He grins, just a little. ''Want me to teach you, huh?''

You roll your eyes. ''Don't make it a thing.''

He lifts both hands in surrender, chuckling softly. ''We'll go at your pace. Whatever that looks like. You just tell me, yeah?''

You nod, the corners of your mouth tugging into a fond smile. ''Thanks, Harry. For being cool about all this.''

He scoffs. ''I'm not being cool,'' he says. ''I'm being decent. What kind of idiots have you been surrounding yourself with?''

That earns him a playful shove, but he catches your wrist and kisses the inside of it, right where your pulse flutters at the touch. His eyes flick up to yours, warm and steady.

''Whenever you're ready, love,'' he says softly.

...

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

general tag list @2601-london @mads3502 @angeldavis777 @run-for-the-hills @postsexfistbump @hobireasns @madilee7802 @spinninc @practistyles @qrapejuices @fangirl509east @sstylezzz @hontpwk @lichi-dunkera

...

[mleestiles]

BOYFRIEND HARRY OH LORD

[mleestiles]

incidental charges

(part four of the sugar, baby series)

Summary: He takes what he wants. You give what's left.

Warnings: fingering, oral (m!receiving), unprotected sex, degradation, slutshaming, mild discomfort/pain, Harry's really mean, this is an angsty one i'm sorry

A/N: i'm lowkey very proud of this one but oh boy you guys are going to hateee me. i listened to ''i wanna be yours'' by arctic monkeys on repeat while writing this part so i'd 100% recommend listening to that while reading this if you'd enjoy that. let me know your thoughts when you're finished. enjoy (and good luck) x

Word Count: 3,587

...

You know something's wrong the second your phone buzzes. Come over. Now.

Not because the message itself says it, but because of everything it doesn't say. No teasing command. No filthy promise. Not even the ghost of a smiley face, like he sometimes uses when he's feeling particularly cruel. Just three words. Brutal. Unforgiving. Final.

You haven't heard from him in days, and this is how he chooses to reach out?

You shouldn't be this easy. Shouldn't feel your pulse quicken at the first sharp order he throws your way. But you're already tugging on the tightest, prettiest dress you own, already slipping into the shoes you know he likes for some reason, already rushing out the door like he's got a leash around your throat and a hand fisted in it.

You're already thinking about what you can give him, what you can do for him, to make whatever anger is coiled tight in his chest a little easier to bear.

When he opens the door, he barely looks at you.

No greeting. No dragging gaze over your body the way he usually does, savoring the little effort you make just for him. He just steps aside without a word, or even a simple acknowledgement, letting you pass like your presence is something he merely tolerates.

Your stomach drops, but you bite it down. You can handle this. You want to handle this.

Inside, the air feels electric, charged with something hot and volatile. His jacket is already off, thrown carelessly over a chair, like he hadn't even had the patience to put it away properly.

You frown. If there's anything you've learned about Harry since your arrangement started (which isn't much, honestly), it's that he's a very neat person. Never once have you seen his shirts wrinkled, or his tie crooked, or yesterday's clothes still on the floor. Never once have you seen dirty dishes in the sink, or crumbs on the kitchen counter, or even so much as a crinkle in his satin bedsheets.

His sleeves are shoved up to his elbows, veins bulging along the strong lines of his tattooed forearms. His jaw ticks once, twice, when he shuts the door behind you with a sharp, echoing click.

You turn to him instinctively, waiting for instruction, heart hammering against your ribs. But he doesn't say anything. He just stalks toward you with a hunger that's almost violent, yanks the strap of your dress down your shoulder, watches it slip halfway off your chest without even a flicker of appreciation.

It's not about how you look tonight. It's not about playing games. It's about need. About taking. About burning something off before it destroys him from the inside out.

You shiver under his hands but don't resist when he manhandles you backwards, walking you clumsily through the apartment toward the bedroom. You nearly trip over yourself, but he doesn't let you fall, just catches your hips in a bruising grip and drags you after him like he can't bear to waste a second more.

Still, you're so good. So desperate to soothe whatever anger he won't name. You don't even speak, just let yourself be pushed down onto the bed, legs falling open when he shoves at your thighs.

You want him to use you. You want to give him something real to anchor himself to.

Even if tonight, he's not reaching for you like a man reaching for salvation. Tonight, he's reaching like he wants to destroy something. And the worst part is, you want to let him.

You don't get a chance to breathe before he's crowding you on the mattress, pulling your dress up to your hips, baring your soaked underwear to his furious gaze.

''Course you're fucking wet,'' he mutters darkly, more to himself than to you, voice a low snarl. ''Knew you'd like being treated like this.''

Your breath hitches, but you stay still for him, let him strip you without so much as a whimper, watch your panties join the discarded pile of clothing on the floor. You spread your thighs wider when he forces your knees apart, giving him whatever he wants to take.

He doesn't even bother teasing you.

Two thick fingers shove inside you, rough and unforgiving, a guttural noise ripping from his throat when he feels how tight you clench down around him. You jolt with a soft cry, hips trying to squirm back from the abrupt stretch, but he's already got a bruising grip on your thigh, holding you down, open, forcing you to take it.

"Stay fucking still," he growls, curling his fingers viciously, seeking out that devastating spot inside you without an ounce of tenderness.

It hurts. It burns. But you take it, tears welling at the corners of your eyes from the overwhelming intensity, the sheer need to give him what he needs. Your hands clutch at the sheets, but you don't make a sound except the broken little gasps that slip from your throat when he pumps his hand faster, meaner, grinding the heel of his palm into your clit like he's trying to knock something loose inside you.

"You like that?" he sneers, watching your pretty face contort in helpless pleasure. "Like when I use you like a fuckin' toy?"

"Yes." Not really. You take a shaky breath, blinking up at him like he's the only thing that matters.

Something flashes behind his eyes, something sharp and vulnerable, but it's gone before you can catch it.

He pulls his fingers out roughly, shoving them into your mouth without warning, smearing your own slick over your tongue.

