#Harry Styles x Reader

[cloudyluun]

Soft Spot

Summary: Harry Styles is the world’s most effortlessly cocky bastard in public. But behind closed doors? He’s soft for one person, her. Their love is private, sacred, the only thing that’s ever truly been his. But the internet is relentless, the rumors won’t stop, and she starts to wonder if she’ll ever fit into his world. Just when she’s about to pull away, Harry makes sure she never doubts it again. AKA: Soft (but also possessive) boyfriend Harry? Check. Jealous, protective, doesn’t-take-shit Harry? Also check. A public declaration, viral paparazzi moments, and one very necessary smut scene? You already know.

A/N: This fic is based on two requests (this one and this one from @dipmeinhoneyh) that fit so perfectly together I had no choice but to make it a full story. I hope you love it, I hope it makes you feral, and I hope you leave this feeling at least 10% more in love with Harry Styles than you already were. Also, if you ever see a man carrying all your bags through an airport while wearing your shirt?? Marry him immediately.

Word Count: 6k

Warnings: 

Smut (obviously)—possessive, praise-heavy, SOFT but also FILTHY

Harry being the most protective, doting, airport-sherpa boyfriend alive

Jealousy and minor confrontation (because someone was dumb enough to question her worth)

Public scrutiny and social media toxicity (but don’t worry, he shuts that shit down)

Excessive amounts of boyfriend fluff (back rubs, forehead kisses, and “mine” moments galore)

Did I mention the smut? Because THE SMUT.

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

Harry Styles was a menace.

Everyone knew it—especially the media. He wasn’t just the biggest name in music, he was also a nightmare to interview. He had little patience for industry bullshit, answered questions with nothing but a smirk or a sip of his drink, and rarely—if ever—gave the press what they wanted.

At this point, journalists had learned to come prepared when sitting across from him. They needed strategy, a solid game plan, and maybe even a shot of whiskey beforehand. Because Harry? Harry made it difficult.

And God, did he enjoy it.

The first clip that went viral was from a BBC interview.

The journalist was older, seasoned. She’d been in the game for decades and knew how to handle difficult personalities. Or at least, she thought she did.

The interview had been going fine—as fine as an interview with Harry Styles could be. He’d leaned back in his chair, one arm draped over the backrest, looking like he owned the place. Dressed in a half-unbuttoned silk shirt and tailored trousers, he was a picture of effortless arrogance.

Then she asked, “Do you think you’re difficult?”

Harry blinked. Didn’t move for a second. Then—slowly, deliberately—he picked up his drink, took a long sip, and held eye contact the entire time.

The silence stretched.

And stretched.

The journalist swallowed.

Finally, Harry licked his lips, tilted his head, and asked, “D’you think I care?”

The second clip was worse.

A different interview, a different day, same energy.

Harry was sitting in front of a panel of radio hosts, arms crossed, tattoos peeking out from under the loose sleeves of his sweater. The conversation had been moving along at a leisurely pace, touching on his tour, his latest album, the usual surface-level stuff.

Then one of the hosts leaned forward, smug, thinking he had the upper hand.

“So, tell us, Harry. What’s the song ‘Soft Spot’ about?”

Harry, who had been absentmindedly fiddling with one of his rings, paused. He exhaled through his nose, the barest hint of amusement curling at the corners of his mouth.

Then—without hesitation—he shrugged. “Dunno. Just a song.”

The hosts groaned in frustration.

The internet? Ate it up.

Edits of him smirking, of him dodging questions with effortless ease, flooded Twitter and TikTok. People captioned them with things like “This man is impossible” and “Certified menace behavior”.

The general consensus?

Harry Styles didn’t answer questions unless he wanted to.

Until someone asked about her.

It happened during a late-night talk show appearance.

The studio was dimly lit, the crowd buzzing with anticipation. Harry was perched on the couch, one leg crossed over the other, fingers playing absentmindedly with the chain around his neck. He was half-paying attention, answering questions with his usual brand of casual indifference.

Then the host, a sharp-eyed comedian known for catching celebrities off guard, grinned. “Alright, Harry. I have a question I think the people really want to know.”

Harry didn’t react much. Just arched a slow, lazy brow. “Yeah?”

“You’ve been seen with the same girl a lot lately…”

For the first time all night, something shifted.

Subtly. Almost imperceptibly.

But it was there, the way his fingers paused against the metal of his chain, the way his shoulders tensed, just slightly, the way his mouth twitched, like he was already biting back a smirk.

The audience leaned forward.

The internet, watching from their screens, held their breath.

Harry tilted his head, slowly. His lips parted, there it was. That signature smirk, the one that sent fans into a frenzy.

“Yeah?”

The host grinned, seeing the shift. “Care to comment?”

There was a beat of silence.

Then—Harry grinned. Not his usual mocking, I’m-so-over-this smirk. A real grin. The kind that made his dimples crease, the kind that softened his otherwise sharp edges.

His fingers tapped once, twice against his thigh.

Then, he looked directly into the camera, his voice dropping just a fraction.

“She’s great.”

The studio lost it.

The audience roared—cheers, gasps, the works. Twitter exploded before the show even finished airing. Within minutes, #ShesGreat was trending worldwide.

Fans analyzed the clip from every angle:

The way his face softened.

The way his body language changed.

The fact that he—HARRY STYLES, NOTORIOUS MENACE—HAD ACTUALLY ANSWERED.

He didn’t say her name. Didn’t confirm anything outright. But the shift in him? The softness in his voice?

That was all people needed.

It was real.

And the world wasn’t ready.

Y/N wasn’t famous.

She wasn’t an actress, a model, a singer, or an influencer. There was no glamorous past, no viral moment that put her on the map. No high-profile connections, no childhood dream of Hollywood stardom.

She was just a girl with a normal life—one that, up until a year ago, had been blissfully simple.

Her days had always followed a rhythm.

Morning coffee at her favorite little café, tucked into a corner booth with a book. Work, which she genuinely enjoyed—something steady, something real, something that felt like hers. Drinks with friends on Fridays, lazy Sundays spent in oversized sweaters, grocery shopping in peace without having to worry about cameras or strangers whispering her name.

She had a routine. A quiet, predictable world.

Then Harry Styles had walked into it.

And ruined everything.

She still didn’t know how it had happened.

It was easy to pinpoint the beginning—the first time their paths had crossed, the first time she’d realized that Harry fucking Styles wasn’t just a name on a magazine cover, but a person with thoughts and moods and an irritatingly sharp wit.

But she never expected it to go anywhere.

At first, he was just a guy who flirted too much.

Then he was a guy who made her laugh.

Then he was the guy she couldn’t stop thinking about.

And somehow—without her even noticing—he became hers.

It had been over a year now. Twelve whole months of him.

Twelve months of stolen moments, whispered conversations in the dark, secret rendezvous that always ended with his lips on her skin and his voice murmuring, “Just us, love. That’s all that matters.”

Twelve months of hiding.

Because Harry? Harry was obsessed with keeping her safe.

"It’s our life, not theirs," he told her once. "You don’t owe them shit."

She’d been curled up in his lap when he said it, her fingers tracing lazy patterns over the tattoos on his arm.

She had been scared that night—really, truly scared.

Her phone had blown up with messages from friends, all linking her to articles and Twitter threads dissecting her existence. Speculation had spread like wildfire after one blurry photo of them together made it online. Nothing too obvious—just a candid shot of her walking ahead of him, their fingers barely brushing.

But it was enough.

Enough for people to start digging.

Within hours, her social media had been flooded. Comments, theories, strangers demanding to know who the hell she was and why she thought she deserved him.

She had wanted to throw her phone into the ocean.

Instead, she had buried her face into the curve of Harry’s neck, inhaling the scent of him—warm skin and expensive cologne and something inherently his. Something safe.

“I don’t think I can do this,” she had admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

Harry’s grip on her had tightened immediately. Protective. Possessive.

“You don’t have to,” he’d murmured. “Not like that. Not the way they want.”

And that was how they lived. No red carpets. No public declarations. No letting the world in. Just them, in their little bubble—hidden away in hotel rooms and dimly lit apartments, in long drives with the windows down, in whispered confessions at three in the morning.

It was beautiful. It was safe.

But Y/N knew—deep down, in the quiet moments when she was alone with her thoughts—that the world wouldn’t stop trying to tear it apart.

Because it wasn’t just them anymore. It hadn’t been for a while.

And no matter how fiercely Harry tried to protect her from it, the outside world was still watching.

Still waiting.

Still hungry for cracks in the foundation.

They didn’t understand him.

The world saw one version of Harry Styles.

The public version. The one who didn’t give a single shit what anyone thought of him. The one who strolled into interviews with that lazy, half-lidded smirk, sprawled out in his chair like he had all the time in the world, deliberately giving them nothing just to piss them off.

“Harry, is it true you walked out of your last meeting with the label?”

He barely blinked. “Wouldn’t you?”

“Is it also true that you—”

A slow sip of his drink. A deliberate pause.

Then, just for fun, a cocked eyebrow. “Dunno. You tell me.”

Click. Click. Click. Cameras flashing. Headlines already writing themselves.

Harry Styles: Rock’s Most Arrogant Asshole.

Harry Styles—Too Famous To Care?

Harry Styles Gives Zero Fucks About Literally Everything.

It was a game. One he didn’t mind playing.

Because the more they focused on the persona, the less they looked too closely at what really mattered.

The less they dug into his real life.

The less they found her.

Because private Harry?

A completely different person.

Private Harry sent texts like, “be home in 5”, because he knew she worried. Because he knew she’d never say it out loud, but if he was running late, she’d start pacing the kitchen, chewing at her bottom lip, imagining the worst.

Private Harry stole her hand cream and chapstick just to smell like her when she wasn’t around.

Private Harry carried her bags through airports like they weighed nothing, insisting every time, “Not letting you lift a damn thing, love.”

Private Harry curled around her in his sleep, face buried against the curve of her neck, his fingers tracing absentminded patterns along her spine until he drifted off—breathing easier when she was there.

No one saw that Harry.

And he preferred it that way.

But every once in a while, the world got a glimpse.

And when they did, it fucking broke the internet.

One moment in particular had gone insanely viral.

It had been a bad day—one of those relentless, aggressive paparazzi swarms outside a studio in L.A.

Harry had already been in a foul mood—late for a meeting, running on three hours of sleep, coming off a night of back-to-back phone calls that had left him rubbing his temples in frustration.

The cameras had been waiting for him the second he stepped out the door.

“Harry! Over here!”

“Harry, how’s the new album?”

“Harry, what’s the deal with the tour delay?”

He ignored them. Didn’t even look up.

Then someone got too close—flashed a camera right in his face, nearly knocking into him.

And that was it.

He snapped.

“Fuck off, yeah?” Sharp, cutting, the words slicing through the air like a whip. His jaw locked, his body tense.

Paparazzi shuffled back, startled.

They knew his reputation.

They’d seen him do this before.

They thought that was the whole show.

Until Y/N appeared.

She had been standing a few feet behind him, waiting.

The second he turned and saw her, everything about him changed.

His scowl softened. His hands, which had been clenched into fists? Relaxed.

And in front of dozens of cameras, in front of the very people he’d just been spitting fire at, Harry immediately reached for her—a steadying touch to her back, a soft tilt of his head. “Y’alright, love?”

Quiet. Gentle. Intimate.

As if nothing else existed in that moment but her.

The paparazzi?

Fucking shook.

The clip blew up online within hours.

Side-by-side comparisons flooded Twitter:

🚨 Harry Styles telling the press to fuck off vs. Harry Styles turning into the softest human alive the second his girlfriend walks into frame. 🚨

Memes. Reactions. Fans dissecting the exact millisecond his demeanor changed.

WHO IS SHE?!

HOW DOES SHE HAVE HIM WRAPPED AROUND HER FINGER LIKE THAT?!

The discourse was endless.

And Harry?

Didn’t say a damn word about it.

Because as long as they were talking about that, they weren’t looking for more.

They weren’t digging deeper.

And that meant she was still safe.

For now.

But the internet was relentless.

Because the thing about secrets—especially ones that belong to someone as famous as Harry Styles—is that they don’t stay secrets for long.

And when people suspect even the smallest sliver of something?

They become obsessed.

It started with something small.

Something that, to anyone else, would have seemed like nothing at all.

Harry had been spotted leaving a café in London, his sleeves rolled up, sunglasses perched lazily on his nose, a coffee cup in one hand.

But that wasn’t what fans noticed.

No.

What they noticed was the bracelet on his wrist.

A thin, woven band. Nothing fancy, nothing designer.

And—most importantly—not his.

The theories exploded.

GUYS. HARRY’S WEARING A FRIENDSHIP BRACELET. HAS HE EVER WORN ONE BEFORE? NO. WHO MADE IT?!

Look at the colors. Do we think there’s a meaning?

I AM SO SERIOUS THIS IS A HANDMADE BRACELET SOMEONE IS IN LOVE WITH HIM AND IT IS NOT ME

WHO THE FUCK IS SHEEEE?

There was no confirmation.

No proof.

But that didn’t stop people from digging.

Because once the internet smelled a mystery, they wouldn’t let it go.

Then came the coffee shop photo.

Blurry. Grainy. Taken at just the right angle to be nearly useless—but not quite.

Because despite the bad quality, despite the distance, despite everything, one thing was clear.

He wasn’t alone.

There was a girl across from him.

A girl who wasn’t famous.

A girl who was sitting comfortably in his presence, laughing at something he said, one hand wrapped around her mug, the other resting—casually, easily—on the table between them.

Too close.

Too familiar.

Too real.

The internet lost its collective mind.

HARRY STYLES SPOTTED WITH THE MYSTERY GIRL IN LONDON—NEW GIRLFRIEND?!

HARRY DATING SOMEONE? WHO IS SHE?!

WHO IS SHE. WHO IS SHE. WHO IS SHE. WHO IS SHE. WHO IS SHE.

I KNOW WHO SHE IS @yourusername!!

The photo was picked apart frame by frame.

Theories flooded TikTok and Twitter.

Some people were excited—because Harry in love?! Soft domestic boyfriend Harry?! They’d been dreaming of this for years.

But not everyone was happy.

Because some people… some people wanted access.

Some people wanted control.

Some people wanted to destroy anything that felt too real.

It started small.

A few comments.

A few tweets.

A few people saying she wasn’t good enough.

That she was using him.

That she was just another clout chaser who would milk this for all it was worth.

Then the DMs started.

Vicious. Personal. Cruel.

You’ll never be good enough for him.

You’re ruining his career.

No one wants you here.

He’ll leave you just like he’s left all the others.

And she told herself that she wouldn’t let it get to her.

That it didn’t matter.

That these people didn’t know her.

That as long as Harry was with her—really with her—nothing else mattered.

But it wasn’t just online anymore.

Because now, when she stepped outside, she swore she could feel the eyes on her.

Now, when she walked into her favorite coffee shop, she hesitated—half-expecting someone to recognize her.

Now, when she reached for her phone, her hands shook.

She started pulling away. Just a little.

Stopped texting first.

Stopped answering right away.

Stopped leaning into his touch as freely as she had before.

And Harry—because of course Harry noticed—tilted his head at her one night when she turned away from his kiss, his brow furrowing, his thumb tracing soft circles against her wrist.

“Alright, love?”

Her chest ached.

Because he was looking at her like that.

Like he knew.

Like he could see right through her.

Like he was already worried.

She forced a smile. Pressed a quick, barely-there kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“Yeah,” she whispered.

And lied.

The industry party was a mistake.

Y/N had known it the second they walked in.

The air inside the private venue was thick with expensive perfume, whiskey, and the kind of arrogance that could only come from people who knew they were untouchable.

The laughter was too loud. The conversations too sharp, dripping with faux warmth and hidden daggers.

She felt out of place immediately.

It wasn’t her world.

It never had been.

And standing next to Harry—Harry, who fit into this world so effortlessly, who could command attention just by existing, who seemed to belong in a way she never could—only made it worse.

He hadn’t let go of her hand since they arrived.

Had kept her close, thumb brushing over the back of her knuckles, squeezing her fingers in silent reassurance every few minutes, as if he could feel the tension in her shoulders, sense the way she was holding her breath.

But no amount of grounding touches could change the fact that she didn’t belong here.

That much became even more obvious when the wrong person decided to open their mouth.

He was a producer.

Smarmy. Arrogant. The kind of man who loved the sound of his own voice and had been in the industry long enough to think he could get away with saying anything.

And for some reason—maybe it was the champagne, maybe it was just sheer audacity—he chose her as his next target.

“Didn’t think this was your type, Harry.”

Y/N froze.

Harry stiffened next to her.

The producer took a slow sip of his drink, eyes flickering over her like she was something to be inspected.

“Quiet little thing, huh? Thought rockstars liked more excitement.”

Her stomach dropped.

It wasn’t just the words.

It was the way he said them.

The smirk. The condescension. The absolute certainty that he was untouchable, that he could say whatever the fuck he wanted without consequence.

Y/N shrank back before she could stop herself.

And that was when Harry snapped.

He didn’t move right away.

Didn’t react instantly.

Just went completely, unnervingly still.

A muscle jumped in his jaw.

His fingers—still tangled with hers—tightened.

And then—slowly, deliberately—he turned.

And stepped right into the guy’s space.

Harry Styles didn’t have to raise his voice to be intimidating.

Didn’t have to yell, didn’t have to make a scene.

All he had to do was look at someone the right way.

And the producer? He knew.

He fucking knew.

Because suddenly, the confidence wavered.

The smirk faded.

The hand holding his drink trembled just slightly.

“She’s worth more than you ever will be,” Harry said, voice low, icy, laced with so much venom that Y/N shivered.

And then—as if to drive the point home—his hand found her waist, pulled her against him, shielded her from the world with nothing but the sheer force of his presence.

It was a warning.

A claim.

And everyone in the room fucking knew it.

He didn’t let go of her for the rest of the night.

Didn’t stop touching her.

Didn’t stop checking on her.

And when they finally left—when they were finally alone—he held her even closer.

She should have felt safe.

Should have felt protected.

But instead, something heavy settled in her chest.

Because the truth was, this wasn’t just about one asshole at a party.

It was about all of it.

The industry. The fans. The internet. The constant feeling of not being enough.

And maybe… maybe they were right.

Maybe she really wasn’t enough for him.

She wasn’t going to say it.

She wasn’t.

But then Harry—still holding her, still watching her like she was the only thing in the world that mattered—brushed his lips against her forehead, whispered, “You alright, love?”

And it just—it broke her.

Her breath hitched.

And suddenly, she was blurting it out before she could stop herself.

“Maybe they’re right,” she whispered, voice barely above a breath.

Harry froze.

“Maybe I’m not enough for you.”

His entire body tensed.

Like she had just physically hit him.

Like the words had physically hurt him.

“Don’t you ever say that again.”

It wasn’t a plea.

It wasn’t a request.

It was a command.

His hands framed her face, tilting her chin up, forcing her to meet his gaze.

And when she did—when she really looked at him—she almost couldn’t handle what she saw.

Because he was devastated.

Shattered.

“Don’t you ever—” His breath shuddered, his forehead pressing against hers. “—say that again.”

She swallowed. “Harry—”

“No.” His grip tightened, like he was afraid she’d slip away if he let go. “You belong with me. Here. Always.” His lips brushed hers, desperate, aching. “And I don’t care what anyone else says.”

She closed her eyes.

Breathed him in.

Let him hold her together, piece by piece.

Because if Harry Styles believed she belonged—

Maybe—just maybe—she could believe it, too.

The storm hadn’t passed.

Not really.

The world still had its claws in them, still watched their every move, still dissected every glance, every touch, every fleeting moment caught on camera.

But Harry… Harry never wavered.

Not once.

Not even when the headlines got uglier.

Not even when the whispers turned into full-blown speculation.

Not even when she started pulling back again, flinching at every flash of a camera, hesitating before reaching for his hand in public, terrified of giving them more fuel.

He noticed.

Of course he noticed.

But he didn’t push.

Didn’t force her to talk about it.

Didn’t tell her that she was still enough, still his, still the only thing in his life that mattered more than anything.

No.

Harry Styles didn’t waste his breath on words.

He showed her.

And the whole damn world saw it.

Madison Square Garden.

A sold-out crowd.

Phones up. Lights blinding.

It was a big night—bigger than most.

The kind of night that would be talked about for years, the kind of performance that would live forever in grainy fan videos, breathless social media posts, and blurry concert footage.

And she wasn’t supposed to be there.

Hadn’t planned on coming.

Had told Harry she’d stay home—avoid the cameras, avoid the crowd, avoid the possibility of being dragged into something she never wanted to be a part of.

But somehow—somehow—she found herself standing in the wings, heart in her throat, hands curled into fists at her sides as she watched him command the stage.

It was impossible not to be captivated.

Impossible not to watch the way he moved, the way he laughed into the mic between songs, the way he glowed under the stage lights.

He was in his element.

He belonged here.

And she—

Well.

She was just trying to stay invisible.

But then—

He turned.

Looked right at her.

And everything stopped.

Because suddenly—mid-show, mid-crowd, mid-fucking-Madison-Square-Garden—Harry Styles did something he never did.

He talked about her.

On stage.

For the world to hear.

“This one’s for someone who thinks she doesn’t belong in my world,” he said, voice steady, eyes never leaving hers.

The crowd screamed.

A roar—loud and deafening and completely unaware of what was actually happening.

“But she is my world.”

Her breath caught.

And then—before she could process what was happening—

He started playing.

A new song.

Unreleased.

Just for her.

And the lyrics—oh, the fucking lyrics.

They were filled with pieces of them.

Little inside jokes woven into verses, fragments of whispered late-night confessions hidden in melodies, the kind of details that only she would understand.

A love letter.

A declaration.

A warning to the world that she was his and he was hers, and that nothing—not the industry, not the headlines, not the relentless scrutiny of millions—could change that.

The internet lost its mind.

Clips went viral within minutes.

Fan theories exploded.

But none of it mattered.

Not really.

Because in that moment—in the middle of everything, in front of everyone, under the brightest damn spotlight possible—

It was just them.

And she belonged.

She didn’t hear the rest of the set.

Not really.

Not past the pounding of her heart, not past the static in her brain, not past the overwhelming realization that he had just done that.

For her.

For everyone to hear.

The screaming of the crowd blurred into white noise. The energy in the arena buzzed around her, the walls seeming to pulse with the sound of thousands of people still losing their minds.

But she couldn’t move.

Couldn’t think.

Couldn’t do anything except stare at the stage where he still stood, grinning like he hadn’t just shattered her entire world in the best possible way.

Because Harry Styles didn’t do things like this.

He dodged questions in interviews.

Shrugged off rumors.

Gave the media nothing to work with.

And yet, tonight—tonight, he had given them everything.

And she had no idea how to breathe through it.

Somewhere along the way, her fingers had curled into the fabric of her sweater, clutching at herself like it might help her stay grounded. Like she wasn’t seconds away from dissolving into nothing but feelings.

Because she knew what this meant.

Knew what it would cause.

Knew that by morning, headlines would be flooded with theories, and her name—or at least her existence—would be dragged into the light again.

But she couldn’t bring herself to care.

Because he’d said she was his world.

He’d said she belonged.

And maybe��just maybe—she believed him.

She was still in a daze when the show ended.

Still stuck in her own head when the lights in the arena dimmed, when the roaring of the crowd turned to scattered cheers and fading echoes of his name.

She barely noticed the way people moved around her.

Security, crew members, the distant hum of conversation—it all faded into the background.

Until—

“There you are.”

Her breath caught.

And then he was there.

Harry.

Still sweaty, still breathless from the high of performing, still looking at her like she was the only thing in the entire fucking world.

He didn’t say anything at first.

Didn’t ask if she’d liked the song.

Didn’t joke about how she’d better have been paying attention.

Didn’t do anything except close the space between them, hands gripping her face, lips pressing against her forehead, breath warm and shaky against her skin.

And she—

God.

She melted.

Because she could feel it—everything he wasn’t saying, everything he had already said on that stage.

The weight of it settled in her chest, so thick she thought she might break apart.

And then—so quietly she almost missed it—

“Tell me you’re staying.”

Her heart slammed against her ribs.

Because he knew.

Of course he fucking knew.

Knew how much she had struggled with this.

Knew how many times she had almost walked away.

Knew how much she loved him, but how terrified she was of all of this.

And yet—

His voice was steady.

Not desperate.

Not pleading.

Just… certain.

Like he already knew the answer.

Like he already knew her.

And maybe he did.

Because before she could second-guess herself—before she could let doubt creep in, before she could convince herself she wasn’t strong enough for this—

She nodded.

Just once.

And Harry fucking collapsed against her.

Exhaling like he’d been holding his breath for months.

Arms wrapping around her like he was afraid she might disappear.

Lips crashing against hers in a kiss that was anything but careful.

Because it wasn’t a question anymore.

Wasn’t a hesitation or a what if or an I don’t know.

It was real.

It was them.

And she was staying.

His hotel room was dark, save for the soft glow from the city outside.

But she barely noticed.

Because the only thing that mattered—the only thing that existed in this moment—was him.

Harry.

Pressed against her, warm and solid, breath still uneven from everything that had led to this.

His hands were everywhere.

Not rushed. Not desperate. Just certain.

Slow, teasing touches down her spine.

Fingertips tracing the dip of her waist.

Lips skimming along her throat, up to the shell of her ear, where his voice was low, husky, full of intent.

"Gonna remind you who you belong to, yeah?"

Her breath hitched.

Because fuck.

She’d heard that voice before—cocky, teasing, full of mischief when he was playing up his charm.

But this?

This was different.

This was a promise.

Her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, gripping, needing—but he wasn’t in any rush.

Because Harry didn’t just take.

He worshipped.

And she felt it.

In the way his hands moved over her skin—slow, deliberate.

In the way he kissed her—deep, devastating.

Like he had all the time in the world.

Like she was the only thing in it.

His mouth found the curve of her shoulder.

The dip between her ribs.

The inside of her wrist, where her pulse thrummed beneath his lips.

Every inch of her.

And with every kiss, every touch, came a whisper.

"You're everything, love."

"Perfect for me."

"Mine."

Her face burned, but he wouldn’t let her look away.

Wouldn’t let her shrink away from the way he saw her.

Because when she got shy—when she tried to hide—

He caught her chin, thumb tracing her jaw, forcing her to meet his gaze.

And fuck, that look.

Like she was something sacred.

Like she was something he could never get enough of.

"Look at you, taking me so well."

Her breath shuddered out of her.

And God, he knew what he was doing.

The filthy praise, the way he held her like she was precious, the possessiveness in his voice—

It was too much and not enough, all at once.

And he didn’t stop.

Didn’t stop until she was falling apart beneath him, gasping his name, hands tangled in his hair, nails raking down his back.

Didn’t stop until she was completely his.

And then—when the world had settled again, when their breathing was slow and tangled together, when she was half-asleep in his arms

Harry took care of her.

Of course he did.

Because he always did.

Pressed a kiss to her temple.

Murmured soft things against her skin as he cleaned her up, as he wrapped her up in him.

Strong arms pulling her close, keeping her warm, keeping her safe.

Only ever his.

And just before sleep pulled her under—

Just before her body fully relaxed against his—

She heard it.

Soft.

Low.

Meant just for her.

"Love you, you know that?"

And she did.

God, she did.

But what really got her—what really made her heart ache in the best, most devastating way—was that he never said it like he needed her to say it back.

Never said it like he was waiting for some kind of validation.

He said it like a fact.

Like the sun would rise tomorrow.

Like the sky was blue.

Like her being his was something permanent.

And maybe it was.

The airport was a nightmare.

The second they stepped inside, cameras started flashing, voices shouting—Harry! Over here! Is that your girlfriend?! Harry, can you confirm—

He ignored them.

Of course he did.

Didn’t even flinch.

Just kept walking, kept his hand firmly on the small of her back, kept her close.

And he was carrying everything.

Her suitcase.

Her tote bag.

Her carry-on.

Even the stupid travel pillow she’d nearly forgotten in the car.

Meanwhile, she was strolling beside him, completely unbothered, sipping her coffee like she didn’t have a single care in the world.

The contrast? Insane.

And the internet lost its mind.

The tweets came fast.

@stylesupdates: HARRY CARRYING EVERY SINGLE ONE OF HER BAGS WHILE SHE JUST DRINKS HER COFFEE??? SIR. YOU ARE WHIPPED.

@hslotlover: HE'S WEARING HER SHIRT (it’s posted on her Instagram @yourusername) AGAIN I CAN’T DO THIS TODAY.

Because, yeah.

He was.

It was an old, slightly oversized tee—hers.

The one she always stole from his drawer. The one she wore to bed whenever he wasn’t around.

And now?

Now he was wearing it in public.

On purpose.

Like some kind of quiet, undeniable statement.

Like a middle finger to the world.

But the real moment—the one that cemented it all—was the photo.

A blurry, candid shot someone snapped from across the terminal.

Harry, walking ahead, death glaring at the paparazzi.

Her, right behind him, looking effortlessly soft, untouchable.

And the caption?

"He’s still an asshole, and she’s still his soft spot."

And fuck.

If that wasn’t the truest thing anyone had ever said.

Because the world still didn’t get it.

But he didn’t care.

Because she was his.

And that was enough.

That had always been enough.

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

Thank you so much for reading, you’re a total angel! Don’t forget to like, comment, and reblog if you enjoyed! It means everything to me! 💖

taglist: @oscahpastry @mema10 @angelbabyyy99 @iloveharrystyles04 @cinemharry @drwho06 @donutsandpalmtrees @panini @mads3502 @imgonnadreamaboutthewayyoutaaaa @one-sweet-gubler @rizosrizos26 @ciriceimpera @everyscarisahealingplace @hello-heyhi @sexymfharriet @lizsogolden @hannah9921 @chicabonitasblog @huhidontknowstuff @berrywoods1245 @jennovaaa @angeldavis777 @prettygurl-2009 @almostcontentcreator @run-for-the-hills @maudie-duan @dipmeinhoneyh @harrrrystylesslut @georgiarose94 @stylestarkey @watarmelon212 @hopefullimaginer123, @fangirl509east @bethiegurl19 @adoredeanna @secretisme4 @harry2121 @hopefullimaginer123 @fangirl509east @uncassettodiricordi @2601-london @zbaby @harryscherries28 @michellekstyles

[ellewritesx]

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 murmurs, 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! 💕

[ghstyles]

Inevitable | His Angel

· · ─────────── ·· ────────── · ·

Pairing: College!Yn x CrimeBossl!Harry

WC: 7.9k

Summary: Harry is struggling to differentiate between a partnership and an ownership

His Angel Masterlist

· · ─────────── ·· ────────── · ·

The smell of garlic and tomatoes filled the air, mingling with the quiet bubbling of sauce on the stove. Y/N stood barefoot in the tiny kitchen of her apartment, stirring the pot of pasta while humming something off-key. The place was small, barely enough room for two people to move around without bumping into each other, but somehow, Harry didn’t mind.

He leaned against the counter, sleeves rolled up, watching her with a strange kind of focus. Not calculating. Not suspicious. Just…curious. Like he was still trying to figure out how she made this feel normal.

“How much longer?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder with a smile.

He checked his watch even though he already knew. “Two more minutes.”

She gave an approving nod and went back to stirring. “You’re weirdly good at timing stuff.”

Harry smirked. “Occupational habit.”

She didn’t ask what occupation. She never did, not directly. That was one of the things he liked about her. She didn’t force pieces out of him before he was ready to give them.

There was something different about nights like this. No weapons. No bodyguards. No phones buzzing with encrypted messages. Just her in a loose T-shirt and shorts, hair tied up, hands stained faintly red from the sauce she’d insisted on making from scratch.

He stepped behind her, resting a hand lightly on her waist as he peered over her shoulder into the pot. “You sure this isn’t going to poison me?”

She elbowed him gently. “If I wanted to kill you, I wouldn’t use marinara.”

His laugh was low, real, and surprised even him a little. It echoed off her narrow kitchen walls, like something unfamiliar trying to find its place.

She turned, looked up at him with those bright, honest eyes, and smiled.

“I’m going to the bathroom,” she said, tiptoeing to press a kiss to his cheek before padding away.

Harry stayed where he was, hand still hovering in the air from where she’d touched him. He stared at the empty space she left behind, the quiet warmth still clinging to his skin before taking over the stirring.

This was different.

And for once, he wasn’t sure if that scared him or made him want more.

His thoughts were interrupted by her screams 

Harry's entire body tensed at the sound, instinct taking over before conscious thought. In one fluid motion, he dropped the wooden spoon, pulled his gun from the waistband of his jeans, and was moving toward the bathroom.

The door was unlocked, although he'd have kicked it down if it wasn't, and he pushed it open with his shoulder, weapon raised and ready. His eyes scanned for threats, body positioned to shield Y/N from whatever danger had caused her to scream.

"What is it?" His voice, deadly calm, yet the one that made grown men tremble. His eyes continued sweeping the small bathroom, looking for an intruder, a threat, anything that would explain her terror.

The bathroom appeared empty except for Y/N. Nothing seemed out of place. No broken windows. No signs of forced entry. But Harry knew better than most that danger could hide in plain sight.

"Angel, talk to me. What happened?" His grip on the gun didn't loosen, his body remaining between her and the door, ready to eliminate whatever had frightened her.

“Harry!” She says, clutching the back of hs shirt, “there’s a huge spider over there” she points to under the sink

Harry's entire demeanor shifts in an instant. The lethal tension in his body doesn't quite leave, but his expression changes to one of disbelief. He stares at Y/N for a beat, then looks toward the sink where she's pointing.

There is indeed a spider there. Not particularly large by his standards, but clearly enough to terrify her.

He slowly lowers his gun, tucking it back into his waistband with deliberate movements. When he turns to face her, his expression is a dangerous mixture of relief and irritation.

“A spider.” His voice is flat. “You screamed like someone was murdering you...because of a fucking spider?”

Y/N lifts her chin, acting a lot calmer than she felt. “It jumped, Harry. It had intent.”

He runs a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. The adrenaline is still pumping through his system, his body primed for violence that isn’t necessary.

“Christ, Y/N. I thought—” He cuts himself off, jaw tensing. “Don’t scream like that unless someone’s trying to hurt you. I nearly shot first and asked questions later.”

Her expression softens, guilt flickering behind her eyes. “Sorry...I didn’t mean to freak you out. I just…spiders. They’re unpredictable.”

Despite his harsh words, he turns back toward the sink, grabbing a piece of toilet paper. “Where is the little bastard? Under here?”

He crouches down, muttering under his breath something that sounds suspiciously like “fucking spiders causing more problems than the Italians.”

Y/N stands a safe distance back, arms crossed. “For the record, I would’ve handled it myself if it wasn’t plotting my assassination.”

“Assasination” he scoffs under his breath

She pouts, “don’t make fun of me. I could have died” she says dramatically.

Harry glances over his shoulder at Y/N's dramatic pose, one eyebrow raised as he reaches under the sink.

"Died? From this?" He emerges with the tiny spider trapped in the tissue, holding it up for her to see. "This little thing? It's smaller than my fucking thumbnail."

Y/N's eyes widen at the sight of the spider, even safely contained in tissue. She takes another step back.

"It was huge from where I was standing! And it moved so fast. Don't bring it closer to me, Harry!"

Harry's lips twitch, fighting back what might almost be a smile. He stands, purposely taking a step toward her with the tissue-wrapped spider.

"What's wrong, angel? Thought you were dying a minute ago. Want to say goodbye to your would-be killer?"

"Harry Styles, I swear to God—" Y/N backs up until she hits the wall, pointing an accusatory finger at him. "If you come any closer with that thing, you're…sleeping on the couch for a week!" 

Seriously? They didn't even live together. But that was all her fear filled brain could conjure. 

He chuckles, a low, dangerous sound that doesn't match the surprisingly playful glint in his eyes. He moves to the toilet and flushes the spider away.

"Empty threats, princess. We both know you can't sleep without me." He washes his hands thoroughly before turning back to her, leaning against the sink with his arms crossed. "Besides, my couch costs more than most people's cars. Wouldn't exactly be a punishment."

Y/N rolls her eyes, her heartbeat finally returning to normal now that the spider is gone.

"My hero," she says sarcastically. "Saving me from the terrifying arachnid menace."

Harry pushes off from the sink, closing the distance between them in two strides. He places one hand on the wall beside her head, effectively caging her in.

"Next time you scream like that, it better be because you're in real danger..." his voice drops lower as he leans in "...or because I'm making you come so hard you can't help yourself."

“Harry!” She says, shoving him back. Her cheeks flush. “I’m pretty sure our dinner is burning”

He doesn't budge when she shoves him, solid as a wall. His eyes darken at the sight of her flushed cheeks, clearly enjoying her reaction. He leans in closer, his breath hot against her ear.

"Let it burn," he murmurs, lips brushing against her skin. "I'm suddenly in the mood for something else."

The scent of something scorching finally registers, and Y/N ducks under his arm, escaping his cage.

"The pasta, Harry!" She hurries toward the kitchen, her bare feet padding quickly across the floor.

Harry follows at a more leisurely pace, watching her rush to save their dinner with amused interest. By the time he reaches the kitchen, Y/N is already turning off the burner, waving away the smoke rising from the pot.

"Shit," she mutters, looking at the blackened bottom of the sauce. "It's ruined."

Harry leans against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, observing her disappointment with a mixture of amusement and something softer he'd never admit to feeling.

"I told you to let it burn," he says, voice low and teasing. "But now we have no dinner and I'm still hungry."

He pushes off from the doorframe, stalking toward her with predatory grace.

"We could order in," Y/N suggests, still fanning at the smoke, not noticing his approach until he's right behind her.

"Or," Harry says, strong hands settling on her hips, spinning her to face him, "I could just eat you instead."

Before she can protest, he lifts her easily, setting her on the counter beside the ruined dinner, positioning himself between her legs.

"What do you say, angel? Still worried about the fucking pasta?"

Y/N blinks at him, her fingers clutching the edge of the countertop tightly. Two months into their relationship, she still wasn't fully accustomed to Harry’s intensity. She’d been confident, teasing, self-assured, even a little cocky.when they first met, holding her ground against his sharp gaze and sharper words. But being with him, really with him, and catching glimpses of the ruthless man beneath the gentle hands and teasing smiles…it made her pulse race and stomach tighten with nervous anticipation.

Not nervous in a bad way. Never in a bad way.

Maybe, she realized, it wasn’t just seeing the real him that unsettled her. Maybe it was that, the longer she spent with him, the more her own mask slipped. The confident front she’d worn to impress him at the beginning was gradually replaced with something softer, something more genuine. Vulnerable. Real.

She swallowed softly, meeting his dark gaze through lowered lashes. "I was really looking forward to it," she admitted softly, voice barely above a whisper.

Harry studies her face, reading her nervousness with practiced ease. Something in his expression shifts, not softening exactly, but recalibrating. His hands remain on her hips, but his grip loosens slightly.

"You really wanted the pasta that badly?" he asks, his voice dropping its seductive edge, replaced with genuine curiosity. "Why?"

Y/N looks down, fingers still gripping the counter edge.

"I just..." she hesitates, looking almost embarrassed. "I wanted to make you dinner. A real dinner. I thought it would be nice."

Harry's thumb traces small circles on her hip, a rare gesture of reassurance. His other hand moves to tilt her chin up, forcing her to meet his gaze.

"You were cooking for me," he states rather than asks, his expression unreadable.

Y/N nods, looking vulnerable in a way that would make Harry want to destroy anyone else who showed such weakness. But with her, it stirs something different.

"No one's cooked for me since..." he stops, jaw tightening as if catching himself revealing too much. "It doesn't matter."

He steps back, creating space between them, and runs a hand through his hair.

"Get your coat," he says abruptly, his tone leaving no room for argument.

"What? Why?" Y/N asks, confused by the sudden shift.

"Because I'm taking you out." Harry reaches for his keys on the counter. "If my girl wants dinner, she gets dinner."

My girl. 

The words echo softly in his own mind, startling him with their sincerity. They feel foreign yet oddly comforting, slipping naturally past his defenses and settling deep into his chest. He’s never been possessive like this before. Protective, yes, territorial even, but never with this quiet, intimate kind of claim. Calling her his made his chest tighten, emotion stirring inside him that he wasn't entirely ready to acknowledge.

But the feeling was there, undeniable and real.

He helps her down from the counter, his touch gentler than most would believe him capable of.

"But Harry, it's late and—"

"There's a place across town. Owner owes me." The corner of his mouth quirks up. "They'll open for us."

The unspoken truth hangs in the air.  Harry could get anything he wanted in this city with a single phone call, that doors would open and people would scramble to please him out of fear or debt or both.

"Get your coat," he repeats, softer this time. "I want to watch you eat something that isn't fucking burnt."

“And whose fault is it that it’s burnt?” She smiles, pecking his cheek before making her way to her room to change really quickly

Harry watches her walk away, his eyes tracking her movements with possessive attention. When she's out of sight, he pulls out his phone, making a brief call. His voice shifts to something colder, more commanding than what he uses with Y/N.

"Thomas. I need the restaurant open in twenty. Just one table." He pauses, listening. "I don't give a fuck what time it is. Make it happen."

He ends the call just as Y/N returns, now wearing a simple dress that hugs her curves. Harry's eyes darken appreciatively as he takes her in.

"That was quick," he comments, reaching for her coat before she can grab it herself. He holds it open for her to slip into. It was a surprisingly gentlemanly gesture from a man who had ordered three hits last week.

"I didn't want to keep you waiting," Y/N replies, sliding her arms into the coat sleeves. "You get grumpy when you're hungry."

"I get grumpy when I don't get what I want," he corrects her, his hands lingering on her shoulders after adjusting her coat. "And right now, I want to feed you."

He guides her toward the door with a hand on the small of her back, grabbing his car keys.

"You know," Y/N says as they step into the hallway, "normal boyfriends just order pizza when dinner gets ruined."

Harry locks the door behind them, his expression amused.

"When have I ever given you the impression that I'm normal?" He leads her toward the elevator, his hand never leaving her back. "Besides, last one kept staring at you," he adds, almost as an afterthought. "That's why we don't order pizza anymore."

Y/N's eyes widen slightly. "Harry...what did you do to that delivery boy?"

The elevator doors close, and Harry's reflection smirks in the mirrored wall.

"Nothing permanent," is all he says, pressing the button for the lobby level. "Just made sure he found a new route."

· · ─────────── ·· ────────── · ·

The restaurant is empty except for them, just as Harry demanded. The lighting is dim, the atmosphere intimate, with a single table set in the center of the room. The owner himself has been serving them, his hands trembling slightly whenever Harry's gaze falls on him.

Harry is cutting into his steak when he notices Y/N's attention fixed on her phone under the table, her brow furrowed in concentration. He pauses mid-cut, watching her for a moment before reaching across and plucking the device from her hands in one swift movement.

"What's so fucking important that—" He stops, looking at the screen, his expression shifting from annoyance to disbelief as he reads aloud: "'Fatal spider bites per year in the United States.'"

Y/N reaches for her phone, cheeks flushing. "Give it back!"

Harry holds it just out of her reach, scrolling through the search results with his thumb, his lips twitching dangerously.

