I love it you last smut with max!!! I would love some more about sucking him off and he film you while he praises you.
Thank you so much💖💖💖💖💖💖
I gotchu anon here u go 🫶🫶
Popular ♥️
Max Verstappen x Enemy Reporter!Reader
money on top of me, money on top of her, yeah, shawty fuck with me ‘cause she know I’m popular
As Sky Sport’s latest F1 reporter, you’re determined to do whatever it takes to stand out amongst the crowd. You’re notorious for your ability to make Mad Max break out of his media trained facade, all your interviews with him going viral. But after his 10th PR debriefing over you, Max has had enough. Next time, it was your turn to be in front of the camera.
Content includes: 18+ MDNI, smut, filming, enemies to lovers , blowjobs, size kink, dom! Max and brat!reader 😼, 4k WC
And there you have it folks, another disappointing 2nd place for Redbull’s golden boy for the 3rd race in a row here in Spa, you say into the microphone with a smirk. Let’s go directly to him now, shall we?
Walking over to the post race media room, you make your way to the primary interviewer position, right on the front row, ignoring the jealous stares from other reporters scattered in the rows behind you. You’re chatting to your cameraman, instructing him to make sure he gets your good side, please, I don’t want to be on Channel 3 looking like a rat compared to these model drivers again when the podium winners walk in. Max Verstappen’s ice blue eyes immediately narrow as they lock onto yours, and he has to resist the scowl that threatens to appear on his face. He fucking hated your boss for always sending you - his most aggravating reporter - to make any bad race Max has even worse.
To the left of him, Charles and Lewis shared an amused glance as they watch their fellow pilot shoot daggers at you, who in turn greeted him with a predatory smile that would put a great white shark to shame. You decide to toy with your food a bit, turning your gaze to the other drivers, welcoming them sweetly and asking how they found the race. The many cameras on Max’s face didn’t fail to pick up how the so called flying Dutchman continued to stare at you brazenly as he contemplated your tumultuous history.
It wasn’t that you were a bad reporter. If anything, Max thought you had a knack for matching your questions to the athlete that you interviewed, and spoke in a charismatic and engaging way that had most of the grid happily stop on a race weekend to chat with you. You always made an effort to get genuine stories from the drivers, compared to many other news outlets, and it had been noticed amongst the grid, who preferred you as one of the reporters they engaged with - making you quickly skyrocket in popularity with viewers and establish yourself as a front row media figure. And it certainly helped that you were easy on the eyes, quickly become a familiar sight in well picked classy but flattering outfits to suit the Grand Prix locations.
Max could still remember the first time he saw you - dressed in a long sleeved, full length crimson dress that flattered your shorter figure, with long, dark curls framing your face and full lips as you laughed at something your colleague had said. He’d noticed you immediately in the media room, a pretty figure amongst the usual crowd, even going so far as to ask his PR manager who you were. But for all your charming media skills or cute outfits, you had made an enemy very quickly out of Max Verstappen the moment you opened your glossed lips and asked him how he felt after crashing into Hamilton’s car, yet going onto celebrate 1st on the podium while Lewis had to be taken to hospital.
It was almost a complete personality switch. While the other drivers got your thoughtful questions, Max was repeatedly hit with the most provoking shit from you. It was like you knew exactly what to say to turn him into that seething, infamous Mad Max, brows furrowed and a scowl on his face as he scoffed out replies to your invading questions. To your credit, you were able to elicit a lot more information and honesty from Max than other reports could, despite his angry tone. And while others backed down immediately when the reigning world champion started to get agitated, you would just lock in with a deceivingly innocent smile and escalate your questions.
Social media absolutely loved it, making endless videos of you interviewing Max go viral, countless memes emerging every post race debrief when you would ask some ridiculous question and Max would respond with something equally ridiculous, often resulting in back and forth bickering. It had gotten to the point where Max had had over ten - ten! - interventions with his own PR team who had begged him to please just ignore your provoking statements, just rise above, don’t engage -
Fuck that. Max Verstappen wasn’t a coward that backed down from a fight - but at the same time, he didn’t want to give in and give you what you wanted. He knew your type - just a clout chaser, going after him specifically as he was the fastest driver on the grid and would get you the most views. He was no stranger to being hated on and antagonised after toppling the Mercedes winning streak. His attention draws back to the present as he sees you finally turn to him, tilting your head coyly as you open those deceivingly sweet lips of yours again. That was some incredible driving out there today, Verstappen you say innocently, making Max narrow his eyes again as he didn’t buy it for a second. Incredibly dirty, some may say - judging by the 5 point penalty the stewards gave you. Why do you think you struggle to race wheel to wheel fairly?
Max felt his jaw clench at your provoking accusation. Behind him, his PR manager sighed and already started trying out a draft Instagram thirst trap that would hopefully do some damage control as Max heatedly dismissed your statements, insulting the steward’s decision in the process. This was going to be a long, long afternoon.
Max sighed, rolling out the tension in his neck as he sank down in the VIP area of the Monaco club, sculling his G&T. Beside him, Lando laughed at the sorry sight the current F1 champion had been reduced to after last weekend’s post race debrief had, as usual, gone viral due to a certain crafty reporter who had played the hotheaded Redbull driver like a fiddle. Mate, you let her wind you up too much, Lando said, smirking. It’s just classic journalist clickbait, you’ve dodged shit like that hundreds of times. Why do you keep letting her get inside your head?
Max didn’t respond, choosing to slam down his first glass and pick up a second G&T. Lando leaned in conspiratorially. Don’t tell me you secretly have the hots for her, mate. Is that why you two are always going at it? Too much sexual tension? She’s pretty fit and all, but you could easily get any hotter chick -
This time Max turns to glare at Lando, his furrowed brows clearly telling him to fuck off. Lando throws his hands up in mock defense, Just jokes, just jokes. But hey, speak of the devil and she shall appear. He says, looking behind Max and letting out a low whistle. And damn, the devil didn’t come to play tonight, that dress should be illegal. I get it the appeal now Max-
Rolling his eyes, the older blonde driver finishes his drink and stands up, telling Lando to come find it when he’s done being a prick. Striding off to the opposite end of the club, he doesn’t bother looking in your direction even once. He’d had enough of your annoying presence on the track to be able to deal with it off it.