"You taste that?" he snaps. "That's what you're good for. The only thing you're good for."

The words land like a punch to the gut. You flinch, just barely, but he sees it. Sees the way your lashes flutter, the way hurt flashes in your eyes before you try to tamp it down.

He knows you don't like being talked to like that. He remembers. Knows exactly how much the insult must burn, sharp and humiliating on your tongue alongside the taste of yourself.

He wants it to hurt. Wants you to push him away, to finally shove him off and tell him to go fuck himself. Wants you to be angry with him, to look at him like he's the piece of shit he feels like tonight. It would be easier if you hated him. It would be safer.

But you don't.

You just suck his fingers obediently into your mouth, wide-eyed and willing, even as your throat tightens against the sting of his words. You take it, not because you don't feel it, but because you choose to stay anyway.

And that... that ruins him in a way he isn't prepared for.

Something almost like shame sparks behind his ribs, fast and unwelcome, but he smothers it down with the same furious instinct that made him lash out in the first place.

You don't fight him. You don't pull away, even when he fists your hair and drags you down to your knees on the floor at the edge of the bed.

"Open up," he orders, shrugging his pants and briefs off and tapping the thick head of his cock against your lips.

You do, without hesitation.

He groans brokenly under his breath as he drives himself into your mouth, too deep, too fast. Your throat strains around him, gagging, tears spilling hot and immediate down your cheeks, but you don't fight him. You dig your nails into his thighs and take it, blinking up at him through the wet haze clouding your vision, hollowing your cheeks even when you're fighting not to choke.

"Fuckin' perfect," he grits out, hips snapping hard enough to make you whimper around him. "Good little slut, lettin' me ruin you however I want. Aren't you, hm?"

The word slut cracks across your mind like a whip. You feel it hit, low and sharp, like scraping across an old bruise he promised he wouldn't touch. You'd told him. That night at the bar, when you first met, so many lifetimes ago, you'd told him that you don't like to be called names. That you take offense to it.

It makes something in your chest lurch, a bitter twist of hurt, betrayal, humiliation, and for one savage second you genuinely consider violently sinking your teeth into him.

You don't.

You dig your nails into your own palms instead, grounding yourself in the sting. You keep your jaw slack, let him fuck your throat, let him call you names you hate, because some wounded, stubborn part of you knows that's what he's trying to make you do. Trying to make you angry enough to leave. Trying to push you away.

He's picking a fight you refuse to give him.

And the longer you stay, the softer you look at him, tears slipping from your lashes, tongue still willing under the ugly words, the harder he fucks into you, like he can beat the tenderness out of you.

It hurts. It's messy and unrelenting and mean, but still, you look up at him with glassy, adoring eyes. You want him to know that you're here. That he can show you this side of himself. That you can be whatever outlet he needs you to be tonight.

You reach up, fingers mindlessly rubbing slow circles on the skin of his thighs, something to ground yourself, and him, while he uses your mouth like it's nothing but a hole to fuck.

And he feels it, the softness, the care threading through every touch. He jerks away suddenly, pulling out of your mouth with a wet, brutal pop, staring down at you like he doesn't understand you at all.

Then he's hauling you back onto the bed, shoving you down on your back so hard the air punches from your lungs. You barely catch your breath before he's wedging himself between your thighs, lining himself up, no teasing now, no patience.

"You want it?" he rasps, voice low and raw.

"Yes," you whisper, wrapping your arms around his neck instinctively, letting your legs fall open wider to invite him in.

He snarls under his breath like he hates how sweet you are to him. Then he drives into you with one savage thrust.

You cry out, back arching off the bed, hands clinging to him for dear life. He's huge, stretching you painfully wide, filling every inch like he wants to break you in half. He doesn't give you time to adjust, just sets a brutal pace immediately, hips snapping into you again and again, every thrust shoving you further up the mattress.

You cling to him anyway, one hand splaying against the sweaty plane of his back, feeling the muscles there bunch and flex with every furious movement.

You whisper to him between gasps, between whimpers. "It's okay, Harry. You can let go. I've got you. I'm here."

He groans low and vicious in your ear, fucking you harder to shut you up, but you swear you feel the tiniest shudder run through him.

You cradle his head to your shoulder, scratching your nails lightly over the short hair at the nape of his neck, murmuring soft praises between each wrecked moan.

"So good to me," you pant, kissing the shell of his ear, tightening your thighs around his hips. "You're perfect. Always so perfect."

His rhythm stutters.

Just for a second. Just a beat of hesitation. But you feel it. He buries his face in your neck like he can hide from it, from you, like if he just fucks you harder, he can fuck the weakness out of himself.

But it's too late.

You feel the anger melt into something messier, something achingly close to desperation, to want. You don't comment on it.

He slams into you harder, rougher, chasing his own release now, trying to outrun the gnawing ache swelling in his chest.

You don't stop touching him.

You don't stop whispering sweet nothings in his ear.

You just hold him, even when it hurts, even when your body is shaking from the force of his thrusts, even when you're barely holding yourself together at the seams.

And maybe that's what finally breaks him.

Because when he comes, buried deep inside you with a feral, broken sound, he doesn't even look at you.

And it stings.

It stings more than the bruising grip he's left on your hips, more than the ache between your legs where he's used you so carelessly.

Because Harry is always big on eye contact, he demands it. "Look at me, baby. Need to see you." "Eyes on me when you come." ''Show me those pretty eyes. There you are.''

He always wants you look at him. Needs you to, like the tether between you would snap otherwise.

But now, when you're lying underneath him trembling and cracked open, when you've given him every piece of yourself, he twists his head away, toward the wall, eyes screwed tight like he can't even stand the sight of you.

It guts you. Leaves you hollow and shaking, your orgasm wilting quietly inside you.

And somewhere, deep down, though he won't let himself feel it, it guts him too. Because he knows if he looks, if he really looks at the way you're still holding him, still whispering broken little praises under your breath despite your own pleasure fading, still caressing his skin like something sacred despite your own body tensing up.