"Seven deaths," he reads, looking up at her with barely contained amusement. "Seven people out of three hundred and thirty million. You're literally more likely to be killed by a fucking cow."

He slides the phone back across the table, watching as she snatches it up defensively.

"I was just checking," she mutters, putting the phone away in her purse.

"Checking if your dramatic performance in the bathroom was justified?" Harry takes a sip of his whiskey, eyes never leaving her face. "It wasn't, by the way."

Y/N narrows her eyes at him. "You don't know what that spider was thinking. It could have been venomous."

"Angel," Harry leans forward, lowering his voice despite them being alone, "I've seen men with guns try to kill me with less conviction than you had about that spider."

The owner approaches nervously to refill their wine glasses. Harry barely acknowledges him with a glance, but it's enough to send the man scurrying away again.

"If you're so worried about dying," Harry continues once they're alone, cutting another piece of his steak, "you should reconsider who you're having dinner with. That spider's got nothing on me."

Y/N takes a bite of her pasta, properly cooked this time, and points her fork at him. "At least you warn me before you bite."

Harry's expression darkens with heat, a slow smile spreading across his face that makes the owner, watching from across the room, visibly shudder.

"Is that a request, sweetheart?"

“No!” She says quickly, flush creeping up her neck. “Just an observation. And…behave. We’re in public”

Harry's gaze travels from her flushed neck back to her eyes, lingering deliberately on her lips in between. The predatory smile doesn't fade.

"Public?" He gestures around the empty restaurant with his knife. "Do you see anyone else here? Thomas cleared out his entire staff except for himself, and he knows better than to look our way unless I call him over."

As if on cue, the owner's eyes dart away when Y/N glances in his direction. The man busies himself polishing already clean glasses behind the bar, clearly trying to become invisible.

Harry sets down his knife and reaches across the table, his fingers capturing her wrist. His thumb strokes over her pulse point, feeling it quicken under his touch.

"I could bend you over this table right now," he says, voice low and matter-of-fact, "and no one would say a fucking word about it."

Y/N tries to pull her hand away, but his grip tightens just enough to hold her in place.

"Harry!" she hisses, looking mortified. "That's—you can't just—"

"Can't I?" His thumb continues its maddening circles on her wrist. "This entire block belongs to me, angel. I can do whatever I want."

He releases her wrist suddenly, picking up his utensils again as if nothing happened.

"But I won't," he adds, cutting another piece of steak. "Not because we're in public, but because I'd rather take my time with you later."

He takes a bite, chewing thoughtfully before adding: "Besides, you haven't finished your pasta. And after all the drama about cooking dinner, it would be a shame to waste this one too."

Y/N stares at him, caught between relief, embarrassment, and something darker she doesn't want to examine too closely. The thrill that runs through her at his words.

"You're impossible," she finally says, picking up her fork again.

"No," Harry corrects, pointing his knife at her. "I'm inevitable, sweetheart. There's a difference."

He signals for more wine, and Thomas appears instantly at their table, pouring with shaking hands.

“Thank you” Y/N looks over to Thomas and offers a warm smile that hopefully balances out Harry’s whole intimidation act. 

Thomas freezes mid-pour, clearly startled by Y/N's kindness. His eyes flick nervously to Harry, as if seeking permission to acknowledge her directly. When Harry doesn't immediately object, the owner manages a trembling smile in return.

"Y-you're welcome, miss," he says quietly, his accent thickening with anxiety. "Is everything to your liking?"

Before Y/N can answer, Harry's hand shoots out, gripping Thomas's wrist with enough force to make the man wince. The wine bottle tilts dangerously, a drop spilling onto the white tablecloth.

"You're here to serve, not chat," Harry says, his voice deceptively soft but carrying an unmistakable edge. "Pour the wine and fuck off."

Thomas nods frantically, finishing the pour with trembling hands before backing away. Y/N waits until he's out of earshot before turning to Harry with a disapproving look.

"That was unnecessary," she says, folding her napkin in her lap. "He was just being polite."

Harry takes a slow sip of his wine, watching her over the rim of his glass.

"He was staring at you."

"He was not," Y/N protests. "And even if he was, that's no reason to terrify the poor man. He's just doing his job."

Harry sets down his glass, his expression unchanged but something dangerous flickering behind his eyes.

"His job is to serve food and keep his eyes on the fucking floor. Not to smile at what's mine."

Y/N's cheeks flush with a mixture of embarrassment and indignation.

"I am not a 'what,' Harry. I'm a person. And you don't own me."

The restaurant seems to grow quieter, if that's possible. Harry goes still in that particular way that makes even his most hardened men nervous. The calm before a storm.

"Don't I?" he asks softly, leaning forward slightly. "Tell me, angel, whose car do you drive every day? Whose credit card is tucked in your purse right now? Whose clothes do you wear when you fall asleep?"

Y/N opens her mouth to argue, then closes it again, her jaw tightening.

"That doesn't mean you own me," she finally says, her voice quieter but no less determined. "It means you take care of me. There's a difference."

Something shifts in Harry's expression. The barest hint of surprise, quickly masked. He studies her for a long moment before his lips curve into a small, dangerous smile.

"Taking care of what's mine," he corrects, picking up his fork again. "But we can call it whatever helps you sleep at night, sweetheart."

He glances toward Thomas, who's trying to disappear into the shadows of the bar.

"Eat your pasta before it gets cold. Again."

“No,” she says firmly, crossing her arms over her chest. “I won’t.”

She leans back in her chair, tension radiating off her in waves, eyes flashing with stubborn defiance. Her expression is guarded, a subtle tremor running beneath the strength she’s trying hard to project. It’s obvious she’s upset, hurt even, and she isn’t making any effort to hide it from him.

Harry's fork pauses halfway to his mouth. The restaurant seems to drop several degrees in temperature as he slowly sets it down, the metal clinking against fine china with deliberate precision. He watches her closely, his jaw tightening imperceptibly. He isn't accustomed to this kind of open resistance from her, not like this. Usually playful, usually teasing, their arguments until now have been surface-level, nothing deeper. But this, this silent challenge, this quiet anger, is new. It pushes at boundaries neither of them have fully tested yet, pulling them both into unfamiliar territory.

His face is unnervingly calm, but his eyes have gone cold. Its the same expression his men have learned to fear. He studies Y/N like she's a puzzle he can't quite figure out, or perhaps a problem requiring elimination.

"No?" he repeats, the single word carrying weight far beyond its simplicity.

Across the restaurant, Thomas has gone completely still, like prey sensing a predator. Even the soft classical music playing in the background seems to fade.

Harry leans forward, forearms resting on the table, his voice dropping to that dangerous quiet that usually precedes violence.

"Let me be very clear about something, Y/N. No one says no to me. Not my men, not my enemies, and certainly not the woman warming my bed."

Y/N swallows but doesn't back down, though her crossed arms now look more protective than defiant.

"Well, I just did," she says, her voice impressively steady despite the fear flickering in her eyes. "I won't eat while you're treating me like a possession instead of a partner. And I won't sit here while you terrorize innocent people just because you can."

Harry's jaw tightens, a muscle twitching. For several long seconds, he says nothing, the silence stretching taut between them.

When he finally speaks, his voice is dangerously soft. "Two months with me, and suddenly you think you know how this works?"

He reaches for his whiskey, taking a deliberate sip before continuing.

"You walked into my world with your eyes wide open, angel. You knew exactly who I was. What I am." His gaze is unflinching. "Did you think I'd change? Become soft because you spread your legs for me?"

The cruel words hang in the air. Y/N flinches as if struck, tears welling in her eyes. She pushes her chair back, standing abruptly.

"Take me home," she says, voice thick with unshed tears. "Now."

Harry remains seated, looking up at her with an expression that gives nothing away.

"Sit down."

"No," she repeats, more firmly this time despite the tremor in her voice. "Either take me home or I'll call a cab."

Something dangerous flashes in Harry's eyes. A glimpse of the violence that's always simmering beneath the surface.

"You walk out that door without me, sweetheart, and you better keep walking. All the way out of my city."

It's not just a threat–It's a promise.

They stare each other down for a charged, unbearable moment, silence crackling between them like an impending storm. Y/N lifts her chin, gathering every bit of courage she has left.

“I won't let you speak to me this way," she says, voice shaking yet fierce, breaking the silence like glass shattering. "I don’t care who you are or what you’ve done for me.”

She presses the heels of her palms against her eyes, forcing back tears born from hurt and fury. When she drops her hands, there’s resolve in her expression, her gaze unsteady but determined, as she turns sharply on her heel, walking away from him and toward the door without looking back.

Harry watches her walk away, his expression carved from stone. For a moment, it seems as though he'll let her go. That whatever had built between them over the past three months will end here, in this empty restaurant with her retreating back.

Thomas, still frozen by the bar, doesn't dare breathe as Harry slowly rises from his chair. The movement is deliberate, predatory. He tosses his napkin onto the table and follows Y/N, his pace unhurried but purposeful.

He catches her just as her hand reaches for the door, his fingers wrapping around her upper arm. Not painful, but firm enough to stop her.

"Look at me," he demands, his voice low.

Y/N keeps her face turned away, tears still threatening to spill despite her efforts to contain them.

Harry's other hand comes up to grip her chin, turning her face toward him with surprising gentleness considering the storm in his eyes.

"I said, look at me."

She meets his gaze then, defiant despite her tears. For a long moment, they stare at each other, a battle of wills where they both know he could overpower her physically, but somehow, she's managing to challenge him anyway.

Something shifts in Harry's expression, not exactly softening, but recalibrating. His thumb brushes across her cheek, catching a tear before it can fall.

"You're the only person alive who could walk away from me like that," he says quietly, his voice rough with an emotion he can't quite name. "The only one I'd follow."

He releases her chin but keeps his hold on her arm, his eyes never leaving hers.

"I don't know how to be what you want," he admits, the words clearly costing him. "This—" he gestures between them "—isn't something I've done before."

Y/N swallows, her anger still evident but mingled with something else now.

"I'm not asking you to change who you are, Harry. I'm asking you to respect who I am."

Harry's jaw tightens, his eyes searching her face as if looking for weakness, for deception. He finds neither.

"My car" he finally says, but his tone has changed—it's still commanding, but lacks the earlier cruelty. "We'll finish this conversation at home."

He leads her to the door they originally came through, his hand moving to the small of her back. A possessive gesture, but one that feels more protective than controlling now.

As they pass Thomas, Harry pauses, his voice carrying clearly in the silent restaurant.

"The bill's been settled. If I hear a single word about tonight from anyone, I'll burn this place to the ground with you in it."

It's a reminder to Y/N as much as to Thomas that while he might bend for her, Harry Styles remains exactly who he's always been.

Harry still holds the car door open for her, the silence between them heavy and oppressive. She climbs in without meeting his gaze, her movements sharp and guarded. Settling into the seat, she crosses her arms tightly across her chest and turns slightly away, angling her body toward the window as if placing an invisible barrier between them.

Harry closes the door gently, too gently for the violence still simmering under his carefully maintained composure, and walks around the car, sliding into the driver's seat without a word. The tension in the small space feels suffocating, thick enough to choke on. 

The sleek black Audi cuts through the night, its engine a low, powerful growl that matches the tension inside. Harry drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gearshift, his knuckles white with tension. His eyes remain fixed on the road ahead, but his awareness of Y/N is palpable.

The silence between them is heavy, charged with unspoken words and the aftermath of their first real confrontation. Street lights flash across Harry's face in rhythmic intervals, highlighting the sharp angles of his jawline, clenched tight with restraint.

After several minutes of suffocating silence, Harry speaks, his voice low but controlled.

"You know what I do," he says, not a question but a statement of fact. "You know who I am. What did you expect?"

Y/N continues staring out the passenger window, watching the city blur past. For a moment, it seems she might not answer.

"I expected to be treated with respect," she finally says, her voice quiet but firm. "Not like another one of your possessions."

Harry's grip on the wheel tightens, his knuckles going even whiter.

"Respect," he repeats, as if testing the word. "The men who respect me do so because they fear me. Is that what you want, Y/N? To fear me?"

He takes a sharp turn, the car's tires squealing slightly on the asphalt. When Y/N still doesn't look at him, something in his composure fractures.

"Answer me," he demands, the command in his voice impossible to ignore.

Y/N finally turns to face him, her eyes still reddened from earlier tears but her gaze steady.

"No, I don't want to fear you. And I don't. But that doesn't mean I'll let you treat me like you treated Thomas tonight. Or like you own me because you pay for things."

Harry's jaw works as he processes her words. They stop at a red light, and he turns to look at her fully, his green eyes intense in the dim car interior.

"Then what do you want from me?" There's genuine confusion beneath the frustration in his voice—a man who understands power and control suddenly faced with something he can't dominate or buy.

The light turns green, forcing him to return his attention to the road.

Y/N uncrosses her arms, her posture softening slightly.

"I want a relationship, Harry. Not a transaction. Not ownership. A partnership."

Harry scoffs, though there's less heat in it than before.

"Partnership," he mutters, shaking his head slightly. "I don't have partners, sweetheart. I have subordinates."

"Then what am I to you?" Y/N challenges, turning more fully toward him now. "Just another subordinate who happens to share your bed?"

The question hangs between them as Harry pulls up to her apartment building, parking with practiced precision. He turns off the engine but makes no move to exit the car, his hands still gripping the wheel as if it might ground him.

"You're..." he begins, then stops, seemingly at a loss for words. Such a rare occurrence for a man who commands with such certainty. "You're different."

It's not the answer she wanted, but it might be the most honest one he's capable of giving right now.

Y/N turns to face him fully now, her eyes shimmering with hurt in the dim light of the car. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, a nervous habit she's developed whenever she's upset.

"Then what the fuck was that back there?" she asks, her voice cracking slightly. "If I'm so different, why would you say that to me? About...about 'spreading my legs' for you?"

"That hurt, Harry. More than I thought you could hurt me," she admits quietly, vulnerability evident in every line of her body. "Is that really all I am to you? Just another conquest who happens to last longer than a night?"

The words hang between them, her usual wit and sarcasm stripped away, leaving only the raw hurt of a girl who's fallen for someone far more dangerous and complex than she ever anticipated.

Harry stares straight ahead through the windshield, his profile sharp and unreadable in the shadows. The muscle in his jaw works as he clenches and unclenches his teeth. For a man who makes decisions that end lives without hesitation, he seems suddenly uncertain.

When he finally turns to look at her, a glimpse of vulnerability so brief it might have been imagined flickers across his face.

"I said it to hurt you," he admits, his voice low and rough. "Because you challenged me. In front of someone who works for me."

He runs a hand through his hair, a rare gesture of frustration.

"No one does that. Ever." His eyes hold hers, intense and searching. "But you did. And I..." he hesitates, as if the words physically pain him "...I reacted badly."

It's not quite an apology as Harry Styles doesn't apologize, but it's as close as he's likely to come.

Y/N blinks rapidly, her throat tightening painfully around a fresh wave of tears. "I wasn't trying to challenge you, Harry. I just wanted you to treat me like a human being. Like someone who actually matters to you."

He reaches out, his fingers brushing against her cheek with surprising gentleness, tracing the path her tears had taken earlier.

"You're not a conquest, Y/N." His thumb brushes over her lower lip, his eyes following the movement. "If that's all you were, you wouldn't be here now. You'd be a memory. A pleasant one, maybe, but nothing more."

She exhales shakily, looking down as fresh tears cling to her eyelashes. "Then don't treat me like I'm disposable. I can't...I can't feel this much for someone who makes me feel worthless in the next breath."

His hand slides to cup the back of her neck, applying the slightest pressure, not forcing, but guiding her closer.

"I know. The truth is," he continues, voice dropping lower, "I don't know what the fuck you are to me. I just know I want you in my bed every night. I want to hear you laugh at your own stupid jokes. I want to kill anyone who makes you cry."

His gaze intensifies, something dangerous and possessive flaring in his eyes.

"Including myself, apparently," he adds with a mirthless laugh. "Which is a fucking problem I never anticipated."

He leans closer, their faces now inches apart.

"So no, you're not just someone who 'spreads her legs' for me. You're..." he searches for words that don't come easily to a man like him "...you're the exception to every rule I've ever had."

His hand tightens slightly on her neck, his next words almost a warning:

"And that scares the shit out of me."

She sniffles, “and what rules were those?” She whispers, not pulling back, which to Harry was a good sign. 

Harry's eyes search hers, something vulnerable and almost uncertain flickering behind his usual intensity. His thumb traces small circles against the nape of her neck, a soothing gesture that seems instinctive rather than calculated.

"Never let anyone close enough to become a weakness," he says, his voice a low rumble between them. "Never care about anyone more than you care about power. Never apologize."

His lips quirk in a humorless smile.

"Never follow anyone who walks away from you. Never explain yourself." His fingers tangle gently in her hair. "Never let someone see the parts of you that aren't...useful."

He draws a breath, his chest rising and falling with it. When he speaks again, his voice is rougher, more honest than she's ever heard it.

"I've built everything I have on those rules. Every bit of power, every ounce of respect. And then you walked into my life with those soft eyes and that mouth that doesn't know when to stay shut..."

His forehead touches hers, their breath mingling in the small space between them.

"And suddenly, I'm breaking every one of them."

Y/N lets out a shaky breath, her fingers hesitantly finding their way to his wrist, holding onto him like he's something delicate. Something precious she doesn't want to damage further. "Maybe you don't need those rules anymore," she whispers softly, her voice fragile but filled with quiet conviction. "Maybe some things are stronger than control."

His hand slides from her neck to cup her cheek, his touch gentler than a man with blood on his hands should be capable of.

"I don't know how to do this, Y/N," he admits, the confession clearly costing him. "I know how to own things. I know how to control people. I don't know how to..."

He struggles with the word, as if it's foreign to his tongue.

"...care for someone without trying to possess them."

Her eyes soften, tears welling again but not from hurt, not this time.

His eyes lock with hers, intense and searching.

"But I'm trying. For you, I'm fucking trying."

It's as close to a declaration as a man like Harry Styles can make. It’s an admission of vulnerability that would get him killed in his world if anyone else heard it.

She brings a hand to his face, cupping his jaw, “and I understand that, but trying doesn’t involve purposefully trying to hurt me. I need you to understand that”

Harry goes still under her touch, his eyes darkening with a mixture of desire for her gentle contact and discomfort at being confronted with his own behavior. He doesn't pull away, though, allowing her hand to remain on his face.

"I understand that," he says after a moment, his voice low and controlled. "I just don't like it."

He turns his face slightly, his lips brushing against her palm in a gesture that's almost tender.

"When I'm challenged, I eliminate the threat. It's instinct." His eyes find hers again, intense and unwavering. "But you're not a threat to be eliminated. You're..."

He struggles again, a man whose vocabulary has plenty of words for violence but few for tenderness.

"You matter," he finally says simply. "And I don't want to hurt you. Even when you piss me off. Even when you challenge me in front of others."

His hand covers hers on his face, pressing it more firmly against his skin as if anchoring himself.

"I can't promise I'll never say something cruel again," he tells her honestly. "I am who I am, Y/N. But I can promise to try not to hurt you deliberately. Not like tonight."

He leans in, his forehead touching hers again, his voice dropping to nearly a whisper.

"Just don't walk away from me like that again. I don't know how to handle it." The admission costs him, she can tell by the tension in his jaw. "And I can't guarantee what I'll do if you try."

"I need you to understand that," he echoes her words back to her, his grip tightening slightly on her hand.

She nods, “I do. But I also can’t promise that I won’t walk away again if you repeat what happened tonight. Got it? I won’t let you speak to me like that again” She says, not backing down, looking into his eyes and hoping he could meet her halfway.

Harry holds her gaze, a battle of wills playing out in the confined space of the car. The silence stretches between them, tense with possibility. Finally, his lips curve into something not quite a smile but more an acknowledgment of her courage.

"You've got more balls than half my crew," he says, a reluctant admiration in his tone. "Standing your ground with me like this."

His thumb traces her lower lip, his eyes following the movement.

"Fine. I won't speak to you like that again." The concession comes with a condition, his voice hardening slightly. "But you need to understand something too, angel. In public, especially around my men or anyone connected to my business, you can't challenge me openly. Not if you want to stay in my world."

He shifts closer, his presence filling the car with controlled intensity.

"It's not just about my pride. It's about survival. If they see weakness in me, if they think you can control me..." he doesn't finish the thought, doesn't need to.

Y/N considers his words, understanding dawning in her eyes. She hadn't fully considered the implications of her actions within his dangerous world.

"I understand that," she says finally. "I won't undermine you in front of your men. But that restaurant was empty except for Thomas, and you were being cruel to him for no reason."

Harry's expression darkens slightly.

"Thomas isn't just some innocent restaurant owner. He launders money for me. He's in my debt up to his eyeballs." His jaw tightens. "And he was looking at you like he was starving and you were a fucking meal."

"He was not," Y/N protests, though with less conviction now. "He was just being nice."

"Men like that aren't 'nice' to women who look like you without wanting something," Harry says flatly. "Especially not women they know belong to me."

Y/N bristles slightly at his choice of words.

"I don't 'belong' to you, Harry," she reminds him, but her tone is gentler than before. "That's the whole point of this conversation."

Harry's eyes flash with something dangerous, but he controls it, his hand sliding to cup the back of her neck again.

"You're mine," he says, his voice leaving no room for argument. "That doesn't change. What changes is how I treat what's mine."

He pulls her closer, his lips a breath away from hers.

"I'll try to be...better. For you. But don't expect me to become someone I'm not." His eyes hold hers, intense and unwavering. "I'm still the same man who puts bullets in people who cross me. The same man who built an empire on blood and fear. That doesn't change just because I care about you."

Y/N swallows, the reality of who and what he is hanging between them.

"I don't want you to be someone else," she says softly. "I just want you to be your best self with me."

Harry's expression shifts, something almost vulnerable flickering across his face before it's gone.

"I'll try," he promises, the words simple but meaning more coming from him than flowery declarations would from another man. "Now come home with me."

It's both a command and a request—the most balance he can offer between who he is and who she needs him to be.

She smiles, “Did you just call my ‘shitty apartment’ home?”

Harry's lips twitch, the tension between them breaking slightly at her teasing. His hand slides from her neck to her cheek, thumb brushing across her lower lip.

"I said 'come home with me,' not 'let's go to your home,'" he corrects, his voice dropping to that low, velvety tone that always makes her pulse quicken. "Your shitty apartment is where you keep your textbooks and that ridiculous collection of stuffed animals."

He leans closer, his breath warm against her ear.

"Home is where I fuck you until you forget every reason you were mad at me," he murmurs, his hand sliding to her thigh, fingers tracing slow patterns over the fabric of her dress. "My bed. My place."

Y/N shivers slightly at his touch, but manages to maintain her composure, raising an eyebrow at him.

"Bold of you to assume I want you anywhere near me tonight after what you said," she challenges, though there's less heat in it now, more of their usual banter returning.

Harry pulls back just enough to look at her, his green eyes darkening with desire and something more possessive.

"You're still mad," he acknowledges, his hand not moving from her thigh. "That's fair. But we both know anger looks good on you, angel. Makes your eyes shine, your cheeks flush..."

His fingers inch higher on her thigh, his gaze never leaving hers.

"Makes you wet too," he adds, voice dropping lower. "Doesn't it?"

Y/N flushes, torn between desire and the lingering hurt from earlier.

"You can't just say something awful and then expect sex to fix it," she says, though her body betrays her with a slight shift toward his touch.

Harry's expression grows more serious, his hand stilling on her thigh.

"I don't expect sex to fix it," he says, surprising her with his honesty. "I expect time to fix it. But I want you in my bed tonight, even if all we do is sleep."

He leans forward, pressing his forehead against hers again in that oddly intimate gesture.

"I sleep better with you there," he admits quietly, the confession clearly difficult for him. "And I've got an important meeting tomorrow. Need a clear head."

It's as close as he'll come to saying he needs her, not just wants her, but needs her presence.

Y/N studies his face, seeing the sincerity beneath the desire.

"Fine," she relents with a small smile. "But only because your sheets are nicer than mine."

Harry's answering smile is slow and knowing.

"Whatever helps you sleep at night, angel." He starts the car again, his hand remaining on her thigh as he pulls away from the curb. "Or not sleep, depending on how forgiving you're feeling by the time we get there."

Taglist: @silastylesswift @babegoals @harryssunflower17 @puzio19 @goldensunflowerss-blog @drewrry @tinawritesstuff @dipmeinhoneyh @spinninc @harrystyleshotwife @samanddeaninatrenchcoat @estaticheart @harrysguccihandbag @harrydeary

[pinkboaclub]

Coachella

Summary: You and your friend group go to Coachella, when your very flirtatious friend, Harry, gets a little too touchy, and you get a little too horny, you decide to stop by your tent to blow off some steam.

Word Count: 3k

Warnings: smut, exhibition, casual sex, Harry is kind of a sleaze, not proofread

You and your friend group trudged through the sweltering desert heat, the Coachella crowd was vibrant with life, a sea of colorful clothes dancing to the rhythm of the musicians that had just started to play. The air had an intense scent of sunscreen and weed.

You had chosen an outfit carefully, a very short pink skirt that barely covered your ass with every step. Above it, you wore a crop top that hugged your body tightly, with a glitter scattered across your chest and hair.

Your friend, Harry, couldn't help but stare at you, his eyes tracing the lines of your body as it swayed in the crowd. You had noticed his flirty behavior before, the way a smirk would immediately land on his face when you walked into a room, and lingering glances that followed your every move.

But, he had done that with everyone. You had seen that smirk on his face when other women walked by, the way he would look other girls up and down like he would you. So you never gave him the time of day. You brushed off all of his advances as just another cheeky remark.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, Harry's flirty comments grew more frequent, his eyes locked on the bare skin of your legs that your skirt exposed. He leaned in closer, shouting over the music, "You look amazing in that skirt, you know that, right?" His breath was warm against your neck, and the scent of his cologne filled your nostrils.

You rolled your eyes, trying to ignore him. "It's just a skirt, Harry," you yelled back, though you couldn't deny the thrill that shot through you when his eyes lingered on your thighs. "There's plenty of other girls wearing them here, why don't you go compliment them?"

But Harry wasn't easily deterred. He stepped closer, his hand grazing your bare skin as he leaned in to be heard over the pounding bass. "Just thought I’d let you know." he said, his voice low and filled with a hunger you hadn't noticed before.

You turned to face him, your arms folded across your chest as the crowd surged around you. "How many girls have you said that to tonight?" you shot back, your voice tinged with skepticism. Harry chuckled, you couldn't tell whether that was a conformation or a denial.

Truth was, it had been a while since you'd slept with anyone. You had been busy with work, and the last guy you had been with was...less than satisfactory. Though you normally wouldn't give it a second thought, tonight, the thought of Harry's hands on you, his mouth, sent a shiver down your spine.

You looked back at him as you swayed to the music performance you were watching. He looked down at you and gave you a slight smile and an eyebrow raise. You kept shifting, almost uncomfortable in your skin as the thought overtook your brain. His hands going up your skirt, then up your shirt, fucking you relentlessly. Maybe just one night with him wouldn't hurt.

Turning around, you leaned in and whispered into Harry's ear, "You're not so bad yourself, you know." It was cheeky and flirty, a playful smile playing on your lips. You felt his body stiffen in surprise before his hand found your lower back, pulling you closer, your hips now swaying in sync with his. The tension between you grew palpable, the music seeming to pulse with every beat of your racing heart.

Your mind wandered to your hotel room…though you wouldn’t be seeing it for another three days. Your friend group had splurged on Coachella camping passes, instead of long drives back to a hotel you’d be camping out in the desert. But...you can still have sex in a tent...and surely there wouldn't be that many at the campsite while there were performances...

Turning back to Harry, you leaned in and whispered in his ear again, "I'm not really into the next few performers. Are you willing to miss some?...Go back to the tents for a bit?" You knew exactly what you were implying, and from the way Harry's eyes darkened, he knew too. He nodded eagerly and took his hand in yours, intertwining your fingers.

"I'm going to my tent for a bit, to drink some water and cool off." You whispered in one of your girlfriends ears before walking through the crowd of people with Harry, still hand in hand.

The journey through the festival grounds to the camping area felt like forever, people would look at you two, you wondered if they knew what you were doing. Harry walked closely behind you, one hand in yours, his other hand on your lower back as you led him through the maze of tents. You could feel his breath against the back of your neck, sending a thrilling shiver down your spine.

As the music faded, you felt your excitement grow, as did Harry's, his touches and kisses to your neck. You decided to get him a little more excited...lifting the hem of your skirt just enough to show a hint of your lacy underwear, and let it drop before he could get a good look. Harry's eyes went wide, and his grip on your hand tightened.

You turned around and looked at him with a mischievous smile, "What?" you asked, playing coy. Harry laughed and shook his head, his walking pace now becoming quicker.

Once you reached the tent, you didn't bother with the zipper, you practically ripped it open and pulled Harry inside. Harry's hands were everywhere, on your thighs, your waist, your breasts, as you kissed him deeply, your sloppily tongues dancing together.

The tent was hot, a stark contrast to the cool night air outside. Harry's jeans were tight, his erection pressing against you. You could feel him growing harder with each passing second as you were grinding yourself against him.

Your kisses grew more desperate, your hands reaching down to stroke him through his pants. He groaned into your mouth, his hands cupping your ass, pushing you closer. "What made you change your mind? Couldn't resist me any longer?" Harry asked as he pulled away from your lips.

You chuckled at the clear display of his massive ego. "Oh yeah...definitely" you replied sarcastically, your breath hot against his cheek. Harry didn't need to hear another word. He grabbed the back of your neck and pulled you in for another deep kiss, his tongue exploring your mouth with a hunger that left you breathless.

Breaking away from the kiss, you playfully pushed him down to the makeshift bed in the tent. The air was thick with desire as you straddled him, your skirt riding up even further, giving him a clear view of your barely-there underwear. You started to sway your hips to the rhythm of a distant stage, giving him a mini lap dance, your hands moving seductively over your own body, teasing him.

"Is this what you wanted?" you whispered, your eyes sparkling with mischief. Harry's breath hitched as you began to palm him through his pants, feeling the heat and hardness growing beneath your touch. His eyes were glued to your movements, watching as your hands danced closer to the bulge in his jeans.

The tent was dimly lit by the distant festival lights, casting a soft glow over your bodies as you began to rock your hips against his, teasing him with every grind. Harry's eyes were hooded with lust, his hands reaching up to grip your waist as he watched you move. You could feel his cock pulsing with every beat of the music that echoed through the fabric walls.

With a seductive smirk, you slithered down his body, your hands working at the button of his jeans as you went. You slid the zipper down with a slow, deliberate motion, revealing the prize you'd been eyeing. Harry's cock sprang free, thick and eager, straining towards you. You took him in your hand, feeling the weight and heat of him, and brought your mouth closer, letting out a soft moan that sent a tremor through his body.

Your eyes locked with his as you took him in your mouth, your tongue flicking out to taste the salty sweetness of his skin. He was so hard, and the feel of him filling your mouth was intoxicating. You took him deep, the tip of his cock hitting the back of your throat, making you gag just a little. Harry's eyes filled with surprise and pleasure, his hands gripping the sheets as you began to bob your head up and down, taking him in deeper each time.

You felt the warmth spread through your cheeks, the stretch in your jaw, as you deepthroated him, the sound of your gagging mixing with the festival's music.

Harry's grip on your hair tightened, his hips bucking up slightly as you worked him over. His moans grew louder, and you felt a thrill knowing that you were the one giving him this pleasure. You could feel his muscles tensing, his breath coming in ragged gasps as you bobbed your head up and down, taking him to the edge.

But you weren't done teasing him yet. You pulled back, letting him slip almost entirely out of your mouth before diving back in, taking him deep again. Each time you hit the back of your throat, you'd pull back just a bit, letting him feel the tightness of your throat before plunging back down. Harry's eyes never left yours, the intensity of his gaze making you wetter than ever.

The sound of your gagging grew louder, mingling with the distant music, as you worked his cock with vigor. You felt powerful, like you were the one in control here, despite being the one on your knees. His hips began to thrust upward, meeting your mouth, urging you to take more of him. You moaned around his length, the vibrations sending waves of pleasure through his body.

"Fuck, I need you to fuck me," you breathed out, your voice hoarse from the effort. Harry's eyes blazed with desire as he reached into the back pocket of his tight-fitting jeans, pulling out his wallet. "Of course you carry one around," you murmured, a hint of amusement in your voice. He chuckled, his cheeks flushing slightly. You took the condom from his hand.

With a seductive smile, you held the foil packet between your teeth and ripped it, sending a jolt of excitement through Harry's body. You took the condom from the packet and held it up, watching his eyes follow your every move. He swallowed hard as you reached for his cock, now glistening with your saliva.

Slowly, you rolled the condom down his length, savoring the feel of his skin under your fingertips. Harry's eyes never left yours, the anticipation building.

"Turn around," he murmured, his voice thick with lust. You complied eagerly, turning away from him to present your ass, your skirt hiked up to expose the lacy underwear that matched the bra you had been teasing him with all night. He took a moment to appreciate the view, his hand coming up to trace the curve of your cheek before smacking it lightly, sending a jolt of pleasure through you.

With a swift movement, Harry yanked your underwear down, the fabric catching on your thighs before dropping to the floor. "M'not going to let this pretty skirt go to waste." He said, letting you keep the garment on.

He positioned himself behind you, his cock nudging against your wet entrance as you balanced on your hands and knees. The anticipation was unbearable, and you could feel your heart racing in your chest as you waited for him to fill you up.

With one swift movement, Harry entered you, his cock sliding in deep, making you gasp at the sudden intrusion. The feeling of his skin against yours was electric, and you couldn't help but push back into him, urging him deeper.

He took the hint, gripping your hips as he began to pound into you, the sound of your bodies slapping together mixed with your breath panting was the only thing you could hear.

Each thrust was deep and hard, his cock filling you up completely. You bit your lip to keep from screaming out his name, the sensation was overwhelming, like nothing you've ever felt before. The tent was bouncing slightly with each slam.

Looking back at Harry with a seductive gaze, you reached back with one hand to palm your own ass, giving him the full view of your body. His eyes widened at the sight, and he groaned, his strokes becoming more erratic. "You're so fucking perfect," he murmured, his voice strained with pleasure.

You felt your orgasm building, your pussy clenching around his cock as he hit just the right spot. The friction was unbearable, and you could feel your body shaking with the effort to hold off. "I'm going to cum," you warned him, your voice a breathless whisper.

"Then do it," Harry urged, his own voice strained with pleasure. "Let me hear you scream."

With a fiery determination, you threw your head back and let go. Your orgasm hit you like a wave, crashing over you with an intensity that left you gasping for breath. "Harry!" you screamed, your voice hoarse from the effort as your body convulsed around his cock. He didn't slow down, his grip on your hips tightening as he drove into you, pushing you through your climax.

Once the peak had passed, and your energy came back up, you turned back to him again, still on your hands and knees, your skirt now hiked up around your waist. Harry's eyes were dark with lust, his movements more urgent as he just watched you come down from your high. "Fuck, you're beautiful," he murmured, his own orgasm clearly on the horizon.

"I want to feel you cum on me," you whispered, turning around to face him, your cheek pressed against the rough fabric of the tent floor. Another smirk pulled at Harry's lips, the biggest one he had ever given you. "I want to be a mess, Harry. I want to wear your cum on my back."

The words sent a shockwave through Harry's body, his grip on your hips tightening. He thrust into you with renewed vigor, his eyes locked onto your face, watching as the pleasure built in your eyes. Each movement grew more erratic, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "Fuck, yes," he murmured, his voice thick with need. "You're going to be so dirty for me."

With one hand still gripping the bed, you reached back with the other, running your fingers up his abs. The feel of his firm, sweaty skin beneath your fingertips was intoxicating. You traced the lines of his six-pack, feeling the muscles tense and flex with each of his thrusts. "You like that, don't you?" you whispered, your voice filled with a seductive edge. "I want your cum so bad, baby. Want you to paint my back."

He didn't reply, your words leaving him speechless. The only sound was the music outside, the occasional shout of a distant festival-goer, and the slap of your bodies coming together. His eyes were focused on yours, watching the lust and desire build in their depths.

With a final, powerful thrust, Harry pulled out, his cock glistening with your arousal. You felt the loss of his warmth and the sudden coolness of the desert air, making you shiver slightly. "Move your hair," he ordered, his voice thick with need. You complied, arching your back and pushing your hair to one side, exposing your bare skin to him.

You watched as he stroked himself, his hand moving rapidly up and down his length. The sight was mesmerizing, the way his hand moved with such precision, the way his forearm muscles flexed with each stroke. You bit your lip, unable to look away.

Without warning, Harry spurted, ropes of white-hot cum that landed on your bare back. You gasped as the warm liquid painted your skin, a thrill shooting through you that was almost as intense as your orgasm. He continued to cum, both of you watching, a look of pure ecstasy on his face as he watched you become a canvas for his pleasure.

You felt a sense of satisfaction as he finished, his breathing heavy, chest rising and falling rapidly. You pushed yourself up onto your elbows, watching the last droplets land on your skin. "Looks like your hard work of constant flirting paid off." You couldn't help but smirk, feeling a sense of power as you saw the desire still in his eyes.

Without missing a beat, you reached back with one hand, gathering a glob of his cum on your finger. You brought it to your mouth, the tangy taste of him hitting your taste buds. Harry's breath hitching as you licked your finger clean with a deliberate, almost theatrical flick of your tongue. "It's a good thing we're in a tent," you said with a smirk, "Otherwise, everyone would know what a slut I just was." You joked, referring to your loud screams (that everyone in a close radius definitely heard) before giving him a shirt to wipe the rest off your back.

You both lay there for a moment, panting, the sticky mess between your legs the only evidence of what had just occurred.

"Same time tomorrow?" Harry murmured against your neck, his voice low and teasing. You couldn't help but laugh, the sound a little shaky from the aftermath of your orgasm.

"If my legs can handle it," you replied, your voice thick with sarcasm. Harry chuckled, his breath warm against your skin as he kissed your neck. You both lay there in the tired, sticky mess.

You both knew that you couldn't stay in the tent forever, everyone would wonder where you were, though you definitely could.

tag list !

@mema10 @lizsogolden @harrrrystylesslut @tulips4harry @cloudyluun @dipmeinhoneyh @tchlamqtsgf @maudie-duan @gilwm @mads3502 @girlslovejahseh

[watchmegetobsessed]

DO ANYTHING

A/N: some dirty boxx!harry x assistant!yn for yall on this fine evening

WORD COUNT: 5.6k

WARNING: sexual content

SUMMARY: You're Harry's date for an evening, but it's only professional, you're his assistant after all. But when his ex-wife shows up, things take a turn.

MASTERLIST | SUPPORT ME!

The sight in the mirror has never seemed more surreal than right now. The old mirror in the corner of your studio apartment has seen you in so many different outfits, work clothes, party dresses, stained sweats and even a Shrek costume (you were never the kind to dress up in something hot for a Halloween costume), but as you’re staring at your form right now, it just feels… not at all real. 

The designer dress is hugging your frame so perfectly, you’re wondering if it was tailored to your body, it’s long, but on the right side there’s a pretty high slit, showing off quite a lot of bare skin when you’re walking and the top is pretty out of your comfort zone as well with the neckline dipping so low, you keep checking if the girls are in place. And to top it all off, the back of the dress is… well, almost nonexistent, the fabric only covers you from a little above the waist down. 

Your hair is pulled up into a loose updo, your makeup is not too much, but just enough to enhance your favorite features and you’ve just stepped into your heels a minute ago to check the whole look, but you’re already afraid you might trip and fall at one point in the evening. 

If you had the chance you’d probably spend hours standing in front of the mirror, pointing out every tiny detail in your appearance that is just not right or feels absolutely hideous on you, but when you hear your phone chime on the desk you jump at the sound and tear your eyes away from your reflection. 

The screen has lit up, showcasing a text and though you already know who it is, your heart still starts pounding when you see the name in the notification. 

HARRY: I’m outside.

Taking a deep breath you grab the phone and type a quick reply before dropping it into your clutch and heading down before you could change your mind. 

Originally it seemed like a good idea to accompany your boss to this charity event he was invited to, the tickets were bought a year ahead of the event, a month prior to his divorce, so after everything went down with his ex, he needed a new partner, but he refused to look for one and then one day he just simply threw it in at one of your meetings that you should be the one coming with him. 

“But… I’m your assistant,” you said, probably with a stunned face. 

“Yeah. So it’s settled, you’re coming,” he simply nodded and then added that he would get you a dress and an appointment at a salon for the evening. 

After some thinking it actually made sense that you’d be his partner for the evening, but then the thinking kept going and when you got to the realization that you’d be your multi millionaire boss’ date for a fancy event while you’re still secretly in love with the man, things started to look a lot less ideal. 

It’s a cliché, you know it, falling for your charming boss while working as his assistant, you’ve seen this movie and read all the books, but you knew from the first moment the ending would be different for you. However, that didn’t stop you from falling for him more and more every day. 

And now you’re his date for the night and even though you know it’s nothing more, just practically a task, a job, you can’t help but be excited and frightened at the same time.

When you step out of the building and see the sleek black car waiting by the curb with him leaning against it in his suit, looking like he just stepped out of the pages of a magazine, your ankles wobble for a moment at the sight. 

Harry Styles tends to have this reaction on people, as you’ve learned in the two years you’ve been working as his assistant. He is a charming, handsome and incredibly talented businessman who is just simply liked by everyone. It’s one of his talents that he can easily shape himself according to who he is talking to and get them to practically be obsessed with him, which is a quite useful thing when you’re trying to build a business empire and need other people’s help. 

But you also got to see his real self as well, the caring, smart and funny man who has sacrificed so much for his business but stayed just as humble as he was when he moved to the States from the small town in England where he grew up. 

Harry Styles is simply the most wonderful man you’ve ever known. It’s no surprise you found yourself falling in love with him while working for him, though he always tells you he prefers to say that you work with him.

When he notices you stepping out he takes a tiny step forward and for a moment you see something on his face that makes your whole body light on fire instantly, but you can’t actually pinpoint what it is. 

You start walking down the stairs and pray silently that you don’t just trip and fall down, but Harry is quick to rush up to you and offer his hand. 

“Thank you,” you chuckle nervously.

“You look wonderful,” he murmurs lowly, sending a shiver down your spine and you pray he doesn’t notice the goosebumps on your exposed skin. 

Well, today is not your lucky day.

“Are you cold?” he asks, as you reach the car. 

“Um, just a little. It’s alright.”

He only nods, opens the door and helps you into the car. 

You’ve sat in this seat a million times before, mostly going to meetings, yet you sit now as if it’s a completely new experience, back straight, knees pressed together tightly, making sure you’re as ladylike as possible. 

“You seem tense,” he comments, a sense of playfulness in his voice that eases your nerves a little. 

“It’s just… not my usual Friday evening,” you flash him a smile, which he returns warmly. “I memorized all the names of the people you should talk to tonight, I have some info about–”

“Y/N, you’re not working tonight,” he cuts you off with a wave. “I don’t want you to assist me, you’re here to enjoy it.”