Across the neon dance floor, you laugh cheerfully with your friends, cheersing to shots together. Tossing your shot glass back, you reach for another, hoping your friends don’t notice the disappointed flicker on your face when you had heard Lando’s laugh from the VIP section, only to look up and see Max’s wide shoulders disappear off into the crowd, no doubt leaving the club as soon as he saw you.
Honestly, you couldn’t blame him, you thought glumly. You weren’t entirely sure just how the dynamics between you too had ended up so rife with tension. You had been so excited to interview the Dutch champion for the first time, spending ages picking out your most flattering outfit and matching gold accessories, and had even picked the perfect question to let him showcase his empathy. You had a soft spot for the driver racing with the MV33 tag growing up as you related to having strict parents yourself. Seeing Max shine at such a young age against much older, experienced competition had been so cool you’d instantly become a fan. So you had asked him about his infamous crash into the reigning champion, Lewis Hamilton, hoping to give him an chance to share his side of the story about how he was forced to continue the race due to team orders - but instead found yourself at the end of a scathing reply from the older athlete.
It’s always the people who have never been behind the wheel of a race car who have the most to say, Max had replied that day, on live TV with a condescending look, I don’t tell you how to be an influencer and you shouldn’t tell me how to be a driver, okay sweetheart?
You had flushed, too embarrassed to even stutter out a reply, and as another reporter mercifully took over you excused yourself from the room. The memory of your first F1 interview still radiated crystal clear in your mind and brought you back to the present as your friends waved their hands in your face to get your attention. Oh yeah, that’s right - that’s why you hated the cocky Dutch driver, you thought darkly, tossing back another shot. And why you’d never do him the service of being a courteous reporter to him ever again.
Vowing to put all thoughts of your biggest annoyance to the back of your mind, you let yourself be dragged onto the dance floor. For the next 3 hours you drink and dance, celebrating the start of the summer break. You slipped away from the group at one point to go to the bathroom. You’re walking back down the dim hallway to the club when a hand reaches out to tap your shoulder, and you turn around to find a guy you’d seen eyeing you up earlier grinning a bit too sleazily at you, introducing himself as Rossi and asking if he can buy you a drink. Politely rejecting him, you turn back around but he grabs your arm this time, spouting some bullshit about playing hard to get, huh, dressed like that?
You scowl, immediately turned off, and forcefully twist his arm around and push him away, telling him very firmly to piss off. He look startled at your reply, and you roll your eyes at his performance before moving away but apparently this asshole just couldn’t take a hint, cause this time he grabs both your shoulders and pushing you into the wall. You’re starting to get a little panicked now, knowing you two are in a quieter hallway and the shots you had taken earlier have caught up and made you weaker -
Then he’s all but thrown off of you, crashing into the opposite wall in a display of pure strength. I’m pretty sure she told you to fuck off, cunt. Keep your hands off of her.
You’d recognize that deep Dutch accent anywhere. Your jaw drops as you look up to see Max Verstappen’s back, dressed in a fitted white tee, now standing in between you and Rossi. Peeking over his broad shoulders on your tip toes, using your small hands to grasp Max’s bicep and steady yourself on your heels, you see Rossi angrily stalk towards Max, opening his mouth - then close it as he realises he’s much shorter and this was a dumb idea. Max smirks as he watches the other man sulkily storm away. He turns around, an almost gentle look on his face as he asks you okay, schat? Are you hurt?
You stare up at him, a little dazed by how handsome Max looks in this lighting and how hot it had been seeing Max protect you. The driver’s gaze turns to your hand, where your pink manicured nails are still holding onto his large bicep. Flushing, you move your hand and stutter out an affirmation that you’re fine, don’t worry, thanks so much -
Max hmms in response, pulling back from your space and immediately making you miss his warmth. You shouldn’t wander away from your friends all alone, he says, It’s not safe. Especially for someone your size.
His steely blue eyes are raking up and down your petite form, sending butterflies swirling but you’re also annoyed at his condescending tone. I had it handled, you say defensively, crossing your arms and looking away, missing how Max’s gaze flickers to your tits which are now pushed up.
Yeah, I’m sure you had it handled, he snorts. What were you going to do, throw one of your heels at him? Seriously, you need to be able to protect yourself better if you’re going to go out looking like this.
He pointedly glances at the glittery mini dress you had on, with a sweetheart halter neckline, ending mid thigh with matching lace up strappy heels. A perfect club outfit, the gold matching your tanned skin, and brought to you by Versace.
What the fuck, Verstappen you hiss, seething as he immediately ruins the two seconds of tranquility you two had shared. Why do you always have to be so goddamn misogynistic? Blaming the woman’s choice of outfit? Seriously? You’re no better than that creep Rossi!
Your voice starts to rise as you glare up at him defiantly. Suddenly, loud voices make you both look down the corridor as some clubgoers start approaching. Not done with your argument but not wanting another PR fiasco all over Page 6 tomorrow, Max grabs your waist and pulls you into one of the staircases leading upstairs.
You end up on a private, dark balcony overlooking the quiet Monaco marina. The club’s bass vibrates through the walls against where a small sofa rests with an ashtray nearby, designating it as an intimate smoking area.
Max slams the door behind you two, locking it for good measure as you whirl back around, still keyed up. You’re comparing me to that piece of shit? Seriously? Max scoffs, rolling his eyes and resuming your argument. Let me guess, tomorrow morning you’ll conveniently have a new headline about how I hate women and I’m a misognistic pig, blah blah blah.
You glare at his dismissal, stepping closer to back him up into the door behind him. Well, aren’t you Verstappen? What do you expect me to wear, sweatpants? It’s a fucking club, everyone dresses like this! The first time I ever interviewed you, you literally thought I was some random makeup obsessed influencer when I’m an Oxford educated journalist!