So he looks away.

And it feels like the cruelest thing he's ever done to you.

He pulls out while you're still gasping for breath, yanks his pants up without a word, and disappears into the bathroom with the door slamming shut behind him.

The emptiness he leaves behind feels colder than any punishment he's ever given you. You blink up at the ceiling, heart splintering slowly in your chest, the mess between your thighs a humiliating, aching reminder that whatever has cracked open between you, he wants no part of it.

...

When he comes back, he doesn't say a word.

The bathroom light is still on behind him, casting a clinical glow across the floorboards, and his hair is a mess, cheeks blotchy from scrubbing. He won't meet your eyes.

He walks back into the bedroom like it doesn't belong to either of you, like it's a hotel room he's just checked into and you're the unfortunate occupant they forgot to remove first.

The air goes stiff.

You sit up slowly, the sheets pooling around your waist, heart thudding unevenly. You're not sure what you were expecting. Maybe a quiet, reluctant, apology, maybe an awkward attempt at a joke, maybe just for him to lie back down and act like it never happened, but none of it comes.

Instead, he leans down to grab his phone off the nightstand. His screen lights up his face in a wash of cold blue, making him look even more unreadable, if that's possible. You watch the way his jaw tightens. His shoulders twitch like he's chewing back something awful. He doesn't look at you once.

''Are you coming back to bed?'' you ask, voice hesitant and small, and you immediately hate yourself for how it sounds. Like you're begging.

The silence that follows is thick and sour. It curls between your ribs and settles there, anchoring itself to your shame. He doesn't even glance at you. Doesn't ask if he hurt you, physically or otherwise, doesn't acknowledge the way your hands tremble slightly as you pull the blanket up to your chest, covering yourself like you can shield yourself from whatever's happening between you right now.

''Did I do something wrong?'' you whisper nervously. You wish you didn't care. You wish you could swing your legs out of bed and leave first, say fuck you and mean it. But instead you just sit there, quiet and insecure and hurting.

He finally looks at you, just a flicker, a glance, eyes dark and unreadable.

''No,'' he says after a beat, and it's somehow worse than if he'd said yes.

Because if you'd done something wrong, at least there'd be a reason. A fix. A way back.

''No,'' he repeats, turning away, ''You were perfect.''

It should be comforting, but it sounds like an accusation.

You watch him tug on a hoodie from the floor, and you notice his fingers are shaking slightly, though he hides it well. Everything about him is tight, movements too stiff, face too blank, like he's holding himself together by force.

''Harry…''

''I think you should go,'' he says, and it's sharp. Clipped. Dismissive. And it hurts. So much.

You blink. ''What?''

He doesn't repeat it. Just tosses your clothes at you, like throwing you out after fucking you raw is part of the routine. Like your heart isn't currently trying to crawl out of your chest and disappear under the floorboards.

''You said I should stay,'' you remind him, because that's all you can cling to now, his own words, said so easily just days ago when his hands were still gentle and his voice was still kind. ''You said I should always stay after a night together. That it's the respectable thing to do. That you don't want to worry about me out alone at night.''

''I changed my mind.''

He still won't look at you. Like looking at you would make this real. Like your presence is something he has to ignore completely to make this easier on himself. Like he's already rehearsed this moment and now he's just waiting for it to be over.

You try again, your voice cracking, soft. ''Harry, please—''

''I'm not in the mood,'' he cuts in, leaving no room for discussion. ''Just go. I got you an Uber. Don't make this harder than it has to be.''

Panic flares under your skin. Instinct more than reason, you move without thinking, pulling your dress up your body in hurried motions, struggling to zip yourself up. It's something Harry usually does for you, always making a show of it, always making sure to kiss your shoulder before stepping away.

You give up on the zipper halfway. You just want to fix this, want to make it better, the way you always do.

Before he can tell you to leave again, you step forward, reaching for him, sliding your arms gently around his waist from behind. You press your cheek to the broad curve of his back, kiss the spot between his shoulder blades the way you always do when he's upset, when he's stressed, when he's somewhere you can't reach with words alone.

For a second, you think he might let you. But then his body stiffens under your touch, breath hitching, shallow in his chest.

And he flinches.

He jerks away from you like you've burned him, shoulder twisting sharply out of your grasp, shrugging you off like you're something repulsive he can't stand to have near him. You stumble back a step, arms falling uselessly to your sides, blinking at him in shock.

''Don't,'' he says, voice low and vicious. ''Just... don't touch me.''

The words taste like blood in his mouth. Everything inside him screams at him to take them back, to reach for you, to apologize, to fall into your arms the way he always, always, wants to when it's you. But his walls are up now, higher than ever, and he doesn't know how to tear them down without destroying himself in the process.

So he stands there, rigid and silent, forcing himself to feel nothing as he watches the hurt bloom raw across your face.

It's not just the words. It's the way he spits them out, like your touch is something filthy. Like you're some desperate, clingy thing he can't shake fast enough.

Your chest caves in on itself. You nod, even though it feels like your heart is physically tearing apart. You don't try again. You don't say anything at all.

He doesn't either.

There's something feral in his eyes. Not anger exactly, more like desperate frustration. Like he's trying to get you to hate him. Like he needs to burn this bridge before you get any closer to the parts of him he can't control.

He sees the heartbreak behind your eyes. You know he does. You see the flicker of guilt, tiny, barely there, before he crushes it down and tosses another dagger instead.

''You should be used to this by now,'' he mutters. ''Not like this is anything serious.''

It's the worst thing he could've said. And you know he knows it. You know because he still doesn't look at you. Because he throws the words like knives and doesn't wait to see where they land.

You swallow around the lump in your throat, nod slowly, eyes burning. Your body still aches, slick between your thighs, bruises blooming from where he held you down, and now he's pretending you're no one. Like none of it mattered. Like you didn't try to hold him together while he was falling apart inside of you.

You grab your phone without another word.