It’s not the first time he said he doesn’t want you to be in work mode tonight, but it’s hard to turn it off when you’re around him. It’s also become your way of keeping yourself in check, categorizing your time spent with him as work helps you not to fall into a spiral and get lost in your feelings, but it seems like you have to put it aside, which is quite dangerous. 

You whisper a faint okay and then just continue panicking in your head. 

The event is nothing short of what you imagined it to be. Lots of influential people, amazing food, expensive drinks and… money. Everything is oozing… money. 

At first you’re certain that you stand out like a sore thumb, that everyone you’re introduced to just knows you don’t belong there, that you’re an impostor. 

But then you feel Harry’s palm on your exposed back, your skin burns under his touch and while it gives you a different kind of nervousness, it also tones down what you feel about being among all these wealthy people. 

“Are you okay?” he asks, leaning close to your ear. 

“Yeah,” you nod, but when your eyes meet his gaze, you know he sees right through you. “It just feels… odd.”

“What exactly feels odd?”

“Being here. As a guest. It’s not quite the place I go to usually.”

“Me neither.”

You give him a confused look, because you know for a fact he attends events like this about every other week. But then you see the smirk hiding in the corners of his mouth and it makes you laugh. 

“Such a liar,” you scoff, but it just widens his grin.

“Always calling me out on my bullshit,” he chuckles softly. 

He loves to joke about how you’re the only one to call him a liar, people tend to fear to call him out, not wanting to go against him and his power, but you never hesitate to do so even if he’s just joking. To be fair, in the first few months you were one of those bowing people, but as time went by and you got to know more of the amazing man Harry is, you stripped this fear down and now just one look is enough for him to know that you’re onto him. 

It takes quite some time for you to stop being a rattled little deer caught in the headlights, but eventually you’re able to loosen up. Harry’s presence brings a sense of safety as well, he is great at leisurely leading a conversation without others noticing, so he also has the chance to only bring up topics you feel comfortable talking about. Every time someone tries to chat about something controversial or deeply political, Harry is quick to steer the conversation to safer territories and you couldn’t be more thankful for that. He knows how you feel talking about such risky topics with people with such influence.

Other than Harry, the champagne also helps to ease your nerves, though you make sure not to drink too much that might cloud your rational side that keeps you in check still. 

But you’re definitely a bit tipsy, just enough to have your thoughts float to places they probably shouldn’t. And when Harry’s palm returns to your back, just a simple touch to pull you closer to him and out of the way of a bypassing couple, something shifts inside you. 

A feeling you’ve been eager to keep locked in the back of your mind surfaces and you barely catch yourself.

Harry’s divorce was finalized five months ago. The three months period leading up to it was tough on him, though only a few knew about it and you were one of those. You tried your best to support him in such a trying time and it seemed that he was glad to have his mind taken off his personal issues. He was definitely using work as a coping mechanism and you happily assisted him in anything, often staying at the office with him until eleven in the night and then starting it all over again at eight in the morning. 

These long days however turned into something more than just an escape. Harry never let you stay without ordering dinner for the two of you that you often ate at his desk, staring down at the night lights of the city. He made one rule for these late nights, that you can’t talk about work while eating and that forced you to conquer other topics in life. 

Some days you stopped working at seven, but only left the office past ten, because you got so tangled in a conversation that time flew by. Every time you finished so late that it was dark outside Harry insisted driving you home and while at first you felt self-conscious to have him see the neighborhood you live in, which is not at all bad, but definitely can’t compare to his penthouse in the heart of the city, you slowly let go of these toxic thoughts and enjoyed the extra time you got to spend with him. 

You don’t remember the point where the doubts started, but somewhere along his healing journey a feeling settled in your chest that it might be something more. That Harry might want something more. 

At first you felt ridiculous to even think about your boss wanting anything to do with you other than work. But as one evening spent alone with him turned into another, there were tiny, almost unnoticeable things that kept fueling this thought to the point where you couldn’t ignore it. 

It was in the way he looked at you, talked to you and cared for you. No matter how much you tried to tell yourself that it’s just his general character, you always circled back to the what ifs. Unfortunately, this state of mind didn’t help with how rapidly you were falling for him. 

Now, as you feel his hand on your bare skin, the feeling instantly crawls its way up your spine and when your gaze meets his, you see something in it that throws you off the edge, but still can’t put your finger on it. 

“Why don’t we check out that buffet table?” he suggests. You’ve refused to eat since you’ve arrived, not wanting to look bloated in this dress, but now you can’t say no and your champagne filled tummy would surely appreciate something solid. 

“Let’s go.”

There’s so much food and everything looks mouthwatering, you can’t even decide what to try. Harry suggests filling a plate with a bit of everything to try them and then you can have a second round of what you liked the most. Soon enough, you’re sitting at a table in the corner with a plate full of food, sharing with Harry.

Your boss. 

“What’s with rich people and mini hamburgers?” you ask, holding up one. “Why can’t they just make… a full size? I have to eat like five of these to equal a whole.”

“It’s bite-size,” Harry grins and steals the other one off the plate. “People don’t start munching on a double cheeseburger in a gown or tuxedo.”

“Alright, you’ve got a point.”

Shifting in your seat you try to move your feet a bit, the ache the heels give you starting to get to you, but you’re pushing through it. But you weren’t as subtle as you thought, Harry catches a frown on your face and he is quick to figure out what’s bothering you.

“How bad do your feet hurt?”

“Ah, it’s alright,” you shrug, but your eyes widen when Harry reaches down, his hands finding your leg under the table and they brush down your calf, pulling your foot towards him until it’s laid on his thigh. He keeps one hand on your shin while the other one gently presses and massages your foot as much as the stiletto heel lets him. 

“They look amazing, but I kind of miss your sneakers,” he grins at you. 

“They are surely comfier,” you chuckle. 

“Thank you for coming with me, Y/N. These things are usually awfully boring to me.”

“And this time is different?” you smile absentmindedly, turning towards the plate once again to get another bite, but you’re quickly stopped by his words.

“Everything is different with you.”

This time that feeling is pulsating in your chest. When your gaze meets his, your breath hitches for a moment, his hands are still on your leg and foot, but they’ve stopped massaging, they are just gently resting on you, bringing you an odd sense of comfort. 

You have no idea what to say but you open your mouth to reply just when you spot a familiar figure over Harry’s shoulder across the room and your adrenaline spikes instantly as you pull your leg back and sit up right, already feeling her piercing eyes on you, because she spotted you.

Harry’s ex-wife. 

Your blood runs cold as you try to avoid looking her way, attempting to ignore her presence, but the change in you is obvious for Harry and he is quick to turn around and it doesn’t take him long to notice Stella. 

If you’re being honest their whole relationship was quite a mystery for you. Stella is a model turned actress who met Harry at some kind of event about five years ago. His business was skyrocketing at that time, everyone was talking about his sudden success while Stella was making headlines for dating practically every bachelor in Hollywood. Somehow, they found common ground and tied the knot a little over a year after they met. For the next three years they were seen quite often together out in the city or on vacation, attending events or taking photos with fans of Stella. Seemingly, they were a great couple, the public loves it when two incredibly hot people get together and they can live their life through the photos they post or in this case, Stella posts. She loves using social media and most of the content that featured Harry came from her, allowing little glimpse into their life that seemed absolutely perfect from the outside. 

But then about a year ago Harry started disappearing from Stella’s platforms, they were seen less and less out in public and it went on until their divorce was announced. Well, Harry announced nothing, but Stella went on an Instagram live to tell her fans what’s been going on. In her narrative they simply grew apart and decided it’s better to separate, but you were already working for Harry when it all went down and though you don’t know the whole story, you’re certain there was a lot more behind it all. 

Stella used to appear at the office before, she never stayed long and sometimes you could hear them fighting in his office before she stormed off. The next day you usually saw a post from her online that was showcasing to the world how madly in love they are, but you saw through that facade. 

You never dared to ask him about what happened, not even when you were having deeper conversations with him in the night in his office and Harry never brought it up. But one thing was sure, their parting wasn’t as peaceful as Stella tried to make it appear. 

And now when you see him freeze and tense for a moment at the sight of her, you know that it was a nasty ending. 

Harry is quick to recover, he pretends like he didn’t see her as he turns back to you. 

“So, do you want more mini burgers?” he asks with a smile, but it’s different, definitely not as real as it was before. 

“Um, I think I’m good for now,” you smile back, ignoring how your stomach has shrunk from the anxiety Stella’s presence just gave you. “I’m gonna find the restroom quickly,” you say, standing from the table, eager to have a moment to yourself and maybe try to level yourself. 

“Okay,” Harry nods and you practically run off in the direction of the restrooms. 

Once you’re in there, you lean onto the sink and try to regulate your breathing. The woman looking back at you from the mirror looks just like you, yet you feel like you’re an entirely different person. 

You wash your hands and then hold a cold hand to your chest, feeling your own pounding heart under your touch. You will yourself to get it together and then finally make your way out. 

You have no idea at this point where tonight is heading, one moment Harry is saying awfully ambiguous things, then his ex-wife appears and it’s like the room has frozen. 

You don’t see Harry by the table where you left him, so you stop and scan over the sea of guests, relief settling in your chest when you spot him only to be thrown over the edge right after that when you realize he is talking to Stella.

They are standing by the wall, a bit away from the rest of the guests and from what you can see, they are in some kind of quiet argument. At first, you’re hesitant to interrupt them, but then you change your mind and slowly start to walk closer. You catch none of their conversation, not even when you get in earshot. Harry spots you approaching and he is quick to end their little talk and walk over to you. 

“Everything alright?” you ask in a high pitched voice. 

“Yeah. I’m good.”

“Do you want to leave?”

“Why would I? Do you want to leave?” He seems confused, but also tense at the same time. 

“I just thought that…” Your gaze wanders over to Stella who has moved back to her own date, pretending like she didn’t just run into her ex. “Can I do anything to help?”

He looks at you with a stunned expression that you can’t quite decipher. 

“To help?” he repeats after you. 

“Yeah, I would do anything to… to make you feel better,” you say with a dying voice, eager to not let this evening turn into a nightmare for him. 

He exhales through his nose, looking away from you for a second before his eyes return to your face, but his expression has changed. It’s fierce, full of a fire you don’t remember ever seeing in his eyes. 

“Anything? Y/N…”

“Yes, anything!” you nod eagerly, taking a tiny step closer to him. “I know I’m just your assistant, but I–”

The words die on your lips when his mouth covers them, practically knocking you out of your heels, but luckily, he is quick to wrap an arm around your waist while his other hand comes up to cradle your jaw as he kisses you like no man has ever done before. 

You’ve fantasized about what kissing Harry would feel like way too many times, but nothing compares to this moment, as his lips are so eagerly moving with yours while your whole body is pressed tightly against him, but not just because he is keeping you close, you’re also keep pushing against him, wanting to be as close to him as humanly possible. 

Your hands move to the base of his neck and then into his hair at the back of his head right when his tongue pushes against yours and you can’t help a moan that slips into his mouth, which has him feral. 

His hand on your jaw moves a bit lower to your neck, his thumb slipping under your chin so he can easily angle your head just how he wants. His other hand is still on your exposed back, his touch is burning on your naked skin as it drags down over your spine, reaching where the fabric of your dress starts. He stops there, but a few moments later his fingers sneakily dip under the hem and it just fuels the fire burning inside you. 

Not too willingly, but he slows the kiss down until his lips pull back, but he keeps his forehead pressed against yours for a bit longer before he leans back, looking at you. His lips are sparkling from your lipgloss, his hair is no longer neatly combed thanks to your fingers and his eyes radiate a new kind of energy, one that you haven’t quite seen from him. 

Your cheeks and neck are burning from the heat that’s spreading through your veins and then your gaze catches how your hands are still on the base of his neck and a sudden wave of shock comes over you as it all settles in your mind: you just made out with Harry, your boss. 

Curling your lips between your teeth you look away and immediately spot Stella by one of the tables, staring right at you with a stern look on her nearly perfect face and then realization hits you.

Harry kissed you to make her jealous, it was all just a show for her.

Your chest feels like a rock suddenly, like everything inside you has turned solid and you feel heavier than ever before, but you don’t want him to see the utter disappointment you’re currently going through.

“Um, sh-she is still watching, we can–I mean if we kissed a-again she would… see…” You can’t stop your voice from shaking and you know he sees right through you in an instant. He follows your gaze over to Stella, then quickly looks back at you.

And surprisingly, he becomes angry. 

“You think this was because of her? That I did it because Stella was watching?”

Harry was never the kind to humiliate you or bite your head off if you gave him a wrong answer, but right now you feel like if you don’t say the right thing he will flip.

Unfortunately, you have no idea what would be the right answer at this moment. 

“I-I don’t… I mean…” You’re a stuttering mess and though Harry’s gaze is burning right now, you can’t look away. 

“For fuck’s sake,” he mumbles under his breath and before you could get another word out he grabs your wrist firmly, but not enough to hurt you and he starts pulling you towards the exit. 

“What–Where are we going?” you ask, trying your best to keep up with him in your heels. When he notices you’re having a hard time with the pace he is dictating he slows down a bit, placing a hand to your lower back and then pushing you forward from then. 

“We’re leaving,” he simply answers while fishing his phone out of his jacket’s pocket with his free hand, texting the driver, you assume. 

“Did I say something wrong?” you ask when you’re walking down the stairs after leaving the building behind, but he just grunts and leaves you unanswered. 

Reaching the pavement he’s craning his neck with a frustrated expression on his face, looking for the car probably even though he literally just texted the driver. 

“Harry, I don’t understand what’s happening,” you admit, desperate to get him to speak before you lose your mind. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“Upset me?” he exhales, finally looking at you again. “Y/N, I–” His hands rake through his hair harshly before they fall to his side. “What do you think happened in there?” he then asks, obviously trying to calm himself down.

“I don’t… We kissed,” you unsurely say, voice barely more than just a whisper. He deflates and stepping closer he cradles your cheek in one hand and you involuntarily lean into his touch. 

“Why do you think we kissed?”

“Because… Stella–”

You don’t even get to finish before he shakes his head no and cuts you off.

“Stella has nothing to do with it.” Your breath hitches in your throat as you stare back at him, your whole body buzzing as you wait for him to continue. “I was holding onto my last thread of self control all night and it snapped when you offered to do anything to make me feel better and I never wanted you more than in that moment. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m wrapped around your finger, Y/N,” he chuckles defeatedly. “Stella and I had a fight because she told me she always knew I would end up with you, that she knew I was into you from the first moment.”

You want to say something, but words die on your tongue as you just keep listening to him.

“And guess what?”

“What?” you breathe out.

“She was… right. I’ve wanted you probably since you walked into your interview. I thought I could push it aside and focus on the professional side only, but you were just always on my mind.”

“But you were married!” you protest, suddenly feeling dizzy that you might have been the reason his marriage ended.

“On paper, but we were already having lots of issues by the time you started working for me. I gave it everything to try to work things out, but it just got worse and in the meantime I couldn’t just ignore my want for you.”

The car finally pulls up beside you, but you don’t move just yet.

“Harry…”

“We’ll get into that car now and I’ll let you think things through, I wouldn’t want to push anything on you, okay?”

You just nod, even though you have a lot to say, but you keep it in for now. Harry lets go of you and opens the door, helping you into the car before taking the seat next to you. You’re breathing heavily, mind racing as the car leaves the curb and you give yourself about ten seconds of peace before you flip your whole world upside down.

Luckily, the partition is up so the driver can’t see the back and you know for a fact the windows are so tinted no one can tell what’s happening inside. It gives you enough courage to jump into action. 

You’ve never been the bold type, but the fire Harry has lit inside you is now urging you to leap out of your comfort zone. You slide closer on the seat to Harry, grab his face between your hands and kiss him without hesitation. There’s a moment of surprise on his end, but he recovers almost instantly, his hands moving to your waist as he kisses you back fiercely. He is pulling you, probably with the intention of just getting you as close as your sitting position lets you, but it’s not enough for you, so with another bold move you pull back but just for a second so you can sling a leg over him and settle on his lap. The high slit of your dress luckily allows you to sit comfortably and as you lower yourself you feel the unmistakable bulge in his pants, giving away just how much he wants you. His hands move to your exposed back, fingers digging into your skin while your lips collide once again and you swallow a moan of his when you roll your hips against his, his restrained cock meeting with your clothed center. 

“Fucking hell, Y/N,” he breathes against your mouth and you can’t help a smirk that tugs on your lips, but it quickly turns into an O shape when one of his hands drop down to your ass, grabbing a handful of you so roughly you wouldn’t be surprised if he left a mark on you. With his grip on you, you start rolling your hips again and don’t even try to hold back your moans. 

“Y/N, you keep doing that and…”

“And what?” you challenge him. He stares back at you, as if he is making sure this is what you want, but you couldn’t be more sure. You want him, you need him and you need him right now. 

Before your insecurities could get to you, you reach up and pull the straps of your dress off your shoulders, letting the fabric pool around your waist.

“Oh fuck,” he breathes out before he pulls you in for another kiss. 

It’s not the most ideal place and it’s not easy to move around, but you manage to unbuckle his belt and push his pants down just enough so you can reach into his underwear, palming his hard cock eagerly. As an answer to your touch, he bites into your bottom lip, making you moan and it distracts you just enough so he can reach between your legs, pulling the fabric of your underwear to the side. When two of his fingers slide between your drenched folds his name leaves your lips like a plea and your head falls back when he starts teasing your clit. 

“So fucking wet for me, I can’t wait to bury myself in this pussy,” he groans before his mouth latches onto your neck, kissing and sucking and biting on the soft skin.

Your hips start moving again, his fingers working you like an instrument and your body is singing for him perfectly. You’re losing your patience, the need to feel him inside you is becoming unbearable. Your hands get to work and you eagerly pull his cock out of his underwear, instantly wrapping your palm around him, gasping when you realize just how big he really is. 

“You want it right now?” he asks, lifting his head. 

“Yes please!”

“Such a good girl for me.”

He pulls his hand back from between your legs, moving them to your hips as he guides you forward, angling his cock up to your cunt. 

“Are you gonna take me well, baby?”

“Yes,” you nod and then start moving yourself down, gasping as he slowly fills you up, stretching your walls so perfectly. ��Oh fuck!”

“You’re doing so well,” he praises, letting you get used to his size, squeezing your hips in encouragement. You’re breathing heavily, taking some time unmoving, while Harry leans forward and starts peppering your breasts with kisses, then his mouth wraps around your nipple, his tongue twirling around it sensually. 

Slowly, you start moving, up and down, back and forth, your mouth hangs open as you feel him move inside you so perfectly. 

“That’s it, you feel so fucking good, baby,” he groans, his head falling back on the headrest as you start to pick up your pace.

“Harry,” you moan, feeling your inside burning as your orgasm starts building up.

“I know baby, I know.”

His hands are everywhere, on your back, waist, your chest and neck and on the back of your head as he pulls you down for another fierce kiss. 

You keep calling out his name as you get closer to your climax and when he reaches down and starts playing with your clit, you lose your mind. 

He comes right before you and you try to stretch his orgasm as long as possible by squeezing him while you ride your own high, you both are a mess, lips smacking, hands groping, it’s the best you’ve ever felt. 

When you finally start calming down you dare to look at him with clear eyes. Harry brushes your hair out of your face and smiles at you with awe.

The car comes to a stop and you realize you’ve arrived at your apartment building. 

“If you’re not opposed to spending the night in a shoebox sized studio apartment, I would love it if you came up,” you tell him bashfully. His smile grows into a wide grin.

“That shoebox sized apartment sounds like the best place on earth right now.”

Thank you for reading, please like and reblog if you enjoyed and buy me a coffee if you want to support me!

[ellie-luvsfics]

Hell yeah

𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐖𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐌𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐌𝐞

Description: he took me. Locked me away in a beautiful room and said I was his. Not because I asked. But because he swears I was made for him. And the worst part? I think he’s right.

Warnings: this one-shot contains dark, triggering content. Captivity, dubcon, obsession, possessive!harry, psychological manipulation, breeding kink, chocking, crying kink, degradation, praise kink, overstimulation, creampie, power imbalance. Readers +18.

Words count: 6K.

*****

I woke up to the sound of silence. Not the kind you get in a peaceful home. Not the soft, sleepy kind that wraps around you in the morning. No—it was the kind of silence that presses in on your ribs. That tells you something isn’t right before you even open your eyes. The bed beneath me was too soft. The sheets too clean. The air too warm, too still. This wasn’t my room.

My eyes fluttered open, and it took a moment for them to adjust to the soft, golden light. The walls were cream. The ceiling high. The curtains drawn over tall windows. There was a dresser across from the bed, a vase of pale flowers on top. Everything was perfect. And unfamiliar.

I sat up too quickly and the dizziness hit—head spinning, heart racing. My limbs felt heavy, like I’d been asleep for days. Or drugged. Panic scratched at the back of my throat. I looked down. My clothes were still on—my jeans, my shirt, everything intact. But I wasn’t in my shoes. My socks were missing. My bare feet hit the hardwood floor, and I stood slowly, wobbling. The door was ahead of me, white and pristine with a polished handle. I crossed the room and tried it. Locked. Locked from the outside.

I knocked. Hard. Then harder. “Hello?” My voice cracked. “Is someone there?” Silence.

My heart pounded. I turned in a slow circle, scanning every inch. The furniture was minimal, but cozy. Intentional. Too intentional. Everything matched—creamy tones, soft touches. Even the way the blankets had been tucked around me felt… deliberate. This wasn’t random. This was a room meant for me.

And then I heard it—footsteps. Quiet, steady ones, just outside the door. My breath caught. The knob turned with a slow click, and I backed up instinctively. The door opened. He stepped inside. Tall. Broad shoulders. Black shirt stretched over his chest. Curls messy. Arms inked. He looked calm—unbothered. Like this was normal. Like I wasn’t shaking in a stranger’s bedroom.

He shut the door behind him with a soft click.

I stared at him, frozen. “Where… where am I?”

He smiled. It was gentle. Too gentle. “You’re safe,” he said.

“That’s not what I asked.”

“I know.” His voice was smooth, warm. British. He took a step closer. “You’re home now.” Home.

I shook my head. “This isn’t my home.”

He tilted his head. “It will be.”

I backed up further, but there was nowhere to go. Just the bed behind me, the wall beyond that. He didn’t move any closer—just watched me with quiet, terrifying calm.

“I don’t understand,” I whispered.

“You don’t have to. Not yet.” He gestured to the chair by the window. “Sit. Please. I’ll explain everything.”

“I’d rather stand.”

A pause. Then a small nod. “Alright.”

We stared at each other in silence. I couldn’t stop shaking. My mind raced, trying to piece together anything that made sense—where I’d last been, how he looked familiar. He wasn’t a stranger. Not completely. I’d seen him before. In passing. At the coffee shop near my building. In the elevator once. On the sidewalk. Always watching. Always alone.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said gently, like he could feel me spiraling. “I’d never hurt you. You have to believe that.”

“Then let me go.”

“I can’t.” He looked almost sad when he said it. “You don’t understand yet.”

I stared at him. “Understand what?”

His eyes darkened slightly. “That you were made for me.”

I didn’t respond. Couldn’t. He stepped closer, and this time, I didn’t move. I couldn’t tell if it was fear or something worse—something deeper. Something that made me want to know what he’d do next.

He knelt slowly in front of me, like I was something sacred. His hands didn’t touch me. Not yet. But they hovered—just near my hips, steady and open.

“I’ve watched you for so long,” he said, voice low now. “You don’t even know how special you are. How perfect. You move through the world like you’re invisible. Like no one really sees you.” His eyes flicked up to meet mine. “But I do. I always did.” I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out. “You smiled at me once,” he continued. “Outside the shop. You don’t remember. But I do. It was the first time I knew.”

“Knew what?”

“That I had to have you.”

His hand rose slowly and brushed a lock of hair from my cheek. I flinched, but he didn’t stop. His fingers were soft. Gentle. Reverent.

“You’ve been alone too long,” he whispered. “Let me take care of you. Let me show you what it feels like to be wanted.”

“I didn’t ask for this.”

He smiled again. Sadder this time. “No. But that’s the thing about fate—it doesn’t wait for permission.”

I blinked, and he stood. He didn’t try to touch me again. He just walked to the door and turned back once before leaving.

“Rest, sweetheart,” he said. “You’ll feel better in the morning.”

The door shut behind him. And locked.

⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻

I didn’t know how long I slept. Or if I slept at all. Time moved strangely in that room. The light from the window never changed much. The soft glow of the lamps made it hard to tell if it was morning or night. There was no clock. No phone. No noise beyond the occasional creak of footsteps outside the door. I kept waiting for reality to kick in. For a knock at the door. A rescue. A scream.

But there was only him. He came in once a day—always calm, always smiling. Sometimes with food, sometimes just to sit in the corner chair and watch me like I was a painting. He never touched me. Not yet. But the way he looked at me… It was worse than touching.

Today, he brought a tray. Toast. Strawberries. Tea. A small vase with a single white flower in it. Everything too perfect. Too delicate. I sat on the edge of the bed, legs curled beneath me, staring at him while he arranged it all on the table by the window.

“You don’t eat enough,” he said gently, slicing a strawberry with the side of his fork. “You always skip lunch. Sometimes dinner too. I used to worry about you.”

I blinked. “Used to?”

He looked over his shoulder and smiled. “I don’t have to worry anymore. You’re here now.” I didn’t reply. He picked up a strawberry half and walked over, crouching in front of me again, just like he had that first day. “Open your mouth, sweetheart.”

I stared at him. He waited. Calm. Confident. I should have said no. I should have pushed his hand away. But my body moved before my brain caught up. My lips parted. And he slid the fruit into my mouth with two fingers.

“Good girl,” he murmured, thumb brushing the corner of my mouth. “See? You’ll feel better if you eat.” I chewed slowly. Swallowed. His eyes didn’t leave my face. “I brought you something,” he said softly. From his back pocket, he pulled out a small photograph. He held it up with care, like it was precious.

It was me. On the train. Headphones in. Looking out the window. Caught mid-thought. My blood ran cold.

“I took this two months ago,” he said, smiling like it was a fond memory. “You looked so peaceful that day. So soft.”

“You were following me.”

“I wasn’t following.” He tilted his head. “I was protecting. There’s a difference.”

I reached for the photo with shaking fingers. He let me take it. There were words written on the back in neat, looping handwriting: MINE. I dropped it like it burned me. He didn’t flinch. Just picked it up and tucked it back into his pocket.

“You don’t understand yet,” he said again, like that explained everything. “But you will.”

I swallowed hard. “What do you want from me?”

His eyes softened in a way that made my chest hurt. “I want you to let me love you.”

“That’s not love.”

“Yes, it is.” He reached out again, and this time, his fingers traced a line from my jaw to my collarbone. “This is what real love looks like, sweetheart. The kind that doesn’t fade. The kind that claims.” I shivered under his touch. It wasn’t rough. It wasn’t fast. It was… reverent. “I know what you’re thinking,” he whispered. “You think this is wrong. That you should fight. But tell me something…” His hand moved lower, just barely brushing the top of my chest. “When’s the last time someone made you feel wanted?” I blinked. He smiled like he already knew the answer. “That’s what I thought.”

He leaned in slowly, like he was giving me time to move, to stop him. I didn’t. I couldn’t. His lips brushed mine—once, soft and fleeting—and then he pulled back just enough to murmur against my mouth.

“You taste like mine.” He stood without another word, took the empty tray, and walked toward the door. “You’ll see,” he said, hand on the knob. “You’ll start to feel it soon.”

The door clicked behind him. And this time… I wasn’t sure if I wanted to scream.

⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻

I stopped trying to count the days. There were no clocks. No calendar. Just the soft rustle of sheets, the tray of food he brought every morning, the scent of him that lingered long after he left the room.

Harry. I didn’t speak his name out loud. Not even in my head, at first. It felt dangerous—like naming the thing that had taken you gave it more power. But he already had all of it. He didn’t touch me often. Just little things. A hand on my shoulder. Brushing hair behind my ear. Lifting a fork to my mouth. But I noticed every single time. And worse—my body noticed, too.

I was scared. Still scared. But the fear had morphed into something uglier, hotter. I wanted him near me. I hated the way the silence stretched after he left. I hated the sound of my own breath, the ache between my thighs that built every time he whispered mine. I was breaking. And he knew it.

He came in that night without food, without flowers. Just him. Just the weight of his presence in the doorway. I was already sitting on the bed, knees drawn up, arms wrapped tight around them. I looked at him like I always did now—somewhere between anger and desperation.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked. I didn’t answer.

He walked over and sat on the edge of the bed. Not close. Not touching. Just waiting.

“I miss hearing your voice.”

I glanced at him. “Why am I still here?”

His expression didn’t change. “Because you belong here.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do.” He reached out, slowly, and touched my ankle. Just a fingertip. I flinched. But I didn’t move away. His fingers moved up my leg, slow, steady, warm. “You don’t tremble the same way you used to.”

I closed my eyes. “You’re breaking me.”

“No.” His hand slid further, over the curve of my knee. “I’m showing you the truth.”

He moved closer, kneeling on the bed now, towering over me. I opened my eyes and saw it—hunger. Control. Obsession. All layered behind the calm. “Tell me to stop,” he whispered. I didn’t.

His hand moved under my shirt. Fingers trailing across my stomach, slow and possessive. I sucked in a breath. “Tell me no,” he said again. Still, I said nothing. “Good girl.”

His mouth was on mine—soft but unrelenting, like he’d been holding back for weeks. His tongue swept past my lips and I whimpered, shame burning through me. My body arched. I hated it. I needed more. His hand slid down between my legs, under the soft cotton of my shorts.

“Oh,” he breathed. “You’re already wet for me.” I turned my head away. But he didn’t stop. Two fingers slid through the slick heat and circled my clit slowly.

“This is what you need, isn’t it?” he murmured. “Not freedom. Not escape. Just this. My touch.”

I gasped as he slipped one finger inside me, then another. He filled me slowly, deliberately, curling just right, watching my face with dark fascination.

“You feel that?” he whispered. “That ache? You’ve needed me for so long. You just didn’t know how to ask.”

My hips rolled against his hand, shame flooding every nerve—but I couldn’t stop. I didn’t want to.

He leaned down, lips brushing my ear. “Come on, sweetheart. Let go. Come for me like the good little thing you are.”

I moaned—soft, desperate—and came around his fingers. My thighs shook. My nails dug into the sheets. And I sobbed. Not from pain. From how good it felt. From how badly I needed it. From how much of myself I just gave him.

He pulled his fingers out, slow and slick, and held them up to my mouth. “Open,” he said. I did. He pushed them in—wet, warm, tasting like me—and smiled. “You’re starting to understand.”

He kissed my forehead like it was the end of a prayer. And then he left me in the dark. Soaked. Shaking. Ruined. And waiting for more.

⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻

I didn’t cry until the next morning. Not when he touched me. Not when I came for him. But when I woke up to the smell of him still on my skin, the ache between my legs, the silence in the room—It all cracked open.

I sat on the floor by the window, knees pulled to my chest, and let it happen. Hot, angry sobs into my arms. Shame flooding every part of me. I didn’t know who I was anymore. Not really. He’d blurred the edges, rewired the need. And when I heard the door unlock, I didn’t look up. I just curled tighter.

He didn’t speak. Not at first. Then his footsteps crossed the floor, slow and deliberate. He knelt beside me, his hand hovering near my back.

“I didn’t want to break you like this,” he said softly.

I turned my face away, still crying. “Then why did you?”

“Because I couldn’t let anyone else have you.”

I looked up. “You don’t even know me.” His eyes met mine—steady. Calm. Dangerous.

“I know everything,” he said. “I know how you curl up when you sleep. I know the way your lips part when you’re reading. I know how lonely you’ve been, even when you smile at people. I know you’ve never been touched the way you deserve.” His fingers reached out, wiped a tear from my cheek. “I know no one’s ever made you feel like you matter.”

My bottom lip trembled.

“I do,” he whispered. “I see you.”

I didn’t want to believe him. But something inside me cracked. A deeper break. One that didn’t come from fear—but from truth. A truth I didn’t want to name.

I reached for him. He caught my wrist in one hand, eyes darkening.

“You don’t get to give me pieces,” he said, voice low. “If you want this—you give me everything.”

I stared at him, heart pounding. “Then take it.” That was all it took.

He stood. Grabbed me by the waist. Carried me to the bed and threw me down like I weighed nothing. His hands were rough now—tearing off my shirt, yanking my shorts down my legs, baring me completely.

“You’re mine,” he growled, spreading my legs. “Say it.”

I gasped as he climbed over me, mouth hot on my throat. “Yours—”

He reached down, tugged his sweats low, and pressed the thick, hard weight of his cock between my thighs.

“You let me touch you. Taste you. Now I’m going to fuck you.” His hand wrapped around my throat. “And you’re going to take it.”

I whimpered. Nodded. “Please—”

He didn’t wait. He slammed into me, raw and deep, making me cry out as his hand kept me pinned.

“Look at you,” he snarled. “So fucking wet. You begged for this. Don’t pretend you didn’t.” Every thrust hit harder. Deeper. My hips arched to meet him, shame and heat spiraling out of control. “You like being fucked like this?” he whispered into my ear. “Pinned down, crying, full of me?”

I choked on a sob and nodded.

“That’s right. You’re my good girl now. My perfect little thing.” His hand left my throat and gripped my jaw, forcing my gaze to his. “You were made for me,” he said again, voice low and shaking with something wild. “You were made to be filled by me. Ruined by me. Loved by me.”

I shattered. Tears spilled as I came around him—tight, desperate, broken. My legs shook. My voice caught in my throat. And he fucked me through it.

“Take it,” he growled. “Take all of me.” His thrusts turned erratic, rougher. He bent over me, panting, grinding deeper. “I’m gonna fill you up,” he whispered. “Gonna make sure you feel me dripping out for days.”

“Please,” I sobbed. “Harry—”

He moaned my name like it was the only thing keeping him tethered. Then he came—deep, raw, thick inside me. His cock pulsed as he emptied himself, still grinding, still whispering mine, mine, mine under his breath. He collapsed against me, chest heaving. And I didn’t move. Not because I couldn’t. But because I didn’t want to.

I woke up with his scent on my skin. Warm. Heavy. Musky. Faint traces of sweat and sex still clung to the sheets, my thighs sticky with what he left inside me. The ache between my legs wasn’t sharp. It was deep. Lingering. Proof that he’d taken me completely. And I let him. The worst part? I wanted him to do it again.

I didn’t know what that meant. Didn’t know if it was trauma or surrender or something darker. But I knew I didn’t hate the way it felt waking up next to him—his arm draped over my stomach, breath soft against the back of my neck, cock already hard against my ass. He was still asleep. For once, still. His fingers twitched against my hip, like he was dreaming about holding me even tighter.

I stared at the ceiling. I could scream. I could fight. But I didn’t. I reached down, tangled my fingers with his. And he woke up. A quiet sound left his throat as he pressed himself closer to me. His cock slid between my thighs—slow, thick, already leaking.

“Mmm,” he hummed, nuzzling against me. “Still full of me.”

I didn’t answer. Just let him grind softly, slowly, against my skin.

He kissed the back of my neck. “Does it hurt?”

“A little,” I whispered.

“Good,” he breathed. “You’ll remember me every time you sit down.”

I didn’t stop him when his hand slid up my chest, cupping my breast. I didn’t stop him when his other hand slid between my thighs, spreading them wider.

“You’re still so wet for me,” he said, almost reverent. “Look at you. Open. Ready.”

He pushed inside—slowly this time. Deep and thick, every inch dragging against sore, swollen walls. I gasped, body arching into his.

“I should’ve taken you the second I brought you here,” he whispered. “But I wanted you to need me first. And now you do, don’t you?” I nodded. He fucked me slow, possessive, like he had all the time in the world. Like I was something precious and broken, and he loved every ruined inch. “You’re mine now,” he said. “Forever.”

“I know.”

“I’ll take care of you. I’ll give you everything. You’ll never need anyone but me.”

I turned my head slightly. Our lips touched—soft. Gentle. Like a real kiss.

“Will you ever let me go?” I asked quietly.

He paused. Buried deep inside me. Breathing hard. “Why would I let go of what was made for me?” I didn’t answer. I didn’t have to. Because I didn’t want him to let go.

He kissed me again, slower this time, more patient than I deserved. His hips moved in gentle rolls, dragging orgasm after orgasm from me until I was shaking, clinging, crying into his mouth. And when he came, spilling inside me again, he didn’t pull out. He wrapped his arms around me like chains made of silk. Like a vow.

“You’re everything I ever wanted,” he whispered.

I buried my face in his chest. And let him keep me.

*****

what the heck was that? do we love possessive!harry or nah? 😭

[niallerspayno]

Only Angel

Materlist

When you land a job as your dad’s assistant on One Direction’s tour, the last thing you expect is to fall for Harry Styles—especially when your dad is Paul. What starts as flirty banter turns into something secret, messy, and real, and hiding it from the band (and your very protective father) proves harder than you ever imagined.

Tags: Harry x reader, long hair harry, Paul's daughter reader, smut (fingering, unprotected p in v, female and male receiving oral), some fluff and angst

Author's note: Set during the Made In The A.M. era, but I've kept Zayn in the fic

...

You adjust the strap of your bag and shift awkwardly in the elevator as it climbs to the top floor. Your heart’s been doing this annoying fluttery thing all morning, but you keep telling yourself it’s just nerves. That, and the fact that your dad didn’t tell you much—just that the job was yours, and to be on time.

That’s how you find yourself here, freshly unemployed, freshly humiliated, and now… freshly hired as an assistant for One Direction.

The doors slide open with a soft chime, revealing a hotel suite already buzzing with energy. You barely get two steps inside before—

“There she is.” Your dad’s voice cuts through the chaos. “Alright, lads, eyes front. This is my daughter. She’s joining the crew, so try not to scare her off on day one.”

Your mouth opens to say hi, maybe something funny, but then you actually look up and see them.

Louis is sprawled across the couch like he owns the place—legs kicked up, phone in hand, smirk firmly in place. “Paul, mate, you didn’t tell us your daughter was fit.”

“Louis,” Paul warns.

“I’m just saying!”

Niall gives you a small, friendly wave from the kitchenette, a spoon sticking out of his mouth and a tub of Nutella in hand. “Heya. You want some? Helps with first day nerves.”

Liam is the first to actually stand, his expression warm as he offers you a hand. “Ignore them. Welcome to the circus.”

You shake it gratefully. “Thanks. I brought my own straightjacket.”

He laughs, and something in your chest unclenches just a little.

Then there’s Zayn—quiet, observant, perched near the window with a sketchbook balanced on his knee. He lifts a hand in greeting, dark eyes flicking over you once, twice. You smile back, a little unsure.

And then—

“Hi.”

The voice is deeper than you expected. Smooth, slow, dragging like honey over gravel.

You turn—and your heart does that annoying fluttery thing again, but this time it’s not nerves.

Harry Styles is taller in person. His hair is pulled into a loose knot at the nape of his neck, a few curls escaping to frame his face. He’s dressed in a worn black tee and jeans that cling far too well to his hips, rings glinting on his fingers as he extends a hand toward you.

“I’m Harry,” he says, smiling like he already knows how this story ends.

You clear your throat and slip your hand into his. “I’m Y/N.”

His grip is warm, his touch lingering just long enough to be noticeable before he lets go.

“Pretty name,” he murmurs. “Didn’t expect Paul to have such a stunning daughter.”

You raise a brow. “Didn’t expect Harry Styles to be such a cliché.”

That earns a low laugh. “Touché.”

Before he can say more, Paul claps a protective hand on your shoulder, his tone all business. “Alright, that’s enough. She’s working under me. Strictly professional. Got it?”

Harry holds up both hands like he’s surrendering, but the grin tugging at his lips betrays him. “Loud and clear, boss.”

Paul narrows his eyes for a second longer, then turns his attention back to you. “Come on, I’ll show you where we keep the schedules and what’s on for today.”

You follow him through the suite, but you feel Harry’s eyes on you the entire time. Burning into your back. You don’t dare look—mostly because you’re pretty sure if you do, he’ll smirk, and that might just kill you dead.

“Don’t let them get to you,” your dad says, handing you a clipboard. “They’ll try, trust me. Especially that one.”

“Noted.”

You sneak one glance over your shoulder anyway.

Harry’s still standing there. Still watching. And when he catches you looking, he winks.

You quickly turn back around, heat crawling up your neck.

Yeah. You’re in trouble.

...

It’s been a week.

Seven days of wrangling schedules, fetching coffee orders with ridiculous customizations, and reminding five grown men what “soundcheck” actually means.

And somehow—somehow—Harry Styles has managed to be both the bane of your existence and the highlight of every damn day.

He’s made a sport of flustering you. Brushing past a little too close. Whispering “good morning” like it’s a secret. Stealing your pen just to hand it back with a wink. Every look feels like a dare. Every smirk like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

Spoiler: he does.

You’re mid-way through checking everyone off for soundcheck when you realize—of course—he’s the only one missing.

You scan the suite, then glance at the time. Five minutes until they’re due downstairs.

Paul is across the room, deep in conversation with the stage manager, so you slip your phone out and shoot off a quick group text.

You: Everyone here for soundcheck except one suspiciously curly-haired diva.

Immediately, Louis replies.

Louis: If I have to drag him out of bed again I swear to god.

Zayn: He was in the hallway like 10 mins ago?? Probably wandered off being mysterious.

Liam: Check the roof. Or the mirror. That’s where I usually find him.

Niall: Want me to check the buffet?

You roll your eyes, bite back a smile, and head out to find him yourself.

You’re halfway down the hall when you hear it—low humming, half a tune, half a distraction. And then, there he is.

Leaning against the wall just outside the fire escape, head tipped back like he’s posing for a damn magazine cover. One boot pressed flat against the wall, sunglasses perched on his nose despite the fact that you’re inside and the lighting is dismal at best.

You pause in the doorway, one brow raised. “Lost track of time, did we?”

He doesn’t jump. Doesn’t even flinch. Just tips his head toward you like he was waiting for this exact moment.

“Knew you’d come,” he says easily, a grin curling at the corner of his mouth.

You cross your arms. “It’s part of my job.”

“Mmm.” He tilts his head at you. “Is that what this is? Work?”

You narrow your eyes at the way his voice dips on that last word. “You’re five minutes late.”

He pushes off the wall with deliberate ease, the heel of his boot thudding softly against the floor as he closes the distance between you.

“Five minutes,” he murmurs, eyes fixed on yours as he approaches, “and already you’re chasing me down. Can’t stay away, can you?”

You scoff, but your feet don’t move. “I’m chasing a paycheck. Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Oh, I’m not flattering myself,” he says, dipping his head a little, like he’s letting you in on a secret. “I just pay attention.”

He stops in front of you, close—too close. His scent hits you first, something warm and clean, laced with the faintest trace of mint tea and cologne. His sunglasses slip down the bridge of his nose, revealing green eyes that scan your face like he’s memorizing it.

“I’ve seen the way you look at me.”

Your breath catches. “I look at you the same way I look at the coffee machine. With exhaustion.”