I know that now! Max snaps. You just asked me about the one thing I didn’t want to talk about and I got mad. I didn’t realize you were going to bite my head off every interview after that and just use me to to blow up online!
You pause, then begrudgingly mutter that you supposed you’d dragged out the grudge a touch longer than necessary. It was the Leo in you, after all. But Max wasn’t done - Fuck, all I meant was you look good tonight and a lot of guys have been checking you out, so just watch out, okay?
Your eyes widen at the unexpected compliment, as althought you had always found him attractive, you’d never thought Max found you to be. Oh, you say, unable to hold back the blush in your face. Thank you. I owe you one, I guess.
You realize in the heat of the moment you had pushed right up against him, your soft chest up against his toned abs - giving him the perfect view as you calmed down from your heaving breaths. Max’s eyes darkened as you glanced from your chest up to his eyes, realising the compromising position as well and biting your lip.
Well, you could start by apologising to me, he says with a smirk as he pushes off the door, making you stumble back towards the sofa. That’s bullshit, Verstappen. I already said thank you. If you’re just gonna be a dick again I’m leaving, you respond automatically, but you let him continue to gently guide you back.
We both know you could have left anytime you wanted, schatje, Max breathes, bending down to your level as you come to a stop in front of the sofa, his lips grazing your ear and making your pussy throb from how goddamn sexy he sounded. Fuck, you were down bad. He grins cockily, not missing how you gasped sweetly and squeezed your plush thighs together at his words. Your gazes meet heatedly, and he finally ends the agonising tension by tilting your head up and joining your lips in a deep kiss.
You moan into it, his tongue swiping across yours skilfully and sending sparks shooting down to your pussy which was getting wetter by the second. Max pulls back, rubbing the pad of his thumb against your glossed lips. Why don’t you be a good girl for once and apologise to me nicely, yeah?
You refuse to budge. I’m not saying shit, Verstappen you say brattily. Just try and make me. Max smirks as you seal your fate. Let’s put that filthy mouth of yours to good use for once, he commands, and next thing his strong hand is pushing you down to your knees, making you come face to face with a very sizeable bulge. You gasp, looking up at him as he unbuckles himself, the clink of his belt buckle audible even over the thumping bass. His thick, veiny cock bounces out and lands across your pouting face with a smack. He grins as your eyes go wide at his size, jaw dropped as you begin to salivate at the sight. You’d definitely has one (or two) wet dreams like this - not that you would ever admit it to him.
God, you’re such a fucking slut, practically drooling for it already, huh? He teases condescendingly. You moan when he smacks your chubby cheeks with his warm length. I’m not, you whine, Stop being such a bully-mmmfhh!
He shuts up your pathetic whinging by nestling his tip against your pretty pink lips. Go on then, he mocks. You owe me one, right? Help me relax after all the stress you caused me last weekend.
You huff, still glaring at him through your dark lashes but obediently swipe a kitten lick across his leaking cockhead. Mmm, he tasted so good, you could easily see yourself become addicted. You move down his shaft, leaving teasing, gentle kisses and lipgloss marks along his length. He clenches his jaw at your deliberate teasing, telling you to quit it, but you just smirk and suckle on the very end, moving your tongue in circles to overstimulate his sensitive tip. Max moans, his hips bucking forward involuntarily but he quickly regains control and tangles a strong hand through your curls, dragging you forward to nestle in between his wide legs as he settles back comfortably on the sofa. I need to teach you some goddamn manners, huh?
You squeal from the rough treatment, your hands automatically grabbing to those thick thighs of his, opening your mouth in protest but you don’t get a chance to as he slams your plush lips down onto his length, burying himself in one go. Oh, fuck yeah, he moans, even better than I imagined, liefje. You whine and splutter, struggling to breathe at the unexpected intrusion and tap at his legs but he hold you down, blissfully enjoying your tight throat enveloping his cock. You can take it, right baby? Gonna be a good girl for me and keep my dick warm?
His condescending words should be making you angrier but instead you find yourself moaning against him, finding his dominating nature sooo hot. Tightening his hold, he now controls the pace as he jackhammers away happily, without a single care for your muffled squeals. You feel yourself melting at each thrust, looking up at him with starry glazed eyes. He smirks at the sexy sight, using his other hand to fish out his phone and hit record, blinding you temporarily with the flash.
Fucked the brat right out of ya, huh? He teases arrogantly, the camera picking up all the dirty, wet noises you’re making as you deepthroat him. Go on, time to go viral, tell everyone how much you wanted this. You look so much better in front of the camera and not behind it.
He yanks you off his length for a minute, letting you gasp and greedily suck in air as you give in completely to his demands. I do! I do want it, so bad Maxie, you whine. He tuts, slapping your lips with his thick length again and leaving streaks of pre cum all over your face. You can do better than that, sweetheart, you normally have such a way with words.
You whine at his ministrations, instinctively chasing after his tip when he withdraws it, making him chuckle at how cockdrunk he had made you. P-please Maxie, I’m sorry, so sorry for being a bitch, please let me suck you off and make it up to you, please-
Oh, he could get used to the sound of you begging and sweetly moaning his first name very, very easily. Ending your torment, he glides back through your eager lips at an angle, poking through your cheek. He zooms in to capture the filthy sight - tears that drip down your face, messily smudging your mascara and mixing with the trails of precum on your cheeks. Imagine if your boss saw this, huh? Shall I send him a dirty film? He’d lose his goddamn mind seeing his favourite reporter on her knees begging for a dirty driver’s cock.
You bob your head frantically, moaning as your eyes roll back from the intensity of it all. Your lacy panties are glued to your pussy with how wet you are. You’re taking me so well, schat, he pants, cursing, Fuck, it’s like you were made for me. If I’d known you were s’good at suckin me off I’d have you doin’ this after every race. Throwing his head back, he pushes you all the way down, your nose buried into his sweaty abs as he finishes, releasing thick ropes of cum down your eagerly awaiting throat. He holds you there as he roughly orders you to take it all for him, that’s right, just like that. He slides out of you with a wet sound. Open that gorgeous mouth for me, baby.