Your look for your bag, but you don't ask for help, don't let him see you search for it. You keep your head up. Refuse to cry in front of him. Not now. Not after this.

And when you walk out, heart in your throat, clutching your bag, you don't look back.

He doesn't either.

...

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

sugar, baby series tag list

@indierockgirrl @prettygurl-2009 @cherryflavoredbyme @dipmeinhoneyh @haliastyless @drewrry @maddiesalvatore1839 @robinsue87 @zoraaasyd @sincerely-yours-marsbar @m0mmyfromtarget @maudie-duan @hoolabalooba @hisparentsgallerryy @txmhxllqnd @harringtonhundreds @freddyselmstreet

general tag list

@2601-london @mads3502 @angeldavis777 @run-for-the-hills @postsexfistbump @hobireasns @madilee7802 @spinninc

...

[mleestiles]

Temptation

Pairing: Harry Styles × Reader

CW: NSFW, oral (male receiving), dominant!Harry, soft praise, mild roughness, possessiveness, filthy language, established relationship.

Synopsis: Harry’s tiny red shorts drive Y/N wild, and he knows it. One blowjob and a kitchen counter later, he’s got her bent over and full of him.

Harry looks like he’d stepped out of a damn 80s commercial.

It starts with those red shorts.

Barely-there, vintage, soft cotton, clinging to his thighs like sin. High-cut on the sides, with a white trim that somehow makes them filthier, the thin fabric hugging him like a second skin.

And he’s wearing them like he doesn’t know what they’re doing to you.

He’s lounging in the kitchen, shirtless, sweaty from a morning run, and there’s a faint sheen on his chest, his neck. A water bottle dangles from his hand as he scrolls through his phone, utterly unbothered, like his thick cock isn’t half-printing through those godforsaken shorts.

You stand in the doorway, silent, cheeks warm. Dressed in your little pajama set—tiny shorts and a tank top—biting your lip, legs pressed together as you stare.

Harry glances up, then smirks.

“Knew you were watchin’,” he murmurs, voice rough from the run, teasing. “Was wonderin’ how long you’d stare before your cute little brain broke.”

“I—” You stammer, then pout, shifting on your feet. “You’re evil.”

“M’not,” he says, grinning as he sets his bottle down.

You glare at him, but your thighs squeeze tighter. You can’t look away, he’s big and golden, relaxed, confident. The shorts ride up dangerously as he leans back on the counter, and you swear you can see the edge of—

You whimper.

Harry raises an eyebrow. “C’mere.”

You pad over slowly, biting your lip again. His hand finds your waist and pulls you closer until you’re standing between his legs.

“Y’can’t handle a bit of thigh, love?”

“It’s not just thigh,” you mutter, hands sliding up his slick chest. “You know what those shorts do.”

“Mmh.” He tilts his head, studying you. “Think you know what they do. Get all flustered when I wear ‘em. Get shy and squirmy, like a bunny.”

You gasp. “I do not.”

“You do.” He’s smiling, all pretty and condescending, brushing your hair back. “Cute little bunny with a filthy mouth when you’re needy.”

Your cheeks burn. His fingers trail under your chin, tilting your head up.

“You wanna taste, don’t you?”

You nod, dizzy already.

Harry leans in, brushing his lips over your cheek, then your ear. “Then get on your knees, baby. Be sweet for me.”

You drop immediately, kneeling on the tile, your hands trembling as they slide up his thighs. His legs spread for you, wide and lazy, and your mouth waters when you look up.

The fabric of the shorts is stretched thin now, there’s barely anything left to the imagination. His bulge is heavy and obvious, twitching slightly as you nuzzle close.

“You look so pretty like this,” he murmurs, voice low. “On your knees for me. All eager.”

Your fingers trace the edge of the shorts, and he hisses when you palm him gently through the fabric. The cotton is damp with sweat and heat, soaked in the scent of him. You press your nose against it, inhale deeply, moaning.

“Jesus,” Harry groans. “You’re fuckin’ desperate, huh?”

You nod again, looking up at him with wide eyes.

“Go on,” he says, breathless. “Pull ‘em down.”

You hook your fingers in the waistband, and he lifts his hips slightly to help. The shorts slide down his legs, pooling at his ankles, leaving him fully bare, and already half-hard, thick and heavy against his thigh.

You let out a tiny whine.

“Go slow,” Harry says, voice gentler now, his hand stroking your cheek. “Take your time, bunny.”

You lean forward, licking a stripe from the base to the tip. He shudders, letting out a low moan.

“That’s it. Such a good girl…”

You wrap your lips around the head, suck gently, swirl your tongue.

“Fuck.” His fingers slide into your hair, not pushing, just holding. “Mouth feels so good, baby.”

You suck deeper, slowly bobbing your head, hollowing your cheeks. He’s big—too big to take all at once—but you try anyway, spit pooling as you work him in deeper.

“Greedy little thing,” Harry growls, hips twitching. “Can feel your throat tryin’ to take it. You want it so bad, don’t you?”

You gag slightly and pull off, panting, a string of spit connecting your lips to the tip of his cock.

“I want all of you,” you whimper. “Wanna make you feel good, please—”

“You are,” he says quickly, voice thick with lust. “You’re perfect, bunny. My perfect little baby.”

You moan at the praise, eyes fluttering.

“Go on,” he urges. “Show me how good you can be.”

You dive back in, taking him deeper, drool slipping down your chin. His thighs flex around you, and you feel his hips jerk slightly as you suck harder, working the base with your hand.

“Fuck, fuck—just like that, baby.” He groans, head tilting back. “Y’r mouth’s unreal.”

Your hand strokes what you can’t take, your other gripping his thigh. He’s panting now, letting soft curses slip out as he watches you with dark, hooded eyes.

“Such a filthy thing,” he murmurs, almost in awe. “All shy upstairs and now you’re down here takin’ me like this… Christ.”

You hum around him, and he nearly chokes.

“Gonna come soon if you keep doin’ that,” he warns, voice strained.