Harry grins, his tongue just barely swiping across his bottom lip like he’s tasting the flirt off the air.

“That so?” he asks, stepping in even closer, until your back brushes the edge of the doorframe and there’s nowhere else to go. “Because I don’t make you nearly as jittery as that machine does.”

You hate the way your heart stumbles. Hate more that he can probably feel it, standing this close. Your voice comes out tighter than you’d like. “You’re full of yourself.”

“Maybe,” he concedes, cocking his head, “but I’m also right.”

His hand lifts, slow, and for a terrifying second you think he’s going to touch you—but instead, he tugs the edge of your lanyard gently between two fingers, the one with that damn silver ring catching the light.

“You should be careful with me,” he says softly. “I’ve been known to cause… complications.”

You lift your chin, refusing to be the one who backs down first. “I’m not scared of complications.”

That gets you a real smile. Dangerous and dimpled.

“Good,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “Then maybe you’ll stop pretending this is just a job.”

And with that, he drops your lanyard and steps back, like he didn’t just completely knock the air from your lungs.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he calls over his shoulder as he strolls back toward the suite. “Wouldn’t want to keep your dad waiting.”

You don’t move for a full ten seconds.

Then you exhale, check your pulse, and mutter to yourself, “Get a grip.”

But you’re smiling.

And you are absolutely in trouble.

...

You’ve had enough.

It’s been ten days of Harry brushing your arm in passing, whispering cheeky comments under his breath, letting his gaze dip a little too low when you think no one’s watching. He always leaves you breathless, flustered, two steps behind while he walks off smug as hell.

Not today.

Tonight’s show is in a big arena. VIPs in the wings, cameras everywhere. The energy’s electric, the crew a well-oiled machine. And you? You show up early. On purpose. Hair done, lip gloss on, and a tight black dress under your tour jacket—fitted, simple, just the right amount of dangerous when the light hits the sheer paneling over your thighs. Just enough to make a certain someone’s brain short-circuit.

He finds you in the green room. Of course he does.

You’re leaned against the counter, phone in hand, sipping water like you don’t notice the moment his eyes land on you.

But you do.

You feel it like a heat wave. The pause in his step. The way his jaw ticks. He says nothing at first—just watches as you turn slightly, jacket slipping off your shoulder like it has a mind of its own.

You glance up through your lashes. “Something wrong, Styles?”

He blinks once. Then again. “That’s not your usual… assistant attire.”

You shrug, taking another slow sip. “Guess I felt like being appreciated for more than my scheduling skills today.”

He steps forward, eyes raking over you with a little more bite now, the teasing replaced with something darker. “You trying to kill me?”

“Not at all,” you say, all fake innocence. “I just thought I’d remind you that two can play this game.”

His tongue presses to the inside of his cheek. That stupid smirk returns—but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes now. Something sharp. Possessive.

“I like this side of you,” he says lowly, inching closer. “Confident. Calculated.”

“Dangerous?” you offer, tilting your head.

He smiles. “Only to me.”

You don’t move when he stops just in front of you, the counter behind you pressing into your back. His hands don’t touch you—he doesn’t even lean in. But it’s the tension in the air, the electric pull between your bodies that says he’s one wrong breath away from giving in.

Then, slowly, deliberately, his fingers find the edge of your jacket, brushing the fabric aside just enough to skim his knuckles over the bare skin of your arm.

“You really wore this for me?” he asks, voice barely a whisper now, his eyes locked on yours like you’re gravity itself.

You keep your chin high. “Maybe I was curious what it’d take to wipe that smug look off your face.”

His laugh is quiet, dark, a little breathless. He braces one hand on the counter beside you, his body angled into yours—not touching, but close enough that you feel the heat of him.

“You’re playing a dangerous game, sweetheart.”

“And you’re stalling.”

His eyes flick down to your mouth, then back up. His free hand lifts, fingers tracing a featherlight path along the exposed skin at your collarbone. Just the barest touch, but it sets your whole body humming.

He leans in, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Tell me to stop.”

You don’t.

You can’t.

His nose drags along your jaw, breath warm, teasing. His hand trails lower, grazing your waist, his rings cool against the fabric of your dress. Your fingers curl around the edge of the counter to keep from grabbing his shirt.

He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes again, his pupils blown wide, chest rising with shallow breaths.

Then—

“Whoa—Jesus, I didn’t see anything!”

Louis’ voice barrels into the room like a wrecking ball, followed by the loud slam of the door as he immediately backpedals out again.

You and Harry both freeze.

A beat of stunned silence.

Then you let out a breathy laugh, pressing your forehead to Harry’s shoulder. “Well. That was subtle.”

Harry groans, tipping his head back toward the ceiling. “He’s never letting me live this down.”

You pat his chest and step around him, fixing your hair like you didn’t just nearly kiss him against the catering counter. “Guess we’ll both have to behave now.”

He grabs your wrist, gently but firmly, pulling you back just for a second.

His voice is low. Serious.

“I don’t want to behave.”

Your stomach flips.

But your dad’s voice booms down the hall again, this time closer: “Y/N? Where the hell’s that setlist?”

You swallow, nod once, and finally pull away.

“We’ll finish this later,” you murmur.

And Harry just grins.

“Promise?”

...

The concert’s a blur.

You spend most of it half-focused, jotting notes and checking cues, trying to keep your head clear and your hands busy. But your eyes keep drifting to him. To the way his shirt clings to his chest by the second chorus. To the damp curls sticking to his forehead under the stage lights. To the way he glances toward side stage after every song like he’s looking for something.

Like he’s looking for you.

By the time they hit the last note and the crowd roars, your heart is pounding louder than the bass.

You slip away during the encore, weaving past techs and assistants and Paul, who’s preoccupied with a headset and shouting something about exit routes. Your feet move on instinct now. Backstage hallway. Left at the corner. Harry’s dressing room.

The door creaks as you push it open, and there he is—half changed, hair a wild mess, shirt undone, chest still heaving from the rush of the set.

His eyes find yours in the mirror.

You shut the door behind you. Locking it.

“Still want to behave?” you ask quietly.

He turns, slow, eyes dark. “Not even a little.”

In two steps he’s in front of you, one hand cupping your jaw, the other landing low on your waist as he backs you gently against the door. His mouth hovers over yours, breath mingling, teasing.

“You’ve been driving me mad,” he murmurs. “All night. All week.”

You smile, just a little. “Payback’s a bitch.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, but it dies on his lips as they finally crash into yours—hot, hungry, no more teasing, no more games.

It’s a kiss that says finally. His hands are everywhere—trailing your sides, gripping your hips, tugging at your jacket like he can’t decide if he wants you clothed or bare.

You tug him closer by the front of his shirt, bodies flush, mouths parting with a shared gasp as his tongue slides against yours. The kiss turns messy, desperate. His hand slips under your dress, palm skating up the back of your thigh. Your breath stutters.

He pulls back just enough to murmur, “Tell me to stop.”

You shake your head. “Don’t you dare.”

That’s all he needs.

His mouth crashes into yours again, rougher this time, all teeth and tongue and heat. His grip on your thigh tightens, dragging it up around his waist as he pins you to the door. The sharp bite of the wood at your back is nothing compared to the way his hips slot against yours, hard and eager, already grinding into you through your dress.

“Fuck,” he groans into your mouth. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

You do. You can feel it—his cock pressed against you through his jeans, straining, twitching every time your hips roll up to meet his.

He lifts your other leg, and instinctively, you wrap them both around him. He groans at the contact, rutting forward, lips dragging down your jaw, your throat, biting at the spot just below your ear.

“Harry—” you gasp, nails digging into his shoulders.

“Been thinking about this all night,” he growls. “Thinking about you in that little dress, walking around like you weren’t fucking begging for it.”

His hand slips between your bodies, fingers brushing the edge of your underwear. He swears again, breath hot against your collarbone. “Already soaked.”

You gasp when he pushes the fabric aside, dragging two fingers through your folds—slow, teasing, obscene.

“Been like this all day, haven’t you?” he murmurs, voice rough as his fingers press in, sliding deep. “Knew exactly what you were doing. Walking around in that fucking dress, looking at me like you wanted me to lose control.”

You cry out, your back arching off the door as he curls his fingers just right, his thumb grinding tight circles over your clit.

“I—I wasn’t—”

“Liar.” His mouth finds your neck, biting hard enough to leave a mark before soothing it with his tongue. “You knew. You wanted this.”

You moan as he picks up the pace, his fingers pumping fast and filthy, knuckles hitting that perfect spot over and over. Your thighs are trembling already, your body taut with pressure, pleasure building fast and hot in your belly.

“God, you feel so good around my fingers,” he groans, forehead pressing to yours, breath ragged. “So fucking tight. Bet you’ll feel even better around my cock.”

You whimper at the thought, hips rocking against his hand, chasing every sensation he gives you.

Then he pulls back slightly, eyes locked on yours. “Take it off.”

You blink, dazed. “What?”

“The dress,” he says, licking his lips. “Take it off. Want to see you.”

You nod, breath catching in your throat as his fingers slip from you. He lets you down gently, your legs trembling as they meet the floor again. His hands never leave you—trailing down your arms, steadying you, worshipping every inch.

You keep your eyes on his as you reach for the hem of your dress, tugging it up slowly. He watches, transfixed, his tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip as inch after inch of skin is revealed.

When the dress clears your head and hits the floor, you stand before him in nothing but your bra and panties—both already crooked from his earlier teasing. You should feel shy, exposed. But under his gaze, you feel powerful.

He breathes out like he’s been holding it in for hours. “Jesus, baby…”

Your hands go to the clasp of your bra, but he steps in, catching your wrists.

“Let me.”

He unhooks it with a practiced flick and lets it slide from your shoulders, baring you completely to him. His hands come up to cup your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples, watching the way you arch into his touch.

“Perfect,” he murmurs, more to himself than you. “So fucking perfect.”

Your hands go to the hem of his shirt, fingers brushing his stomach as you pull it up and off. His chest is flushed, tattooed, still glistening faintly with sweat from the show. Your hands smooth over the planes of it, slow and deliberate.

Then you drop to your knees.

His breath hitches, but you only reach for his jeans—unfastening them, dragging them down along with his boxers. His cock springs free, hard and aching, and you can’t help the way your mouth waters at the sight of it. Thick. Flushed. Dripping at the tip.

You glance up at him, and his jaw is clenched tight, eyes dark and locked on you.

“Later,” he mutters, pulling you back up to your feet, already guiding you toward the couch. “I need to be inside you.”

You let him lead you, knees hitting the cushions as he drops behind you, settling back against the sofa and pulling you into his lap. His cock presses against your thigh, hot and heavy.

You reach between you, guiding him to your entrance, and the moment his tip pushes in—thick and aching—you both moan like it’s the first breath after surfacing from underwater.

He grips your waist, fingertips digging in as you sink down, slow and deliberate, inch by inch until he’s fully seated inside you. The stretch burns just right, and the way he fills you makes your whole body tremble.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans, head falling back against the couch. “So tight. So wet. You feel—god, you feel like heaven.”

You plant your hands on his chest, roll your hips once, slowly. He twitches inside you, eyes flying open to watch your every move.

You start to ride him properly then, lifting and dropping your hips, letting the motion grow faster, harder. He meets you thrust for thrust, fucking up into you with just as much heat, just as much need, the slap of skin on skin building between your bodies.

“You’ve wanted this, haven’t you?” he pants, hands moving from your waist to your ass, gripping, guiding. “Wanted me to fuck you like this. You knew exactly what you were doing in that little dress.”

You whimper and throw your head back, grinding down onto him as deep as he’ll go. “I knew.”

He groans like you’ve ruined him.

Your hands slide into his hair, finally giving in to the temptation that’s been driving you mad for days. It’s soft and wild beneath your fingers, curls slipping through as you tug, hard, forcing his head back.

His mouth drops open. He swears.

“Do that again,” he breathes.

So you do—twisting your fingers tighter, dragging a moan from his throat as you ride him faster, messier now. Your breasts bounce with every movement, his hands never leaving you—touching, squeezing, worshipping.

“Look at you,” he rasps, bucking up into you harder. “Taking me so fucking good. Like you were made for me.”

You crash your lips to his, teeth and tongue and heat, and he groans into your mouth, one hand slipping between your bodies to rub tight circles over your clit.

“I’m close,” you whisper, pulling back just enough to breathe.

His eyes are wild now, hungry. “Then come. Want to feel you fall apart on my cock.”

His words send you tumbling.

Your hips jerk, thighs trembling as the orgasm rips through you—hot and fast, stealing your breath as you clench tight around him. A strangled moan escapes your lips, head falling forward, forehead pressed to his.

“That’s it,” he groans, his voice a wrecked whisper. “Just like that, baby. Fuck, you feel—”

He cuts off with a gasp as your walls flutter around him, milking him, dragging him right to the edge.

His grip on your hips tightens, almost desperate, and he forces out, “Can I—fuck—can I come inside you?”

You lift your head, eyes dazed but clear, meeting his.

“Yes,” you breathe. “Yes, I’m on birth control—please.”

That’s all it takes.

He moans your name like a prayer and slams up into you, deep and hard, once, twice—and then he’s spilling inside you with a low, guttural sound, fingers bruising your hips as he holds you down, burying himself as far as he can go.

You feel every pulse of it, every hot wave as he fills you, your body already aching and slick with the proof of it.

For a long, breathless moment, neither of you moves.

You’re still pressed against his chest, his arms wrapped tightly around you, his breath hot and uneven against your neck. The thud of his heart pounds beneath your palm, matching the rush still echoing in your ears. He’s still buried inside you, the heat of him thick and warm, your bodies locked together, trembling in the aftermath.

But eventually, your thighs start to ache and your body gives a little shiver.

“Okay,” you whisper, voice shaky but content, “I should… probably move.”

“Slow,” he murmurs, nodding. “Easy.”

You lift your hips gently, carefully easing off him with a soft gasp as his length slips free. He holds you steady, fingers tightening for a second as he watches the way your body clenches from the loss. You feel the mess of it between your thighs, sticky and warm—but all you care about is the way his hands settle back on your waist, grounding you.

You shift to straddle his lap more comfortably, your chest still against his, legs trembling slightly. One of his hands rubs slow circles into the small of your back, and the other tucks a strand of hair behind your ear.

And then your fingers are in his hair again.

You’ve been dying to do this—really do this. Not just tug at it in the heat of the moment, but run your fingers through the soft curls, comb them back from his forehead, memorize the way they coil between your fingers.

He hums, eyes fluttering shut as he melts beneath your touch.

“You really like my hair, huh?” he murmurs, lips brushing your cheek as he leans into your hand.

You smile, lazily dragging your fingers through another curl. “I think I’m obsessed with it, actually.”

He laughs, breathless and warm. “Dangerous thing to admit when you’re sitting in my lap.”

You smirk. “You’re the one who begged to come inside me.”

He groans, tossing his head back dramatically. “And I have zero regrets.”

You lean forward, brushing your lips to his jaw. “Good.”

He wraps his arms around you again, holding you tighter, your skin still damp and sticky, but neither of you cares. You could stay here forever—limbs tangled, hearts still racing, your hands playing in his hair like it’s the only thing keeping you steady.

After a beat, he sighs, voice low against your neck. “You alright?”

You nod, still tucked against him. “Better than alright.”

“Good.” He presses a kiss to your shoulder. Then one to your collarbone. “Let me clean you up, yeah?”

You let out a sleepy groan, nuzzling closer. “Don’t wanna move.”

“Same,” he mutters, but he’s already shifting, helping you gently off his lap. “But if your dad catches us like this, I will die.”

You giggle, letting him scoop you up off the couch as he stands. “Guess I’ll let you live, then.”

...

It’s been a few days.

A blur of shows, travel, crew dinners, and secret glances across crowded rooms. A blur of stolen moments. Locked doors. Late nights. His mouth on your skin, your clothes in a pile on the floor, his hands learning every inch of you like he’s making up for lost time.

And now… now it’s one of those nights again.

Harry snuck into your hotel room an hour after the band finished press. He barely got the door closed before he was on you—kiss rough, hands eager, laughter muffled into your neck when you pulled him onto the bed by the front of his hoodie.

Now, your room is dark except for the city lights filtering through the curtains. The air is warm with the smell of skin and sleep and something softer than either of you will say out loud.

He’s lying on his back with his head in your lap, one arm flung lazily across your thigh, curls spilling over your bare legs as you card your fingers through them again and again. His eyes are closed, lips parted, a tiny satisfied smile on his face like you’ve lulled him into the safest place on earth.

Your fingers pause for a second, tangled in the curls behind his ear.

He notices.

“Don’t stop,” he mumbles, voice gravelly from sleep and sex. “That’s cheating.”

You laugh softly. “Sorry.”

You resume the soft strokes, but your heart's hammering now, nerves coiling under your ribs.

He sighs again, content. So damn content.

You bite your lip. Then, quietly. “Can I ask you something?”

His lashes flutter open. He doesn’t lift his head, just looks up at you with those soft green eyes. “Course you can.”

You hesitate, thumb sweeping slowly across his temple. “This thing between us…”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.

You exhale. “Is it just sex? Like, a friends with benefits thing? Or is it…”

You trail off, not sure how much to say. Not sure what you’ll do if he says it’s nothing. That you’re nothing.

He’s quiet for a second.

Then he shifts, lifting his head from your lap so he can sit up beside you, facing you properly. The movement is slow, almost cautious. His hand comes up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing your jaw.

His voice is quiet. “I don’t think I’ve ever had sex like that and not felt something.”

Your breath catches.

He leans in, eyes searching yours. “I sneak into your room at night because I can’t sleep unless I’m near you. You drive me insane in the best way. I want you—every version of you. And if you’ll let me… I want more than just this.”

You blink, trying to catch your breath, trying to make sense of the warmth blooming in your chest.

“Okay,” you whisper. “Good. Because I… I want that too.”

His whole face softens.

“Yeah?” he murmurs, leaning in to brush his nose against yours.

“Yeah.”

He kisses you then—slow and tender, mouths brushing like neither of you wants it to end. When you finally pull apart, his forehead rests against yours, breath warm, fingers still curled gently beneath your chin.

“I want this,” he murmurs again, like a vow. “But I know what comes with it.”

You nod slowly, your hands sliding down to rest over his. “My dad would kill you.”

That gets a soft laugh, but there’s no humor in his eyes. “He’d kill me slow.”

“And the boys…” you sigh, pulling back enough to see his face. “They’d tease you mercilessly. Or worse—worry it’s gonna mess with the band.”

“And management?” he adds, voice low now. “They’d have a meltdown. Headlines, speculation… you know how fast things spread.”

You nod again, the weight of it all sinking in. “So… we keep it quiet. For now.”

His thumb traces your bottom lip, his expression unreadable for a beat.

“Can you live with that?” he asks softly. “Sneaking around? Pretending like you’re not mine when all I want is to show everyone?”

Your heart stumbles.

“I can,” you say. “If it means I am yours. Even if it’s just for us.”

His jaw tenses, and you can tell he’s battling every instinct to pull you in and say screw it. But he doesn’t. Instead, he exhales slowly, pulling you into his chest, wrapping his arms around you like he never wants to let go.

“You are,” he whispers into your hair. “You’re mine.”

You press your face into the curve of his neck, breathing him in, the warmth of his skin, the rise and fall of his chest.

“And you’re mine,” you murmur.

He kisses the top of your head and holds you tighter. “Then they don’t have to know. Not yet. Not until we’re ready.”

You nod, curling closer.

It’s dangerous. It’s reckless. It’s complicated.

But it’s real.

And for now, that’s enough.

...

It’s been three days since that night in your hotel room.

Three days of stolen glances and secret smiles. Of brushing past him in narrow hallways, pretending not to feel the burn of his hand on the small of your back. Three days of aching.

And today?

Today has dragged.

Everything feels too loud, too long, too slow. Every call sheet is wrong, every email never-ending. And Harry… Harry’s been a menace.

It’s like he knows exactly what he's doing to you.

The way he leans back in his chair during interviews, legs spread like he owns the world. The way he tucks his hair behind his ear, slow and deliberate, curls bouncing around his face like he’s in a shampoo commercial. The way he chews on his thumb while looking down at his lyric notes—lips pink and plush and perfect.

You’ve been pretending to focus all afternoon, clipboard in hand, chewing your pen cap like it’ll distract you from the very real, very filthy thoughts in your head.

But nothing helps.

Not when you keep imagining those curls in your fists.

Not when you keep remembering what his voice sounds like between your thighs.

By the time the boys finish rehearsals, you’re restless. Wound so tight you might snap if he so much as breathes in your direction.

And of course—he finds you the second he’s free.

You’re tucked away in a quiet dressing room going over the revised schedule when the door shuts behind you with a click. You look up—and there he is.

Sweaty. Smirking. Hair a mess.

Fucking beautiful.

He says nothing at first. Just watches you.

You swallow. “We don’t have long.”

“I don’t need long,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “I just need you.”

Your breath catches.

He closes the distance in three strides, his hands slipping around your waist, pulling you against him. His lips graze your ear.

“You’ve been looking at me like you want to eat me alive,” he whispers.

“I do,” you breathe. “But I was trying to be professional.”

He pulls back enough to meet your eyes, curls falling loose around his face, his pupils already blown.

“Fuck professionalism.”

Then his mouth is on yours.

Hot. Urgent. Desperate.

His hands slide down your back, gripping your ass, lifting you onto the counter behind you. Your legs spread without hesitation, heels hooking behind his thighs to keep him close.

You kiss him like you’ve been starving, like you need this to breathe. Your hands go straight to his hair, finally tugging like you’ve wanted to all day—hard and greedy, curling your fingers into the roots and pulling just enough to make him groan against your mouth.

“God,” he gasps, grinding into you. “You love my hair.”

“Can’t help it,” you murmur, dragging your nails lightly along his scalp just to feel him shiver. “Wanna pull it while you’re buried between my legs.”

His head drops to your shoulder with a growl. “Say that again and I’m dropping to my knees right now.”

You smirk, breathless, tugging again. “Then what are you waiting for?”

He growls low in his throat, and in one fluid movement, his hands are on your jacket, shoving it down your arms. His mouth never leaves yours for long, just broken kisses between quick movements—your fingers fisting his shirt, tugging it up over his head, revealing warm skin, inked muscle, and the kind of body that makes you ache.

“You first,” he murmurs, dragging the hem of your dress up, up, up—until you lift your arms and he peels it off in one smooth pull.

You’re left in your bra and underwear, flushed and already wet, and he looks at you like he wants to ruin you.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he breathes.

Then he drops to his knees.

He kisses the inside of your knee first. Then the other. His fingers slip under the band of your underwear, tugging them down your thighs slowly—like he wants to savor the reveal. He slides them off your ankles, discarding them somewhere behind him, and then his hands are on your thighs, spreading you open wide as he settles between them.

You shudder at the first brush of his breath against your core.

He groans, low and rough. “You’re already dripping.”

You can only nod, fingers curling around the edge of the counter behind you.

And then his mouth is on you.

He licks a slow, deliberate stripe up your center, groaning again like he’s tasting heaven. His tongue flicks your clit, light at first, teasing, circling, then pressing firm and hot as he sucks you into his mouth. Your hips jolt.

“Fuck—Harry—”

Your hands find his hair without thinking, sinking into the curls, tugging hard.

He moans against you.

The sound vibrates through you and only makes you tug again, a little rougher this time, wrapping your fingers tighter. He loves it—you can feel it in the way he groans, in the way his tongue moves faster, deeper, like every pull of his hair spurs him on.

Like he’s addicted to it.

He eats you like a man starved—messy, unrelenting, burying his face between your thighs with no care for control. His hands slide under your ass, holding you steady as he works you over with his mouth, dragging his tongue through every part of you until you’re panting, writhing, begging.

You pull hard on his hair again, and he groans louder, grinding his tongue against your clit in tight circles.

“You like that?” you gasp, tugging again.

He pulls back just enough to look up at you, his mouth shiny, lips swollen. “Fuck yes.”

Then he dives back in.

You cry out, one hand braced on the mirror behind you, the other still tangled in his hair, pulling as he flicks his tongue faster, harder—relentless. Your thighs start to shake.

“Harry—I’m gonna—”

He moans like he’s proud, sucking your clit hard as two fingers slip inside you, curling just right.

That’s all it takes.

You fall apart with a choked gasp, hips jerking, thighs trembling, his name spilling from your lips over and over as you come undone against his mouth. He holds you through every second of it, tongue dragging through your slick, licking up everything he can get, like he’s not letting a single drop go to waste.

And still—still—your hands are in his hair, tugging without rhythm now, desperate and delirious. And still, he groans for it. Like he wants to be wrecked by you.

You don’t know how long it takes before you finally collapse back against the mirror, thighs twitching, chest heaving, completely undone.

And he’s still kneeling, lips swollen, eyes dark, grinning like he just won something.

Which—fuck—he did.

Your breathing’s still uneven, thighs trembling from the aftershocks, but when Harry finally rises from between your legs, his lips glossy and jaw tight, you catch the fire in his eyes.

He swipes the back of his hand across his mouth, tongue dragging across his bottom lip like he’s savoring every drop of you.

“You’re fucking unreal,” he breathes, almost reverent.

You don’t respond.

You act.

Your hands slip up under the hem of his shirt, palms flat against his flushed, tattooed skin. He hisses softly at the contact, your touch gentle compared to the wreckage he just made of you. You push the shirt up slow, watching every muscle in his stomach tighten under your hands, until you finally tug it over his head and drop it to the floor.

“Your turn,” you murmur, gaze dropping to the waistband of his jeans.

His breath catches. “Yeah?”

You nod, backing him up until the backs of his thighs hit the edge of the chair in the corner. He sits without resistance, legs spread, eyes on you like you’re a fantasy come to life.

And then, slowly—purposefully—you sink to your knees.

Harry’s mouth parts, chest rising sharply.

Your hands find his belt, unfastening it with infuriating calm. He lifts his hips just enough to help as you drag his jeans down his legs, then his boxers, releasing his cock—already flushed and heavy, the tip glistening. He’s hard again, impossibly so, despite what he just gave you, and the sight of it makes your mouth water.

You glance up at him through your lashes as your fingers wrap around the base. “So responsive.”

He laughs, but it’s breathless, strained. “Sweetheart, you exist and I’m hard.”

You hum, giving him one slow stroke. “Poor thing.”

And then you lean in.

You start soft—just a kiss to the head. Then another, lower, your tongue flicking the underside as you stroke him with a lazy rhythm.

Harry’s head falls back against the chair, his fingers already threading through your hair. But he doesn’t push. Doesn’t guide.

He lets you have him.

You lick a stripe up the side of his cock, kitten-licking the head again before finally taking him into your mouth—inch by inch, dragging your tongue along the underside, eyes still locked on his.

“Fucking hell,” he groans, hips twitching. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You hum around him, sinking down deeper, and the sound makes him shudder.

“Jesus,” he gasps, breath catching. His hand flexes in your hair again, the other gripping the armrest like it's the only thing keeping him grounded. “You feel—fuck, you feel so good.”

You set a steady rhythm—slow at first, teasing, taking him deep before pulling back and dragging your tongue over the head. Your hand wraps around the base, stroking in sync with every movement of your mouth, your spit slicking him up messily, perfectly.

He’s panting now, mouth slack, eyes barely open as he watches you.

“You’re unreal,” he whispers, the words broken by a low moan. “You’re so fucking good to me.”

Your fingers dig into his thigh as you pick up the pace—taking him deeper, faster, letting his cock glide over your tongue until your lips meet your fist and your jaw aches, but god, you don’t stop.

He’s close. You can feel it in the way his hips twitch, the way his thighs tense under your hands.

“Baby—” he gasps, voice cracking. “I’m—fuck—I’m gonna come.”

You don’t stop.

You don’t want to stop.

You look up at him, eyes dark, lips stretched around him, and he breaks—with a strangled moan and a sharp jerk of his hips, he spills down your throat, hot and thick and overwhelming.

You swallow every drop, slow and messy, your hand still working him through it, gentle now, coaxing out every last twitch, every last moan.

He slumps back in the chair, completely undone, chest heaving, sweat glistening at his hairline.

“Holy shit,” he murmurs, head rolling against the cushion. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

You smile, dragging your tongue across your bottom lip, smug and satisfied.

And that’s exactly when—

Knock knock knock.

You freeze.

Harry’s eyes fly open, wide and panicked.

“Y/N?” It’s Liam’s voice. Too casual. Too close.

You scramble upright, nearly tripping over your own knees as you snatch Harry’s shirt off the floor and throw it at him with a whisper-hiss: “Get dressed!”

He’s laughing silently, still boneless in the chair, but he yanks the shirt on while fumbling for his jeans.

You swipe a hand across your mouth, grab your dress and jacket, running a hand through your hair as the door opens.

Liam steps in, mid-sentence. “Paul’s looking for you—what the f—?”

He stops dead.

The silence is instant.

Your dress is halfway over your hips. Harry’s shirt is inside out and only buttoned halfway, his belt dangling undone, hair a mess, lips still swollen.

And Liam sees all of it.

His eyes bounce between you, wide with shock, disbelief, and dawning horror.

“Liam,” you start, breathless. “I—this isn’t—”

“You’re kidding me,” he says, stepping back like he walked into a crime scene. “You’re—oh my god.”

“Mate, just—” Harry stands quickly, trying to fix his belt, but his voice is too calm. Too Harry. “Can we talk about this like adults?”

“Adults don’t sneak around like horny teenagers in dressing rooms!” Liam snaps. “Are you serious right now?”

You wince, dragging your dress down properly. “Please don’t yell.”

“I’m not yelling,” Liam says—loudly—his jaw clenched, voice trembling more from sheer rage than volume. “I’m processing. I walked in and saw my bandmate half-naked and Paul’s daughter with her dress around her waist. What exactly am I supposed to do with that?!”

Harry sighs, buttoning his shirt correctly now. “Liam—”

“No. No, you don’t get to play this calm, charming bullshit right now,” Liam snaps, pointing at him. “That’s Paul’s daughter. Paul. The man who literally pays our salaries and trusts us not to fuck around.”

Harry holds his hands up. “I’m not—this isn’t just fucking around, alright?”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Liam bites. Then he turns on you, betrayal flashing across his face. “And you. You’re supposed to be the responsible one.”

“I am,” you say quickly, stepping forward, jacket clutched to your chest. “Liam, please, I know how it looks, but we didn’t plan for it to happen like this. It’s not a joke. I swear.”

He stares at you, eyes searching. “Are you together?”

You hesitate—then nod. “We’re figuring it out. But yes.”

He makes a strangled sound and looks like he’s about to launch into another rant, so you grab his arm.

“Please don’t say anything. Please. Just not yet.”

His eyes widen. “You want me to lie to your dad?”

“I want you to give me a chance to tell him myself. When I’m ready.”

Liam looks like he might explode. “Y/N—”

“Liam, come on,” Harry says quietly. “You’ve known me forever. I wouldn’t be doing this if it wasn’t real.”

“That’s exactly the problem,” Liam snaps. “Because if it is real, then it’s even worse. You don’t think Paul’s gonna lose it when he finds out one of us is secretly dating his daughter?”

You flinch, but don’t let go of Liam’s arm. “Please. I’m not asking you to lie forever. Just… let me handle it.”

Liam stares at you for a long, heavy moment.

Then, finally, he exhales through his nose and drags a hand down his face. “You have one week. One. Then I’m telling him.”

You nod instantly. “Okay. Thank you.”

He looks between the two of you again, still fuming. “You better hope he hears it from you first.”

Then he storms out, the door slamming behind him.

Silence settles again. You exhale shakily, then glance at Harry.

“Still think it could’ve gone worse?”

Harry raises a brow. “Yeah. He could’ve punched me.”

You groan. “Give it time.”

He walks over and wraps his arms around your waist, pressing a kiss to your temple. “You okay?”

“Nope.”

“You were amazing,” he murmurs. “Even if he hates me now.”

You sigh, leaning into him. “I don’t think he hates you.”

There’s a pause.

Then you add, “Yet.”

You and Harry manage to make yourselves look somewhat presentable before slipping out of the dressing room separately.

Ten minutes later, you’re in the green room, clipboard in hand, pretending you’re not still shaking from what just happened—and from the fact that Liam hasn’t looked at either of you once.

He’s seated on the edge of the couch, elbows on knees, jaw tight, staring at the floor like it’s personally offended him.

The other boys filter in casually—Louis first, sipping from a water bottle, followed by Niall and Zayn mid-conversation.

Louis’s eyes skim the room once before landing on you. Then Harry.

Then Liam.

Then back to you.

And his brow lifts. “What’s with this vibe?”

Niall looks up. “Yeah. Did something happen? Liam looks like he’s about to start throwing furniture.”

“I’m fine,” Liam says tightly, not moving.

“You’re not,” Louis says slowly, eyeing him. “You look like someone slept with your sister or something.”

There’s a beat.

Harry coughs.

You freeze.

Zayn, who’s been leaning against the wall, straightens. “...No.”

Louis’s eyes widen. “No.”

Niall’s head snaps between all three of you like he’s trying to catch up mid-film. “Wait, what—?”

Then he squints.

At Harry.

Then at you.

And you know it’s obvious.

You’re both freshly flushed. Your hair’s a mess. Harry’s shirt is still on inside out, and there’s a faint pink flush crawling up the side of his neck, dangerously close to a hickey. He hasn’t stopped smiling since he walked in.

And you?

You haven’t made eye contact with a single person.

Louis gasps. “Shut. Up.”

Zayn groans. “Unreal. Absolutely fucking unreal.”

Niall’s eyebrows shoot up. “Wait—are you two actually—?”

Louis just cackles, pointing at Harry like he’s won a game show. “I knew it. I fucking knew it.”

You groan, burying your face in your hands.

Zayn shakes his head slowly, arms crossed. “Wow. And here I thought the sexual tension was just for sport.”

“I knew something was going on,” Louis continues, grinning like it’s Christmas morning. “You think I haven’t heard the noises coming from Harry’s room the past few nights? I thought he was just really, really into that meditation playlist.”

Harry snorts. “Definitely wasn’t meditating.”

“Harry!” you hiss, smacking his arm.

“What?” he says, entirely unrepentant. “Just saying, I was in a very mindful headspace.”

Liam lets out a strangled noise that sounds part scream, part groan. “Oh my god. I’m going to throw up.”

Niall, still catching up, squints at you. “Wait. So this is real? Not just a one-time thing?”

You glance at Harry, then nod. “It’s… real.”

Louis whistles, low and dramatic. “Well, congratulations, Styles. You’re a dead man walking.”

Zayn nods. “Start writing your eulogy now. And maybe pick out a nice coffin.”

Harry just smiles wider, all teeth and smug satisfaction. “Totally worth it.”

Liam shoots him a glare sharp enough to kill a weaker man. “You are not going to survive this tour. You understand that, right? The second Paul finds out—”

“He won’t,” you say quickly. “Not yet. Liam’s giving us a week.”

“Which is incredibly generous,” Liam mutters.

Louis claps his hands. “Right, so we’ve got six days, twenty-three hours before Paul goes full wrath-of-God on Harry.”

“Enjoy it while it lasts,” Liam mutters, standing. “Because once Paul finds out, your fun is going to be at the bottom of the ocean.”

He storms out again, grumbling under his breath about children and poor life choices.

The door slams behind him.

Silence lingers for a beat—then Louis lets out a long whistle. “Yikes.”

Niall blinks. “So. Do we… do we comfort him? Or do we just let him stew?”

Zayn shrugs. “Man needs a minute.”

You exhale and sink down onto the nearest couch cushion, pressing your clipboard to your chest. “That could’ve gone worse.”

Harry sits beside you, completely unbothered, arm slung across the back of the couch. “Could’ve gone better.”

Louis snorts. “Could’ve gone nuclear.”

Niall points at you. “You alright?”

You nod slowly. “Yeah. Just… didn’t expect to get caught mid-scandal.”

“Mid-oral scandal,” Louis corrects with a grin. “Let’s call it what it was.”

Harry snorts, reaching for your hand. “We’ll be more careful.”

“Bold of you to assume you’ll get another chance,” Zayn says dryly, arching a brow.

Harry winks. “Oh, I will.”

You roll your eyes, but your cheeks flush anyway.

Niall grins. “God, you two are so obvious now. How did we not catch this earlier?”

“Because I’m good at lying,” you mutter, half into your clipboard.

“And I’m just incredibly charming,” Harry adds helpfully, squeezing your hand.

Louis fake-gags. “Ugh. Disgusting. Someone tell Paul now just to get it over with.”

“Do not joke about that,” you say, pointing at him. “I’m already imagining the heart attack. Do you want to be responsible for giving my father a coronary?”

Louis raises both hands in surrender. “Nope. I like Paul. I’d just prefer not to be within five miles of Harry when he finds out.”

Zayn pushes off the wall with a sigh. “Well, we’ve got a week to brace for impact.”

“And hide anything sharp,” Niall adds under his breath.

The others start filtering out of the room, still murmuring and laughing among themselves, leaving just you and Harry on the couch.

He watches you for a moment, eyes soft now, playful edge melting into something quieter.

“You really okay?” he asks again, gentler this time.

You lean into his side, bumping your shoulder into his. “Yeah. As long as we make it out of this alive.”

He smiles, pressing a kiss to your temple. “We will. I’ve survived screaming fans, Simon Cowell, and Louis’s cooking. I can handle your dad.”

You laugh. “You’re so full of shit.”

Harry grins. “Maybe. But you’re still into me.”

You look up at him, brows lifted. “What gave it away?”

“The blowjob probably.”

You groan, smacking his chest with your clipboard. “You are the worst.”

“Still totally worth it,” he says, tugging you closer.

You sigh, letting yourself relax for a moment in the quiet.

And for now, at least—he’s right. Totally worth it.

...

The next morning starts deceptively normal.

Room service trays cover the table. Coffee cups, half-eaten toast, and little pots of jam are scattered across the surface like breakfast exploded and no one cleaned up. Louis is reading the headlines aloud in a dramatic voice, Niall is already on his second croissant, and Liam is definitely pretending to focus on emails just so he doesn’t have to make eye contact with you or Harry.

You’re seated beside said menace.

Harry’s in a worn grey t-shirt and sweats, curls still damp from the shower, and he smells like mint and hotel soap and last night. You’re in one of your tour hoodies and bike shorts. Totally innocent. Totally casual.

Except your knee keeps bumping his under the table.

And his pinky keeps brushing yours.

And you are absolutely not thinking about the way he kissed you breathless before you even left your hotel room that morning.

You stab your fork into a piece of fruit. “You’re doing that on purpose.”

“Doing what?” he asks, far too innocent, reaching across you to steal a grape off your plate. His arm lingers longer than necessary, brushing your chest as he leans back. “Sharing?”

You glance at him. Narrow your eyes.

He grins—dimples and danger wrapped in a face you really shouldn’t trust.

You should know better by now.

But your hand still slides under the table, settling on his thigh.

Too high.

His breath catches, sharp and quiet, as your thumb starts to move in slow, teasing circles. His leg tenses under your touch, and you feel him shift slightly, like he’s trying to decide whether to stay still or drag you into his lap.

You’re just starting to smile when—

“Seriously?” Zayn’s voice cuts through, bone-dry.

Your hand stills instantly. Harry’s doesn’t—his fingers slide higher up your thigh in a slow, deliberate stroke that makes your breath hitch.

Zayn doesn’t even look up from his coffee. “Right in front of my toast?”

Niall nearly chokes on his juice, coughing into his sleeve.

Louis leans across the table, grinning like he’s been waiting for this moment all morning. “Told you two you’re not slick.”

Liam groans, dragging a hand down his face. “I regret giving you a week. This is going to be the longest week of my life.”

Harry smirks, entirely unbothered. “I’m a dead man walking. May as well enjoy the time I’ve got left.”

“By giving us a live porn show?” Zayn deadpans.

Louis rolls his eyes but still grins. “There’s an empty storage closet three doors down with your names on it. Soundproof-ish. Go be disgusting in private.”

You glance at Harry.

He raises a brow.

Then you’re both out of your chairs at the same time, barely waiting for permission.

“I swear to God,” Liam mutters behind you, “if I hear anything—”

“We’ll be quiet,” Harry tosses back without looking.

“You’ll try to be quiet,” Zayn mutters.

Louis raises his coffee cup in salute. “Good luck, soldier.”

Harry tugs you down the hall, quick and determined, fingers locked with yours like he might combust if you don’t get there fast enough. He finds the closet Zayn mentioned, swings the door open, and pulls you inside.

The door hasn’t even clicked shut before he’s on you.

Harry kisses you like he’s been waiting hours—days—for this. Like the idea of keeping his hands off you for one more second is physically painful. His mouth crashes into yours, urgent and hungry, his body pinning yours to the wall in the tight space. Your back hits it with a soft thud, breath knocked from your lungs, and it only makes you kiss him harder.

His hands slide beneath your hoodie, fingers spreading wide across your waist, the heat of his palms branding your skin.

“I’ve wanted to do this since breakfast,” he murmurs, mouth trailing down the side of your jaw, then lower, brushing over the base of your neck. “The way you touched me under the table—fuck, you’re a menace.”

You laugh, breathless and already trembling, your hands tugging his shirt up and over his head. It drops to the floor as your nails scrape lightly down his chest.

“You started it.”

His eyes flick up to meet yours, pupils blown, mouth already swollen. “And now I’m going to finish it.”

His lips crash into yours again—messy, open-mouthed, claiming. One of his hands grips the curve of your ass, pulling you flush against him while the other curls around your jaw, tilting your head until you’re exactly where he wants you.

You moan into his mouth, fingers finding his hair. You tangle them deep in the curls, tugging hard enough to make him groan, the sound low and wrecked against your lips.

It’s frantic. Desperate. Dizzying.

And then—

Click.

The door swings open.

“Y/N—”

Your whole body jolts as you whip around, heart slamming into your throat.

Your dad stands in the doorway.

Frozen. Eyes wide. Face blank.

He takes in everything in one horrible, split-second glance—your hoodie hanging off one shoulder, Harry shirtless, lips swollen, your fingers still twisted in his hair, both of you flushed and breathless, clearly tangled in something that was about to become much more.

You and Harry spring apart like you’ve been burned.

“Dad—” you start, voice thin, shaky.

“Don’t.” His tone slices through the air like ice.

Your breath catches.

He doesn’t shout. Doesn’t storm in or slam the door again. He just stares. Like he can’t quite believe what he’s seeing.

Like he doesn’t want to believe it.

“I trusted you,” he says quietly, but it lands heavier than any scream would have.

You open your mouth to explain, to say something—anything—but nothing comes out.

Harry takes a cautious step forward, shirt still bunched in one hand. “Paul—”

“No.” Your dad lifts a hand, firm and final. “You don’t get to play the nice guy, Harry. Not when you’ve been sneaking around with my daughter behind my back.”

Harry flinches, the silence after the words hanging too heavy to breathe through.

“It’s not like that,” you manage, voice hoarse. “We weren’t trying to hide it to hurt you—we just—”

“That’s enough.” Paul’s voice is sharp, final. His eyes narrow as he cuts you off. “Get dressed. Meet me back in the suite.”

Then he turns, and the door slams behind him with a force that makes you flinch.