You obediently drop your lips wide open, tongue poking out so the camera can capture that you’ve swallowed every drop, just like he asked. Satisfied, Max tosses his phone to the side and easily lifts you up with his strong arms to straddle his lap. You immediately grind your desperate pussy against him, hands tangling in his hair as you sloppily make out. His large fingers grip your glittery minidress as he pulls back to grin down at you. Wear this outfit again, he says huskily. In fact, wear whatever you want, anytime. I can fight.
You laugh at his sweetness, heart fluttering at the thought of always having Max by your side to protect you. You know I’m never going to stop annoying you on the paddock, right? You threaten, although you’re smiling. It makes for great content. My boss would never forgive me.
Wouldn’t have it any other way, darling. We have a reputation to maintain, Max replies easily, grinning back at you as he pulls you back in. After all, you two had a lot of apologies to make up for and had found the perfect way to say sorry 💖
—————————————————————————
A/N: so I can never just write a short lil quick fic it always has to be an essay apparently?!? Anyways GLAD YOU GUYS ENJOYED THIS THEME EHEHEHE I LOVED WRITING THIS SEND IN MKRE REQUESTS!! 🫶🫶🫶
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Five to Go Live*
Summary: The fifth and final part to One for the Money*
Mr. Styles, your boss (and the CEO of the company you work for), offers to help you expand your OnlyFans business.
But maybe you want more.
And maybe he does, too.
Word Count: 11.5k (I have no idea what happened tbh)
*Contains Mature and Explicit content! Please only consume what you feel comfortable with!💞You are so much more important!*
“Good morning, Mr. Styles.”
The tense frame of the man pacing in front of the window stills when he hears your greeting.
You’re five minutes early, coffee in hand, ready to begin your workday.
However, he doesn’t turn around as you enter his office. But the slight glimpse of his profile lets you know he’s acutely aware of your presence.
He stays by his desk, offering nothing more than his silence as you set down his drink and move for the couch.
“Good morning,” is his brisk greeting. It’s not any warmer or colder than usual. It’s just him. “Do you have the reports I asked for?”
“Right here.” You drop them onto the coffee table. “Ready for your meeting this afternoon.”
“Good.” He stares out at the city, unwilling to look you in the eye. “And you’ve confirmed with Nadia?”
“Yes. She’s calling for a driver as we speak.”
He nods once, fingers flexing beside his thighs before he finally ventures a glance over his shoulder. “And I suppose you’d like to talk to me about the other day.”
You flip open the laptop and pull up your email, eyebrow raised. “The other day?”
He turns to you, and you feel his heated stare. “I believe I owe you an explanation.”
“Not really,” you respond, lifting one shoulder in a shrug. “You agreed to help me with the video, and you did. I didn’t expect you to stay, Sir.”
Your peripheral catches his slight frown. “You didn’t?”
“No.” You open his schedule and begin jotting down a few notes from Nadia’s email. “You’re not exactly the cuddling type. Probably would have been weirder if you had stayed.”
His hands disappear into his pockets as he regards you. “I never meant to upset you.”
“You didn’t.” Another shrug. “I knew what I agreed to, and now we’re done. No harm, no foul.”
The frown deepens. “Still, I shouldn’t have walked out on you like that—”
“Mr. Styles,” you interrupt, turning to face him, “I wasn’t under the illusion that things would change just because we fucked. I didn’t need aftercare, I didn’t need your words of affirmation, and I didn’t need you to stay.”
Something unrecognizable passes over his features.
You lean forward. “We’re good, Sir.”
The office goes quiet. You know him well enough by now to know what it looks like when he’s biting back a response.
And you imagine there are quite a few things he’d like to berate you for, but instead, he merely clamps his jaw shut and nods.
“All right.” He returns to his desk and takes a seat. “Let’s begin.”
The rest of the workweek carries on like usual. Things return to normal. Or at least to the way they were before he admitted to knowing about your outside activities.
And you find that you’re grateful for that. It’s much easier to only imagine him as your boss instead of your…business partner.
What happened that afternoon in the hotel room was great. Fantastic, even. But it was only ever an act of generosity. A favor, more like. He helped you exactly the way he said he would and now it’s over.
You won’t ever have to think about him like that again.
So…you don’t.
At least, you try not to. But it proves quite difficult.
After deciding against posting the whole video for your channel, and instead only uploading the part where he comes on your tits, it becomes harder to ignore what you two have done.
After all, the response is overwhelming. Positive, excited, and extremely lucrative. Most of the requests are for more of the mysterious man they’ve come to know, and you try not to feel disappointed when you realize there won’t be any more guest appearances.
You wonder if he’s watched it. Wonder if he remembers that day the way you do.
Sometimes you slip up, and you watch the beginning just to hear him talk to you. You watch the way you undress him. Watch the way he kisses you. Watch the way he drives himself inside of you and begs you to come for him.
But then it hits you. Like a fucking freight train. It won’t ever happen again, and lingering on the one time it did isn’t healthy.
So, you turn it off, and attempt to resume life as normal.
You reach out to Max to apologize yet again for what happened, and he’s incredibly understanding. He asks if you’d like to meet for drinks and go over another scene for the future.
And you agree because you will do anything to put Mr. Styles in your rearview mirror.
You don’t mention the meeting to your boss. You figure it won’t do any good, and even if he disapproved, it’s not like he would tell you.
This is your game now. Not his.
So, with a new lease on life, you head for the bar to meet with Max, eager to find out what he has in store.
He’s happy to see you. Pulling out your chair and refusing any attempts at apologies that you offer.
Which you’re more than appreciative of, although you can’t help feeling a bit guilty that he didn’t get the content he’d been wanting.
“Seriously, don’t even worry about it,” he repeats for the third time since you sat down. “Honestly. I get it, once other people get involved, it gets complicated.”
“Yeah,” you agree quietly, sheepishly glancing down at your lap. “But still. He shouldn’t have…I shouldn’t have let him run you out like that.”