You blink up at him, pupils blown, and then press in deeper until your throat tightens around him. He groans loud, tugging your hair.

“You want it?” he asks, chest heaving. “Wanna swallow for me, baby?”

You nod as best you can.

“Fuckin’—good girl. So good for me.”

His abs tense, and he thrusts once, shallow, before pulling your head down to meet his release. Hot and thick, it spills onto your tongue, down your throat, and you swallow eagerly, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes.

“Fuckin’ hell…” He’s breathless, hand cradling your cheek. “You okay?”

You nod again, licking him clean slowly, reverently. He strokes your jaw, then gently pulls you up into his arms, tucking you into his chest.

“Sweetest thing,” he whispers. “Knew those shorts would do somethin’ to you.”

You swat his chest weakly. “You’re evil.”

He laughs, kissing your forehead. “But you love it.”

That’s the last thing he says before his fingers curl tight around your hips, and he lifts you, just like that, onto the cold marble counter. Your legs dangle, your breath is shallow, and Harry’s still flushed from coming down your throat, but the look in his eyes says he’s nowhere near finished.

“You’re soaked, aren’t you?”

You whimper. “Yes.”

“Of course you are. Knew it the second you got on your knees—knew that pussy was drippin’ through your little shorts. All turned on from suckin’ me off like a good girl.”

You nod, thighs pressing together. “Need you…”

He steps in between them, crowding you against the cabinets, mouth brushing your ear.

“You’re gonna get me, sweetheart,” he says softly, almost lovingly. “But I want you bent over for me.”

Your stomach flips. He’s so calm, so commanding, but there’s heat in his voice that makes you squirm.

Harry steps back, taps your thigh. “Turn around. Hands on the counter.”

You scramble to obey, turning and leaning forward, your chest pressing to the cold marble. The hem of your tiny sleep shorts rises instantly, barely covering anything. You hear Harry groan behind you.

“Fuck. Look at you.”

His hand slides up your back, smooth and slow. Then down again, palm dragging over your ass, fingers tugging the waistband of your shorts.

“These need to come off.”

He peels them down, slow and deliberate, taking your panties with them. They hit the floor and you step out without a word, now bare from the waist down and dripping onto your inner thighs.

Harry kneels behind you for a second, spreading you gently, just enough to see.

“Jesus, bunny,” he breathes. “You’re soaked. Sucking me off got you this wet?”

You nod, helpless.

“I should keep those fuckin’ shorts on all day,” he mutters. “Just walk around the house with my cock swingin’ in ‘em, make you beg like this every morning.

You moan softly, arching back into him.

“You want it?” he asks, voice lower now, rougher. “Want me to bend you over and fuck this tight little cunt?”

“Yes—yes, please—”

“Then take it.”

He stands again, and the weight of his cock presses between your cheeks, thick and already hardening back up. His hands grip your hips, holding you steady. He drags his tip through your folds, slick with your arousal, teasing your entrance.

“You’re gonna take all of me,” he murmurs. “Aren’t you, pretty girl?”

“Yes,” you whisper, dizzy. “I want all of you…”

Harry pushes forward—slow at first—and your breath catches as the thick head slips inside. Your hands grip the counter, nails digging in.

“There you go,” he says, voice strained. “So tight—fuck, this pussy always takes me so good…”

He bottoms out in one slow thrust, hips flush to your ass. You cry out, head dropping.

“That’s it,” Harry groans. “Feel me, baby? Feel how deep I am?”

You nod desperately. “Feels so good—”

He pulls back halfway, then slams back in. The sound echoes, skin against skin, filthy and loud.

“Yeah?” he pants. “You like that?”

“Y-yes—harder—”

That’s all he needs.

Harry grips your hips tighter, using them for leverage as he starts pounding into you, relentless and deep. The counter shakes beneath you, and your thighs tremble as he drives his cock into your soaked pussy over and over again.

“Sound so pretty when you take it,” he growls. “My little bunny, getting fucked stupid on the kitchen counter…”

You moan shamelessly, pushing back against him, your slick making everything messy and wet. He leans forward, chest against your back, mouth right at your ear.

“This is what you wanted, wasn’t it?” he whispers. “Sucked me off just so I’d do this, bend you over and fill you up.”

“Yes—yes, Harry—please don’t stop—”

He doesn’t.

His pace stays brutal, steady, every thrust hitting that perfect spot. One hand slips down to your front, finding your clit, rubbing tight circles.

“Come for me,” he orders. “Right now. Want you to come all over my cock.”

Your body breaks. The orgasm tears through you fast and hot, making your legs buckle, your scream muffled against your arm. You clamp down on him as you come, and Harry curses behind you.

“Fuck—fuck, just like that—gonna fill you up, baby, fuck—”

You feel it seconds later, his release, hot and thick, pumping into you as he buries himself deep and stays there. His hips stutter through it, and then he stills, breathing hard against your back.

You’re both quiet for a moment, just the sound of panting, your heartbeat pounding in your ears.

Then Harry kisses your spine. Gentle. Reverent.

“Did so good for me,” he whispers. “Took it all like a perfect girl.”

You smile weakly, legs shaking as he pulls out slowly, come leaking from between your thighs.

“M’gonna clean you up,” he murmurs, stroking your back. “Stay right there, bunny.”

And when he comes back with a warm cloth, still in those damn red shorts, you can’t help the sleepy, satisfied grin that curls across your face.

[mleestiles]

elle's main masterlist

welcome to my corner of the internet! 💕

here are some things i'd like to clarify:

FIRST - i write mainly smut, but there will definitely be fluffy and angsty fics all the time, so don't worry; there's something for everyone! can't find what you're looking for? request your idea in the 'talk to me' box on my profile and i'll see what i can do! keep in mind this post will be updated as i post more :)

i'll take requests about almost any trope or au, but if i end up getting requests i'm uncomfortable with, i'll let you guys know along the way. even so, know that this is always a safe space no matter what!

if you'd like to be added to a tag list for any series or to my general tag list, you can let me know here.

don't forget to update your settings to see mature content if you'd like to read the smut i write!!! if you've got an age under 18 in your account settings, you're not able to read the smut!