Silence rushes in, thick and suffocating.

You’re still frozen in place, hoodie slipping off one shoulder, heart racing like you’ve just sprinted off a cliff with no idea where the ground is. Your hands tremble at your sides—you don’t even realize you’re still clutching the front of Harry’s sweats until his hand gently wraps around yours.

“Hey,” he says softly, voice low and grounding. “You okay?”

You nod. Then shake your head. “I don’t know.”

He exhales slowly, eyes searching yours as his thumb brushes lightly across your cheek. “I’m so sorry.”

You close your eyes for a beat, leaning into the warmth of his palm. Letting it steady you. “I can’t believe it happened like that.”

“I know,” he murmurs. “But it’s going to be okay.”

He pulls you into his chest and you go without hesitation, letting yourself melt into him, your face pressed into his bare shoulder, arms wrapped tight around his waist. His skin is still warm. His heart is still racing, too.

“We’ll talk to him,” he says, threading his fingers through your hair, “together. It’ll be okay.”

You nod into his neck, barely a whisper. “Okay.”

But even as you say it, you’re not sure either of you believes it yet.

You let him hold you for a moment longer, burying your face in the curve of his neck, wishing you could stay there just a little longer. But eventually, you pull back, tugging your hoodie into place with trembling fingers.

Harry grabs his shirt from the floor and slips it on, movements slower now. More careful. Like he’s trying not to make things worse by rushing.

Then his hand finds yours. Fingers intertwine, warm and grounding.

You hold on.

Together, you make your way back to the suite.

Paul is pacing, arms crossed, jaw tight. The other four boys are planted across the room, wearing matching expressions of guilt—like they’d all just been caught watching the world’s most awkward car crash.

Louis is the first to notice you. His mouth opens, then shuts again, which might be the most restrained he’s ever been in his life.

Liam is all clenched jaw and twitching fingers, eyes darting between you, Harry, and Paul like he’s waiting for something to explode.

Niall shifts uncomfortably, clearly trying to melt into the arm of the couch.

And Zayn just sighs and mutters, “Told you it was a terrible idea.”

Paul stops pacing the second he sees you. His eyes drop to your joined hands—Harry’s fingers still laced tightly with yours—and something flickers behind his expression.

Disappointment. Hurt. And something that cuts deeper than either: betrayal.

“Sit,” he says simply.

You and Harry obey without a word, sinking onto the couch side by side.

Paul doesn’t sit right away. He stands across from you, arms crossed, jaw tight. The silence stretches painfully long. You feel Harry tense beside you, feel his fingers twitch like he’s preparing to take the hit for both of you.

From the corner of your eye, the other boys try—and fail spectacularly—to look busy.

Louis has a magazine open upside down.

Zayn is suddenly very invested in the stitching on his jeans.

Niall keeps adjusting the lid on his empty water bottle.

Liam stares out the window like he’s praying it’ll crack open and suck him into the void.

Paul ignores them all.

“Alright,” he says, voice calm in that scary, clipped way you know too well. “You’ve got two minutes. Start talking.”

You and Harry glance at each other.

Then Harry clears his throat and says, “It started about a month ago. And it wasn’t planned. It just… happened.”

Paul’s brows raise. “Just like that?”

You speak quickly. “We weren’t trying to lie to you. We just—didn’t know how to tell you.”

“And sneaking around seemed like the better option?” Paul’s eyes cut sharply to Harry. “I trusted you. Not just as one of my artists, but as someone I thought had a little more respect than this.”

Harry straightens slightly. “I do respect you. And I care about her. A lot.”

Paul doesn’t flinch, but his voice drops a note colder. “So much that you risked her job? Your job? The stability of this entire tour?”

No one breathes. You’re fairly certain Louis has stopped blinking.

Harry holds his ground. “I didn’t go into this to mess anything up. And I know it looks bad. But it’s real. I wouldn’t be sitting here if it wasn’t.”

Paul turns to you. “And you?”

Your voice comes out quieter than you expect. “I care about him. This isn’t just some fling.”

There’s a long pause.

Then Paul exhales and sinks into the armchair across from you, rubbing a hand down his face.

“Do you have any idea the position this puts me in?” he mutters. “The press, management, the fans… and I can’t even fire one of you, because that’d mean firing my daughter or blowing up the band.”

Niall makes a tiny choking noise in the background.

Zayn kicks him under the table.

Paul’s head snaps around.

His eyes narrow. “You,” he says, pointing at Niall. “How long have you known?”

Niall freezes mid-sip of his empty water bottle. “Uh…”

“Don’t lie to me.”

Niall sets the bottle down slowly, like it might explode. “A few days. Maybe a week. Kinda hard to miss when Harry started acting like a lovesick golden retriever.”

“Niall,” you hiss.

He shrugs helplessly. “What? It’s true!”

Paul shifts his stare to Zayn, who doesn’t flinch.

“How about you?”

Zayn leans back with a sigh, arms crossed. “Saw it coming a mile away. Just didn’t realize it was this serious until Liam caught them half-dressed.”

Harry lets out a quiet groan beside you.

Paul turns to Louis next. “And you?”

Louis grins, completely unapologetic. “Oh, I’ve definitely heard things through hotel walls. Thin ones. Also, you did say not to scare her off, and I’m just saying—I think she’s brave for sticking around.”

Paul raises a hand to his temple like he’s fighting a migraine.

“And Liam,” he says slowly, “my last hope.”

Liam lifts both hands. “Don’t look at me. I tried to stop them. Gave them a whole week to come clean.”

Paul blinks. “You knew and said nothing?”

“They promised to tell you!” Liam protests. “And I’ve been living in a state of constant anxiety ever since.”

Paul groans and rubs both hands down his face. “Unbelievable. All five of you.”

“We’re very supportive,” Louis offers.

“Quiet,” Paul snaps.

The room falls silent again, thick with unease.

Then Paul turns back to you and Harry, fixing you both with a look that could level a stadium.

“One chance,” he says firmly. “I’m giving you one chance to do this right. If anything happens—if the media catches wind, if fans start speculating, if anything compromises this tour or your safety—you’re done. Both of you. I don’t care how serious this feels or how in love you think you are. You do not come before this job.”

Harry sits up a little straighter, no trace of his usual charm on his face. “We understand.”

Paul’s gaze shifts to you, waiting.

“I understand,” you echo, your voice quiet but certain. “We won’t let it interfere.”

For a long moment, Paul doesn’t say anything. Just looks at you like he’s trying to find the kid he raised in the mess you’ve made.

Finally, he exhales through his nose, jaw still tight. “I need some air.”

And without another word, he turns and walks out the door.

This time, it closes softly.

Not a slam. Just final.

The moment it clicks shut, the breath leaves your lungs in a rush.

You slump back into the couch, pulse still thudding in your ears.

“Well,” Louis says brightly, tossing his magazine over his shoulder. “That was fun.”

Zayn lets out a low whistle. “Never thought I’d see Paul go full dad mode in a band meeting.”

Liam rubs his temples. “Can we all just take one day—one day—off from emotional trauma?”

Niall gives you a small, lopsided smile. “You alright, love?”

You nod slowly, fingers still tangled with Harry’s. “Yeah. I think so.”

Harry squeezes your hand. “We’re okay.”

And despite everything—the fallout, the lecture, the fact that the entire band now knows way too much—you believe him.

You’re okay.

[maudie-duan]

Summary: Fuck domestic bliss…because you couldn’t remember the last time you didn’t want to bite Harry’s head off or if sex still existed between you both—weeks of cold indifference have turned into all the little angers adding up until you both finally hit your boiling point, and shit hits the fan, a breaking point neither one of you saw coming, and that's it! Now cue the aftermath as you watch the dust settle. How will Harry help you mend all the broken pieces that are past the point of fixing? A/N: This story is based on this request<- bear with me. I did veer off course slightly! But only like the slightest bit. I only added some little gems that made that juicy request even better. Long story short, my brain turned the request into a “worship kink,” and here we are! Warning: Fighting, Filth, Fucking, and Fluff. xFem!reader, this one gets a happy ending!😉 Word Count: 7.6k

Fuck domestic bliss.

What was it anyway? A phrase you had heard so many times and understood, had been lucky enough to have felt and lived it, but lately, you felt it slipping through your grasp little by little.

The contradiction of closeness lies in this truth.

Sometimes, the very comforts of domestic life that once drew you together can slowly pull you apart, familiarity breeding not contempt but a dangerous indifference. Maybe this wasn’t everyone’s truth, but there is truth in the tiny details—In the words left unsaid, in the gestures you keep to yourself, the small angers that were never addressed.

Somewhere between the shared routines and the predictable rhythms of togetherness, you lost sight of what truly mattered—the connection you had that once felt like magic was being buried beneath the mundane details of everyday existence.

And this was you and Harry.

Stuck in the rut of everyday life.

A rut it was because when was the last time you guys had sex? Felt the warmth of his body, not the chill that came with the silent shuffle of starting each new day, the curt good mornings said in passing, or perfunctory kisses goodbye. You knew you both desperately needed this reset.

Dinner had been perfect so far—a homemade lasagna in your favorite vintage casserole dish, the one with the delicate blue flowers around the rim that had been your grandmother’s. It was the only thing you wanted from her estate; you saved it for truly special occasions, and tonight—a chance to finally reconnect with Harry—felt worthy.

When Harry complimented your cooking, his green eyes creasing at the corners as he reached for seconds, you felt the first real thaw in the frost that had settled between you. Maybe tonight could be the beginning of finding your way back to each other. It was the kind of evening you both needed after a long week. The kind where the outside world ceased to exist, where deadlines and meetings and stress melted away with each sip of the rich red wine Harry had brought home.

A perfect, cozy bubble of domestic bliss.

Until it wasn’t.

“Harry, that’s not how you load a dishwasher,” you almost snapped, watching him haphazardly stack plates on top of each other, silverware pointing in every direction, the sight of it already getting under your skin.

He glanced up at you, a strand of dark hair falling across his forehead. “Does it matter? It all gets clean anyway.”

You sighed, setting down the wine glass you’d been drying. “Yes, it matters. The water can’t reach everything if you stack them like that. And the silverware needs to be sorted.”

“I’ve been loading dishwashers since before I met you,” Harry replied, continuing to place a bowl where it clearly didn’t belong. “Never had a problem.”

“Well, you’re having one now,” you said, moving to his side and beginning to rearrange the dishes for what felt like the 100th time since you moved in together, “Look, the plates go here, vertically. And cups on the top rack.”

Harry took a step back, crossing his arms over his chest. “Seriously? You’re actually reorganizing it?” And he huffs out a breath like a child being reprimanded, and it sets you off even further.

“Someone has to do it properly.”

The tension in the room shifted.

Thickened.

What had started as a simple correction was quickly becoming something else entirely, but you knew you couldn’t go on like this without saying another word.

For weeks now, you’d been swallowing your tiny irritations—the dishes left in the sink, the damp towels on the bathroom floor, the half-empty coffee mugs abandoned throughout the apartment. Each small oversight had been a pebble added to the growing pile of resentment, and suddenly, this dishwasher incident was the final stone that sent the whole thing tumbling down.

The pressure of all the unspoken frustrations had been building inside you like a kettle about to whistle, and now the steam needed somewhere to go.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Harry’s tone held an edge to it now, the one you recognized as his defenses going up.

“It means,” you forced, ripping a mug he had wedged between two plates, “that you never load it right, and I always end up fixing every damn dish.”

Harry scoffed. “For fucks sake, here we go. ‘Harry never does anything right.’ Is that it?”

“That’s not what I said.”

“It’s what you meant. I can hear it with every word you’re saying”

“If it’s not complicated, then why does it matter how I do it?” His voice was rising now, hands gesturing emphatically. “Why do you always have to micromanage every damn thing I do in this apartment?”

“Micromanage? I’m not your fucking mom, Harry!” You felt the heat of anger rising to your cheeks, fury burning through you. “Asking you to load the fucking dishwasher correctly is micromanaging?”

“It’s never just about the dishwasher, is it?” Harry ran a hand through his hair, a sure sign he was getting truly agitated. “It’s the way I fold the damn laundry, or how I organize the fucking refrigerator, or the fact that I put my shoes in the wrong spot. The shit I do is never good enough for you.”

The accusation landed hard, stinging more than you expected, piercing through your irritation, hitting something deeper. “That’s not fair.”

“How is that not fair? Am I wrong?” Harry’s eyes were dark now, his jaw set. “You say you’re not my Mum, but you’re always correcting me, always finding something wrong with how I do things.”

“I’m not—That’s not fucking true and you know it!”

“Yes, you are!” His voice echoed in the kitchen, making you flinch, and you stilled your movements, “You think your way is the only right way, and God forbid anyone do things differently!”

That’s when you felt the tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, but you blinked them back, your pride refusing to let him see how much his words were hurting you. “I’m just trying to help,” you whisper.

“No, you’re trying to control,” Harry shot back, his voice still loud. Harry was so caught up in his anger that he couldn’t read the room--see the pain lacing your features, “There’s a difference.”

The silence that followed hung heavy, painfully deafening, filled with all the things you both wanted to say but couldn’t find the words for. You stared at each other across the kitchen, the distance between you feeling like miles rather than feet. It was terrifying how quickly love could transform into this—how the face you had memorized in all its expressions could suddenly seem like it belonged to a stranger.

The green eyes that usually held such warmth for you now flashed with something cold and foreign. In moments like these, it was easy to forget the thousands of tender touches that had come before, the whispered affections you shared in the dark. Anger had redrawn the map of his features, making him unrecognizable, and you wondered if he saw the same frightening transformation in you—if your face had become a mask that concealed the person he had fallen in love with.

“You know what?” Harry finally said, his voice quieter but no less intense. “I don’t need this right now.” He turned away from you, moving toward the counter where his keys lay.

As he passed the sink, his arm swung out with what seemed like unnecessary force, the dramatic fashion of a child not getting their way, his tantrum knocking against your precious casserole dish that was perched on the edge where you’d left it to soak, and then you caught his eye for just a fraction of a second.

And what was it that you saw?

Was it a flash of vindictive satisfaction hovering at the surface, or was it your imagination coloring the moment with your own anger?

Had he done it on purpose?

Because it all seemed to happen in the blink of an eye.

Time seemed to slow as you watched it teeter, then fall.

You felt the crash as it hit the tile floor, the loud crackle like an explosion, booming through your entire body as a lash of anger tore down your spine; the sound of the scattering pieces filled the quiet apartment as shards of ceramic exploded outward in a constellation of blue and white.

You stood there holding your breath in the aftermath, a split second of recognition as your knees went weak with despair.

“Harry! What the fuck is wrong with you!” The words tore from your throat as you dropped to your knees, shaky hands hovering over the broken pieces of your beloved dish. Maybe it was dramatic, but he knew how much you loved that dish, and here you were staring down at each fragment, each piece feeling like it represented a memory you would lose forever—all the stories it held through time, years of meals shared, now the life you were building with Harry—the meals it would never see.

Harry stood frozen, his face a mask of shock and regret. “I—I didn’t mean to—”

“Just go…” you whispered, carefully picking up a piece of the rim, the delicate blue flower now split in two. The longer he stood there, the angrier you got until you were yelling, “Just go, Harry! Since that’s what you want to do anyway—Just fucking go!”

“Babe, I’m sorry about the dish, I really am—”

“It’s not about the dish!” And this time, your voice broke, the tears finally spilling over. “It’s about you wanting to walk away instead of talking to me. It’s about you thinking I’m trying to control every detail of your fucking life when I’m just asking you to do something simple.”

Harry’s expression hardened again. “And there it is. It’s simple to you, so I should just do it your way. My feelings don’t matter.”

“That’s not what I said!”

“It’s what you meant.” He shouted, stealing the air from your lungs, your ears ringing with the silence that fell over the room.

And this was the final blow.

The last accusing blow that sliced between you, a perfect circle of hurt and misunderstanding, and you watched, gutted, as he grabbed his jacket, his movements stiff with anger, fast, like he couldn’t get away from you quicker.

“I need some air,” he spits, not meeting your eyes. “Be back later.”

The door closed behind him with a finality that made your heart sink, and there you were, abandoned, kneeling on the floor, surrounded by the broken pieces of your casserole dish as tears streamed down your face. His departure felt like a betrayal—choosing escape over resolution when things got too difficult.

It was always like this, wasn’t it? When emotions ran too high, he fled, leaving you alone to pick up the pieces while he walked free of the responsibility of working through the hard parts together.

Slowly, carefully, you began to gather the fragments, each one a sharp reminder of the words he left you with. The dish was beyond repair; you knew that. Some things, once broken, couldn’t be fixed, and now you hoped your relationship wasn’t one of them.

As you dropped the last piece into the trash can, a sob escaped your throat. You knew It was just a dish, you tried to tell yourself—Just a thing—A material thing that could be replaced, but it was your thing, the one thing that held the most meaning. And now it was gone, reduced to shards in a garbage bag, just like your perfect evening had been reduced to angry words and a slammed door.

And there you were, cleaning up the mess, cursing to yourself as you properly loaded the dishwasher. Of course, the irony of it all was not lost on you as you slammed the dishwasher door shut like Harry had slammed the apartment door, and you poured yourself another glass of wine—a large one this time—and crawled onto the couch, ready to sulk in the misery of you and Harry’s aftermath.

Alone.

And if he could be petty and walk out the door.

So could you.

One episode turned into two, and you lost track of when your wine glass emptied the first time because then you were opening another bottle, your eyes drifting to your phone periodically, checking for any messages, any sign of life, but there were none. Each passing minute twisted the knot in your stomach tighter. Where had he gone? Was he drinking at some bar, venting to strangers about you?

Or worse.

Had he found comfort in someone else’s arms? You knew that would never happen, but would he have been angry enough this time? Your heart pounded as the intrusive thoughts multiplied, each more gut-wrenching than the last. The questions circled in your mind like vultures, swooping lower with each passing hour, feeding on the fears—leaving too many questions unanswered as the hours ticked by one second at a time.

It was nearly midnight when you heard the key in the lock.

But you didn’t turn around, keeping your eyes fixed on the television screen where a contestant was having a meltdown over a collapsed soufflé. The door opened and closed softly, followed by the sound of Harry removing his shoes—placing them in exactly the right spot, you noted with amusement, listening to his quiet footfalls, each step reminding you of the lingering irritation still caught at the surface.

His footsteps were hesitant as he approached the couch, stopping just behind you. You could feel his presence, the familiar warmth of him, but you didn’t speak. Let him make the first move, you thought. Let him show you where his head is at.

“You’re watching our show,” he said finally, his voice quiet and a little rough.

You nodded, still not looking at him. “Seemed fitting.”

“Without me?” He almost whined.

And the pained tremor in his voice had you turning around, meeting his eyes for the first time since he had left. Your heart sank when you saw they were red-rimmed and tired, his curls a mess like he had been running his hands through them repeatedly—a nervous habit you’d always found endearing.

“You weren’t here,” you replied simply.

Harry winced, acknowledging the hit. “I know. I’m sorry.” Your body stiffened as he moved around the couch, cautiously sitting down beside you, leaving space, maybe too much distance, as he tried to respect the invisible boundary your tough stance was emanating.

You knew it, but you couldn’t help it.

You were still mad.

Still hurt.

Part of you wanted to maintain the cold front, your pride still stinging from the fight, but deep down, you ached for him to ignore the warning signs completely—to pull you against his warm chest, wrap you in those strong arms that have held you so many times.

You wanted him to make a move, be the one to make the first real motion toward fixing things.

But fuck, it was never easy to let go of a grudge.

And so you remained rigid.

Your cold exterior stubbornly at odds with the longing building inside you.

“I shouldn’t have left like that,” he continued, that sadness still in his eyes when you didn’t respond. “It was childish, and it didn’t solve anything.”

Coldly, you took a sip of your wine, considering him over the rim of the glass. “No, it didn’t.” And your tone was dry, already wanting him to work harder for the apology.

Harry sighed, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, hands clasped together. “I was angry, and I felt... I don’t know, attacked? But that’s not an excuse. I should have stayed…talked it out.”

“Yes, you should have.” Your voice was steady now, the tears long dried. “And you shouldn’t have broken my dish.”

“That was an accident,” Harry said quickly, giving you the most sorrowful eyes that made you want to melt. “I swear to you, I would never deliberately break something you love. I was careless, and I’m so, so sorry.”

You believed him.

You really did.

Harry wasn’t cruel, just hotheaded sometimes.

“It was special to me,” you whispered.

“I know, baby.” He reached out tentatively, not quite touching you. “I know it was. And I know it’s not just about the dish.”

You perked up at this, his answer surprising you, warming your insides up, “You do?”

Harry nodded, his expression solemn. “I had a lot of time to think while I was walking around. About why you were really upset and why I got so defensive.”

This is what you had been waiting for, you thought as you set your wine glass down on the coffee table, giving him your full attention. “And what did you come up with?”

“That you weren’t trying to control me,” he confessed. “You were trying to help...in your way. And I took it personally because...” He paused, searching for the right words. “Because sometimes I feel like I don’t measure up. Like I’m not good enough for you.”

The confession stunned you.

So bare and honest that it made your heart splinter.

How long had he been carrying this weight?

The thought that he’d been feeling inadequate while you were oblivious sent a wave of guilt crashing through you. All this time, your attempts to help had been reinforcing his deepest insecurities—a reality so far from what you had intended that it left you without words. You never wanted to be the source of his self-doubt, the reason he questioned his worth, and your throat tightened with the shame of it as you reached for him.

Because he had always been enough.

This had never been a doubt in your mind.

“Harry, that’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?” He gave a sad smile. “You’re so put together, so organized. You know exactly how everything should be done. And I’m... not like that. I’m messy and forgetful and I load dishwashers wrong.”

A small laugh escaped you, then. “You do load dishwashers wrong.”

His smile grew a little, encouraged by your softening, and dammit, that sweet little dimple in his left cheek appeared, the one that always made your fucking stomach flutter. “I know. But when you point it out, sometimes it feels like you’re pointing out all the ways I’m not perfect. All the ways, I’m not what you deserve.”

“Oh, Harry, my love...” And you moved closer to him, that icy barrier between you beginning to dissolve. Your thigh pressed against his, warm and solid, sending a subtle electric hum through your body. “That’s never what I mean. Never.”

“I know that, rationally,” he said, finally reaching out to take your hand, and his thumb traced slow, gentle circles on the delicate skin of your wrist, the innocent touch awakening nerve endings you had forgotten existed after weeks of distance. “But emotions aren’t always logical, are they?”

As you squeezed his fingers, you felt the familiar calluses on his palm, slightly rugged, but these were the same hands that could fix a leaky faucet, soft in the way they could cradle your face with a heartbreaking tenderness that never left you guessing, and you couldn’t look away from his lips as you replied, your voice slightly lower than before. “No, they’re not. And I’m sorry too. I can be... particular about things. I should be more patient, more understanding that we have different ways of doing things.”

Harry brought your joined hands to his lips, pressing a warm kiss to your knuckles that lingered just a beat too long to be innocent. “I worship you,” he said gently, his eyes never leaving yours, the green darkening as his pupils bloomed. “Every part of you. And I should be more open to learning your way, especially when it comes to things that matter to you. Like vintage casserole dishes.”

The mere mention of the dish brought a fresh pang of loss to the pit of your stomach, but it was duller now, overshadowed by the heat suddenly building between you. You knew it was happening the second he said ‘Worship,’ the word sending a rush of thrill up your spine, a wave of excitement swelling through you the closer your bodies got.

And you wanted it.

Welcomed it even as that familiar ache awakened between your thighs. “It was just a thing,” you said, echoing your earlier thoughts, your voice huskier than intended. “Things can be replaced.”

“Speaking of which,” Harry said, reaching into his jacket pocket with his free hand, his movement causing his thigh to press harder against yours. “I have something to show you.”

He pulled out his phone, and you, without hesitation, shifted closer, tucking yourself against his side as he unlocked it. You had missed him, missed this, and you let your head lower to his shoulder, breathing in his scent— his cologne and something uniquely him that had always felt like home.

As he navigated through his search history, you pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his shoulder through his shirt, feeling him shiver in response, momentarily distracted his thumb hesitated over the screen for just a moment before he found what he was looking for and tilted the phone toward you.

Your heart stopped.

On the screen was an eBay listing for a casserole dish—not just any dish, but one identical to the one that now lay in pieces in your trash can and as your eyes roamed the listing, Harry pushed a kiss to the top of your head.

The listing showed it had been purchased just an hour ago.

“You bought this?” you asked, looking up at him in surprise, ready to jump his bones right here, right now, because you wanted him so fucking bad.

Harry nodded, a hopeful expression on his face that quickly shifted to something heated, more primal as your bodies connected. “It’s being shipped express. Should be here in a few days. I know it won’t have the same memories attached, but we can make new ones.”

And there it was again.

That ping.

That pulse.

That pull deep in your gut, and your body flushed at the thought of it as the heat spread across your skin like wildfire. “You spent your evening searching for a replacement?”

“Part of it,” Harry admitted, his voice dropping to that low register that always made your stomach tighten with want. “The rest I spent realizing how much I never want to miss moments with you again. Not even watching people cry over pastry.” And he nodded toward the television, where the show was still playing, forgotten in the background.

The sincerity in his voice.

His genuine regret.

And that fucking lovesick look in his eyes melted the last of your resistance.

The air between you seemed to crackle with electricity—every breath, every slight movement charged with unspoken desire. You set the phone down and moved closer to him, consciously letting your breast brush against his arm again as you pressed against his side, and his sharp intake of breath told you he felt it too.

That magnetic pull.

That desperate need to reconnect not just emotionally but physically.

“Prove it,” you said softly.

Harry blinked, his breathing growing shallow as he caught the unmistakable invitation in your tone. “Prove what?”

“Prove that you never want to miss a moment with me again.” Your hand found his thigh, fingers tracing an intentional slow path upward. “Prove that you’re sorry.”

“Tell me what you want?” His voice gravel, a tone that sent liquid heat collecting between your thighs, a shiver down your spine with want.

You leaned in, letting your chest press against him as your lips brushed his ear, teeth grazing his lobe before you whispered, “I want you to worship me.”

A low groan vibrated from deep in his chest, his entire body tensing, his hunger barely restrained as he moved without hesitation. Harry slid from the couch to his knees before you, his strong hands pushing your thighs apart, gentle but insistent, the pressure wanting, and holy fuck, the look he gave you from that position made your clit fucking throb with anticipation.

And this is what you missed; this is what you both needed.

“I do worship you,” he said, his fingers skimming up your inner thighs, leaving goosebumps in their wake as they approached your warm center before diverting to the hem of your shirt. “Every. Fucking. Part of you.”

His words made your heart jump.

Your heart picking up when his fingers found the hem of your shirt, moving with tantalizing ease as he lifted it, exposing your stomach as his knuckles deliberately grazed your heated skin. Your nipples were already pressed hard, almost painfully, against the fabric of your bra as cool air met your exposed flesh, waking your entire body with its presence.

“I worship your strength…your strength to have to put up with my shit.” when he laughed, his hot breath fanned over your skin, and he pressed an open-mouthed kiss to your quivering stomach, his tongue dipping past your navel in a way that made you gasp. “Your kindness…god baby, your fucking kindness.” he breathed, his tone weak as he pressed another kiss higher, working his mouth up your body.

Every time Harry’s mouth met your flesh, you drew your legs together, trying to dull the pulsing ache taunting you between your thighs, but Harry wouldn’t budge, and as they closed around his body this time, you felt a light pinch at your inner thigh making you buck your lower half.

And then you sucked in a sharp breath when Harry’s teeth scraped a gentle path against the underside of your rib cage. “Your passion,” he added as his hands slid around to your back, fingers splaying across your heated skin before they found your bra clasp, flicking it open with a practiced ease that reminded you of all the countless nights of pleasure because without a doubt there had been so much pleasure.

Harry’s eyes never left yours, green depths swimming with a craving, a hunger, something deeper, more profound as he removed your shirt and bra in one fluid motion, “I worship your heart,” he continued, cupping your breasts, a tender grasp as he said, “So full of love, even when I don’t deserve it.”

Greedy, you arched into his touch, your body more than ready, responding to each word that tumbled from his mouth with every caress. “Harry...” you breathed.

“Shh,” he soothed, leaning forward to take one of your nipples into his mouth, his warm tongue circling the sensitive peak. “Let me show you. Let me prove it to you.” Then Harry’s wandering hands moved to the waistband of your leggings, tugging them down with your underwear as you lifted your hips to assist him.

As the last barrier between you fell away, you found yourself naked before him in the soft glow of the living room light, and there was something sacred in this vulnerability—a heartfelt intimacy that transcended the physical. His worshipful gaze felt like kneeling at the altar to pray as you lay there naked.

With Harry, you never needed to hide—his eyes had always been your safest place, a sanctuary where every part of you was cherished without judgment. This moment of being completely bare before someone who held your heart with such care felt like the truest form of yourself that you could ever give him.

Then his hands were skimming up your calves, over your knees, along your thighs, your entire body humming with his touch. When he reached the apex of your thighs, he paused, looking up at you for permission as if he needed it, and you felt that tight flutter deep in your belly.

All you could do was nod, unable to form words as the anticipation built within you. Harry smiled, a slow, knowing curve of his lips that promised pleasure beyond measure, and you felt all the lingering tension leaving your body.

Then he lowered his head, pressing soft kisses to your inner thighs, working his way inward with deliberate care, each kiss slow, but you felt the silent plea with every touch of his lips to your skin, a quiet apology, each brush of his fingers a promise of devotion.

He started gently, teasing at first, licking a slow, delicate line up your slit, a hum of satisfaction vibrating against your pussy lips, and you gazed down at him, holding your breath as you watched his calm composure falter, his need for you making him weak, his brows drawing together in pure agony.

Pain and pleasure stole his features as he stilled his movements, sucking in a harsh breath against your thigh and he squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his face into your skin. You watched him force a shaky breath from his lungs, and he pushed a hand into the crotch of his jeans, his whole demeanor shifting, physically aching from the presence of your pleasure.

“This...I worship this.” he rasped, pulling back to drive his point home, and you tried to draw your legs together as a breathy laugh slipped past his lips, and he nips your inner thigh with his teeth, making you gasp out, and you comply spreading them wide.

And like a flip of a switch, he dove in with a renewed hunger, his tongue already working, circling your clit as the other hand left your thigh, and then you felt his fingers teasing at your entrance, gathering your wetness, his finger sliding against you before slowly pressing inside.

One finger at first, curling upward with expert precision to find that spot that made your fucking toes curl.

“Oh, god—Harry!” you cried out, your hips jerking involuntarily.

“That’s it,” he bellowed against you as he added a second finger, ready to stretch you as he pumped them in and out in rhythm with his tongue. “So tight, baby—say my name. Let me hear how good I make you feel. Let me hear how much you fucking need this.”

And it’s true you fucking needed this.

You both did.

And now you wanted the release.

All at once, the dual sensation of his mouth and fingers was overwhelming, and you found yourself writhing beneath him, one hand tangled in his hair while the other gripped the couch cushion desperately, holding your breath as the pleasure built to an almost unbearable intensity, the sensation curling tighter and tighter in your lower belly.

“You’re dripping for me,” he rasped, his voice rough with want. “So fucking wet. Could drown in you and die happy.” Then his fingers twisted inside you, pressing harder against that perfect spot, his tongue flattening against your clit, firm this time, steady pressure you knew would have you coming in seconds.

“Don’t stop,” you begged, your voice breaking as you felt yourself approaching the edge. “Please, Harry, right there—baby—please!”

“Wouldn’t dream of stopping,” he groaned, briefly lifting his mouth before immediately returning to your slick heat. “Want to feel you come on my tongue. Want to taste every drop you give me. Need it like I need air, baby, this is mine...”

Then you felt his fingers curl, curving inside you, hitting that exact spot with each thrust while his tongue worked your clit with unwavering focus. The combination was too much—the physical sensation coupled with his filthy words and, dammit, the sight of him between your thighs was so fucking beautiful, Harry completely devoted to your pleasure.

“I’m going to—” you moaned, your thighs beginning to shake uncontrollably as you fisted his hair, your grip tightening, pushing his face into your pussy like you could fit him inside you.

“Do it,” he commanded, his voice vibrating across your sensitive flesh. “Come for me, baby. Flood my fucking mouth.”

And then it was happening: your orgasm hitting with such staggering force that it knocked the air from your lungs, crashing through you in waves that seemed to go on forever, and you screamed out his name as your back arched off the couch, your walls convulsing around his fingers just like he wanted, and Harry moaned deeply against you, drinking in your release, his tongue gentling but never stopping as he guided you through every aftershock, every tremor of pleasure.

Harry didn’t stop until a soft whimper left your mouth, and you gently pulled away; only then did he reluctantly withdraw his mouth and he pressed his forehead against your trembling thigh, catching his breath in hot puffs against your skin as you gazed down at him, catching sight of your essence glistening on his lips and chin, a testament to your undoing.

When he lifted his eyes to meet yours, his gaze burned with more than just desire—they held a fierce, almost predatory pride in having unraveled you so completely, Harry knowing he had earned every shudder and cry his mouth had coaxed from your body.

“Beautiful,” he whispered, pressing a tender kiss to your shaky thigh. “So fucking beautiful when you fall apart for me.”

“Come here,” you said, letting out a lazy laugh, your voice still hoarse from your orgasm as you tugged at his shoulders. “Let me kiss those shiny lips.”

Harry smiled as he rose from his knees, his movements a little stiff from the prolonged position. Of course, as he stood, you couldn’t help but stare hungrily at the prominent bulge straining against his jeans, and he moved to sit beside you on the couch, his lips a dark blush, wet with the evidence of your pleasure, his expression a mixture of adoration and raw, untamed hunger.

“I meant what I said,” he told you, brushing a strand of hair from your face with shaky fingers. “I worship you. Every part of you. And I’m so sorry for hurting you earlier.”

And even though you hear his words, you don’t respond. Instead, you grabbed his face and pulled him into a deep, aggressive kiss, gradually licking across his lips first, tasting your own arousal with a moan that made his entire body go slack.

And the groan that left his mouth spoke volumes as you climbed onto his lap, his hands gripping your waist as you straddled him, barely breaking the kiss as you continued, pressing harder, your tongue exploring every corner of his mouth, finding every hint of your essence that was left, a whole new greed filling your chest.

“You like that?” you asked, grinding slowly against his erection as you pulled back just enough to speak, your lips still brushing his. “You like when I’m filthy for you? When I lick my cum off your face?”

“Jesus Christ,” he gasped, his hips bucking involuntarily beneath you, his pupils completely blown with lust. “You’re going to fucking kill me.”

You smiled wickedly, dragging your tongue along his jaw to his ear. “You taste so good mixed with me,” you breathed, feeling him shudder beneath you. “And I believe you,” you added, your voice softening slightly as you pulled back to meet his eyes, stroking his flushed cheek. “And I forgive you. Now let me show you exactly how much.

Relief washed over his features, followed quickly by a need that seemed to rise up as you knowingly licked your lips, tasting the last glimmers of yourself. “Now,” you continued, your hand moving to the bulge in his jeans, “let me show you how much I love you too.”

Harry’s breath hitched as you palmed him through his denim jeans. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” you assured him, working at his belt buckle. “I want to taste what I do to you. I want to taste us together.”

Your words pulled a deep moan from somewhere inside him, his hips lifting of their own accord to help as you tugged his jeans and boxers down just enough to free him, his dick bounced up between you, hard and straining, a bead of pre-cum glistening at the tip.

You leaned down, maintaining eye contact as you licked it away, savoring the salty-sweet flavor that mingled with your own taste, still lingering on your tongue, and you watched Harry’s eyes roll back, his hands already fisting in the couch cushions.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “If you keep that up, this is going to be embarrassingly quick.”

You smiled against him, pressing a kiss to his sensitive head. “That’s okay. We have all night for round two.”

Before he could respond, you took him into your mouth, sliding down as far as you comfortably could. The sound he made—half groan, half your name—felt like one of the most erotic things you had ever heard as your head began to move.

When you finally pulled back to catch your breath, saliva dripped from your lips to his shaft as you pumped him with your hand. “You like watching me choke on this big dick?” you asked, voice rugged before you took him deep again, this time letting your throat constrict around his tip.

“Fuck!” he shouted, his thighs tensing beneath you. “I’m not gonna last if you keep that up.”

You loved this part.

This was your favorite part, watching how easy it was to make him come undone.

And you continued to work him with your mouth and hand, establishing a rhythm that had him panting and cursing above you. When his hands found your hair, it wasn’t guiding, just connecting, Harry needing to touch you as you pleasured him.

“I’m close,” he warned after only a few minutes, his voice strained. “So close, babe.”

You pulled off with a pop, looking up at him with a mischievous smile. “Not yet,” you said, climbing onto his lap and straddling him. “I want to feel you.”

Harry’s hands immediately went to your hips, steadying you as you positioned yourself above him. “Are you—”

You cut him off with a kiss, deep and passionate, as you slowly sank down onto him, taking him inch by inch until he was fully seated within you. The stretch now arousing the desperation even more, your body still sensitive from your earlier orgasm.

“I’m sure,” you whispered against his lips. “I want this. I want you.”

You began to move, setting a slow, grinding pace that had both of you moaning, and Harry’s hands roamed your body, touching everywhere he could reach, as if reassuring himself that you were really there, really his.

“I love you,” he said between kisses, the words like a prayer being answered. “I love you so much. Never want to fight with you. Never want to be apart from you.”

“I love you too,” you replied, increasing your pace as the pleasure built again. “Always, Harry. Even when we fight.”

“Fuck—you’re so big,” you moaned against his lips, your inner walls stretching to accommodate his girth. “Can feel you so deep inside me.”

“So—tight,” Harry pushed, his fingers digging into the flesh of your ass as you began to pick up your pace. “So fucking wet and tight around me. Like this pussy was made for me.”

And you both laughed when your eyes met his. Both of you realizing it had been way too long since you had spoken these filthy words into existence, but you needed it, both of you spurring one another on as the pleasure took hold of each of you.

You established a rhythm, rising until just the tip remained inside before slamming back down, taking him to the hilt each time. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, punctuated by your shared moans and gasps, each sound breathing life back into the space.

“That’s it,” Harry urged, his voice strained as he thrust up to meet your downward movements. “Ride that dick. Show me how much you fucking need it.”

And dammit, what had Harry said? you needed it like you needed the air in your lungs, the blood flowing through your veins, the fucking heart pumping in your chest that could only beat for him.

In this moment.

Always.

You needed him.

Forever.

The tension between you had transformed completely, the anger of earlier replaced by a desperate, all-consuming love. Each movement, each touch, each whispered endearment was a reaffirmation of your bond, stronger now for having been tested.

You felt hunger drive from within as you increased your pace, grinding your clit against his pelvis with each downstroke. “So deep,” you gasped, throwing your head back as he hit that spot inside you. “God—Harry—you’re so fucking deep.”

His hands moved from your hips to your breasts, pinching and rolling your nipples as you bounced on his lap. “Look at you,” he groaned, eyes dark with need, with purpose as they raked over your body. “Taking me like this. Fucking goddess.”

The pleasure was building, charged with a thrilling energy that had you both sloppy for more as your second orgasm loomed even faster than the first. Harry could tell—he always could—and he slipped one hand between your bodies to circle your clit.

“Want you to come on this dick?” he forced, his voice a rough growl that sent shivers down your spine. “Going to squeeze me so tight I can’t hold back?”

“Harry—” you moaned, each movement becoming erratic as you chased your release. “Make me come, Harry. Need to come with you inside me.”

“The way you take me so deep... fucking incredible.” he praised, thumb stroking your clit in circles, moving in sync with your movements.

“Come with me,” he urged, his voice tight with the effort of holding back. “Want to feel you come around me.”

The added stimulation was all you needed, and you felt your second orgasm hit you like a tidal wave, less intense but somehow deeper than the first, and you moaned out Harry’s name as your inner walls clenched around him, pulling him over the edge with you.

Fuck.

It was so good.

This was so good.

And then he was burying his face in your neck as he came, his arms wrapping around you so tight that it was hard to tell where you ended and he began as a swell of longing flooded your body, and you held him just as fiercely, riding out the waves of pleasure together until you both collapsed, spent and satisfied.

For a long moment, you stayed like that, connected in the most intimate way, hearts beating against each other as your breathing slowly returned to normal, and Harry pressed soft kisses to your shoulder, your neck, your jaw, before finally finding your lips in a tender, loving kiss.

“I really am sorry,” he murmured against your mouth. “About the fight, about the dish, about leaving.”

You stroked his hair, smiling softly. “I know. And I’m sorry, too, for being so rigid sometimes. Maybe we can work on it together?”

Harry nodded; his eyes were serious despite the blissful aftermath you guys found yourselves in. “We will. Oh yeah, I forgot to tell you the seller is including the matching serving platter too.”

A laugh bubbled up from your chest, pure joy replacing the last vestiges of hurt. “You found the matching platter? Those are even rarer than the casserole dish!”

“Only the best for you,” Harry said, his smile mirroring yours. “I told you, I worship you. Every part of you, including your love for vintage dishware.”

You kissed him again, pouring all your love into it. “And I worship you, Harry. Even when you load the dishwasher wrong.”

When his laughter joined yours, filling the apartment with the sound of happiness restored. The broken dish was forgotten, replaced by the promise of new memories to be made, new moments to be shared, and a love that was stronger for having weathered its first real storm.

As you curled against him, content and complete, you knew that this—this imperfect, sometimes messy, always passionate love—was the most precious thing you would ever possess. And unlike a casserole dish, it couldn’t be broken by a careless moment or a heated argument. It could only grow stronger, more beautiful, with each challenge overcome together.

Taglist: @sassamanda77 @panini @unfuckwitablenarry @triski73

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Reply All (H.S. Fic) | Chapter 2

General Masterlist uni!harry x fem!reader

Summary: Y/N and Harry were childhood best friends, inseparable through every laugh, secret, and growing pain. But high school brought unspoken feelings and decisions that tore them apart, leaving both with unanswered questions. Years later, a class project challenges them to face their shared past and uncover the truths they’ve both been running from. And a wrong click unveils the past and what will be the future.

Word count: 3k

Warnings: Angst, mentions of betrayal.

Your hands hovered over the keyboard, still staring at the email, torn between slamming the laptop shut or throwing it out the window entirely. The room was too quiet—that kind of quiet that made your thoughts unbearable, every line of Harry’s email replaying over and over in your mind.

You read it once, twice, at least ten times, blinking and rubbing your eyes, hoping it was some weird dream that would disappear if you looked away.

But it didn’t.

There it was: the email, glaring at you, with everyone’s email address in the recipient field.

The furious sound of the door bursting open snapped you out of your daze. Your eyes darted to Juliet, standing in the doorway, phone clutched in her hand, her face mirroring your shock and disbelief.

“Holy—” she started.

“Shit,” you finished.

Juliet rushed over, peering at your laptop, her jaw dropping as she confirmed what she’d already seen on her phone. “Oh my god. It’s real. The whole class—the entire 22 students—got this?”