He smiles. “It’s fine. Listen, your boyfriend has nothing to worry about. Really. And we can proceed however you feel is best—”
“Oh, no, he’s…he’s not my boyfriend,” you interject, head shaking quickly. “No, he was just…nobody. He’s nobody. Anymore.”
Max studies you for a moment, seemingly curious at your insistence. “Oh? Does…he know that?”
You swallow thickly and take hold of your glass. “Yeah. He does.”
A beat before he nods.
“All right.” Max takes a swig himself. “As long as you’re sure this is something you want.”
You nod but can’t help finding yourself hesitating. “Yeah, it’s…yeah. Of course.”
His expression softens. “Boyfriend or not, he still has a hold over you, doesn’t he?”
And you grimace because you hate the way it sounds. Hate how obvious it must be to everyone else. Hate that it’s even a thing at all.
“No, he just…he’s infuriating,” you argue. “I mean, you were there. You saw what he’s like.”
“I was and I did,” he agrees with a smirk. “Infuriating is the nicer way to put it.”
“He’s a dick,” you correct, making you both smile. “But I trusted him. And I trusted his judgment. And him being so…blunt is sometimes a good thing. Because there’s no room for overthinking or questioning what he really wants. He tells you. Exactly how he feels, exactly how he feels it.”
Max nods thoughtfully, urging you to continue.
“And yet there are so many things I feel like he’s keeping from me,” you murmur. “And maybe he doesn’t owe me answers. Maybe it doesn’t even matter, but I just…there was this moment when we were on the same page. When it felt so seamless, and easy, and good. And now…”
Max sighs. “Now he’s nobody.”
You both grow quiet as you let this settle.
“Yeah,” you whisper, taking a sip of your drink. “He’s nobody. And it’s nothing. And it’s over anyway, so…I’m free to do whatever I’d like.”
He laughs. “That’s a great attitude.”
“Why thank you very much.”
“Of course.” He rubs his hands together. “Well, I guess in that case…maybe we should go over—”
“Peach Valentine.”
And almost as if you spoke him into existence, that familiar voice finds you. Cutting right through your conversation as chills fly up the back of your neck.
You almost don’t want to look. Want to pretend that this is merely a subconscious projection of the very last man you want to see.
But you can feel his presence behind you. Can smell his cologne and can see the surprised look on Max’s face.
Of course he’s here.
Slowly, you turn around, letting your eyes find the tall figure looming only a foot or two away.
He’s wearing an expression you know all too well. The one that tells you exactly what he’s thinking without him having to say a single word.
And your stomach sinks.
“Sir,” you whisper, voice oddly timid before you clear your throat and straighten up. “Hello.”
For a moment, he’s quiet. Offering nothing more than a blank stare. Then, he looks at Max. He looks at you. And nobody speaks.
Finally, his jaw sets, and his hands bury themselves deep within his expensive pockets. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m…I’m meeting with Max,” you reply, shooting a smile toward your new friend.
Mr. Styles frowns. “You didn’t tell me you were meeting him.”
“I didn’t think I had to,” you retort, lowering your voice as you send him a pointed look. “Seeing as we’re not partners anymore.”
His eyes narrow. “You’re still my assistant. And your well-being is my concern.”
“Oh? I thought what I did with my personal life didn’t concern you.”
“It does when it has to do with him.”
Your glare begins to mirror his. “Well, since I am in need of a new business partner, I figured Max would be the perfect one to ask.”
Mr. Styles rolls his shoulders back, regarding you carefully. “And since when are you in need of a new business partner?”
“Since my old one walked out on me.”
This does it. His features twist into an unforgiving and rather harsh look of disdain as he steps closer and drops his tone. “I told you, I needed to explain—”
“No, you don’t need to explain,” you correct. “I’m not upset. I’m not bitter. I’m not angry. But that doesn’t change the fact that our agreement is over.”
His teeth grit. “Just because I left doesn’t mean I was ending our deal—”
“It does in my book. I don’t have time to wait for you, Sir.” You sit up, leveling the playing field. “Now if you’ll excuse me—”
His fingers suddenly wrap around your upper arm, tugging on you until your feet hit the floor, forcing you to stand. “I need to talk to you.”
A bit surprised, you blink rapidly and attempt to pull yourself free. “Mr. Styles—”
“Now, Peach.”
You want to argue. Want to fight him on this. Want to stay strong, stay with Max. Send the mean man away.
But you know him, no matter how belligerent he’s being. And there’s something in those eyes that you’ve found yourself lost in that persuades you to nod and follow him to the hallway.
The moment you’re alone and the loud music has been dulled to a quiet hum, you step away from him. Put the necessary distance between your bodies as he watches you go.
“You shouldn’t be talking to him,” he says simply, almost as if it were obvious. “In fact, you shouldn’t be here at all.”
You scoff, rearing back to stare at him incredulously. “I’m sorry…you’re joking, right?”
“It’s a work night,” he replies, still infuriatingly cool. “And we agreed you wouldn’t do business with him—”
“We agreed?” Your eyebrow raises. “No, we didn’t agree on anything. You ran him out of the room without so much as checking with me first. And since when are we a we at all?”
He’s far too calm for your liking. “I told you, I’m still your boss. And partner. I want what’s best for you—”
“Really? Is that why you left?”
Once again, he scowls. “I told you, I had things to do—”
“Oh, I’m sure,” you snort. “Look, I don’t care why you left. I don’t even care that you left. But you did leave. So if I want to film with Max, I have every right to do so—”
“You do,” he agrees. “But you’re much smarter than that, Peach. And you know it.”
“Yeah? And what makes me so smart, hm? Sleeping with you?”
His expression twists into something you don’t recognize. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what? Sleep with you? Or point out that we did?”
“Peach—”
“No, you know what?” You take a brave step forward. “You have no right to come in here and demand that I leave him. Max is a good guy. In fact, of all the people that I’ve messaged on OnlyFans, he’s the only one that hasn’t said something skeevy or inappropriate.”