FINALLY - every like, comment and reblog helps as a writer and it truly makes my day. all your love is greatly appreciated!

...

fics with mature content will be marked with a star (*)!

One Shots & Blurbs

right person, wrong address

When an envelope meant for Harry Styles ends up in your mailbox, what started with misdelivered mail might end up delivering something neither of you expected.

cabin pressure* cruising altitude (pt.2)*

He's your boss. You're his assistant. But 30,000 feet in the air, it's not exactly tour logistics he's asking you to handle.

Series

sugar, baby*

He pays in cash. You pay in obedience. a sugardaddy!harry styles x reader au series

...

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

[mleestiles]

cruising altitude (a sequel to ''cabin pressure'')

Summary: Professionalism takes a nosedive while mutual tension hits cruising altitude.

Warnings: teasing, fingering, oral (f!receiving), post-show sex, overstimulation, some degradation, slight praise kink, choking, dom!Harry, just generally really filthy honestly

A/N: ahhh it's finally here! i wanted it to be perfect for you guys. i've linked the first part of this in the title in case you missed it :) let me know if i've forgotten any warnings, i have a tendency for that, oops. hope it lives up to your expectations!

Word Count: 3,892

...

The Lisbon venue is buzzing with electricity. Crew members are scattered across the stage, marking spots, checking cables, adjusting lighting cues. You're sitting beside Harry in the nosebleed seats in the back of the stadium, clipboard in hand, walking him through the final pre-show rundown as he scopes out the venue before the show, but your mind is nowhere near the itinerary.

Not when he looks like that, black embroidered trousers clinging to his muscular thighs, sheer blouse half unbuttoned, showing off the tattooed swallows adorning his collarbone, hair a mess of curls from running his hands through them over and over again (much to the dismay of his hair stylist). And not when he hasn't stopped glancing at you with that look in his eyes all day.

Not long after your activities on the jet on the way here, the team had woken up to eat the (crappy) airline breakfast. You'd picked up the menu, and Harry had leaned over discreetly and lowly whispered in your ear something sinful. ''Gonna make you wait for it today.'' You hadn't realized he'd meant all day.

...

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

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

You barely make it to lunch.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

...

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then suddenly, he pulls away.

You're breathless. Empty.

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

...

The concert is torture.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The first lick makes your vision go white.

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

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

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

''Fuck, Harry, please—''

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

But it's too much.

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

He smirks.

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

You're ruined. He keeps going.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

''You want this?''

''Yes, fuck, yes—''

He slams into you in one sharp thrust.

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

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

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

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

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

''Watch.''

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

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

''Yes, Harry, please, harder—''

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

And then... he pulls out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You're both silent for a long moment.

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

Your whimper softly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

...

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

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@2601-london @mads3502

...

[mleestiles]

cabin pressure

Summary: He's your boss. You're his assistant. But 30,000 feet in the air, it's not exactly tour logistics he's asking you to handle.

Warnings: fingering, handjob, public sex, slight praise kink, a little bit of dom!Harry

A/N: thanks for the love on my first fic! this is the first smutty fic i've written, so you know the drill; don't take it too seriously. let me know if i've forgotten any warnings or if you'd like a part two because i've got some ideas ;) enjoy x

Word Count: 3,329

...

The cabin rumbles with a soft, steady vibration beneath your feet, the kind that settles in your bones after a while, a quiet reminder that you're thirty-thousand feet in the air with nothing but a view of the top of the clouds outside the window.

You've gotten so used to plane rides that they feel like buses now.

Life on the road tended to blur together after a while. Cities changed, skies shifted, but the routine stayed mostly the same: wake, work, soundcheck, show, sleep. Rinse and repeat. But somewhere in that loop, magic lived. The sound of a crowd screaming in the moments before Harry took the stage. The quiet backstage hum of instruments being tuned. The weird little moments, like brushing your teeth next to Harry in the bathroom of a green room or eating post-show ramen in sweatpants with the crew at 2 a.m. It wasn't glamorous, not always. But it was real. And weirdly beautiful.

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

Except you.

And Harry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shit.

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

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

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

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

And hopelessly, stupidly, quietly in love with him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink. ''Help with…?''

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

''I do,'' he says.

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

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

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

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

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

His gaze drops to your lips.

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

Your mouth goes dry.

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

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

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

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

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

His jaw tenses.

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

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

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

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

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

You hesitate.

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

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

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

Sweetheart.

It wrecks you.

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

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

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

And you nod.

One small nod.

That’s all it takes.

His hand slides higher.

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

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

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

''Liar,'' he murmurs.

And then his fingers brush the edge of your panties.

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

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

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

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

He doesn't rush.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You're shaking.

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

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

You do.

Without hesitation.

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

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

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

Your eyes roll back.

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

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

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

His other hand is moving.

You blink through the dim light.

He's gripping himself under the blanket.

''Harry—''

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

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

This shouldn't be happening.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You grip him tighter.

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

Neither of you moves for a long moment.

Just panting.

Reeling.

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

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

''Taste even better than I imagined.''

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

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

You shiver.

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

Like nothing happened.

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

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

And the line between boss and assistant?

Officially obliterated.

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

...

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

[mleestiles]

Don't Judge a Book by Its Cover | shy dom!harry

*originally posted on Patreon but due to the use of the word daddy it had to be removed*

MAIN MASTERLIST

Summary: No one would ever know that your shy, quiet boyfriend likes to dominate you in bed every night.

A/N: This is an apology for not having mean king out this week! I've been stressed and busy and while I've got chapter 3 mostly ready I don't want to post til it's 100%. So enjoy this fun little taste of my shy dom!harry in the meantime! xoxo

Word Count: 2.8k

Warning: smut, sub/dom dynamics (Harry's degrading but also gives praise!), daddy kink, size kink (yes always size kink)

. .