You nodded numbly, closing the laptop with a sharp snap. “What’s happening? What is this? Is he... mocking me or something?” Your voice cracked as your thoughts spiraled a thousand miles a second.

Juliet stared at you “Mocking you? Y/N, he didn’t even mean to send it to you! Or anyone! This was a huge, accidental, disastrous mistake.” She paused “And that’s the thing—it’s raw. It’s real. It’s...” She hesitated, searching for the right words. “It’s tragic and romantic and messy, just like the two of you.” She was too dramatic for her own good, maybe that’s why she chose literature and just maybe that’s why her name suited her so well.

“It’s mortifying!” you shot back, standing up abruptly and pacing the room. “It’s embarrassing! It’s—” Your hands gestured wildly in the air. “It’s a lie! That’s what it is!”

Juliet folded her arms, watching you wear a path into the carpet. “You think it’s a lie? After that email? Y/N, come on. No one writes something that vulnerable if it isn’t true. And they definitely don’t send it to the entire class by accident if they’re not losing their mind over it.”

You stopped mid-pace, running a hand through your hair, your emotions a swirling mix of anger, confusion, and something you weren’t quite ready to name.

Juliet watched you pace, her expression softening. “Y/N, it’s not a lie. Come on, you read the same thing I did. That wasn’t just some random excuse or a joke. That was real. Like... the kind of real people don’t just write down unless they mean it.”

“How can you be so sure? He’s barely spoken to me in years, Juliet. He’s ignored me, avoided me—he doesn’t get to just... just drop something like this and expect me to believe it.”

Juliet sighed, crossing her arms and leaning against your desk. “Maybe he doesn’t expect you to believe it. Maybe he doesn’t even expect you to read it. Hell, he probably wishes the ground would swallow him whole right now. But, Y/N... he wrote it. And that’s gotta count for something.”

You groaned, dragging your hands down your face. “What am I supposed to do? Ask why he thinks writing about me like I’m his tragic love story is okay?”

Juliet’s lips twitched into a small smile. “I mean, that’s one option. Or, you know, you could just talk to him. Like two grown adults. Maybe figure out why he felt the need to pour his heart out in the middle of a class project.”

You shook your head, resuming your pacing. “It’s not that simple. If I talk to him, it’s like... I’m acknowledging it. Acknowledging him. And after everything, I don’t think I can do that.”

Juliet walked over and placed a hand on your shoulder, forcing you to stop moving and look at her. “You don’t have to figure this out right now. But, Y/N, don’t let this sit and fester. You owe it to yourself to at least try to understand what’s going on here. Whether you believe it or not, Harry just handed you a piece of himself”

Her words lingered in the air as she stepped back, leaving you alone with your thoughts once more. The email, now closed behind the laptop, felt like it was still burning into your mind. You weren’t sure what your next move would be, but one thing was certain—you couldn’t pretend it didn’t exist.

🌷

The week was quiet. Too quiet.

You barely saw Harry around campus, and when you did, he seemed to be actively avoiding your gaze. His usual confident stride looked hesitant, shoulders slumped, as though the weight of his email disaster had physically manifested on his back.

Not that you cared.

At least that’s what you told yourself every time Juliet glanced at you with an arched brow, her unspoken words hanging in the air.

You, on the other hand, were drowning in your own thoughts. The email replayed in your head in snippets—his words, the tone, the rawness. It was like a broken record you couldn’t stop, even when you desperately wanted to. The anger in you simmered, hot and unrelenting, blocking out any other emotion trying to creep in.

Friday arrived, and so did the storytelling class.

You had spent the entire week doing everything possible to avoid Harry.  But as the day approached, the dread of sitting in the same room as him grew too overwhelming to ignore. You told yourself you weren’t going—not because you were scared or unsure, but because you simply weren’t ready.

But Juliet had other plans.

“Y/N, get up. You’re going,” Juliet said firmly, standing in front of your bed with her arms crossed.

You groaned, pulling the blanket over your head. “I’m not going, Juliet. I don’t have a story ready, and I’m not ready to deal with…him.”

“That’s exactly why you need to go,” she replied, yanking the blanket off with zero remorse. “You can’t avoid him forever, and skipping class isn’t going to solve anything.”

“Watch me,” you muttered, curling into a ball.

Juliet rolled her eyes “Listen, Y/N. Do you think he’s going to magically disappear? Or that ignoring this will make it less messy? No. What you need is closure. And maybe... maybe you’ll find it in that classroom. Or at least you’ll hear what he has to say. He’s probably dying to explain himsel”

She was right, ignoring it wouldn’t make it less messy, but maybe you wanted to believe he was going to dissapear

“Look, just come with me,” Juliet said, softening her tone. “You don’t even have to talk to him. Just sit in the back, pretend he doesn’t exist. But please, don’t let him take this class—or your peace of mind—from you.”

She got a point.

With a sigh you got out of bed. “Fine”

Juliet grinned, tossing you your bag.

🌷

The classroom was unusually loud when you arrived, but the moment you stepped in, the noise died down, replaced by the tension of stares. You didn’t need to be a mind reader to know what they were thinking. Of course, they still remembered the email—how could they not? It was the freshest gossip on campus, a dramatic story for everyone but you. For you, it was a mess.

Juliet gave you a reassuring nudge as you walked past rows of desks, guiding you toward an empty seat in the middle. "Ignore them," she whispered.

You tried to focus on her words and not on him. But there he was, sitting in the back corner of the room besides Noah. At least Noah accepted his offer. His face was unreadable as his eyes followed your every move. You could feel his gaze burning into the side of your head as you slid into the seat next to Juliet.

"Just breathe," Juliet murmured, pulling out her notebook. You mirrored her movements, pretending to organize your things as if your heart wasn’t racing out of control.

The minutes dragged on. Conversations around the room resumed, but you couldn’t hear them over the rush of blood in your ears. The weight of his gaze never wavered, no matter how hard you tried to ignore it.

And then, his voice broke through the noise.

“Juliet, can we switch seats for a minute?”

Your entire body froze. Juliet looked at you, then back at Harry, her expression shifting between surprise and excitement.

“Um...” Juliet hesitated, glancing at you for guidance.

You swallowed hard, staring straight ahead, willing her not to move. But Juliet, being Juliet, wasn’t one to back down from a dramatic moment.

“Why?” she asked bluntly, raising an eyebrow.

Harry sighed “Please?”

You couldn’t move, you couldn’t even look at Juliet, but why? you swore you didn’t want to talk to him, hell you were avoiding him all week, so why weren’t you running away, why did your legs decide to stay still, Why?

“Fine. Take it,” she said, stepping aside and shooting you a look.

Harry slid into the seat beside you, his presence immediately overwhelming. He didn’t say anything at first, and neither did you. The silence stretched between you, filled with unspoken words and years of unresolved tension.

Harry took a deep breath, his voice shaking slightly as he started speaking. "Look, I know you don’t want to hear anything I have to say"

Then why are you here? you thought.

You kept your eyes fixed on the notebook in front of you, your hand frozen mid-scribble.

"I didn’t mean for the email to happen like that," he continued "I was trying to send it to Noah—just Noah—and I don’t even know how I messed it up so badly. But I know that doesn’t matter. It’s out there now, and... and I’m sorry."

He hesitated, waiting for a response. You didn’t give him one.

"I know it probably made you feel a million things—angry, embarrassed, hurt... and you have every right to feel all of that. I would, too."

Your grip on the pen tightened, but you didn’t look at him.

"I wasn’t trying to drag you into this, Y/N. I swear I wasn’t. I just—" He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I was selfish. I was trying to make sense of something I’ve been too much of a coward to deal with for years. And now... now I’ve made it even worse."

You stayed silent, your pen hovering over the page, unmoving.

"And I know you probably hate me for it," he said quietly, almost to himself. "For everything I did back then, for the way I acted... and for now. I get it. I’d hate me too."

Still, you didn’t speak.

Harry exhaled slowly, as if trying to release some of the weight pressing on him. "I just wanted you to know I’m sorry, okay? For all of it. Even if you never talk to me again, even if this ruins everything even more than it already is... I needed you to know that."

He sat back in his chair, letting the silence between you stretch. But you still didn’t move, didn’t speak. And eventually, he stopped trying.

“Or maybe even if you want an explanation for everything, your friend Juliet probably knows where to find me,” he said, standing up and leaving again for his seat.

No, I know where to find you, you thought again.

🌷

After Harry's words echoed in your mind, you couldn't shake the way he had spoken to you—so raw, so regretful, yet so distant. The days following his apology felt like an eternity of silence, and yet your mind wouldn't stop replaying that moment over and over. The way he had stood there, the vulnerability in his eyes, and the quiet weight of his apology that lingered in the air. The words themselves had been heavy, but the silence afterward was even worse. You didn’t talk to Juliet about it. Instead, you spent hours lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking about everything that had happened—what you had said, what he had said, and where everything had gone so terribly wrong. Was he really sorry? Did it even matter? You had asked yourself all the same questions a thousand times, but nothing seemed to have an answer.

That’s when it hit you: If you were ever going to move on, if you were ever going to understand anything, you had to do something about it. You had to go to him. Not for closure, not for anything grand or meaningful—but for yourself. Maybe Tragic Juliet was right all along.

So, when Friday arrived, you decided to go.

The campus was busy, students chatting and hurrying to their next destinations, but you weren’t really seeing any of it. You only had one destination in mind. You found yourself walking toward a secluded spot near his dorm. It was tucked away between the larger buildings, a quiet little hall filled with nature—a place you had seen him before, reading, writing, or drinking something late at night. Even if you didn’t want to, your mind couldn’t help but remember that.

And there he was, sitting at the only table there, his head down, focused on something—his phone, a textbook, you couldn’t tell. But he was there. Just like you knew he would be.

For a moment, everything felt suspended in time.

Harry didn’t look up at first, but when he did, his eyes widened slightly. The moment your gazes locked, everything about the past few days seemed to crash together in an overwhelming rush.

“Y/N, I…” he began, standing up immediately.

You crossed the room, your pulse racing, and stopped just a few feet in front of him, interrupting him. “Five minutes, and that’s all I’m g….”

“No,” he said, cutting you off. He sounded brave. “I can’t say what I want to say in five minutes, and you know it. Look, if you really want to hear me out, if you’re really willing to give me a chance to talk, I’m starting by telling you the truth. I need more than five minutes.”

And he was right. almost half a life of mess needed more than ten minutes.

“Fine…” you said, taking the seat in front of him, but he stood still “aren’t you going to sit down?”

“I was about to” he said faking he wasn’t just there stupidly shocked that this was actually happening

For a brief moment, that small exchange felt oddly normal, as if everything between you was okay again. Maybe, just maybe, the spark hadn’t completely disappeared.

He took a deep breath, bracing himself.

“We were in Year 10 when I decided to... screw everything up, basically. But this started way back in Year 8 or 9. Something like that.” He paused, rubbing the back of his neck. “I didn’t know what I was feeling, but every time I saw you walking through the school doors, it felt like I was the luckiest guy alive. And this isn’t some cheesy love confession—it’s the truth. I was confused. I was excited. But I was also terrified.”

He took a sip of water, his hands trembling slightly. You didn’t say a word, just kept looking at him, trying to process every sentence as it came.

“And yeah, it’s so fucking cliché. Best friends falling in love. Good job, Harry,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. “I had the best years of school with you, and I didn’t want to ruin it over... a crush. I thought I could just shove it down, bury it, and stay your best friend. But the longer I stayed close to you, the harder it became to pretend. I thought I could get rid of those feelings if I just... distanced myself. But that backfired. Completely.”

He exhaled shakily and continued, his voice softer now. “The more I pulled away, the more I wanted you. And by the time I realized how much I’d messed up, it was too late. I wasn’t there when Zack broke up with you. I wasn’t there when you had that breakdown during P.E. I wasn’t there when we threw our graduation caps in the air—like we promised we’d do together. I missed everything, Y/N. Everything.”

His words twisted in your chest, each one hitting harder than the last. He knew exactly where he had been absent—every moment you had felt his absence, even the ones you hadn’t consciously remembered.

“And it sounds so childish, so immature,” he admitted, running a hand through his hair. “But I promised you the truth, and there it is. I swear, I didn’t look at your applications. I didn’t even try to end up in the same class as you. But somehow, it happened. And I told myself that if we crossed paths again, I’d let you feel whatever you needed to feel. If you wanted to yell at me, hit me, hate me—I’d take it. I deserved it.”

He laughed bitterly, shaking his head. “And then I screwed that up too. Who even invented the ‘Reply All’ button? Why the hell would anyone need to reply to everyone?!” His voice grew more frustrated, and for a moment, it felt like he was arguing with himself, replaying the past week in his head.

“I’ve messed up more times than I can count,” he admitted, his voice breaking slightly. “Even when I picked you for the project. I thought I could be subtle, keep it under the radar so no one would notice. But instead, I did the complete opposite...And th..”

It wasn’t just an apology anymore—it felt like he was punishing himself, listing every mistake, every failure, every regret.

“Stop,” you said firmly, not out of anger but concern.

He froze, his breathing heavy. 

“Sorry,” he said, exhaling like the weight of the last few days had finally caught up to him.

“I think that’s enough,” you said, standing up.

“No, it’s not enough,” he said quickly, following your movement. “I still need to—”

“It’s enough, Harry.” Your tone was calm but resolute. The seriousness in your eyes made him stop.

He held up his hands in surrender, letting out a heavy sigh. “Okay,” he said quietly, almost defeated. Harry had never pushed—not back then, and not now.

Taglist: @hermionelove @mads3502 @cherryloveshs @harrystyleshotwife @familyshow-orisit @fadingcherryblossomblaze @lunaharrygurl @gem1712 @millsadoresyou

[harrysgal]

I DIG YOUR CINEMA (14)

harry styles x yn aspiring filmmaker — social media AU

About the smau: yn starts posting videos on youtube and is trying to build a career as a filmmaker. Things are going pretty well for her and she starts getting more attention when she creates content about shows she goes to. She’s also a fan of Harry’s music and some of his fans start getting suspicious when his team starts interacting with her.

About yn: although the character does not have a faceclaim, pictures suggest reader is white.

Disclaimer: The story it’s set in 2021 and it will follow their relationship through the LOT leg in the US. Since this is nothing but fiction, I will be following some of the real timeline but also adding my own stuff. On top of that, I won’t be basing myself on Harry’s actual posts.

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PART 13 // MASTERLIST

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I DIG YOUR CINEMA (PART 14) — FLORIDA 1&2

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liked by harryfan, ynrryfan and 113 others 

harryupdates Harry arriving in Orlando this morning!

view all 27 comments

harryfan1 sunshine looks so good on him ynrryfan love the outfit!! the beanie!!  harryfan2 so he was in nyc? can’t believe he managed to stay there unseen for two days

Oct 7, 2021 •

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liked by ynrryfan, user3 and 53 others

ynupdates Yn and ＠bestfriend were seen arriving at the Amway Center in Orlando earlier today! (October 7)

view all 9 comments 

user1 i love love love their friendship  user2 she’s alive!!! harryfan1 and no sightseeing post from nyc yet :( harryfan3 i know you’re being respectful by not posting her face and all that, but can you at least say if she was smiling or not? did she look sad? happy? i need to know please 

Oct 7, 2021 •

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liked by harryfan5, ynrryfan and 31 others

ynupdates Yn and ＠bestfriend at the airport in Orlando tonight! (October 7)

view all 11 comments 

harryfan1 that was quick 😳 harryfan3 did they even watch the show? lmao harryfan5 wait did she leave early? harryfan7 sunrise tomorrow and I’ll be there!! can’t wait !!

Oct 7, 2021 •

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— — — — — 

PART 15 — (soon)

— — — — — 

Tag list: @tchlamqtsgf @theekyliepage @deamus-liv @hotchnersangel @gem1712 @firelordzu @stylessbean @this-is-tiny-mia @inharryshelter — PLEASE READ: I’ll only add to the next tag list those who interact with this post. I hope you understand, thank you for your excitement. 

[hsjazebel]

FICS RECOMMENDATIONS 💕 (4)

Just a little note to say: I love all your fics so much! You’re truly amazing authors, and I’m so grateful for everything you create and share

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

SMUT

Line work by @jarofstyles

Dilf | dilf 2 by @gurugirl

Benefits by @jarofstyles

Maybe fate by @gurugirl

This by @harrywritingsbyme

Clover by @enthusiasticharry

Protective of you by @finelinenina

Sundress for the ceo by @pinkboaclub

The other man by @lukesaprince

You again by @freedomfireflies

Merlot by @jarofstyles

Roll call by @temptress-writes

Are you fucking hard by @hsunrry

You can take it by @hsunrry

FLUFF

Private show by @cloudyluun

Run baby, run by @musicforastylesrestaurant

Everything with you by @watchmegetobsessed

Sick on tour by @satellite-evans

Lucky to have you by @finelinevogue

Morning kisses by @musicforastylesrestaurant

Grapes by @harrysfolklore

Bambi by @finelinefae

[harrystyleshotwife]

Hi, I kinda have an idea I’ve been tossing around, briefly considered attempting to write it myself, but yeah, I’m not great at pulling plot twists, etc, so Im throwing it out here, maybe you can do it justice! First, I have to say that I absolutely MUST have a decent degree of angst - but nothing too bad that it seems too unforgivable, because a happy ending is nonnegotiable (well, for me anyway, those are my own personal rules).

So MC is a single mom with a baby/toddler, and for whatever reason she’s had to move to a new town where she doesn’t really know anyone, so to make new friends she joins a mommy/me playgroup - where she meets Gemma & her baby girl and the two are instant friends, which is how she’s eventually introduced to Harry. Of course their chemistry is off the charts, resulting in a strangers to friends to lovers thing. BUT, at the time he’s just stared filming DWD. And here comes the angst…because Olivia def had her sights set on Harry & shes just manipulative enough to play dirty for what she wants…and after Harry turns her down or whatever by explaining that he’s kinda seeing someone, who Olivia finds out is you & she ain’t having it! It’s only after she overhears Harry talking to someone about Y/N, how they met, the mommy group, etc…there’s her in - she immediately signs up for the play group but with a plan: get rid of you by sewing discord by any means necessary, befriend Gemma so she can get to Harry….so, yeah. That’s all I’ve got so far, do with it what you will ;)

Strangers, Playdates, and a Bit of Trouble

Warnings: nothing but angst basically

———

The move was supposed to be a fresh start.

She kept reminding herself of that as she unpacked the last of the boxes in her tiny apartment, Ava babbling to herself in the corner while scattering puzzle pieces across the floor. No one told her starting over would feel so lonely. She loved her daughter more than anything, but the silence that filled the space when Ava napped? That silence hit different.

It didn’t help that she didn’t know anyone here. No family nearby. No friends. Just her, Ava, and a GPS that still got her lost half the time.

So, when she stumbled across a post about a local mommy-and-me group, she didn’t hesitate. She figured it’d be good for Ava—and maybe even good for her, too.

The first meeting was overwhelming in that overstimulated, sticky-hands, Goldfish-on-the-floor kind of way. But then came Gemma.

Warm, welcoming, and refreshingly blunt, Gemma immediately made her feel seen. The two moms clicked in that way that mattered—through shared exhaustion, similar routines, and toddlers who instantly became best friends. There were coffee dates, long talks, laughter that felt like exhaling after months of holding her breath.

Everything started to settle into place. For the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel like she was drowning.

Then, she met him.

It was meant to be a normal drop-off at Gemma’s—Ava and Lily having another playdate—but Gemma wasn’t there. Her brother was.

She knew the name before she saw the face. Harry Styles. And yeah, she’d seen the photos, the articles, the internet chatter. But none of it prepared her for how normal he looked standing barefoot in sweatpants, rubbing sleep from his eyes as he opened the door.

“Hey,” he said, voice still rough from sleep. “Come in. They’re inside—tearing the place apart.”

He was easy to talk to. Surprisingly so. They ended up chatting longer than they needed to, and when it was time to go, she didn’t really want to leave.

He started showing up more after that. Always casual. Friendly. Sweet with the kids. He and Ava got along like they’d known each other forever. But beneath it all, there was something unspoken building between them—long glances, lingering touches, conversations that went a little deeper than they probably should’ve.

It turned into something before either of them said it out loud.

A quiet night on Gemma’s back porch, stars overhead, both of them just sitting there after the kids fell asleep. He kissed her like he’d been thinking about it for weeks. And she let herself believe, for the first time in a long time, that maybe something good was happening.

But things got complicated fast.

Because a few weeks later, he left to film Don’t Worry Darling.

And Olivia Wilde noticed him.

At first, it didn’t bother her. She trusted him. He texted every night. Called when he could. But then things started to change. The calls got shorter. The texts less frequent. He was tired. Busy. “Just dealing with stuff on set,” he said.

She tried to be understanding.

Until Olivia showed up at the mommy group.

Smiling. Effortless. Charming in a way that felt too polished.

“I just moved to the area,” she said sweetly. “Figured this group would be a great way to meet some moms.”

And she was nice—too nice. Overly friendly. But there was something in her eyes that felt off. Calculated. The way she glanced at her. The way she mentioned Harry a little too casually in front of the others.

It wasn’t long before things started shifting.

Other moms began treating her differently—standoffish, subtle judgment in their glances. Whispers that stopped when she walked into the room. Gemma seemed distant too, like she wasn’t sure what to believe.

She confronted her.

“What’s going on?” she asked one day after group. “Everyone’s acting weird.”

Gemma looked uncomfortable. “Olivia’s been saying stuff. I don’t know how much is true. She said… she and Harry had a thing.”

Her stomach dropped.

“She said what?”

“That you were just a rebound,” Gemma said quietly. “That he’s been seeing her. That he never told her about you, or Ava.”

It felt like someone knocked the air out of her.

She didn’t believe it. Did she?

But the doubt was there now, whispering in her ear.

So she called him.

It rang. And rang. And rang.

No answer.

She stared at the phone for a long time, wondering how something that felt so good could fall apart so quickly.

She didn’t want to fight.

She hated fighting.

It started with a text.

From a number she didn’t recognize.

“I’m sorry you had to find out like this. He told me you weren’t serious. I never would’ve let things go that far if I knew you had a baby at home.”

– O

She stared at the message for a long time. Long enough for Ava to pull at her sleeve, long enough for her stomach to twist and turn until the room felt too small.

It was a lie. It had to be. But the doubt hit her like a sucker punch.

Because Olivia was calculated like that. She didn’t make moves without motive. And this? This was intentional.

She texted Harry. Can we talk?

She didn’t expect a reply, because he ignored her calls just hours earlier.

But he showed up. Hood up, cap on. Eyes tired.

“You okay?” he asked, stepping inside. “You look—”

“Did you sleep with her?” she cut in, voice sharper than she wanted, but trembling with restrained fury.

He froze. “What?”

“Olivia. Did you sleep with her?”

His brows pulled together. “No. What—where is this coming from?”

“She messaged me, Harry.” She shoved the phone toward him, her chest tight. “Said you told her we weren’t serious. That you didn’t even tell her I had a kid.”

He read the text, jaw locking as he passed the screen back to her.

“That’s bullshit,” he said tightly. “I never said that. I didn’t touch her.”

“Then why does she think you did?” she demanded. “Why does she know anything about us at all?”

“Because she overheard me talking about you!” he snapped, more frustrated than angry. “She put two and two together and decided to blow it up. That’s what she does. She twists things.”

She stared at him, voice hollow. “And you didn’t think to tell me she might try something like this?”

“I didn’t think she’d go that far.”

She let out a bitter laugh. “That’s rich. Because I did. I’ve seen the way she looks at you. I watched her embed herself in my life—my friends, our group—just so she could come between us.”

His expression shifted, like he finally realized the damage that had been done.

“Hey… look at me,” he said, stepping closer. “You know me. You know I wouldn’t cheat on you.”

“But you didn’t tell her about me,” she said softly, wounded. “Not really. Not when it counted.”

“That’s not true.”

“She knew I existed. But not who I was to you. Not enough for her to back off.”

“I kept things quiet because I didn’t want to bring attention to us,” he admitted, eyes pleading. “Not because I was hiding you. I was trying to protect what we have.”

“Then why does it feel like I’m the only one who’s been protecting it?”

That landed.

The silence that followed was thick. Harry stepped back like the weight of it was too much.

“I don’t know how to fix this,” he said quietly.

She swallowed hard. “Maybe you can’t.”

Ava’s laughter rang out from the other room—completely unaware, beautifully innocent.

Harry’s eyes flicked in that direction, then back to her. “Please don’t shut me out.”

“I have to think about her,” she whispered. “About what kind of environment I’m bringing her into. I can’t have this chaos in her life.”

“I’m not chaos,” he said, brokenly. “I love you.”

“I want to believe that,” she said, voice cracking. “But right now, I don’t even know what to believe.”

He didn’t argue. Didn’t push.

He just nodded—defeated.

And then he left.

⸻

For three days, they didn’t speak.

She cried more than she’d admit. Ava asked where Harry was every morning, and she had to smile through it, lie through it. She missed him—ached for him—but her pride wouldn’t let her reach out.

Then Gemma showed up on her doorstep.

“You’re both being idiots,” she said, blunt as ever. “He’s miserable. And you’re in love with him.”

She didn’t deny it.

“You don’t walk away from something like this,” Gemma added, softer. “Not when it’s real. Not when you know he didn’t cheat.”

⸻

When he finally came back, it wasn’t with flowers or some grand gesture. He just stood at her door, exhausted and quiet.

“I was scared,” he said. “Of screwing it up. Of not being good enough for you—or for Ava.”

She stepped aside, let him in. They didn’t say much after that.

They didn’t have to.

⸻

Eventually, the truth came out. Olivia left the group. Left the movie early, too—something “schedule-related,” the press said. But they knew better.

Gemma apologized. The other moms softened again. Life slowly, slowly began to feel normal.

And through it all, Harry stayed. And that was all she needed.

[ellewritesx]

right person, wrong address

Summary: When an envelope meant for Harry Styles ends up in your mailbox, you can't believe your eyes, until he shows up at your door. What started with misdelivered mail might end up delivering something neither of you expected.

A/N: this is my first tumblr fic guys be gentle! i don't have any other posts lined up yet, just kinda wanted to get my first one out of the way and see what you guys thought. i'm still kind of finding my style, so don't take this too seriously. hope you like it x

Word Count: 2,416

...

Londom hums with the quiet taps of rain against your windows. It's not a storm, just the kind of drizzle that makes everything feel still and turns the world soft around the edges. You haven't quite figured out how to make the heat work properly in your new apartment yet, so you're curled up on the couch with a blanket, a chipped mug of tea warming your hands: one of your most recent thrift store finds.

There are unpacked boxes you've been procrastinating unpacking still scattered across your living room, but you're too tired from assembling the closet in your bedroom. It's a little crooked, and for some reason there were five bolts and a plank of wood left when you were done (where the hell did those come from?), but you're proud of your little handiwork nonetheless.

You nearly forget to check the mail, your package (a gorgeous flowery pillow cover set, score) supposed be arriving today.

You throw on a hoodie, walking down the stairs to your mailbox down by the entryway, the red paint chipping and the little silver slot barely budging. You wrestle the box open with a familiar clatter, sighing at the pile of papers. Junk flyers, something official-looking from your new job… and a minimalistic envelope.

Thick paper. Cream-colored. No return address. It's addressed to flat 5B. You live in flat 4B, so this envelope being accidentally delivered to you doesn't surprise you. The name written on it in sharp, slanted handwriting, on the other hand, does:

H. Styles

Your stomach dips. H. Styles?

You look again, thinking you must've read this... well, neat, handwriting wrong, but no, it's clear.

It's not that H. Styles, you tell yourself. Maybe there's a Henry Styles you're unaware of. Or a Howard Styles. Some poor sucker who's unfortunate enough to share a last name with a global popstar. Surely they're out there.

You hold the envelope delicately, as if it might disintegrate from the weight of the name alone. The paper feels… expensive. Private. You flip it over in your hands. It's sealed. Untouched. Your fingers twitch.

You're not going to open it. Obviously. That would be rude. No, illegal. Opening this envelope would be a federal crime. So you're definitely not going to. At least for now.

But you are going to look at the building's tenant list you got when you moved in, something about ''in case of emergencies'', like there'd ever be an emergency prompting you to call Greg from 4D who sits behind his computer all day, and whom you've frankly never seen besides at that one fire drill a week ago.

You pull the crumpled list out of your junk drawer in the kitchen, littered with various household items and papers you don't want to give a place but can't quite throw away. This is just out of curiosity. You're not a creep, you're... a responsible neighbour. That's all.

You chew on your lip absentmindedly as you skim over the list.

Flat 5B... Harry E. Styles.

You know enough about Harry Styles to know his middle name starts with an E. Edward, you believe. Something you've seen on social media: one of those dumb '12 fun facts about Harry Styles' videos on your For You page. What they didn't bother to give you a heads-up of, is the 'fun fact' Harry Styles happens to be your neighbour.

And for some godforsaken reason, some postal glitch or careless hand or twist of cosmic fate, you are currently holding what looks like a very important, very confidential piece of his mail.

...

You don't sleep well that night.

The envelope sits on your kitchen counter, practically begging to be opened, like an itch needing scratching. Every time you walk past it, your eyes flick to the name. You consider putting it in a drawer somewhere just to avoid the temptation, but even that feels too personal. Too nosy. This isn't your life to peek into.

Only by morning, when the initital shock has subsided, you realize you're going to have to get it back to him. How are you supposed to face him? Maybe you'll leave it in the lobby. Maybe you'll slide it under his door. Quick, anonymous, clean.

And then, around 11:00 a.m., there's a knock.

Not a timid tap. A proper, polite knock.

You freeze mid-step. No one knows you here. You've only lived in this flat two weeks. You're still the girl the neighbour across the hall calls ''newbie''.

When you open the door, he's there. Your pulse stutters like a scratched record.

Harry Styles.

Just… standing on your doormat like a fever dream in a hoodie and black beanie. Rain-speckled and wind-rumpled, holding his phone loosely in one hand, as if he only half-expected you to answer.

''Hi,'' he says, voice smooth but casual, like you're neighbors who've spoken a dozen times before. ''Sorry. Think my post might've ended up here.''

You blink. You stare. ''Right. You're... Harry Styles,'' you blurt, stupidly, like that's not exactly what not to say when you meet a celebrity.

He lets out a soft chuckle. ''That's what it says on the envelope, isn't it?'' he says charmingly, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

''Right,'' you smile apologetically. You vanish without even inviting him in, mentally screaming at yourself while you trip over the unpacked boxes in your living room to grab the envelope, cursing softly under your breath. You return quickly, trying not to breathe like you just ran a 24k. God, you need to exercise more.

He accepts it with careful hands. Turns it over once. Nods.

''Yeah, this is it. Thank you.''

His fingers linger on the seal. Then he discreetly glances past you, a little nosy. At your half-unpacked boxes. The record player tucked by the window. The steaming mug on your kitchen island.

''Would you...'' you start, then hesitate, ''would you like to come in for a cup of tea? We haven't properly met.'' You're surprised you actually managed to form a sentence.

''Love to,'' he replies smoothly, taking off his beanie by the door and ruffling his curls, that somehow fall right into place.

You make the tea with trembling hands.

He, in the meantime, wanders around, hands behind his back like he's admiring an exhibit in a museum. Looks at your books, your record collection, your useless, thrifted trinkets. Skims over your Polaroids. Laughs softly at the lopsided note stuck to your fridge: remember to call the heater guy!!! written in a panicked scribble.

''You just moved in?'' he assumes.

You nod, carefully handing him a cup of tea as he slides into a barstool at your kitchen island. ''Either the heater's broken or I've just got two left hands. Wouldn't be surprised if the latter was the case, actually,'' you joke.

He chuckles softly, absentmindely offering to come by sometime to fix it for you, and for a second, it feels… normal. Like he's just a kind neighbour offering a hand. Like you’re just two people talking over a cup of tea. Which you are, of course.

Except that one of the aforementioned two people is Harry Styles. Right. Just a regular Tuesday.

Conversation flows easier than you thought it would. You're quiet, simply nodding along or offering small comments on his stories, but he doesn't seem to mind. In fact, he seems to like it.

You take a sip from your mug, letting the steam warm your face. Across from you, Harry mirrors the movement, his legs crossed beneath him like he's been here a hundred times.

''So…'' he starts, watching you over the rim of his mug as he takes a sip. ''Why London?''

There's a beat of quiet, the soft, jazzy music from your record player in the background. You glance down at your tea, a bashful smile tugging at the corner of your lips. ''I guess I wanted to feel like I was somewhere where things happen, you know? Where people chase dreams. Even if I don't exactly know what mine is yet.''

He nods slowly, ''That's brave. Most people don't move cities without a plan.''

You chuckle. ''Sometimes you just have to throw yourself into the unknown, trusting that it'll work out. That you'll make it work out, y'know?''

Harry grins, and it makes your stomach flip. ''That's how I've done most things.''

''Like music?'' you ask.

''Especially music.''

...

The tea's long gone cold, but neither of you seem to mind. Harry sits in your barstool like he's in his own home, elbows on your kitchen island, mug cradled loosely in his hands. His eyes flicker toward the window, watching the early evening shadows stretching across the street, but he hasn't made a move to leave just yet.

You've been talking for hours now. About little things. Big things. Nothing at all. Weirdly, it's… comfortable. The silence between you two is the kind that invites, not suffocates.

You're humming quietly while drying and putting away the dishes, your back turned to where Harry's sat.

''You know,'' he says after a pause, voice low, ''this might be the first time in months I've been able to just sit. No schedule, no pressure. No... fans or paparazzi. Just… this.''

You glance at him. He's watching the half-full mug of tea in his hands like it holds the answer to all of his problems. There's a crease between his brows, like he's thinking too hard, the same face you'd see in interviews when he's figuring out how to answer a particularly hard question. But right now, he's not that person. He's just your neighbour sitting in your tiny, cluttered kitchen, silently admiring the trinkets that fill it like the normalcy fascinates him.

You don't say anything. You have a feeling he's not looking to be comforted. He just wants to be heard out. To be able to think out loud without fearing someone's documenting his every word, his every move, and twisting it into things far out of his control.

He looks up at you. There's something weighted in his gaze now, something warmer. You feel it stir in your stomach: not nerves exactly, but something deeper, the heavy weight of a genuine connection between two people.

And then, quietly, he speaks up. ''Can I ask you something?''

You nod, not trusting your voice, leaning your elbows on the opposite side of the kitchen counter so you're face to face.

''Would you think I was weird if I said I don't really want to go yet?''

Your throat tightens a little. ''That depends,'' you respond with a harsh swallow, ''Would you think I was weird if I said I don't want you to go?''

His mouth pulls into a small half-smile, one you've seen in countless of photos when lazily scrolling through social media. But it feels different now. More vulnerable. Less rehearsed.

''I don't know what this is,'' he says, fingers tapping lightly against the mug. ''But I know it feels... nice. Being here. With you.''

You don't say anything. Just nod.

He puts the mug down. Then, cautiously, like he's waiting for you to stop him, he leans in slightly, and if you would have blinked you'd have missed the way his eyes flick to your lips discreetly. One hand brushes against your forearm, and the other finds a spot on the side of your face, thumb barely grazing your cheek.

''Tell me if this isn't okay,'' he murmurs.

You're quick to reasssure him, shaking your head, your eyes locked on his. ''It is.''

And then he kisses you.

It's slow at first, testing. Soft. Like he doesn't want to break whatever this strange, quiet connection between the two of you is. You kiss him back, hesitantly, but then a little deeper, because you can't not, with the way he's holding you like he's afraid he won't live up to his own name, his image, the expectations. Like the way he tastes like tea and warmth and the way his lips part just slightly doesn't make something flutter wildly in your chest.

His hand tentatively shifts to cradle the back of your head, drawing you in, but there's no rush.

When you pull apart, barely an inch of space between you, he lingers like he's thinking about going back in.

Your voice is a whisper. ''Thank God for those dumb mail guys.''

He chuckles, breath warm against your skin. ''Good thing they suck at their jobs.''

You laugh, cheeks flushed. He glances toward the door, then back to you. ''I should probably go before my manager has a heart attack. I think he's been refreshing The Daily Mail since last night.''

''Why?'' you chuckle softly, your head tilting in confusion.

He grins, looking at you in adoration, like he loves that you have no idea about the possible PR nightmares, that you're not part of his world in that way. ''He was afraid you'd sell the tour schedule to a news outlet. Terrified, actually,'' he clarifies with a soft chuckle.

You blink once. Twice. ''That was an option? Damn. I could've been rich by now,'' you mutter jokingly.

He rolls his eyes affectionately, cupping your face and leaning forward to draw you in for another sweet kiss. You pull away, a frown etched on your face. ''Wait, that was a tour schedule?'' you ask incredulously, not even bothering to conceal your shock and curiosity.

''And that's my cue to leave,'' he grins mischievously and stands, handing you his empty mug as a futile attempt to distract you.

''No, wait, a tour schedule? I'm going to need you to elaborate.''

''Did I say tour schedule? I meant... well, literally anything else. Bye,'' he says quickly before he can accidentally reveal more secrets.

''Hey, you come back, mister. Harry!'' you protest, following him to your door, making him pause and turn around with a smile.

A wink. ''I'll come by later to fix your heater, love,'' he simply says.

And just like that, he's gone, but not really. He's close, he lives right above you, after all, which makes you bite the inside of your cheek to stop from smiling like a lovesick teenager.

Your phone buzzes with a text barely ten minutes after he leaves. Unbeknownst to you, Harry could barely wait until he was back in his own apartment, grabbing his phone as soon as he plopped down on his couch with a content sigh, smiling at his screen as he types.

Next time, my place. —H

...

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

[ghstyles]

Elysium | His Angel

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Pairing: College!Yn x CrimeBossl!Harry

WC: 6.5k

Summary: How Harry Styles met his angel

His Angel Masterlist

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The bass thrums through the exclusive nightclub, vibrating beneath Y/N's feet as she follows her friends through the crowd. The place screams money and danger in equal measure. All sleek black surfaces, private booths guarded by serious-looking men, and beautiful people trying too hard to look like they belong.

"I can't believe we got in!" her friend Mia shouts over the music, clutching Y/N's arm excitedly. "Do you know how impossible it is to get into Elysium without being on the list?"

Y/N shrugs, taking in the scene with a mixture of curiosity and wariness. "Perks of knowing the right people, I guess."

Their other friend, Zoe, leans in, nudging Y/N’s side. "And being hot.” 

Y/N rolls her eyes. "That's ridiculous. We didn't get in because of that"

Mia nudges her, eyes wide. "Come on, let's get drinks!"

They make their way to the crowded bar. As Y/N waits, she feels a prickling sensation, as if someone is watching her. She scans the crowd, her eyes eventually landing on a VIP section elevated above the dance floor.

There, lounging with casual dominance in the center of the booth, sits a man who seems both part of the scene and separate from it. He's undeniably handsome. Sharp jawline, intense eyes, an air of controlled danger in the way he holds himself. Unlike the eager crowd around him, he appears almost bored.

Until his eyes meet hers.

Y/N feels the impact of his gaze like a physical thing. She quickly looks away, unsettled by the intensity of the brief connection.

"Who's that?" she asks Mia, nodding discreetly toward the VIP section.

Mia follows her gaze and nearly chokes on her drink. "Holy shit, that's him. That's Harry Styles. The owner. He never comes here on Saturdays."

Before Y/N can respond, a bartender approaches with a glass of amber liquid.

"Compliments of Mr. Styles," he says, placing it in front of her.

Y/N stares at the drink, then back at the VIP section. The man—Harry—is still watching her, one eyebrow raised slightly in challenge. She can feel her friends buzzing with excitement beside her.

"Tell Mr. Styles thank you," she says to the bartender, then adds clearly, "but I prefer to buy my own drinks."

She pushes the glass back across the bar, ignoring her friends' shocked expressions.

"Are you insane?" Zoe hisses. "You don't turn down Harry Styles!"

"Watch me," Y/N replies, turning her back to the VIP section and ordering a vodka soda.

The night continues, and Y/N determinedly enjoys herself with her friends, though she can't shake the feeling of being watched. An hour later, the same bartender approaches again, this time with a different drink. Something fruity with an umbrella.

"Mr. Styles thought perhaps his choice wasn't to your taste," the bartender explains with a barely suppressed smile. "He's offering alternatives until he finds something you like."

Y/N can't help the laugh that escapes her. "Persistent, isn't he?"

She glances toward the VIP section. Harry is leaning forward now, elbows on his knees, watching her reaction with undisguised interest. When their eyes meet again, he raises his own glass in a mock toast.

On impulse, Y/N takes the fruity concoction and walks directly toward the VIP section. The security guards look to Harry, who nods once, allowing her to approach.

"Most women would be flattered by the attention," Harry says when she reaches him, his voice deep and smooth, with an edge that suggests he's used to getting what he wants.

"Most women aren't me," Y/N responds, placing the untouched drink on the table in front of him. "And I don't drink things from strangers, no matter how expensive their clubs are."

Instead of being offended, Harry looks amused, his eyes traveling slowly over her face, down to her lips, then back to her eyes.

"Harry Styles," he says, extending a hand. "Now we're not strangers."

Y/N hesitates, then takes his hand. His grip is warm and firm.

"Y/N," she replies, deliberately withholding her last name.

Harry's lips curve into a smile that makes her heart beat a little faster.

"Y/N," he repeats, as if tasting her name. "Sit with me."

It's not a request, but not quite a demand either. Something in between that makes her want to both comply and resist.

"I'm here with friends," she says, nodding toward Mia and Zoe, who are watching with wide eyes from the bar.

"They can join us," Harry offers, though his eyes never leave hers, making it clear who he's interested in.

Y/N considers him for a moment, then shakes her head.

"Maybe another time," she says, turning to leave.

Harry catches her wrist, his touch surprisingly gentle despite the strength she can feel in his fingers.

"Dance with me, then," he says, his voice lower. "Just one."

Y/N looks down at his hand on her wrist, then back to his face. Up close, he's even more attractive. Sangerous in a way that should send her running but instead makes her curious.

"One dance," she agrees finally.

The dance floor is crowded, but people seem to instinctively make space for Harry as he leads her through the press of bodies. When he turns to face her, pulling her closer than strictly necessary, Y/N feels a thrill of something that's not quite fear run through her.

"So," she says as they begin to move to the music, "is this what you do? Send drinks to women and expect them to fall at your feet?"

Harry's hand slides to the small of her back, warm through the thin material of her dress.

"Only when they catch my attention," he replies, his eyes holding hers. "And they don't usually send the drinks back."

"Maybe you need the challenge," Y/N suggests, surprised by her own boldness.

Harry's eyes darken slightly, his fingers flexing against her back.

"Maybe I do," he agrees, pulling her incrementally closer. "Though I usually get what I want in the end."

Y/N raises an eyebrow. "Pretty confident for someone whose drink I just rejected. Twice."

Harry laughs, the sound rich and genuine, transforming his face from intimidating to almost boyish for a brief moment.

"Yet here you are, dancing with me," he points out.

The song changes to something slower, more sensual. Harry's hand slides lower on her back, not quite inappropriate but definitely possessive. Y/N knows she should step away, create some distance, but something about him draws her in.