His expression falls. “Are you being harassed?”
“Not if I don’t respond. The block button exists for a reason. And that’s not even the point. The point is that you told me to do this. You told me it would be good for my channel to collaborate—”
“But not with him.”
“Then who? You?”
The hallway stills as Mr. Styles leans back. “This was never about me.”
“No. It wasn’t. It was about me,” you agree. “That’s what you promised. That this would be about what I wanted to do. And I want to meet with Max.”
The glare returns. “If you’re trying to punish me—”
“Punish you?” You laugh but it’s void of all humor. “Punish you for what? For being exactly who I thought you were?”
“You shouldn’t be here with him,” he says again, and your eyes roll.
“Then where should I be, huh, Sir? Should I be at home? Like a good little girl?” You take another step forward. “Should I be on my knees, waiting for you? Should I be fucking myself with that toy you bought? Pretending it’s you?”
You notice the muscles in his jaw constrict as he steels himself and throws you a look of warning. “Peach—”
“Because if I can’t fuck Max, and I can’t fuck you, then what do you want from me?” Another step. “You’re never happy. I can never make you happy—”
“Peach—”
“I get that this meant nothing to you. I get that.” You’re only inches away now. “But…you’re so confusing. You’re so goddamn confusing, and I never know what you really want. Sometimes I think I do, and other times…”
His lips purse shut but his eyes are soft.
“I feel like we used to want the same thing,” you admit quietly, heart in your throat as you stare up at the beautiful man before you. Your rage dwindles down to a contemplative annoyance. “And now we don’t. So…excuse me for trying to find somebody who does want me.”
Suddenly, he surges forward. Stepping up to you so quickly, and with so much power that it forces you to stumble back into the wall.
He cages you there, his broad chest brushing against yours as he peers down, features hard and unmoving.
“And you think that somebody is Max?” he sneers, almost as if mocking you. “You think that he wants anything more from you than the money you’ll make him?”
“Who cares?” you argue, but it’s weaker than you’d like. “It’s an investment, you said so yourself—”
“I am your investor. Not him,” Mr. Styles nearly barks, practically chastising you. “How could it ever be him—”
“Because he’s everything you aren’t.”
He doesn’t even flinch, instead cocking his head to the side as he smirks. “So that’s what this is? You’re trying to replace me? Trying to find somebody better?”
“Well it’s not hard.”
The Cheshire-like grin grows. “Fine, Peach. Let me ask you this…do you like who you are with him? Do you like the role he puts you in?”
Your lashes flutter. “I don’t…I don’t know what you mean—”
“Yes, you do.” His head dips until he’s fully in your space, making it impossible to know anything else but him. “Do you like how he treats you as though you’re nothing more than a means to his end?”
A breath catches in your throat.
“Do you like how it’s never about you? Only him?”
You squirm back into the wall, once again attempting to create a bit of distance, but failing miserably as he places a hand next to your head.
“Do you like how insignificant he is?” His voice has dropped to a dangerous purr, like silk that slips across your cheek. “Or did you like it better with me?”
A question meant to trap you and you can do nothing more than stare at the buttons on his shirt as you will yourself not to gasp.
“Because I think you like yourself better in my reflection,” he murmurs, his other palm now smoothing across your hip, subtly tugging you into his body. “The way I make you beg for me. The way I touch you. Kiss you. Fuck you.”
The words weigh heavy on your chest, making it hard to breathe as his nose softly ghosts against yours.
“Everything is better with me. And you know it. So why are you wasting your time with him? Hm, Peach? Who are you really trying to punish? Me…or you?”
And you could just slap him. You really could. Could fucking slap the dimples right off his face for being so smug.
“I’m not punishing anybody,” you whisper, nails curling into your palms to brace yourself. “I’m just doing what you told me to.”
“Well now I’m telling you to leave him.”
“Why?”
His eyes flick between yours. “Why do you think?”
“It doesn’t matter what I think. I want to hear you say it.”
The frown returns. “Peach—”
“Say it, Mr. Styles,” you repeat. “And maybe I will leave him. Maybe I’ll walk out of this bar, and never look back. I’ll delete his number, I’ll block him, I’ll never think of reaching out to him again. I’ll leave. With you.”
You can see the way he internalizes this. Can feel his grip tighten, can see the muscles in the arm beside your head flex.
“Just say it,” you mumble again, reaching out to brush your fingers down his chest. “Tell me what you really want. Because maybe I want it, too.”
Everything moves around you. The world, time, this moment.
But neither of you move.
And as the seconds pass, you can’t help but silently will him to finally be honest with you. To finally succumb to what he really needs. To make everything that’s happened mean something.
Then, his eyebrows weave together, and his lips turn down. “I want you to go home,” he finally says, and your heart drops so fast, it makes your head spin. “You’re drunk, and you shouldn’t be alone with him.”
“I’m not drunk,” you retort, now shoving on his sternum to create that space you so desperately need. “I’ve had one drink. And I’m not alone. You’re here.”
And maybe it’s too dark in this hallway to be sure, but you’re almost positive you see something painful flash behind his eyes.
“I won’t be for long,” he replies as he pushes off the wall and steps back. “I have other things to do besides babysit you.”
And that is your slap to the face.
Your hands ball into fists by your side. “You are such a fucking asshole. I never asked you to babysit me. I didn’t even want you here—”
“Clearly you need it,” he argues. “Since you aren’t capable of making decisions on your own. Even when you’re sober.”
You scoff so loud, it makes your throat sore. “I was doing just fine without you—”
“You were scraping by,” he corrects. “And you could do so much better if you realized that he’s nothing but a waste of time and sperm.”
Your nose crinkles as you make your way to the end of the hall, ready to rid yourself of him. “I can’t do this anymore. I can’t…I can’t argue with you over the same goddamn thing. Okay, Max is nice to me. He tells me what he actually feels, and that’s something you could never understand.”