When you first met Harry you never imagined the kind of person he was under the quiet shy-guy façade. You had brought your old laptop to him in hopes that he could fix it so you wouldn’t have to buy a new one. His small computer repair shop was highly recommended. And when you saw him, well, he was something out of a dream. Tall with tan skin and light green eyes, a soft smile, dark curls, and he appeared healthy and strong.

Except he was very shy. Quiet. You explained to him the issue with your laptop and he ran a cord up to the desk and plugged it in, typed something on your keyboard, bringing up a strange screen. You watched as he did whatever he was doing and wondered if this guy had ever been laid. You soon learned just how wrong that initial perception was.

“You spend a lot of time here?” You asked in hopes of striking up a conversation.

He scrunched his brows together and looked up at you. “Uh… yeah.” And then he looked back at your screen intently.

But you didn’t stop there. If there was one thing about you it was that you could be kind of relentless. You’d get something out of him one way or another.

And oh boy did you get it. After he told you what he thought he could do to repair your laptop and that he’d have to keep it for a few days you gave him your contact information so he could call you when it was ready. From there… it was kind of a whirlwind after you asked him to hang out a few times.

You knew you could be a bit bossy and direct and so it felt like a really good fit as you got to know him the few weeks after first meeting him. He didn’t seem to mind you making all the plans and telling him what to do and when you introduced him to a couple of friends you ran into at the park one day they also noticed how quiet he was too. He was polite, but he didn’t talk much so you commented to your friends that he was just shy right in front of him and that was the first time you noticed that look from Harry. A sharp glance that made the hairs prick up on your skin. You brushed it off but wondered if he maybe didn’t like you talking about him like that in front of him. Had he been embarrassed by that? You hadn’t said anything mean or untrue but there was something in the way he looked at you that gave you pause.

And that night was the first time you had sex with him. He followed you into your apartment when you expected him to just drop you off like all the other times you'd hung out with him before.

“Oh you’re coming inside?” You grinned at him and he remained quiet as he stalked behind you until you’d opened your door and Harry slammed it closed behind him.

The Harry you knew in public had suddenly been tucked deep down into some hidden pocket and this new brooding man stood before you with dark eyes and a smirk on his face. “Did you have fun bossing me around all day? Talking about me to your friends and laughing?”

You were stunned as he moved in toward you and both of his hands ran up the back of your neck and he titled your head back. “Well? Was that fun for you?”

Swallowing you let out a shocked laugh. “Uh… I mean… I didn’t like mean to hurt your feelings… I just thought…” Of course, you couldn’t find the exact feelings and words at that moment because this was a different man standing over you gripping the back of your neck.

“Can’t spit out your words, little brat? How unusual that you suddenly can’t yammer on. I’m gonna make this easy for you. Now, you do what I say and keep your mouth closed for once. I don’t want to hear you talking back to me anymore tonight.”

And even if you wanted to you wouldn’t have been able to. You were not only stunned into silence but half the time he had his cock down your throat making you gag around him as he praised you for being so quiet for him. You hadn’t expected any of it but you fucking loved it. When he made you pull his pants down and get on your knees the first sight you caught of his dick was something unbelievable. You hadn’t realized he was going to be so immense.

But he was and he taught you a lesson that night. And that was to not judge a book by its cover. Quiet and shy in public but once the doors were closed he was a caveman who liked to dominate and spank you, spit in your mouth, and fuck you until you were nothing but a puddle of mush and silence and serenity.

You were obsessed.

You still kept up your normal daytime appearances. You were the bossy, mouthy, and outgoing girlfriend to everyone who knew you and he was the compliant, quiet, and shy boyfriend. No one had a clue. They all thought you were the one wearing the pants in the relationship. And you did it in front of everyone. You told him what to do and often would order his meals for him and talk over him if he did speak.

But he was the one in charge the moment you two were alone.

And you knew you were in for it that day. You’d gone out with some friends again for lunch and you sat on his lap with your back to him and yapped loudly to your friends about whatever. You ate his sandwich and then laughed when you pretended to realize that he was still there. “Oh god! I almost forgot you were here, you’re so quiet, Harry! You’re like a piece of furniture!” Your girlfriends laughed with you.

You felt him pinch your thigh. And not a nice little teasing pinch. A bruising one that made you jump and you turned to look at him and there it was. That look. You bit your lip and turned back to your friends and continued being a bit of a brat. You knew he’d have something to say about you calling him a piece of furniture. You couldn’t wait to see what he might do.

And it should have come as no surprise to you that when you got to his house, he had you naked and gagged, on your hands and knees while he sat in his chair with his feet on your back like you were a fucking stool for his legs. Payback for the furniture comment.

Drool was falling from your mouth and pooling on his carpet as you tried to stay steady but the longer you stayed in your position the harder it became to not wobble, especially with the way he was shifting his legs around and crossing them over your back and shoulders.

“Pathetic,” he murmured when he saw the puddle of saliva on the floor. “But it sure is nice and quiet like this. Prefer it actually.”

He read in silence for what seemed like forever until you nearly fell over and he pulled you up and dragged you between his legs, keeping you on your knees. “Pull it out and suck.”

So you did. You looked up at him as you undid his pants and he pulled the damp handkerchief from your mouth.

The moment his length was freed from his boxers he had his hand on the back of your head and pushed you down until you were gargling and sputtering around him. You kept your hands over his thighs as he bucked up and sighed.

“Fuck… all this mouth is good for is sucking cock isn’t that right?”

You couldn’t answer. But you'd have said yes if you could've.

The zipper on his jeans was irritating your chin but you’d never complain. Your face was hot and you pulled breath in through your nostrils every time you were allowed to come up for air but he pushed you down over and over again until he was satisfied with how well you’d taken him and then brought you up to look at your face. “Look at what happens to you when Daddy’s cock gets stuffed in your mouth. Just a drooling baby with her eyes all crossed. Acts all tough and bossy all day with me but can barely make a peep when my dick is in her face.”