"I'm curious," she admits. "What does a man who owns a place like this do when he's not sending drinks to women?"

Harry studies her, as if deciding how much to reveal.

"I have various business interests," he says vaguely. "The club is just one of them."

"That's not an answer," Y/N challenges.

His lips quirk. "It's all you're getting for now."

They dance in silence for a moment, the chemistry between them building with each sway of their bodies.

“I’ve never seen you here before,” Harry says finally, his thumb tracing slow circles on her back. “And I notice everyone who walks into my club.”

Y/N raises a brow, amused. “That’s a lot of people to notice.”

Harry’s gaze sharpens, locking onto hers. Without a word, he spins her smoothly, guiding her back into his chest. His lips lower to her ear, his voice low and deliberate.

“I would have noticed you.”

Her breath catches as his words settle over her, the bass of the music a faint echo compared to the quiet intensity of his tone.

“Probably because I don’t go out much,” she says, trying to steady her voice. “I’m at Westlake University. Moved here for school.”

Harry nods, filing away the information, spinning her back to face him. “Studying?”

“Psychology. With a minor in criminal justice.”

That earns her a small, intrigued smile. “Planning to analyze criminals?”

Y/N smiles. "Something like that."

Harry leans back in, his lips near her ear. "And what would your analysis of me be, Y/N the psychology student?"

His breath against her skin sends a shiver down her spine.

"I'd need more data," she manages to say, her voice steadier than she feels.

Harry pulls back just enough to look at her, his expression shifting to something more intense, more predatory.

"I could give you more data," he suggests, his meaning unmistakable.

Y/N knows she should walk away. Everything about this man screams danger and complication. But the heat in his eyes, the chemistry crackling between them, makes her reckless.

"Your office," she says, surprising herself with the decision. "Not your home, not a hotel. Just an hour, then I go back to my friends."

Harry's eyes widen slightly, clearly not expecting her directness. Then that slow smile returns, satisfied and hungry at once.

"My office it is," he agrees, taking her hand and leading her away from the dance floor.

They navigate through the club, Harry nodding to security as they pass. No one questions where they're going or tries to stop them. It's clear who's in charge here.

His office is surprisingly tasteful with dark woods, leather furniture, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. Harry locks the door behind them, then turns to face her.

"Having second thoughts?" he asks, noticing her hesitation.

Y/N shakes her head, stepping closer to him. "Just wondering if you do this often."

Harry's hands come to rest on her hips, drawing her against him.

"Bring women to my office?" he clarifies. "Never."

Before she can decide if she believes him, his mouth is on hers, hungry and demanding. Y/N responds immediately, her body arching into his as his hands slide down to cup her ass, lifting her against him.

"Fuck," he breathes against her mouth. "You taste even better than I imagined."

He walks her backward until she hits his desk, then lifts her onto it, stepping between her thighs. His hands are everywhere—tangling in her hair, tracing the curve of her breast, sliding up her thigh beneath her dress.

Y/N pulls at his shirt, wanting to feel his skin beneath her palms. Harry helps, practically tearing the buttons in his haste to remove it. His body is a work of art—toned and tattooed, with a strength that makes her mouth go dry.

"You're sure?" he asks, his voice rough with desire as his fingers find the edge of her underwear.

Y/N nods, beyond words as his touch sends electricity through her veins. Harry's eyes hold hers as he pushes the fabric aside, his fingers finding her already wet and ready for him.

"So responsive," he murmurs appreciatively, circling her clit with his thumb. "So fucking perfect."

Harry's fingers work with devastating precision, drawing small circles around her clit before dipping lower to tease her entrance. Y/N's head falls back, a breathy moan escaping her lips as he slides one finger inside her, then another, curling them to find that spot that makes her thighs tremble.

"Look at me," he commands, his voice low and rough.

Y/N forces her eyes open, meeting his intense gaze as he continues to work her with his fingers, his thumb maintaining that maddening pressure against her clit.

"I want to see your face when you come," he tells her, the crude words somehow making everything more intense. "And you will come, angel. First on my fingers, then on my cock."

The confidence in his voice, the absolute certainty that he can deliver on that promise, sends another rush of wetness to her core. Harry feels it, his eyes darkening as he increases his pace.

"That's it," he encourages, his free hand gripping her hip to keep her steady on the desk. "Let go for me."

Y/N feels herself tightening around his fingers, the pleasure building to an almost unbearable peak. When his mouth drops to her neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin there, she shatters, her body convulsing as waves of pleasure crash through her.

"Fucking beautiful," Harry murmurs against her skin, working her through the orgasm, not stopping until she's trembling from oversensitivity.

Only then does he withdraw his fingers, bringing them to his mouth to taste her as he holds her gaze. The sight is so erotic that Y/N feels desire pooling in her belly again, despite having just come undone seconds before.

"You taste even better than I imagined," he tells her, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through her. "And I've been imagining it since I saw you walk into my club tonight."

His hands move to the hem of her dress, pushing it up her thighs.

"Off," he orders, helping her pull it over her head and tossing it aside.

Y/N sits on his desk in just her black lace bra and matching thong, feeling both vulnerable and powerful under his hungry gaze. Harry steps back just enough to unbuckle his belt, his eyes never leaving her body.

"Touch yourself," he instructs as he unfastens his pants. "Show me how you like it."

The command should embarrass her—she's never been this bold with previous partners—but something about Harry makes her want to obey. She slides her hand between her thighs, fingers finding her still-sensitive clit as she watches him free himself from his boxers.

The size of him makes her breath catch, both intimidated and desperately eager to feel him inside her. Harry strokes himself slowly, watching her fingers move between her legs.

"Condom?" she manages to ask, her voice breathy with arousal.

Harry reaches into his desk drawer without taking his eyes off her, retrieving a foil packet. He tears it open with his teeth, rolling it on with practiced ease before stepping between her thighs again.

"Spread wider for me," he directs, his hands gripping her hips to position her at the edge of the desk.

Y/N complies, letting her knees fall further apart as Harry aligns himself with her entrance. He teases her first, running the head of his cock through her wetness, circling her clit in a way that makes her whimper with need.

"Please," she breathes, beyond pride now, wanting only to feel him inside her.

"Please what?" Harry asks, his voice strained but still commanding. "Tell me what you want, Y/N."

The use of her name sends another jolt of arousal through her.

"I want you inside me," she tells him, meeting his gaze directly. "Now."

A flash of approval crosses his features before he pushes forward, entering her in one slow, deliberate thrust that has both of them groaning. Harry pauses once he's fully seated, his forehead dropping to rest against hers.

"So fucking tight," he murmurs, his breathing ragged. "You feel even better than I imagined."

He gives her a moment to adjust to his size before he begins to move, setting a pace that's deep and measured, each thrust hitting spots inside her that make her see stars. Y/N wraps her legs around his waist, changing the angle and drawing him even deeper.

"That's it," he encourages, one hand moving to the small of her back to support her. "Take all of me."

The desk creaks beneath them as Harry's thrusts grow more forceful, his control visibly slipping as pleasure builds. He reaches between them, his thumb finding her clit again, working it in time with his movements.

"Come again," he orders, his voice strained. "Come on my cock, angel."

The combination of his touch, his words, and the relentless pressure of him inside her pushes Y/N toward the edge again. She clings to his shoulders, nails digging into his skin as her second orgasm approaches, more intense than the first.

"Harry," she gasps, her inner walls beginning to clench around him.

"That's it," he growls, his pace becoming punishing. "Say my name when you come."

The command sends her over the edge, her body arching as pleasure explodes through her, his name falling from her lips like a prayer. Harry's rhythm falters as she tightens around him, but he doesn't stop, working her through the orgasm before pulling out completely.

Before she can protest the sudden emptiness, he's turning her around, bending her over the desk, her chest pressed against the cool wood surface.

"I'm not done with you yet," he tells her, his hand running down her spine before gripping her hip. "Not even close."

He enters her again from behind, the new angle allowing him to go even deeper. Y/N cries out, oversensitive but still somehow wanting more. Harry establishes a brutal pace, one hand gripping her hip while the other tangles in her hair, pulling just enough to arch her back.

"Look at you," he says, his voice rough with exertion. "Taking it so well. Like you were made for my cock."

The crude praise should offend her, but instead, it sends another rush of arousal through her already overstimulated body. Harry seems to sense this, his words becoming filthier as his thrusts grow more erratic.

Just when Y/N thinks she can't take anymore, he pulls out again, turning her to face him before lifting her effortlessly. Her legs wrap around his waist as he carries her across the room, pressing her back against the wall.

"Hold onto me," he instructs, supporting her weight with his hands beneath her thighs.

Y/N locks her arms around his neck, marveling at the strength it takes to hold her this way. Harry enters her again in this new position, the angle hitting a spot inside her that makes her cry out.

"There it is," he says with satisfaction, adjusting to hit that same spot repeatedly. "One more time, angel. Give me one more."

She didn't think it was possible. Not after two already and especially when most guys struggled to get one. But the way he's moving inside her, the way he's looking at her like she's the most exquisite thing he's ever seen, has her building toward a third peak.

"I can't," she gasps, even as her body tightens around him.

"You can," he insists, one hand moving from her thigh to where they're joined, his thumb finding her clit again. "And you will. For me."

The pressure of his thumb, combined with the relentless thrusting and the weight of his gaze locked on hers, pushes her over the edge one final time. This orgasm is different. It’s more intense, almost painful in its pleasure, ripping a scream from her throat that Harry captures with his mouth.

Only then does he allow himself to follow, his rhythm becoming erratic as he chases his own release. With a final, powerful thrust, he buries himself deep inside her, a guttural groan escaping him as he comes, his body shuddering against hers.

They stay like that for several moments, both breathing heavily, his forehead resting against hers. Y/N feels boneless, completely spent, her body still pulsing around him in aftershocks.

Eventually, Harry carefully lowers her to her feet, keeping an arm around her waist when her knees threaten to buckle. There's something almost tender in the way he steadies her, a gentleness that seems at odds with the man who just fucked her senseless against his office wall.

"Alright?" he asks, his voice quieter now, a hint of concern in his tone.

Y/N nods, unable to form words just yet. Harry guides her to the leather couch at the side of the office, grabbing his discarded shirt along the way and helping her into it. The gesture is unexpectedly thoughtful, as is the bottle of water he retrieves from a mini-fridge, uncapping it before handing it to her.

"Drink," he says, the word still carrying that commanding tone even as his expression softens slightly.

She obeys, suddenly aware of how thirsty she is. Harry sits beside her, still gloriously naked and apparently unconcerned about it. His hand comes to rest on her thigh, thumb tracing small circles on her skin.

"You're full of surprises," he comments, watching her with an intensity that makes her wonder what he's thinking.

"How so?" Y/N asks, finding her voice at last.

Harry's lips curve into that dangerous smile again.

"You don't seem like the type to follow a stranger into his office," he observes. "Let alone let him fuck you three ways from Sunday."

The crude language makes her blush, but she holds his gaze.

"Maybe I'm not usually," she admits. "But there's something about you..."

Harry's smile widens, satisfaction evident in his expression.

"The feeling is mutual," he tells her, his hand moving higher on her thigh. "Which is why I'm not done with you yet."

Y/N's eyes widen, her body somehow responding to the promise in his words despite how thoroughly he's already wrung her out.

"I don't think I can—" she begins, but Harry cuts her off with a kiss, this one slower, more deliberate than the desperate ones they'd shared before.

"You can," he assures her when he pulls back, that same absolute confidence in his voice. "And you will. But not here."

He stands, offering her his hand.

"Come home with me," he says, and it's not really a question, though his eyes search hers as if waiting for permission. "Let me show you what I can do when we have a proper bed and all night."

Y/N knows she should say no. She knows nothing about this man except that he owns this club, commands respect from everyone around him, and just gave her the most intense sexual experience of her life. Going home with him is reckless, potentially dangerous.

So  shakes her head, reality returning now that the haze of desire has cleared.

"I can't. My friends will be worried."

Harry looks like he wants to argue but instead reaches for his pants off the floor, extracting a business card. He scribbles something on the back before handing it to her.

"My personal number," he explains. "Call me."

Y/N takes the card, tucking it into her purse without promising anything. Harry pulls her in for one more kiss. Slower this time, almost tender.

"You'll call," he says against her lips, somewhere between a statement and a question.

Y/N smiles enigmatically. "We'll see."

She doesn't call. Not that weekend when she returns to her university, not the following week. She tells herself it was just a one-time thing, an exciting story to remember but not repeat.

But two weeks later, as she exits her favorite coffee shop near campus, a familiar black Range Rover pulls up to the curb. The window rolls down to reveal Harry, looking both out of place and perfectly at ease in the college town.

"You didn't call," he says simply, his eyes taking in every detail of her surprised face.

Y/N stares at him, coffee clutched in her hand. "How did you find me?"

Harry's smile is slow and confident. "I told you, Y/N. I usually get what I want in the end."

And despite knowing better, despite all her training in psychology telling her this is a dangerous path, Y/N finds herself walking toward the car, drawn by something she can't—or doesn't want to—resist.

She steps closer to the car, “what do you want Harry? I’m busy” she crosses her arms, taking a sip of her coffee that Harry knew had too much sugar than a normal person should have

He leans slightly out the open window, his forearms resting on the door as he studies her with those intense eyes. He's dressed more casually than at the club with a simple black t-shirt that clings to his shoulders, expensive watch glinting on his wrist, but he still radiates the same controlled power.

"Too busy to call?" he asks, one corner of his mouth lifting. "Or just busy in general?"

His gaze drops to the coffee cup in her hand, then back to her face.

"Three pumps of caramel, extra sugar, light on the actual coffee," he says, nodding at her drink. "Your barista looked concerned for your health."

Y/N's eyes narrow slightly, unsettled by how he knows her coffee order.

"That doesn't answer my question," she says, maintaining her composure despite the flutter in her stomach at seeing him again. "What are you doing here, Harry?"

Students pass by on the sidewalk, some glancing curiously at the luxury vehicle and the imposing man inside it. Harry seems oblivious to the attention, his focus entirely on her.

"You were supposed to call," he says simply, as if that explains everything. "When someone doesn't follow the script, I get...curious."

He reaches out, his fingers brushing lightly against her arm where it's crossed defensively over her chest.

"Get in the car, Y/N. Let me buy you lunch."

It's not quite a command, but it's definitely not a request either. That same in-between tone that had worked on her at the club.

Y/N takes a deliberate step back, out of his reach.

"I have class in an hour," she says, though she doesn't immediately walk away. "And I don't appreciate being tracked down. It's creepy, not flattering."

Harry studies her for a moment, then nods as if coming to a decision. He opens the car door and steps out, his height and presence immediately dominating the sidewalk. Several passing students actually stop walking to stare.

"Forty-five minutes," he counters, moving into her space with a confidence that borders on arrogance. "That's all I'm asking. Then I'll drive you to your class myself."

He reaches for her free hand, his touch surprisingly gentle as he uncurls her fingers from their tight grip.

"Unless you're scared," he adds, the challenge clear in his voice. "Afraid you might actually like me beyond a quick fuck in my office."

Y/N inhales sharply at his crude reminder of their encounter, heat rising to her cheeks despite her best efforts.

"I'm not afraid of you," she says, the lie obvious to both of them.

Harry's smile turns knowing, almost predatory.

"Not afraid of me," he corrects softly. "Afraid of how I make you feel."

He's standing too close now, close enough that she can smell his expensive cologne mixed with something uniquely him. Close enough to remind her body exactly what it felt like to be pressed against his.

"Forty-five minutes," he repeats. "Then you never have to see me again if that's what you want."

Y/N knows she should walk away. Everything about this man from his unexpected appearance at her school to his obvious disregard for normal boundaries screams danger. But there's something else there too, something in the intensity of his gaze that makes her wonder if there's more to Harry Styles than the dangerous club owner with too much money and power.

"Thirty minutes," she counters, asserting what little control she can. "And you stay on your side of the table."

Harry's smile widens, genuine amusement mixing with triumph.

"Deal," he agrees, opening the passenger door for her.

As Y/N slides into the luxurious interior of his car, she can't help wondering if she's making a terrible mistake. But when Harry gets in beside her, his eyes meeting hers with that same electric intensity from the club, she also can't help wondering if some mistakes might be worth making.

"So," she says, buckling her seatbelt as he pulls away from the curb, "how exactly did you find me? And don't say 'I have my ways.' That's not an answer."

Harry glances at her, then back at the road, his hands confident on the steering wheel.

"You told me you study at Westlake," he reminds her. "Psychology with criminal justice."

"That doesn't explain how you knew I'd be at that specific coffee shop at this specific time," Y/N presses.

Harry is quiet for a moment, then shrugs slightly.

"I had someone look into your schedule," he admits without apology. "You go to that coffee shop every Wednesday between your morning classes."

Y/N stares at him, caught between outrage and disbelief.

"That's…that's stalking, Harry. You can't just investigate people because they don't call you back."

He turns to look at her, his expression serious despite the casual way he's just admitted to having her followed.

"I wanted to see you again," he says, as if that justifies everything. "Normal methods weren't working."

"Normal methods like accepting rejection?" Y/N suggests pointedly.

Harry's jaw tightens slightly, the first crack in his composed facade.

"Is that what you were doing? Rejecting me?"

His tone is casual, but there's an undercurrent of something else, perhaps genuine uncertainty, which surprises her.

Y/N sighs, looking out the window as they drive through the college town.

"I don't know what I was doing," she admits quietly. "That night was... intense. But complicated. You're complicated."

Harry pulls into the parking lot of an upscale restaurant and the kind of place college students rarely frequent due to the prices.

"I'm actually very simple," he says, turning off the engine and facing her. "I see something I want, I pursue it."

His eyes hold hers, intense and unwavering.

"And I want you, Y/N. More than I've wanted anyone in a very long time."

The raw honesty in his voice catches her off guard. Y/N swallows, trying to maintain her composure.

"Thirty minutes," she reminds him, reaching for the door handle. "And then I have class."

Harry's smile returns, confident now that he's gotten what he wanted—for the moment, at least.

"Thirty minutes," he agrees. "For now."

They take a seat and Y/N sit with her arms crossed, “so, how many other women have you harassed into having lunch with you?”

Harry settles across from her, his posture relaxed despite the tension between them. The restaurant staff clearly recognizes him, a nervous maître d' having practically tripped over himself to seat them at the best table in the house.

Harry smirks at her question, unfolding his napkin with deliberate movements.

"Harassed? Is that what we're calling this?" he asks, seeming genuinely amused rather than offended. "And to answer your question: none. Contrary to what you might think, I don't make a habit of tracking down women who ignore me."

He signals the waiter, who appears instantly at his side.

"Bring us the chef's selection and a bottle of the Château Margaux," he says without consulting the menu or Y/N. "And water for the lady."

The waiter nods and hurries away. Harry turns his attention back to Y/N, his eyes tracing over her face as if memorizing every detail.

"You're special," he says simply. "A first for me in many ways."

Y/N raises an eyebrow, maintaining her defensive posture.

"Let me guess: I'm the first woman to ever say no to the great Harry Styles?"

Harry's expression shifts slightly, something darker passing behind his eyes.

"Among other firsts," he acknowledges. "But I'm more interested in why."

"Why what?" 

"Why you didn't call," he clarifies, leaning forward slightly. "We had a connection. You felt it too so don't bother denying it. Yet you walked away."

Y/N shifts uncomfortably under his intense scrutiny. The waiter returns with water and wine, pouring a glass for Harry before retreating again.

"Maybe because normal people don't pursue connections with men they meet at clubs and sleep with once," she says finally. "Especially men who clearly have...complicated lives."

Harry takes a sip of his wine, watching her over the rim of his glass.

"And what exactly do you think you know about my life?"

Y/N uncrosses her arms, leaning forward slightly.

"I know enough. The way people react to you, the security, the resources to track down a random college student." She gestures around at the restaurant. "The fact that you can walk in here without a reservation and get treated like royalty. You're either old money or you're something else entirely."

Harry's lips curve into a smile that doesn't reach his eyes.

"Perceptive," he murmurs. "That psychology degree is working for you."

"You didn't answer my question," Y/N points out.

Harry studies her for a long moment, then sets down his wine glass.

"What if I told you I'm both?" he says finally. "Old money...and something else entirely."

A server appears with their first course, small plates of artfully arranged appetizers. Harry waits until they're alone again before continuing.

"My family had money," he says, his tone shifting to something more detached. "But I built my own empire. Through methods that wouldn't exactly make the cover of Forbes."

He watches her reaction carefully, waiting to see if she'll run.

Y/N takes a sip of her water, processing his words.

"So you're what…a criminal with a trust fund?"

Harry actually laughs at that, the sound unexpectedly genuine.

"That's one way of putting it," he acknowledges, his posture relaxing slightly. "Though these days, most of my businesses are legitimate. On paper, at least."

He picks up his fork but doesn't eat, instead pointing it at her plate.

"Try the scallops. They're exceptional."

Y/N ignores the food, focusing on him.

"And that doesn't bother you? Breaking the law?"

Harry's expression turns contemplative.

"Laws are made by men in suits who've never had to fight for anything," he says quietly. "I learned early that following the rules only works for people who are born into the right circumstances."

There's an edge to his voice now, something raw and personal that catches Y/N off guard.

"So you just decided to make your own rules?" she challenges, though her tone has softened slightly.

"I decided to survive," Harry corrects her. "And then I decided to thrive."

He reaches across the table, his fingers stopping just short of touching hers—respecting her earlier boundary despite the clear desire to break it.

"I'm not a good man, Y/N. I won't pretend to be. But I'm honest about who I am, at least with you."

Y/N studies him, her training in psychology making her look for tells, for signs of manipulation or deception. But all she sees is surprising sincerity.

"Why me?" she asks finally, the question that's been bothering her since she saw his car outside the coffee shop. "You could have anyone. Why chase after a college student who didn't call you back?"

Harry's expression shifts again, something almost vulnerable appearing before he masks it.

"Because you looked at me and saw a person, not a resource," he says quietly. "Even when you were walking away."

He picks up his wine again, taking a drink as if to wash away the unexpected honesty.

"And because you're fucking gorgeous when you tell me no," he adds, his tone shifting back to the confident man she met at the club. "It's refreshing."

Despite herself, Y/N feels a smile tugging at her lips.

"You're used to people saying yes," she observes.

Harry's answering smile is predatory.

"To everything," he confirms. "Always."

Their eyes lock across the table, the air between them charging with the same electricity from the club. Y/N is the first to look away, suddenly interested in the scallops he recommended.

"These are good," she admits after taking a bite.

"I know," Harry says, watching her with undisguised interest. "I only surround myself with the best."

The implication is clear, and Y/N feels heat rising to her cheeks despite her determination to remain unaffected.

"Twenty minutes left," she reminds him, glancing at her watch. "Then I have class."

Harry nods, accepting the boundary for now.

"Tell me about your studies," he says, surprising her with what seems like genuine interest. "What made you choose psychology and criminal justice?"

Y/N hesitates, then decides there's no harm in answering.

"I've always been fascinated by why people do what they do," she explains. "Especially when their choices hurt others or themselves. Understanding the mind behind the action..."

She trails off, suddenly aware that she's basically describing her interest in people like him.

Harry's smile suggests he's made the same connection.

"And what have you learned?" he asks, his voice dropping lower. "About people who break the rules?"

Y/N meets his gaze directly.

"That they're usually running from something," she says honestly. "Or toward something they think they can't have any other way."

Harry's expression flickers, something hitting home in her assessment.

"And which am I, Dr. Y/N?" he asks, his tone light but his eyes serious. "Running from or running toward?"

Y/N studies him, seeing beyond the dangerous exterior to something more complex beneath.

"Both," she answers softly. "Just like most of us."

Harry looks momentarily taken aback by her insight, then nods slowly, acknowledging the truth in her words.

"See?" he says, his voice rough. "This is why you should have called me back."

Y/N checks her watch again, gathering her things.

"Time's up, Harry," she says, standing from the table. "I have class."

Harry rises immediately, signaling for the check without taking his eyes off her.

"I'll drive you," he says, making it clear this isn't negotiable.

As they walk to his car, he stays close but doesn't touch her, maintaining the boundary she set despite the obvious tension between them.

"This doesn't change anything," Y/N says as he opens the passenger door for her. "One lunch doesn't erase the fact that you had me followed."

Harry nods, his expression serious as he closes her door and walks around to the driver's side.

"I know," he says once he's settled behind the wheel. "But it's a start."

He drives her to class in comfortable silence, pulling up outside the psychology building with five minutes to spare.

"Thank you for lunch," Y/N says formally, reaching for the door handle.

Harry reaches out, his fingers wrapping gently around her wrist to stop her.

"Have dinner with me tomorrow," he says, his tone making it clear this matters to him. "A proper date. No tracking, no showing up unannounced. Just text me yes or no."

He releases her wrist and pulls out his phone, sending her a text so he can be sure she has his number.

Before she can question how he knows her number, Y/N feels her phone vibrate in her pocket but doesn't check it yet.

"I'll think about it," she says, which is more than she intended to give him.

Harry's smile is knowing, as if he can already sense her answer.

"That's all I ask," he says, though they both know it's not all he wants.

As Y/N walks away toward her class, she can feel his eyes on her back, watching until she disappears inside the building. Only then does she pull out her phone to see his message:

Say yes. I promise to stay on my side of the table. Unless you ask me not to.

Despite herself, Y/N smiles, already knowing she'll probably say yes, even though every instinct tells her Harry Styles is dangerous in ways she's only beginning to understand.

· · ─────────────·────────── · ·

A/N: what do we think of the series so far?

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[1d1195]

Screens III

Read Screens I and Screens II here first | ~3.5k words

From me: Got a request not to long ago about this one 💕 as always please thank my sweet ��-anon. I haven't heard from them in a while, but the story wouldn't be around if it weren't for them.

Warnings: angsty comfort, mentions of hospitals and eye surgery

Summary: Harry is unbelievably patient with his favorite patient after surgery. She is grumpy and tired. She feels bad for being mean to Harry but he doesn't mind in the slightest.

“It’s going to ruin our entire summer break,” she frowned.

“S’not, my love,” he sighed. “The healing time is upwards of eight weeks—”

“Months.”

He ignored her. “—but the doctor said y’can resume your normal activities after a week,” he shook his head. “I know it is a lot of months, kitten,” he agreed. She was sitting on the sofa and Harry crouched in front of her, cupped her pretty face and smiled. Gently, he skimmed his thumbs beneath the rim of her glasses admiring her gorgeous face. “But s’not going t’be the bad recovery that entire time. Y’can read and we can watch TV like normal after a couple days,” he reminded her. He kissed her forehead. “We’ll still be able t’go to the beach take walks, everything we usually do in the summer,” he assured her. “Y’take such good care of your eyes as is, kitten. S’jus’ a few days t’let me wait on you. S’that so bad?”

“Yes,” she looked away from him, his gaze felt too warm, and he was going to make her cave. She would agree to anything staring into the prettiest eyes known to man. “You shouldn’t have to wait on me.”

“S’my favorite thing t’do, angel. If you would jus’ let me,” he rolled his eyes. She sighed and looked away.

“Are you scared?” He murmured. She didn’t answer but he watched the small twitch of her lip like she was trying to hold back the cry she wanted to let out. He decided to tell her first. “M’scared,” he nodded. “M’favorite person in surgery?” He grabbed her hand and twisted the diamond on her left ring finger. “It’s scary,” he whispered, agreeing with his own statement. She wiped her cheek before he could. He held the side of her face with his other hand again and brushed it on her cheek. “Wouldn’t you be scared if I had t’get surgery?” She nodded. Still not answering. Harry watched the way she swallowed trying to hold her tears back. “I want t’take care of you, kitten. S’gonna be in our vows so y’may as well let it happen,” he kissed her temple. “It’ll be fine,” he sounded so sure. So confident. That she wasn’t going to be a pain and make him miserable.

The date was set, and it felt like a looming black hole. But Harry was as reassuring as he could be. She was utterly nervous. It was obvious and Harry tried to make her feel better. But all she could think about was complications. They told her it wouldn’t get worse, but she didn’t believe she had that kind of luck. What if it did get worse? What if she couldn’t see this beautiful home she and Harry moved into last summer? What if she couldn’t see Harry’s gorgeous eyes? Or the pretty engagement ring he gave her when they were unpacking the kitchen boxes when they moved in? She was all sweaty and gross and he proposed to her anyway and the ring was so stunning it was a beautiful reminder of how much she loved him and it was horrible to think she wouldn’t get to admire it ever again. What if she never saw his sweet smile after surgery? Those pretty dimples that made her blush? What if she couldn’t see his tattoos? Or their future kids? Or—

She shook her head the tears filling her already blurred vision. Harry moved toward her, crowding her on the couch. He tucked her toward his body and rested his chin on the top of her head and let her little sniffles resume. Her tears fell on his shirt for a few moments while he let her grieve and feel sad. “How do you have so much hope?” She croaked.

“Because y’need me too,” he had a smile in his voice. “When m’overwhelmed at work y’always make me tea and rub my shoulders. Y’help me grade and pick up the slack around here that I can’t handle.”

“This is so much more than that.”

“No s’not, angel. S’jus’ me picking up the slack,” he assured her. “S’going t’be fine. If I have to learn t’be an eye surgeon myself t’fix you, I will,” he promised.

Her heart fluttered and she nosed at his chest. “I don’t know who in the universe thought to put us together, Harry, but I’m glad they did.”

*

“Hey beautiful,” his sweet voice was close to her and she could make out the feel of his fingers on her hand slowly creeping up the length of her arm. “Y’did a good job, angel, so I hear,” she could feel his breath on her cheek as he spoke. He kissed her forehead. “Y’okay?” He asked.

 She nodded, afraid to use her voice. Scared to know if it worked or not. She was going to keep the eye patches on for as long as possible. “M’tired,” she mumbled.

“Yeah, okay,” he agreed and gave her hand a squeeze. “Can I put this back on?” The question wasn’t directed to her his voice bounced off the wall further away from him.

“Oh of course,” the nurse answered. “It’s a beautiful ring, love.”

She felt herself blushing. As one of the first things Harry wanted to do upon seeing her awake from surgery, it made her feel warm all over that he loved her so much that he wanted the engagement ring on her finger again as soon as possible. She felt Harry carefully slide it back into it’s rightful place and he gave her ring finger several kisses along the length of it. Her heart skipped a beat. It felt like he was proposing to her all over again. He chuckled softly, not missing a beat as he answered the nurse. “Had t’match the girl,” she knew he was winking at her. Even if she couldn’t see it.

The emotion got caught in her throat. “Am I allowed to cry?” She asked suddenly.

Harry went very quiet, his light laughter dying on the spot. Still, his hand squeezed her hand again, assuring her he was there. Even if she wanted to cry. Because he loved her so much. Even if she was blind. He rotated the diamond around her finger. “Yes, of course. It’s natural, and it’ll actually help keep your eyes lubricated,” she answered.

She turned her head away from the direction of Harry’s voice and let the tears leak out. “M’tired,” she repeated.

“Sure, angel, go to sleep,” he whispered and kissed the top of her head. “I’ll be here,” he promised.

*

Harry was such a trooper. He asked her doctors and nurses a little more than one million questions before she was discharged. She swore he was taking notes as they answered each one. If there was a precaution to take, Harry wasn’t going to take it lightly. Everything was going to be done properly and perfectly because Harry would make sure of it because nothing was more important than her health and well-being.

The poor thing knew she was being a bitch. There was no other way to describe her behavior. She snapped when he tried to hold her close and walk her up the steps to their house. Snapped when he took too long to get to her side. It was so unfair to him, and she couldn’t stop the frustration in her voice.

On top of that, she wore the bandages anyway. She hadn’t opened her eyes once unless the doctor needed to check them because she was too scared—her vision was beyond blurry when she did. They said everything looked fine and it would get better in a few hours. Everything went as expected. But she just didn’t want to believe it. It was the hope that would kill her.

Everything would remain a bit blurry for the first few days of recovery whether she wore her glasses or not so she figured she would leave the bandages in place. Not being able to see would be easier than the alternative. Harry let her wallow in self-pity because he was too kind.

In fact, he didn’t even register her frustration. He spoke to her so kindly and sweetly the entire time. Like he always did. He didn’t care that she was grumpy. Just took her pain and anxiety and ignored her crummy attitude. The biting tone didn’t affect him in the slightest and she would probably never forgive herself for being so rude to an angel like Harry.

“D’you want something t’eat, kitten?” He asked after settling her on the couch and draping a blank across her body. He kissed her forehead and headed away, his quiet footsteps moving toward their kitchen.

“No,” she muttered. Her stomach still felt queasy from the anesthesia.

“Not even some soup?”

“No.”

“Okay, let me know if y’change your mind,” he sounded so casual about it. As if she was bitch to him all the time. It hurt her heart. She took a deep breath and tilted her neck. If she could see, she would be staring at the ceiling. She placed her arm over her eyes. “Don’t do that, my love. You’re not supposed t’rub them, angel,” his voice was gentle, and he brought her a cup of tea. He crouched in front of her, the volume and pitch of his voice shifting as he got closer to her. Just like he had when he told her it would all be okay a few short days ago. Gently, he coaxed her arm off her face.

She sighed heavily and removed her arm with a huff. Harry again, didn’t mind her attitude. He rubbed her arm instead as it laid beside her. She was grumpy once more. “Can you just go away?” Her voice cracked. “Please? I just want to be alone.”

“No,” he shrugged simply. She didn’t need to see to know he was smiling so very kindly at her.

She swallowed and felt the sob break out of her before she could stop it.

Harry looked at her with pity, even with bandages covering her eyes, she knew it. She could feel it. Even if she had them off with her blurry vision, she would be able to see it. He reached forward, combed her hair back a bit behind her ear and kissed her softly on the forehead. “S’okay, baby. S’okay,” he promised. She didn’t think it was, but she couldn’t help but feel comforted by Harry’s sweetness anyway. “Just relax, kitten. M’not going anywhere,” he assured her, shifting her so he could sit beside her and let her sob her heart and eyes out until she was content. “M’sorry, angel. M’so sorry,” he murmured into her hair, squeezing her gently to his side, and rubbing her hip like it was his fault she was in a bad mood.

Why he still wanted to marry her she would never understand.

*

Waking up unable to see was a bit jarring to say the least. For a brief moment she really thought she was blind. She forgot the bandages over her eyes. The feel of Harry’s hand skimming up and down her arm was comforting but made her anxious despite how nice it was.

“Good morning, my love. How did y’sleep?”

“Fine,” she mumbled.

She wasn’t in pain. She didn’t really remember much of her sleep. Harry’s voice was above her, her back pressed to him. It took her a moment to realize she was on the sofa. Harry had her laying along the length of him.  She sat up carefully, her head spinning a bit. “Are y’in any pain, kitten?” He asked.

She shook her head. She wasn’t. Her eyes were just very dark because of the bandages.

“Do y’want t’take the bandages off now, angel?”

She shook her head again. “No thank you.”

Poor Harry. She wondered if he was getting tired of her bullshit. That’s what it was really. Her being a sulking brat.

“Alright, then c’mon, love,” he encouraged gently. “Y’always feel better after a shower.”

“I can’t wash my hair,” she grumbled. “I can’t get soap in my eyes.”

“I have a plan for that, angel, c’mon,” he repeated and coaxed her to stand. “M’not trying t’force you, m’just asking again since you’re going t’shower... do y’want to take the bandages off?” He murmured.

She shook her head.

“Alright,” he shrugged and guided her toward the bathroom. “Do y’want t’undress yourself, or do y’want me to do it?” She looked away even though the emotion in her eyes was guarded by the bandages. The tremble in her lip must have given her away. “You’re breaking m’heart, kitten,” he mumbled as he slid her sweats down her legs. He knelt in front of her, rubbing his hand on the outside of her right knee and he placed a kiss to the center of her thigh. “Hold on to m’shoulder, love, while y’step out of your pants, I don’t want you t’fall.”

She listened to him. The ache in her throat felt so strong she wanted to burst into tears again. He lifted her foot and she felt like the strangest but most precious princess as he helped her out of her clothes. “M’gonna do your shirt now,” he warned and lifted the hem from her hips. He kept his hands inside the collar of it and pushed it away from her face as he moved it over her head. “D’you want t’get in on your own or do you want me t’join?”

It was kind of him to give her options even though she’d been extremely uncooperative. Poor Harry was serious when he said he would be happy to wait on her, but she didn’t think he had anticipated just how sour her mood was going to be. He was endlessly patient, and it had hardly been a day. With no answer, he kissed her temple and  gave her arm a reassuring squeeze. “M’gonna let you do your thing, love. Jus’ watch your eyes. M’gonna deal with your hair, so just wash your pretty body, yeah? Shout if y’need something kitten. M’gonna sit right outside the door,” he pressed a kiss to the side of her head and then she heard the soft click of the door shutting behind him.

It was probably for the best that he didn’t join her. It would just make her think about how unfair it was that she would never see his ridiculously hot body slathered in soap and water again.

She got herself sudsy and let the hot water burn into her achy muscles. She didn’t even do anything that warranted that soreness, but it felt like she had run a marathon. She avoided getting water in her eyes and her hair was only half wet by the time she felt she had used up most of the hot water. “Harry?” She asked softly once the water was off.

Instantly the door opened. “Feel any better?” He asked. She didn’t respond.

“Can I have my towel?”

Harry wrapped her in one of their big fluffy towels. It felt warm, soft, and now that she couldn’t see she felt even more aware of the feeling. He rubbed her arms gently and kissed her forehead. “Y’want to take the bandages off now?” He asked. She shook her head. “Okay, love. S’fine. C’mon,” he guided. She was obviously naked aside from her towel and Harry guided her toward the kitchen. “M’gonna sit you right here,” he told her and guided her to sit on the chair that was placed in front of their sink. “Y’warm enough, angel?” He asked.

She nodded.

“Be right back, kitten,” he kissed her forehead again.

Harry returned quickly. Quietly he hummed a tune in his head while he turned the water on. He cupped the back of her head and lifted her hair from behind her neck and over the ledge of the sink. “Such pretty hair, love,” he mumbled.

She wrapped the towel around her body a little tighter and tried not to think about how sweet he was being to her. His fingers were so gentle while he used the spray head to soak her hair. Her lip trembled again as he massaged her shampoo into her hair and scalp. “S’wrong, my love?” He frowned, unable to keep his worry out of his voice and no longer able to ignore how silently (but not really) upset she was.

“What if it’s worse?” Her voice cracked.

“Angel,” he frowned and brushed the water and suds back from her hairline. “S’not going t’be worse.”

“You don’t get it Harry,” she sniffled. “It’s been my whole life of bad eyesight. It’s just—”

“Let me take your bandages off, kitten.”

She shook her head. “No...I don’t want to know—”

“My love, jus’ let me try, please. I don’t want you t’be upset.”

She sniffled again. “You’re being so nice and I’m being such a bitch. You carried me, you’re washing my hair for god’s sake and—”

“Angel, I love you. This is nothing. You’re not being a bitch and m’sad you’re saying that about yourself,” there was a frown in his voice. But it was filled with love and adoration for her. “Please let me see your pretty eyes. I already miss them so much...”

She sobbed again and Harry cupped her cheek rubbing his thumb on her skin. “S’okay, love. S’okay,” he whispered. “M’jus’ gonna take these off slowly so I don’t pull your skin, yeah? You’re being so brave, and I know y’didn’t want t’do this. I know y’didn’t want t’try because you’re scared and you’re so brave, angel. You’re m’hero. Y’know that? Now will you open your pretty eyes, please? Want t’see the pretty color and get a good look at you.” She sniveled again and carefully pried her eyes open. Harry was blurry, but he was there. Handsome as ever. His deep dimples. His gorgeous green eyes. His soft skin.

She could see him. Clearly. As clear as possible without glasses. Even if the edges of her vision were still a bit blurry. It was obvious something had worked. Something was fixed.

She hadn’t expected that at all in the slightest.

“There she is,” he cooed rubbing his thumb beneath her eye. “How’s it looking, kitten?” Her nerves settled a bit, her tears slowed, her lip stopped wobbling as much. “Y’can see, huh?” He smiled, his dimple deepening. “M’happy for you, my love,” he went back to her hair stroking it and massaging her scalp. “Y’don’t have t’say it. M’proud of you,” and she could hardly breathe let alone speak. Harry was so nice and kind.

He continued humming. He ignored the tears that welled in her eyes, creating a pool since she was horizontal. He lathered her hair once more, massaging the product into her scalp and letting it rinse out. One hand rested protectively on her forehead making sure the water didn’t run astray. “Alright, my love, you’re all done,” he hummed and kissed the top of her forehead.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her lip still wobbling violently with the tears and sobs that were close behind her words.

“Y’have nothing t’be sorry for, kitten. You’re perfect,” he promised guiding her to stand and rubbing her toweled body gently. “Let’s get back t’bed.”

“Why did we sleep on the couch?” She asked.

“S’easier t’sleep us sitting up,” he shrugged.

“You slept sitting up because of me?” Her lower lip jutted out and she felt so overwhelmed it was embarrassing. The toll on her body between surgery and her sight was cause for an emotional catastrophe.

“S’no big deal,” he yawned. “Might take a cat nap though,” he shrugged and ushered her to sit on the bed. He helped her get dressed quickly, really milking it on her behalf.

“You can nap, I can...” she swallowed. “I’m sorry. I don’t need you to be treating me like I’m broken,” but she sniffled and cried as she spoke.

“M’not, angel. S’what m’supposed t’be doing. You’re my princess,” he reminded her. “M’jus’ gonna take a quick shower and then I’ll come back t’make your breakfast, s’that sound good?” He asked.

She nodded. “Harry?” She asked as he stepped away from the bed.

“Yeah, my love? What do you need?”

“You’re so beautiful,” she reached for his face, his cheek warmed under her hand. His smile grew and he looked at her shyly.

“Thank you, kitten. S’very sweet of you.”

“I’m sorry for being so mean,” her voice was air. “I shouldn’t do that when I’m madly in love with you.”

“Oh good, I was beginning t’worry,” he winked and pressed his lips to hers for a moment. “Be right back, angel. Shout if y’need something. Don’t worry if y’need my help or anything,” he reminded her.

“Harry,” she said softly again.

“Hmm?” He asked standing in the door, a smile on his face. “Need me already?”

Every minute of every day. All the time. “I love you,” she stated. “So much.”

“God, my love. The feeling is mutual.”

--

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[erodasfishtacos]

A Fix For Loneliness

prompt: YN is learning she has no self-preservation. It’s why she keeps running into her stranger. A man who won’t tell her anything, gives her instructions, and occasionally isn’t downright awful.

word count: 9.5k+

warnings: h is obviously not a good person, violence, blood, medical stuff, mean H, dark H

author's note:

I upload a piece of writing every 1-2 days.

There are multiple other parts of this up and will be updated this month

I recently started a second tier called The OG Tier where 2

one shots (1-4kish) are posted a week.

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———

YN was too kind.

She knew that.

It’s why she became a nurse, to help others in their time of need, and that’s exactly what she did in the emergency department of her local hospital.