You think you see the briefest hint of disappointment, but it’s replaced just as quickly by a look of unamused indignation. “Fine. If you’d like your sex life and your career to be as mediocre as his cock…by all means. The choice is yours.”
“It is,” you agree coldly, ready to turn on your heel and run. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Mr. Styles.”
With that, you exit the hallway, leaving him behind.
And he lets you.
The following day, things aren’t as awkward as you expected. Mr. Styles doesn’t mention your run-in at the bar, nor does he attempt to restart the conversation about Max.
He treats you the way he did when he first hired you. With nothing but professionalism and distance.
At first, you’re thankful. There are no more sly comments or lingering stares at your chest. He follows your terms to let you make your own decisions. He lets your business be yours.
And he’s nothing more than your boss.
But as the days progress, you can’t shake the nagging thought that something bigger is afoot. Almost as though something is wrong. Off.
Maybe it’s just in your head. Maybe you want to believe he’s more affected by this little falling out than he pretends to be.
But you’ve known him for over a year. You know what it looks like when he’s upset, and this…this is not it.
However, you decide to push away the inclination altogether, and carry on with your work as usual. Because even if something is wrong, it’s none of your concern anymore.
That is until Nadia mentions it over lunch.
“Listen, he’s a very complicated man,” she says when you comment on his odd behavior, waving her salad fork through the air. “He tries so hard to appear uninterested, but I know it’s just an act. Nobody is that heartless.”
You swirl your French fry around in your ketchup, mulling this over. “I don’t know. He doesn’t…I don’t think he’s heartless. I think that’s just…who he is. He has a one-track mind.”
Nadia snorts. “Please. You should have seen him before…”
Your little lunch corner goes oddly silent as she suddenly presses her lips together and winces.
“Before…?” you repeat curiously, head tilting.
“Nothing,” she’s quick to reply, dismissing the comment with a flutter of her hand. “No, nothing. He just…he was more open when he first started the company, that’s all.”
You know there’s more to that story than she’s letting on, but you don’t push. Instead nodding your head as you return to your burger, letting the inquiry rest.
However, the subject is changed for all of three minutes before she sighs, and finally says, “Okay, look, it’s none of my business. And I don’t even know all of details, but maybe this will help make your job…easier?”
Once again struck with curiosity, you motion for her to continue.
“He had an assistant before you,” she begins. “His first assistant actually. I don’t know too much because I was working the mail room. But I do know that they were really close. Maybe friends, maybe more. I don’t know. But they were close.”
You lean back in your seat, endlessly intrigued as you wait for the rest.
“And everybody loved them together. She made him so happy. He was always smiling, always laughing, always walking around the office talking to everybody. Engaging in chit chat and catching up on everyone’s lives.”
It’s odd to picture your boss so open. So…infatuated. In fact, this fantasy she’s painting doesn’t sound like the man you know at all.
You have to wonder how different things would have been if he were still the same.
“Anyway, I don’t know what happened exactly, but something bad,” Nadia sighs. “The rumor was that she was seeing somebody he didn’t like. He got crazy possessive over her, and it drove them apart. She quit, and he became this sullen, hollow version of himself. And now that’s just who he is, I guess.”
“That’s…so sad,” is about all you can offer, frowning some as she nods.
“Yeah. It was,” she agrees. “After her, he didn’t hire another personal assistant for quite some time. Until you, actually. Which was kind of surprising, and I think we were all a little worried for you.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. I mean, you seem to be handling him just fine, which is great. But…I don’t know. He just became very…cold. Distant, I guess. Doesn’t really create personal relationships anymore.”
You have to admit that this makes sense, although it doesn’t exactly help make things any clearer for you. “That must have been hard for him.”
“Yeah. And maybe he taught himself not to care, but…I think he hides who he really is because of her,” she admits with a shrug. “Which sucks. ’Cause he’s such a good guy, deep down. He just…he’s afraid, I guess.”
You hate the way your heart breaks for him. Hate the way this humanizes him. Hate the way it makes you second guess every interaction the two of you have ever had.
“Does he ever talk about her?” you ask next.
“No, never. I don’t even remember her name, to be honest. It was forever ago. Five or six years, at least.”
“Wow.”
“Mhm. As far as I know, he doesn’t date, either. I think he fucks around a bit. I mean, he’s a guy, after all,” she teases. “But he doesn’t really do anything…meaningful. Maybe he doesn’t know how anymore.”
Your stomach twists around an invisible knife. “I guess that makes sense.”
“Yeah,” she hums, digging back into her salad. “I don’t know. If he’s being rude, just tell him to fuck off. That always works for me.”
You laugh as the subject is dropped and the two of you carry on with your lunch.
But you think about it for the rest of the day, the information following you back to his office where you’re quick to find that he’s left for the afternoon.
So, you sit with this discovery as you go through your tasks. Unable to stray from the thought for very long before your throat constricts, and you feel a wave of disappointment.
You text him as you’re leaving for the evening. A simple, “Finished prepping the presentation. Hope you’re okay,” before you tuck your phone away and head home.
Hours go by without a response. Not that you really expected one, but you can’t help feeling slightly guilty for the role you played in pushing him to open up.
And no matter how out of line he was, or how justified you were in asking for his honesty, you know how hard it must be for him to be honest with you.
Especially if what Nadia said is true.
After messaging Max for a bit about your upcoming video, you decide to run yourself a bath, letting the bubbles fill the tub as you watch the water rise.
You’ve barely slipped out of your socks when your phone vibrates on the porcelain sink, making you jump some at the sudden noise.
The familiar name flashes across the screen, making your heart skip as you hesitantly hit the green button and bring the phone to your ear. “…hello?”
“You did it, didn’t you?” Mr. Styles says, but even through the static, you can hear that there’s something off.
“Did…what?” you ask hesitantly.
“You fucked him,” comes the reply. Blunt and void of any civility. “Max. You fucked him, didn’t you?”
With narrowed eyes, you turn the water off and step out of the bathroom. “I don’t believe that’s any of your concern—”
“So, yes,” he answers for you. Then, you hear him chuckle to himself. However, there’s something chilling about the way he laughs. Bitter, almost. “You’re very easy to read, Peach.”