You moaned and reached for his dick, opening your lips but he wrapped a hand around your throat and pushed you back as he stood, pulling you up with him. “Open.”

You parted your mouth and stuck your tongue out with your head tilted back just before he spit into your mouth and you kept yourself still as he inspected. “Swallow.”

Gulping down his saliva you fluttered your eyes up at him before he pushed you over the arm of his chair with your ass up and began to spank you. You jolted at each strike to your bum but the smile on your face juxtaposed the sting his palm caused your backside.

“You know you can’t get away with being a brat. Daddy’s always gonna win in the end. But you love it don’t you? Love getting put in your place.”

Harry’s cock was still swollen and thick, hanging out of the front of his pants as he groped your plush bottom and spread your cheeks, spitting a glob of saliva over your ass hole and another over your pussy. You were angled just right for him. He loved it when you were draped over his chair like this. Could see your anus and your wet pussy and could do what he wanted with you.

You squirmed your hips gently and then felt the hot skin of his tip pressing into your cunt. The first dip in always stretching tight and achy around him. You let out a pitiful cry and heard him laughing behind you. “This is Daddy’s hole isn’t it?”

He drove into you, filling your insides with inches and inches of length and girth before backing and out plunging in again.

“It’s Daddy’s!” You moaned.

Another gob of spit was dripped over your anus and then you felt him push his thumb inside. “Yes, it is. And this one too, yeah?”

“Yesss…”

His chair creaked as he pounded into your guts and your moans were muffled into the fabric of the chair as he panted in pleasure.

You loved when he stuck a finger or two in your ass while he was fucking you. It kind of held you in place because he didn’t fuck your pussy gently. It helped ground you in a way.

“My bratty girl is so sweet and obedient right now. Just offers her little holes up to me and lets me have my way because she knows she’s been naughty all day. Laughing at me, pretending she didn’t know she was sitting in my lap, eating my food...”

He groaned when he ground in, swiveling his hips in circles and sliding his thumb in, and pulling it back slightly to put more pressure on your anus. Everything was wet. Soaked. And you could hear it with every thrust he made.

Suddenly he pulled his cock out and his fingers were gone and you whined when you felt him leave your body but he didn’t give you much reprieve when you felt his hands grasp your chin and lift your face up to look at him, standing over you with that dark smile.

He slapped his heavy, wet cock into your cheek and puffed out a laugh when he did it on the other side, your arousal getting smeared on your face. “Is this what you love? Daddy’s big cock in your face?”

You gulped. “Yes. Love your cock, Daddy.”

Keeping your eyes on him he smacked his length over your mouth, popping it past your lips before pressing his hands into your cheeks, his thumb on one side and fingers on the other. “Open.”

The moment your wet lips parted he dipped into your mouth, watching the way your jaw went slack and how your lips wrapped around him. He didn’t shove himself in too far, but just enough that it had your eyes watering as you struggled to keep looking up at him.

He cooed at you and as he rocked his hips in and used his free hand to land his palm down on your sore bottom again. Your ass was still up with your hips down over the arm of the chair and you blinked trying to clear your blurry eyes. “Taste that?” Another harsh smack to your bottom.

You moaned around his cock in response.

“That’s mine. Your pussy juice that makes a mess of my cock... Mine. This ass?” He slapped your bum making you jump. “Mine. This throat and this mouth? Mine.”

You gurgled when he pressed in, grazing just the beginning of your tonsils before slipping it back out to the tip. “Everything is mine. So keep that in mind next time you mouth off to me in front of your friends.”

He pulled his cock from your lips and you gasped a breath and watched him as he tilted your neck upward uncomfortably. “Now do you want to come?”

His fingers were still smushed into your cheeks as you let out a feeble yes.

“How bad do you want it?”

He loosened up his grip so you could respond. “Please. So bad, Daddy. So fucking much. I’ll do anything. Every bit of me is yours… You own me…”

He kept his expression unreadable as you continued. “I need you. I want you to make me come. Please, Daddy. You’re everything… I'm begging you, please… I worship the ground you walk on.”

You knew the drill. He expected to hear you grovel for your orgasm. Especially after the kind of display you put on earlier. He listened to you demean yourself and praise him, beg him…

When he released your face he grunted and you felt him behind you again, this time pressing his warm, sturdy chest into your back. “Good girl, Y/n…” He pressed his cock back inside of you, slicing your through to your tummy and spreading you open as he slowly thrust.

“You always learn your lesson don’t you, baby? Need Daddy and his big cock to make it better?”

You nodded and whimpered. The delicious feel of him opening you up and sliding in would never get old.

“I know you need me, baby. Daddy needs you too. Wants to make you happy and give you the whole world… Gonna let me have that orgasm now? Gonna show me what a good girl you’ve been for me?”

He shoved his hand under your hips and found your clit, making you cry out. He knew just what you needed.

Slow strokes of his long dick wetly opened you up, his balls pressing into your skin every time he bottomed out, his deep voice in your ear. “Come for Daddy. Give Daddy your orgasm like a big girl. Come on honey…”

His voice was tight and you knew he was beckoning you to come so he could come too.

“M’gonna come… thank you, Daddy!”

You unraveled around his cock, spasming and moaning, drooling into the seat of the chair as he rolled your clit between his fingers and fucked into you so deep you saw stars. But then you felt his cock pulse and throb and he pressed his lips to the skin behind your ear and he moaned deeply as he pumped into you, relief taking over both of you.

When he pulled out he kissed your shoulder blade and pulled his briefs up his strong legs and walked away from the chair as you watched him with a pounding heart. He put some music on and pulled a book from the shelf before returning to the chair and helped you up so you could sit in his lap and he could read to you.

Your shy, quiet boyfriend was the only one who got you. The only one who understood who you really were. Deep down you were just a soft and submissive girl who wanted someone to spank her, to tell her what to do and how to do it, and then to love her and read her books and tell her she was his best girl. No one else would ever have guessed.

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