When she was walking down a back alley one night (she knew it wasn’t safe but it was such a quicker shortcut after a thirteen hour shift she couldn’t ignore it even if it was one in the morning).

YN’s half-asleep on her feet when she runs into quite the scene, a man who has to be around her age was dressed in dark jeans and a black tee shirt.

There was blood dripping from his jaw and his bottom lip was swollen up, already bruising under the drying blood.

He had just tossed something into the dumpster before slamming the lid shut with a deafening echo and despite the warning signals, YN can’t ignore him.

“Oh my goodness. You’re bleeding, sir,” YN jumps into nurse mode, hurrying up to him and without permission, tilting his head gently to the side.

The man narrows his eyes at her, clearly taken aback, and takes three big steps away from her reach towards the opposite building.

He makes a show of spitting out a mouthful of blood onto the pavement before wiping his mouth crudely with the back of his hand.

His voice was deep and scratchy, it matched his appearance, his accent thick and rough, “M’fucking fine. Back off and mind your own god damn business.”

YN is used to fiesty patients, it doesn’t phase her much as she examines him from afar now, “I’m a nurse.”

The man sneers at her, “Surprisingly, I’m not fucking blind. I don’t want your help. Run the fuck along now, little miss hero.”

YN glances down, still in her scrubs, of course he would see she’s a nurse, and distraught at this man refusing help.

She’s tired, she’s overworked, and the fact that she knows she’ll perseverate on this if he doesn’t let her help makes her choke out a frustrated sniffle.

The brunette man, with a scowl of impatience scoffs of disbelief, “Are you really about to fuckin’ cry?”

“I jus-just want to help. I lost tw-two patients today and couldn’t-couldn’t save them,” YN begins to tear up now, wiping her eyes, it was always a hard day when she lost patients.

Two today.

An older woman with a heart attack.

A teen in a car accident.

“Fucks sake,” The bloody man groans under his breath, his eyes darting up and down the alleyway, “You’re going to cause a scene over this, aren’t you? I don’t have bloody time for this.”

He stomps towards her which makes her freeze but he stands in front of her with a agitated flick of his hand, “If you’re going to do your nurse shit, do it! I don’t have god damn time for your cry baby act. Of course, I get my plans ruined.”

YN obviously doesn’t know what he’s talking about but he seems like he has places to be and she’s holding him up.

Where on earth could he go with his face looking like that anyways?

“I-I don’t have anything with me,” YN stutters after a moment, this man was intimidating as he had major height advantage, he appeared lean but his muscle definition proved he was strong.

“Okay, then see ya’,” He grunts lowly, moving to turn on his heel but YN grabs his wrist without thinking to stop him.

“My-uh, my apartment,” YN’s throat is dry, what the fuck is she doing, “I have the stuff at my apartment up the street.”

“Did your parents never teach you stranger danger? Inviting a man you’ve never met, bleeding, up to your apartment?” He asks with an eyebrow raise, wiping his continuous bleeding wound with his shirt, flashing a sliver of his carved abdominal muscles.

“You need help,” YN replies unsurely, her behaviors are so uncharacteristic but she felt drawn to help this stranger.

A small group of people pass the corridor of the alleyway, with laughs and drunk words, and the man she’s standing with perks up at high alert.

“Fuck,” He hisses angrily, that seemed to be his favorite word, yanking his hand out of her grip and muttering so softly YN doesn’t know whether she heard him right, “gonna get me caught.”

“Stand over there and turn around,” The man demands sharply, YN wasn’t used to being talked to that way but she finds herself walking towards the edge of the alley and turning away.

YN hears rustling, the dumpster being open and closed again, and a few unidentifiable noises before she hears his footsteps approaching.

His hand on her shoulder is tight as he spins her around, “If I let you fix me up, will you leave me the fuck alone and more importantly, never mention this to anyone?”

YN’s brow furrows, “Why can’t I tell-“

The man hisses in agitation, fingers digging into her skin more has harshly, “Answer me.”

It’s the first time that chills are sent down her spine at his gritted words, everything in her is screaming to run, her fight or flight triggered.

“I-I won’t tell,” YN agrees breathlessly, skin tingling when he lets go and pushes her forward, not aggressively but enough that she stumbles.

“Then move already,” He orders and when she tries to turn around to look at him, his hand comes to her neck, keeping her facing forward.

Whatever he was doing in that alley, he really didn’t want her to see, and he didn’t seem like he was open to answering questions.

YN keeps trying to justify why she’s letting a bleeding, angry man into her home as she shakily unlocks the door.

There’s no justification.

She’s putting herself in so much danger.

It had to be something about how attractive he was that made her trusting that he wouldn’t hurt her, like he was too pretty to be deadly.

A trick of the eye, maybe.

He stands in the entry hall, unmoving, and uncomfortable as he doesn’t look around, keeping his gaze on her.

“I want you to know that I’m only allowing you to do this so that you don’t run around and squeal, alright?” He reminds her, voice a bit louder to scare her.

YN nods.

“I also know where you live now, stupid girl,” He shakes his head, like he’s in disbelief YN was such an idiot, “I won’t hesitate to come back.”

She was.

Stupid.

Now her fingers were trembling as she accidentally drops her keys.

“Bat-bathroom,” YN whispers as she pokes her thumb in that direction, “Uh, my supplies.”

“I’ll stay here. I’m not coming in any further,” He crosses his arms, akin to a cornered animal who’s about to be trapped.

YN hopes he doesn’t see when she nearly trips over her own feet as she makes her way to her small bathroom, her nursing/first aid kit was under the sink.

He’s standing in the exact same place he was before, he hadn’t moved an inch, and fuck, he’s scary.

“Um, can you please sit there?” YN points nervously to the entryway bench, not coming closer until he begrudgingly sits on the edge.

“Hurry the fuck up,” He snaps at her suddenly, shaking his leg impatiently and the abruptness makes her jump, “I haven’t got all day, miss lil’ hero.”

It doesn’t sound like an compliment rolling off his tongue.

YN pulls out a cotton pad, soaking it with antiseptic fluid, and shakily says, “This is going to sting a bit. I’m just cleaning it first.”

He doesn’t acknowledge her but he does flinch when she puts her fingertips on his jaw to move his head more to the side.

When she applies the pad, if it hurts, he doesn’t give anything away, his eyes don’t even blink as he sits with his hands on his knees.

After get a fresh cotton pad and drenching it again, she moves onto his lip, and she’s so on-edge, she stumbles over his foot and falls forward.

The man grips her hips hard, pushing her back upright, and appears even more agitated as he huffs, “Chill the fuck out, alright? M’not going to do shit to you. I don’t even want to be here. You’re the one who dragged me to your apartment. Stop being so fuckin’ dramatic.”

YN’s not going to cry despite her bottom lip quivering.

YN’s father was a calm quiet man

She didn’t grow up with brothers.

She wasn’t used to being treated so bluntly, so rudely by anyone, let alone a stranger she was trying to help.

“Are you about to cry?” He asks in surprise, a cruel laugh leaving his throat as he smiles widely, he has dimples, “You’re such a delicate little flower.”

Again, it was definitely an insult.

YN’s throat contracts as she pushes down tears and it wasn’t just because of him, today was hard and she was tired.

“You don’t need stiches. The cut on your jaw is superficial, just a lot bleeding ,” YN determines as she uses a butterfly bandage to close the wound tightly.

YN tilts his chin towards her, his eyes were striking in how green they were as they blinked up at her from under dark lashes.

They were just as frightening as they were beautiful because there was something about meeting his gaze that was like staring at a hungry lion.

YN starts to dab at it with the pad again as it slowly oozes.

She can feel his gaze on her face, it’s making the hair stand up on her arms.

“Skin is just uh, irritated. Nothing major,” YN tells him, holding pressure to stop the bleeding, “How did you get this banged up anyways?”

That triggers him.

He stands up suddenly, making her stumble backwards, and he steps into her space until her back is up against the wall and he’s cornering her.

“I don’t know what bad luck I was dealt to have to deal with such a nosey bitch in my business but you better stop asking questions,” He warns as she can feels his breath, he smelled surprisingly good like citrus and sage.

“I’m sorry,” YN chokes out, it was feeling harder to breathe now.

What the fuck did she get herself into?

“For fucks sake, calm your ass down,” He grunts as he directs her to sit on the bench he was just on, “Stop being a god damn drama queen.”

YN can’t reply, simply nods and stares at the ground.

Why did she let this man in her home?

She needed her head examined, clearly.

He squats in front of her, eyes deadly intent, “I’m going to leave right now. You’re going to keep your mouth shut. If you talk about anything that you saw tonight, I’ll have no problem visiting here again.”

YN nods again, watching him stand and he’s still looking at her as he sighs, hand on the doorknob and says, “Do not ever invite a stranger into your house again, you stupid girl.”

+

YN wishes that she didn’t think about that man again.

But she does.

Over and over.

Every time she walks past an alley.

When she walks home at one in the morning.

But months pass.

No signs of him.

It was a big city.

She didn’t know whether he lived here or not, hell, she didn’t even get his first name during the interaction.

Six months and no signs.

YN dreams about him three separate times.

One of which make her question her sanity.

+

“Be quiet f’me,” He whispers against her lips, hand wrapped around her throat, “Don’t want to hear you unless you’re moaning pretty.”

YN’s staring wide eyed at him, trying to beg with her eyes as he brings her lips to his by the grip on her neck.zzz

“Gonna show me what a nice lil’ pet you can be?” His dimple is popping as he licks her lips before squeezing a bit tighter, “Can’t wait to feel your cun-“

YN wakes up by her alarm, heart pounding, and a hand coming up to touch her throat, the ghost of where she felt his fingertips.

She takes a very cold shower that morning before work.

++

Matthew was nice enough.

He was an emergency medicine doctor which is how they met in the unit.

They rarely worked the same shift but in passing, he had managed to pull YN aside and ask if she’d be interested in going on a date.

YN wasn’t necessarily jumping for joy but she was bored, life was pretty mundane at the moment, and her romantic life was nonexistent.

He was overly cocky, the type of doctor who liked to wear his scrubs into the grocery store so everyone knew his title, corrected people when they didn’t address him with Doctor first.

She didn’t realize that this is how she would meet her stranger once again.

++

The first date was in the afternoon, at a coffee shop in midtown and he had picked the spot.

“I come here atleast once a day,” He laughs as he orders a large black coffee and a bran muffin of all things, “Same ole’ routine.”

“I’ve only been here a handful of times-“ YN pauses when she catches a familiar flash of green, knowing the color distinctly.

She’s been dreaming of it.

Her stranger.

He was sitting in a booth, in the furtherest spot back in the corner with a coffee and a pastry that hadn’t even been taken out of the wax paper.

YN’s heart seizes, blinking twice to make sure that she is not imaging this, that it isn’t just a look alike man.

His unsettlingly intense stare, the scowl etched on his face, it was no doubt the man who had been invading her thoughts for the last six months.

He doesn’t break eye contact first, YN glances back to her steaming chai tea first, lying easily, “Sorry, thought I saw an old friend.”

“Yeah, I run in to quite a few here too,” Matthew agrees without notices her slight shift in demeanor as she forces herself to focus on their conversation.

YN gives herself permission about three minutes later to let her eyes flit across the room, back to that corner.

He was gone.

His coffee and pastry gone.

There was already a new couple sitting there.

YN is half-convinced that she imagined it in the first place, how did she not see him get up and walk past her?

Had that couple been sitting there the whole time?

“I’m so sorry, Matthew. I have to run to the restroom, excuse me a minute?” YN smiles, hoping it doesn’t come off as forced as she stands up and heads towards the back.

YN goes into one of the stalls, sitting down for a moment and just taking a deep breathe because she can’t figure herself out right now.

YN can’t sit in her forever which she wishes she hadn’t even agreed to this date.

When YN unlocks the stall door, she begins to let out a scream when there’s a figure leaning up against the sink, waiting for her.

The person rushes forward, clamping a hand over her mouth as citrus and sage overwhelm her senses .

“Shut the fuck up, right now.”

Why does YN almost slump in relief at the harsh words?

Maybe because this proves that she didn’t conjure him up in her head.

To confirm that he was as startlingly handsome as she has been remembering him to be in the last months.

Even more so actually.

“Are you going scream when I take my hand off?” He asks pointedly, his lips were near her ear, whispering but seeming so loud.

YN shakes her head vehemently that she won’t.

She should scream.

She’s not going to though.

He takes a few steps back, no longer even close to touching her, and once again, he looks angry at her as complains, “Lil’ fucking drama queen.”

This is definitely her stranger.

YN just stares at him, eyes as wide as saucers.

“Why are you here with him?” He asks with the same agitation, his fists were clenched against his sides tightly.

“Do you know Matthew?” YN was confused by his question or why he would care.

“What did I tell you?” He snaps at her, taking a step forward again like he wants to grab her, “Don’t ask me questions.”

“Why can you ask me then?” YN doesn’t know where the confidence is coming from, puffing up her chest.

It gets finished quickly when he brings his hand up to hold her chin, “It’s different. Now answer me.”

YN’s blood pressure must be through the roof right now as she manages to find her voice, “I’m on a date with him.”

The stranger doesn’t like that answer.

His fingertips tighten on her skin before releasing, his tongue peeks out to run over his bottom lip, “I recommend you stay the fuck away from him.”

“Why?”

“You clearly have no sense of self-preservation so I’m trying to save you a lot of trouble in the future. End the date, make an excuse, and don’t go out with him again.”

“I want to know one thing,” YN request as she chews on her bottom lip.

“No.”

“What’s your name?”

“Harry.”

They stare at each other.

YN can’t decipher if he’s being truthful or not.

As he did the night they first met, her puts a firm hand on her shoulder, and guides her towards the bathroom exit.

With his lips touching the shell of her ear, he reminds her with a hiss, “Go do exactly as I say. Leave and go the fuck home.”

He pushes her forward, she puts her arms up to avoid smashing her face off the door, and pushes it open, tripping out into the hallway.

YN legs are wobbly as she makes her way back the table, “Matthew, I am so sorry. I’m really not feeling well.”

“You look as if you’ve seen a ghost,” He teases as he stands up and pushes his chair in.

No, I just saw my stranger.

“Would you like me to walk you home?”

“Nope. I’m good, don’t want you coming down with whatever bug I have,” She replies with a dismisses wave of her hand, willing herself not to look back towards the bathrooms.

“I’ll text you to reschedule. I hope you start to feel better soon. Please text me if you need anything,” Matt smiles genuinely, a concerned expression on his face.

Why didn’t Harry want her to be around him?

How did he have the right to order her around when he wouldn’t answer simple questions?

YN’s mind is reeling as she walks home.

It’s like she expects to see her stranger, watching her walk home but there’s no sign of him, and just like that he disappeared into thin air.

++

YN visits the coffee shop multiple more times.

He’s never there.

Matthew texts her multiple times checking on her, offering to bring her soup or medication, and telling her what a good time he had.

In an act of defiance, against her stranger who has only come into her life twice but has occupied her mind ten-fold, she agrees to another date.

It’s not as if Harry will find out but it still felt freeing to actively disobey his warning.

And so when Matthew asks…

Matthew: If you’re feeling better, I would love to take you out this weekend.

YN feels a sense of guilt that she’s thinking more of her stranger than Matthew when she replies.

YN: I would absolutely love that. Just let me know how to dress. :)

+

That is how she finds herself inside of a nice restaurant on Saturday night, dressed in a satin dress and strappy heels that she hadn’t worn in ages.

Matthew had picked her up in his run of the mill, base model sports car, that was flashy but in quite an unimpressive way.

He was dressed in a nice suit and managed to get reservations at an exclusive, small restaurant in the heart of the city.

Matthew and her were sitting at a two person table toward the back.

Next to them was a round table with place settings for six that was yet to be occupied, the notecard only specifying, ‘Styles, Party of Six.’

They are being poured their first very expensive glass of Pinot Noir when a group of men, somewhat boisterous and rowdy for the setting, are seated at the round table next to them.

“And so Doctor Flint told me that the cadaver ligament we were to use was lost. How on earth do you misplace a body part?” Matthew laughs whilst he tells her this story from the old hospital he worked at.

YN was trying to focus but she hears a voice that is eerily familiar.

“Settle down. This isn’t a fucking bar.”

The hair on the back of her neck stands straight up.

Her stranger.

This isn’t a coincidence.

It can’t be.

YN refuses to look up, past Matthew’s head because she’s terrified of what she might see or more like what she knows she’ll see.

“He put it in the employee fridge! Can you believe that?” Matthew honks out a laugh, slapping the table like he just told the world's funniest jokes.

“That’s insane,” YN agrees, forcing a fake laugh out of her suddenly dry throat, “Sounds like it could be a scene from a movie.”

YN knows that he’s watching her.

It’s the untold feeling that’s inkling up her spine.

She feels in danger for the first time.

Real danger.

How on earth is he sitting across from her?

Is he following her?

That had to be the only answer.

Had she acquired a stalker by helping him all those months ago and the coffee shop just sparked it again?

But that does equate to what he warned about Matthew?

YN convinces herself that she didn’t hear his voice, that it’s all in her head, and she’s going to look up to confirm that she was in fact going insane.

After a deep breath, YN tilts her chin up and gazes directly into the eyes of the man she was praying wasn’t staring back.

Her stranger was positively fuming, he was leveling her with a downright murderous glare that actually made her concerned for her safety.

YN darts her eyes back towards Matthew and ignores Harry for as long as humanly possible as he chats on with his friends.

Everything is working out until her date excuses himself to the restroom, before the main course comes out.

Fuck.

YN anxiously pulls out her phone to distract herself.

Until someone is plucking her mobile right out her hands, a thumb pressing into the nape of her neck as a warning to keep looking forward.

“Bathroom. Five minutes after he gets back,” Her stranger leans down to speak into her ear, he moves so sleekly that she’s never even been alerted he got up.

“My pho-“

“You’ll get it back when you meet me in the bathroom,” Harry tells her before he’s standing up and walking back to his table, slipping her cell into his suit jacket pocket.

Did he really just steal her phone?

YN digs her nails into her palm, keeping an eye on the clock after Matthew sits down, waiting until the five minute mark before excusing herself.

There’s only a single bathroom which when she pushes through the already cracked open door, her stranger is leaning against the counter like last time.

YN takes the initiative to lock it behind her.

She shouldn’t but she does.

“Give me my phone back,” YN demands, unsure of where the bravado is coming from as she steps further into the room.

Harry doesn’t give her a wicked smile, his lips are tight, and his jaw is clenched.

He is absolutely pissed.

“What the fuck did I tell you last time, stupid girl?” Harry’s volume is louder than she anticipated, making her jump in surprise.

YN doesn’t respond, the heart palpitations that were now the norm for her interaction with this man are in full effect.

“Come here,” Harry orders furiously, moving away from the counter.

YN stands her ground.

“I said come the fuck here or I’ll smash your phone right off this god damn floor,” He threatens as he watches her, lip twitching in displeasure at her not listening the first time.

YN really would rather not pay for a new cell phone at the moment and slowly, she drags her feet towards him.

”Yeah, I don’t have time for your lil’ drama queen bullshit tonight, darling,” Harry sneers as he grabs her by the waist, moving her forcefully until he can pick her up and sit her on the sink counter.

YN readjusts her dress, she’d heard a slight rip but she wasn’t going to point that out at the moment.

Harry’s hand comes to her jaw, gripping it and forcing their eyes level, “Are you trying to get yourself killed? Is that what this is? Or do you lack any semblance of common sense?”

It’s hard for YN to talk with his hand holding her jaw, her words jumbled when she garbles out, “Why are you following me?”

His brows furrow in confusion, “You think I’m following you?”

”What are the chances that you show up in two places that I’ve been? While I’m on a date? Unless you’re following Matt….” YN trails off because that would make no sense, it was much more likely that he was following her around.

It was clear Matt had no idea who Harry was because he hadn’t recognized or acknowledge him at the coffee shop or at dinner when Matt would have definetly seen him when he was returning from his bathroom break.

Harry grip tightens enough that she squeaks, trying to pull away, and he hadn’t even seemed to realize he was using much force because it instantly loosens again.

Oddly, he reaches his thumb out to run along her jawbone, and it’s half comforting, half annoyed when he mutters, “You’re fine. Stop.”

She was pretty far from fine at this point.

”Are you that desperate for a lay?” Harry asks bluntly, he was standing in between her thighs and if anyone would have walked into this room, they would be under a much different impression than what’s actually going on.

”Excuse me?” YN gasps, affronted at his questioning.

Harry rolls his eyes at he reaction, his thumb was still rubbing against her skin but his grip had him in control, “I specifically told you to never associate with that guy. Here you are a week later, dressed up all pretty f’him, and what…you gonna let him take you home?”

If YN didn’t know any better, there sounded like some jealously in his tone.

”I don’t know what was going to happen after dinner,” YN bites out, trying to exercise her jaw muscle against his fingertips, “Maybe I would have let him take me home and fuck me.”

Harry’s eyes darken, his pupils dialating further in his anger, and his hand moves from her jaw to the side of her neck, thumb ghosting over her pressure point as a silent threat.

”Can I tell you what I think?” Harry murmurs, with the smallest hint of a smile like he’s cracked the code to something.

”You’re going to anyways,” YN mumbles, her own annoyance flooding her body.

”You’re not even into him. I think you agreed to this date just to spite my warning, huh? Tell me I’m wrong,” Harry’s voice is deeper, smoother, and downright dangerous.

”I do-“

”Tell. Me. I’m. Wrong,” He recites each word distinctly, his teeth gritted as his eyes dart from her eyes to his grip on her throat to her lips back to her eyes in a vicious cycle.

YN bites at her bottom lip, worrying it between her teeth as she doesn’t know why Harry is so good at figuring her out but now she doesn’t feel like she’s in a position to lie either.

She avoids it by saying, “I don’t know you. You won’t let me ask questions. Why should I trust you? There was no reason not to go on another date. Why because of your ominous warning?”

”Yes because of my fucking warning,” He snaps back at her, stepping further between her thighs until their chests are nearly bumping and his familiar scent is lingering against her, “I know what I’m talking about. Stay the fuck away from him.”

YN shouldn’t push his buttons.

She should oblige, agree, and then avoid him for the rest of her life.

But as always, she goes against all those natural instincts and eggs him on further.

”Well then who would I go home with tonight?”

Harry doesn’t appreciate that comment.

Not by the way he’s moving to wraps his fingers around her wrist and tug her off the counter, “I’m taking you home now.”

“Wait, I-“ YN responds in surprise, not resisting his hold as he helps her onto her feet, her high heels were not made for this type of activity.

”No, you want to keep playing with me? You’re going to lose, every fucking time,” Harry retorts as he begins to lead her towards the door, “You’re going to go home to your own apartment, by yourself. Use your fingers, a toy, I don’t really care but you’re not going home with that guy.”

YN feels awful that Matthew is sitting out there, their main courses about to be served, and it will be the second time that she is ditching him when neither had been her intention.

“My dress,” YN stops moving, right as his hand is on the doorknob, “You fucking ripped it. I cannot go outside like this.”

It was true, from the stretch of the countertop, the already high-cut slit on the right side of her dress was now up to her hip, flashing the obnoxiously red lace she had on underneath.

Harry’s eyes move down with a cluck of his tongue, “Really fuckin’ desperate, huh?”

But before YN can defend herself, he’s shrugging out of his suit jacket and wrapping it around her waist, tying it in the front, and it hangs enough to cover at least where her underwear is flashing.

”There, now come the fuck on. I have shit to do,” Harry retakes her hand, tight and firm as he opens the bathroom door, and instead of going towards the dining hall, he’s going further back into the hallway.

He’s letting them out of an emergency exit into an alleyway.

She expects him to dismiss her, to tell her to get home, and to not contact Matt again.

Instead, what actually happens is that he continues walking with her, out of the alleyway and towards the streets that will lead to her apartment, seeing as he definetly didn’t forget where she lived.

YN was cold, goosebumps breaking out along her arms as her bare arms hit the windchill, her jacket left at the restaurant.

“My jacket,” YN points out, pauses quick enough that Harry nearly bumps into her from where he was following closely behind.

His hands come to her shoulders, encouraging her with a bit of force to keep walking, “I’ll have one of my friends grab it.”

YN hated walking in these heels, it’s why she had spent the money on the Uber.

“It’s cold,” YN complains as they’re about halfway there, he’s only a step behind her, ready to grab her at any moment.

“Walk faster then,” Harry replies in a bored tone, his hands once again moving to her shoulder to give her a light shove forward.

YN wants to scream, maybe unstrap her heel, and hit him with it because he was truly the most incorrigible person that she has ever met in her life.

Her stranger stays silent until they make it to her door, he easily ignores the unflattering comments YN makes under her breath, only receiving a shove or push as a response.

When YN fumbles for her keys, Harry waits like he’s invited in, and YN doesn’t have the will right now to fight.

As soon as they get in, Harry shuts the door behind them and she plops on her couch to start unstrapping the heels.

Her hands are shaking.

She wants to blame the cold but she knows it’s her nerves.

“Pathetic, shaking like a leaf,” Harry huffs as he watches, kneeling down and smacking her hands away, heavy rings stinging her skin, and he begins to undo them himself, “Can’t even get your own shoes off and you want to act like you're tough with me.”

YN watches, heart in her throat at the sight of her stranger kneeling in front of her, his hand wrapped tightly around her ankle as the other fusses with the straps.

Why does she get this deep pitted urge to rile him up, just when he starts to act calm?

“I’m going to see Matthew again,” YN wishes her words had come out with a bit more confidence even though they were a downright lie.

Harry stops his actions, blinking up at her with an unreadable expression, “No.”

“You can’t-“

Harry lunges upward, eye level and angry once again, his teeth were gritted as he went to his usual means of control.

A firm grip of her chin.

“I can. I am telling you I can. Leave it the fuck alone and move on. You don’t even like the bloke,” Harry calls her out, it’s a statement, not a question.

“I haven’t even got to know him-“

“Nor do you need to. Stop fuckin’ around because you’re making my life harder by doing this. And I really don’t like when people make my life harder. Especially spoiled lil’ drama queens,” He’s getting agitated enough that his grip gets harsh, painful, and she flinches in response.

Just like last time, he loosens his hold and his frown deepens, “M’not going to hurt you. Don’t have to act like that.”

“Yes, as you squeeze me. I don’t even know who the fuck you are,” YN pulls out of his grip, he allows it but his other hand is still on her ankle.

“It doesn’t matter who I am,” Her stranger argues, “Bottom line. Stop. Fucking. Up. My. Plans.”

”I don’t even know what they are,” YN shots back, she felt like they were talking in riddles at this point.

”Go to work, do your cute little nurse shit, and come home,” Harry repeats through clenched teeth, he finally moves to take off her other high heel.

”Forever?” YN snorts sarcastically, wriggling until she can untie his suit jacket from around her waist, making it a point to toss it next to him on the floor.

She felt even more satisfaction when she realized it was a Gucci piece.

Harry’s eyes stay directly staring into hers.

”Until I tell you elsewise,” He replies cryptically, “You’ve ruined enough things f’me. I need you to stop or m’going to have to do something to make you. Don’t try to think you’re smart and defy me. I’ll know.”

YN’s head is spinning, “You’re telling me I’m not supposed to date or have a social life until you say so? A stranger I don’t even know?”

”If you want to stay out of danger. Yes,” He replies like it’s that simple, he’d taken off both of her heels by this point and didn’t seem to realize that he was still holding her foot, thumb pressing into the arch on the bottom.

”This isn’t fair,” YN feels her throat tighten.

Fuck, she was not going to cry.

”It doesn’t have to be fair. Life isn’t fuckin’ fair, darling,” Harry’s voice is venomous as he speaks, his accent was distinct and each word was enounciated harshly.

”Maybe I should just risk it,” YN slouches back into the couch, kicking his hand off of her.

”No, you won’t fuckin’ risk it,” Harry leans up, his hands on either side of her knees, and it would be an intimate position giving any other circumstance, “You need a date that bad? Having a dry spell, pet?”

There’s a roughness in his voice that makes her want to close her thighs.

God, what the fuck is wrong with her?

She is quiet literally being threatened by a stranger and she feels arousal pooling in her belly?

She’s going to fucking die at this rate.

”You said I can’t go out. It doesn’t mean that I can’t have someone come back to my place,” YN is fucking with him at this point, to rile him up even further when she should be doing the exact opposite, “My sex life counldn’t possible interfere with your ‘plans’.”

Harry’s jaw flexes under his skin, if looks could fucking kill.

”Do you need a lesson?” Harry sits up, his hand shifting to her hip and it sends a shockwave through her.

His fingertips were ghosting over the exposed red lace, lightly, curiously.

”A le-lesson?” YN stutters, eyes wide and god, she wanted to spread her legs further.

”Yes, a lesson. To keep you in this god damn house,” Harry reiterates as his fingers slip underneath the thin fabric near the waistband, snapping the elastic against her hips and making her jump, “Do I need to show you how to use your fingers? Buy you a god damn toy? Something because I need you to stay in this fuckin’ house and I don’t know how many different ways to emphasize it.”

YN knows how to use her fingers but there’s something about the texture, calloused roughness of her stranger’s that make her want his instead.

She wasn’t some sex-hungry feign.

Her currently dry spell had been lasting over the past year.

It was something in particular about her stranger that made her realize just how long it had been.

She wasn’t made uncomfortable by his finger wandering by her hip.

Despite how threatening, how out of line this man was, for some reason she felt like she could trust him not to hurt or take advantage of her.

She had never been this risk-taking in her entire life.

And this isn’t normal risk-taking.

”I know how to use them,” YN bleats back, heart jumping when his thumb rubs over the thin skin of her hip, his hand slipping just underneath the fabric of her dress, “Just don’t like to.”

“Then you’re not doing it right,” Harry shakes his head, a bit more solemn and quiet for the moment as he watches his hand.

There’s a pause.

A long enough moment of silence that it reels Harry right back into reality.

He straightens up before standing, kicking her shoes aggressively out of his way as he storms towards the door, “You better fuckin’ listen to me. It really won’t end well for you if you don’t.”

“When will I -“

When will I see you again?

When can I not be a prisoner in my own house?

Why am I going to be a prisoner in my own house?

What the fuck is he trying to protect me from?

What plans am I fucking up?

There’s all those questions and more on the tip of her tongue but she can’t even get the first one out before Harry is cutting her off.

”You’ll know. Now lock your fuckin’ doors and go the fuck to sleep.”

YN also doesn’t know anyone who used the word ‘fuck’ as much as her stranger.

But she finds herself listening as he slams the door on his way out, trembling on it’s rusty hinges, and locking it behind him like he couldn’t manage a way in if he really want.

YN didn’t know exactly what he was up to, but it wasn’t good.

++

It was six days until YN had to face Matthew.

YN had been surprised that she hadn’t received any text or calls.

Then she goes into her settings, realizing that while Harry had stolen her phone that he’d manage to block his number, delete their conversation, and delete his contact information on top of it.

Fucking dick.

YN can’t avoid Matthew in the cafeteria.

As she’s waiting in line for her salad to be made and he strides right up to her with a displeased expression she’d never seen on his normally smile-laden face.

”If you didn’t like me, you could have just said so before standing me up twice,” Matthew tells her, he’s trying to keep his tone casual as he acts like he’s reading the nutritional facts on the back of his energy drink.

”I am so sorry,” YN doesn’t look at him, looking directly at the woman making their food instead as she works, “It’s…this isn’t like me. It has nothing to do with you, I promise. I’ve just had some….issues that had unexpectantly popped up.”

Matthew scoffs, slamming his tray down a bit too aggressively, “If you’re going to lie, at least make it beleiveable. Do you know how lucky you were that I gave you a chance? I’m a fucking doctor. You’re a nurse. You should be chasing me, not elsewise.”

YN squeezes her eyes shut because it’s not worth starting a fight in the middle of their workplace, “Matt, I’m really just trying to enjoy my lunch break on my fourteen hour shift. Please, just leave me alone. Like I said, I’m sorry about what transpired. It’s on me.”

Matthew surprises her by ducking to whisper in her ear, “You are a no one, YN.”

++

None of this would have happened if it wasn’t for her stranger.

She wouldn’t be feeling so useless.

Alone.

It had been four months since she’d seen her stranger.

Not one trace of him.

Despite the fact that she had been listening, she didn’t go out on dates, and she didn’t bring anyone home.

A nice nurse anesthetist named Paul had wanted to take her out on a date, YN was somewhat interested but turned him down gently, stating that she wasn’t ready for a relationship.

It made her angrier as the months went on.

She hated her stranger.

She missed her stranger.

++

It’s takes four and a half excruciatingly isolating months until something changes.

YN had a ten hour shift tonight which wouldn’t have been bad but she hasn’t had a day off in nearly two weeks and she was run ragged.

YN had the next three off to recuperate which would start by passing out immediately in her bed after showering.

When YN unlocks her front door, her eyes are heavily lidded as she locks it behind her, flipping on the switch, and kicking off her black tennis shoes.

”It’s ‘bout fuckin’ time.”

YN drops her water bottle, her phone, and her purse - causing all the contents to start to spill and roll out.

”Jesus Christ, so jumpy, m’little drama queen,” He laughs meanly as his voice doesn’t come any closer.

YN hasn’t looked at him yet but has a sneaking suspicion that her stranger is sitting comfortably on her couch after breaking in.

She should be worried as to why he’s here.

Instead she feels a flair of anger bubble up in her chest, “Four and half fucking months. You let me be alone with nothing and no one for four and a half months, Harry.”

When she turns to face him, her anger quickly dissipates when she realizes that he’s injured.

He’s shirtless, which YN doesn’t have time to let herself look over his tattoos, his rippled muscles, any of it because he’s currently holding his balled up white shirt to his eyebrow.

There was barely any white fabric to be seen, sodden with dark red blood.

“Oh my god,” YN gasps as she steps over her spilled items, rushing towards the couch.

There were streaks of blood trailing down the side of his face, leaving a trace all the way down to his pecs where it finally dried.

“I’m fine. I just need you to do your lil’ hero act on me, okay?” His teeth are stained red from where his bloody lip has poured into his mouth.

YN feels awake suddenly, rushing to her bathroom to retrieve her kit, and running back to her living room just as fast.

“Harry, I don’t-“ YN fumbles, nearly dropping her supplies, going completely scatter-brained in panic and the shock of seeing her stranger after so long.

”Hey,” Harry replies, loud enough to make her jump, and with his free hand, he does what he always does, grips her chin and levels their eye contact, “Stop freaking out. Isn’t this what your fuckin’ job is? Do you do this at the hospital?”

YN shakes her head, “This is different.”

“Well then act like it’s not,” Harry’s hold on her isn’t as rough as it normally is and she has a creeping suspicion that he’s smeared his blood on her face but that was the least of her concerns.

YN goes to her kitchen sink, scrubbing her hand thoroughly before tucking her hands into a pair of latex gloves before she’s removing his destroyed shirt to examine the actual injury.

It wasn’t the worst that she had ever seen but it was far more serious than the injuries that he had the first time that she saw him.

”I’m going to do the same thing as last time. I’m going to clean it first,” YN informs him through shaky breath as she soaks a cotton pad to begin to swipe over the split skin gently.

Harry, once again, doesn’t show any type of reaction that it’s painful.

He only continues to stare at her face as she does her job.

When the cut is completely cleaned up, YN’s able to examine it better, and realizes that he definitely needs stitches.

”You need at least five or six stitches,” YN tells him after taking a step back, peeling off the gloves, “Do you want me to drive you to the hospital?”

Harry doesn’t move, his chest is moving steadily, calm as ever.

”No, I want you to stitch me up,” Harry replies like that’s a normal request.

”I don’t have numbing medication or pain medication, I-“

”I don’t need it. Will you come the fuck on?” He pushes, sitting up a bit straighter, and he has no right to get annoyed at her right now when he’s the one causing all of this.

YN knows she shouldn’t do what he’s asking.

Shouldn’t give in to another one of his demands.

But she does.

”Fine,” YN lets out a long exhale, digging through her kit for another pair of gloves and the material for sutures.

”Wait f’a minute,” Her stranger interrupts her, hand coming to grip her hip, and bring her attention back to him, “I don’t want you fuckin’ shaking while you do it. I need you to calm down, okay? Everything is fine, right? You know that.”

”I don’t know that,” YN frowns as she rummages through her kit, ignoring that he wants her eyes on him, “I don’t know anything anymore. I don’t even know you but I’ve listened to you for the past five months.”

“I know you have,” He replies simply.

Was he watching her?

”And nothing bad happened to you, did it?” Harry prompts, squeezing her hip encouraging her to look at him.

YN begrudgingly does, surprised by the softness on his face, his normal harsh frown lines had dissipated.

”No,” YN agrees honestly, “I have just been lonel- never mind.”

She finds herself choking up on the word, tears threatening to spill because she’s tired, confused, and fucking lonely.

Harry’s eyes are unreadable like the usually are, they’re concerned and his squeezing turns almost into a gentle massage of her plush right there.

”I’ll fix it, okay?” Harry sighs as YN tugs on another pair of gloves, “I need you to continue to listen to me, follow my instructions, and I’ll make sure you’re not lonely, okay?”

YN doesn’t believe him for a moment but doesn’t have the energy to argue, “Okay.”

Harry knows that she isn’t buying it, “I mean it. I stick by my fucking word. I’ll fix it if you continue to listen.”

YN nods in agreement, carefully taking the curved needle from the sterilized packaging and threading it through the suture material, “You’ll need to come back here or go to the doctor in about a week and a half to get these remove. They don’t dissolve.”

”Okay,” Harry acknowledges but he’s more subdued, like something about YN complaining about her loneliness had stuck with him.

”Sit back,” YN orders as she’s ready to start work and when she leans over, she not only realizes it’s a shitty angle but her lower back is screaming at her from being on her feet for an unreasonable amount of hours today.

Harry must recognize it, surprisingly perceptive for how cold and disconnected he can be, “C’mere.”

YN should put up a fight.

YN should do a lot of things that she doesn’t.

Harry pulls her in until she’s sitting in his lap, thighs straddling over his closed ones, and she rests her bum on the thick of his quad muscle.

It actually was a much easier angle to do what she needed to do.

Her strangers hands come up to steady her hips, resting in the dip above her hip, and his hands were massive, his fingertips nearly reaching her bellybutton from the way that they were splayed.

”It’s going to hurt. Try not to flinch or anything,” YN mumbles, ignoring the butterflies that were starting to go crazy in her belly.

The roles are reversed when YN grips his chin to keep his head at the angle she needed it as she decided how to go about this.

She can with one hundred percent certainty say that she’s never sat on a patient’s lap while giving them stitches.

Harry doesn’t so much as flinch as she begins, his eyes were studying her face the whole time, hands firm around her waist, and unrelenting in their grip to keep her steady.

The only noise in the room is their breathing, more so YN’s, and a sharper intake from Harry when she has to pierce the needle through his sensitive, bruised skin to pull it shut.

”D-done,” YN replies after she ties the thread of neatly, snipping it with a small pair of scissors before sitting back, her back was still aching.

Harry hadn’t said anything during the whole thing, he doesn’t smile but he isn’t frowning either as he moves to hold her chin, his favorite thing apparently, and his thumb swipes over her bottom lip.

It was oddly intimate.

”Thank you,” Her stranger tells her sincerely, no teasing or harshness.

YN nods, swallowing because she should get off of his lap but she feels planted where she’s at.

Until she can’t help the massive yawn that has her eyes watering, bringing her hand to cover her mouth.

”S’time to get you to sleep,” Harry decides as he stands up and positions her on her feet, “You need to stop workin’ so much. You’re going to die of exhaustion.”

How does he know how much she works?

YN’s too tired to question it further.

”Need t’shower,” YN mumbles back, rubbing at her eye.

”It can wait, you’re ‘bout dead on your feet. Hold on,” Harry disappears down her hallway, she can hear him going into her bathroom like he just has full permission to explore her house.

He comes out a moment later with a damp washcloth, without asking, he begins to wipe at her face, and when the white fabric starts to stain red - she’s alarmed before she realize that it wasn’t her own blood that had dried on her face.

”You can…um, you can shower before you leave if you want,” YN offers as she allows him to wipe her off, moving down her jawline and throat.

She expects him to turn it down.

”I might actually take you up on that. This…this wasn’t part of my plan for the night and I still have things to do. I’ll lock up on the way out?” Her stranger tosses the washcloth on her kitchen counter.

”Yeah, m’going to go to sleep,” YN waves her hand at him, her eyes were starting to close without her permission as she drug her feet towards her bedroom.

”Jesus Christ, I’m fucked.”

YN hears him mutter that under his breath, not meant for her to hear, and she doesn’t know what it means anyways, it was probaly about his plans that didn’t go his way.

After she changes into her pajamas, YN realizes that Harry doesn’t have a shirt on, and she rifles through her drawers until she finds a shirt from an old boyfriend that would fit him.

She folds it, leaves it right in front of the bathroom door, and goes back into her bedroom.

Underneath the covers, she tries to sleep but instead finds herself listening to her stranger.

He must drop a bottle in the shower at some point.

Then the water’s being shut off after awhile.

A bit of shuffling and the door opening.

What she doesn’t expect is when he steps into her doorway, leaning against her doorframe, in the shirt that she had left for him.

”Bye,” He replies simply, no ‘thank you’ or anything.

YN sits up, “No, not ‘bye’. When…when is this going to end? I can’t keep living like this, Harry. I -“

”I said I would fix it, didn’t I? So stop bitching,” Harry snaps, the calmness that had settled between them had disappeared, all the softness that he’d shown just a bit ago had been lost now.

YN frowns at him, “I’m so nice to you. I don’t understand why you treat me so poorly.”

”If you think I’m treating you poorly, you don’t want to know how I treat others,” Harry laughs, the cruelty seeping back into each syllable, “You’re just a sensitive lil’ drama queen.”

”Fuck you,” YN shoots back for the first time because she had been overly nice and accommodating for a man she didn’t know anything about.

The frown lines are back, his scowl set where it normally was.

”Goodnight, my queen,” Harry smirks as the insult rolls off his tongue.

”Get the fuck out,” YN’s voice is quivering but not from fear or upset, from rage.

”My pleasure,” He agrees easily, stepping away from the doorframe and disappearing down the hall.

YN’s too tired to have anymore thoughts after she hears the front door click closed.

What. The. Fuck

++

The next morning, she’s awoken to an obnxious pounding on her front door.

There’s no way that it would be her stranger, right?

He would have let himself in if it was anything like last night.

She had never even questioned where he got the injury from.

When she makes it to the front door, there’s no one in front of her peephole which confuses her, and makes her unlock it to open it up.

There’s a massive cardboard box on her front mat, with small holes poked into the sides, and her name scrawled on the top of it in what looked to be boyish handwriting in marker.

YN hears rustling of all things.

Which makes her kneel down to open the loosely shut box.

When she hears the most feisty mewl of her life.

After opening the flaps, there’s two black kittens inside with a blanket surrounding them.

They were jet black with sleek, shiny coats and bright green eyes- looking up at her expectantly.

Two kittens on her doorstep.

YN is confused but she brings them inside.

When she looks in the box for any explanation, there’s a small note that is in the same handwriting as the scribbles on the cardboard.