You can feel your expression fall into one of annoyance as you lean against the wall in the hallway. “Mr. Styles—”
“Was he good?”
You glower. “Mr. Styles—”
“I already know the answer is no,” he continues. “Even your own fingers would be better, but…maybe I just wanted to hear you say he wasn’t.”
You contemplate this for only a moment before you cautiously ask, “Are you drunk?”
You can hear the subtle slur slip through the speaker, and your eyebrows raise as he snorts.
“No, I’m curious,” he retorts, but it makes your heart pound. “And I’m still a subscriber. So I want to know what to expect.”
Your stomach wrenches. “How much have you had to drink?”
“Why are you avoiding my question?”
“Mr. Styles—”
“You like to torture me, don’t you?” he interrupts, and there’s a hitch in your breath. “You always have. From the first day I met you. You were wearing that really nice dress. And your hair was up in that pretty ponytail. And you walked in like you were trying to walk into my life and ruin me.”
Your head falls back into the wall, eyes fluttering shut. “Sir—”
“And I let you,” he carries on. “I let you ruin me. I let you do the one thing I promised I’d never do, and now what? Now you’ve gone and strutted your way into somebody else’s life.”
And maybe he doesn’t know what he’s saying, but you feel this overwhelming rush of emotion, anyhow. “Mr. Styles, where are you?”
“Where would you like me to be?”
“That’s not an answer.”
“Says you.”
You huff. “Mr. Styles—”
“Tell Max I said hello,” he says instead. “And then tell him I don’t mean it.”
“Mr. Styles—”
There’s some sort of loud noise on his end before the line suddenly beeps three times and the call goes dead.
And you can only stand there, flabbergasted, as you stare at your phone. Wondering what the hell just happened.
You’re frozen for a good minute or two, running through your options. He normally doesn’t reach out when he’s drinking, at least not to you, and definitely not this late.
Maybe it’s a silent cry for help or maybe he just wanted to bother you one last time.
Either way, it breeds something unnerving in your gut as you groan to yourself and head back to your room to retrieve your shoes.
You don’t imagine he’s out. He has to be at his apartment, so at least you know he’s probably safe. But you don’t know what he might do. You don’t know what that sound was, and if he’s managed to hurt himself, but you don’t think anyone will be there to help for quite a while.
You grab the key he’d given you a few months ago. It was meant only for emergencies, although you’ve never needed to use it.
Tonight, however, you decide that this is as good an excuse as any.
You call an Uber to take you to his place, the lavish apartment building smack in the middle of downtown, quite a bit away from you.
Thankfully, the traffic isn’t too bad this late at night, and you’re grateful for the quick trip as you’re brought to a stop just outside the sidewalk in under thirty minutes.
You jump out, greet the doorman, and book it for the elevator before hitting the button for his apartment at the top of the building.
It’s a good three-minute ride before you finally reach his floor, and once those doors open, your heart leaps into your throat.
Even the hallway is exquisite, and your dirty Vans squeak along the newly waxed floors as you approach his apartment, and fumble with the key.
You unlock it as slowly and quietly as you can, hoping not to startle him if he is in fact inside, and the moment the door is cracked, you call, “Mr. Styles? Are you here?”
Everything is dark as you enter. Not a single lamp to be seen, only the soft glow of the city lights outside of his many large windows, and the pale shadow of the moon cascading across the floors.
You see silhouettes of furniture, walls, and a few appliances. Enough that you manage not to trip over anything as you make your way into his living room.
And then, you see him.
The shape of his body is outlined by the window to your left. He’s sitting on the floor, back against the wall as he stares out at the tall skyscrapers before him.
Your heart sinks as you pocket the keys and approach slowly. “Mr. Styles?”
He’s still. Deathly still, in fact. As if he hasn’t even heard you. He doesn’t even bother to look over or investigate your presence.
And then, he murmurs, “You shouldn’t be here.”
Your breath hitches. “Maybe not,” you reply quietly, taking another cautious step. “But I was worried about you.”
He snorts, arms slung over his knees, a crystal glass in one hand that’s only got a few drops left. “How nice.”
“Mr. Styles,” you try again, “are you all right?”
Now close enough to catch a glimpse of his profile, you see the sweaty hair matted to his forehead. The strain in his jaw and the red rim around his eyes.
“M’fine. You can go,” he calls.
You take another step. “You didn’t sound fine—”
“Well I am, all right?” he suddenly sneers, turning to face you as you lean back. “I don’t need your fucking pity.”
“It’s not pity. It’s concern,” you correct briskly. “You’re drunk, and upset—”
“Yeah? What was your first fucking clue?”
You shoot him a look of warning as you bridge the gap and hesitantly crouch down to his level. “Why are you drinking?”
“Because I fucking can,” is his reply, his normally soft green eyes now as sharp as the edge of a sword. “Is that a problem?”
“Maybe. Do you remember calling me?”
“Of course I fucking do. But I don’t remember asking you to come here.”
“You didn’t,” you agree. “But I wanted to. Because I was worried.”
“Why? Don’t you have better things to worry about now?”
You’ve never heard him sound so insecure, and you’re reminded again of Nadia’s story as you glance over his expression. “I haven’t slept with Max.”
This is the only thing that seems to reach him, his lashes fluttering as he leans back, although his scowl remains put. “Why not?”
“We just haven’t yet. We’re still planning the video.”
“So you’re going to?”
“I think so, yeah.”
“You think so.”
“I plan to.”
He scoffs beneath a quiet breath and looks back out the window. “And you needed to come here to tell me that?”
“I came here because I wanted to make sure you were okay,” you tell him again. “And to set the record straight.”
“Why? You were right, it’s none of my fucking business.”
“It’s not, but you still seem to care.”
He snorts. “I don’t fucking care who you sleep with, Peach.”
“Sure, okay. Is that why you tried to keep me from doing it?”
“I was trying to help.”
“You’d help me a lot more if you were honest.”
“I am honest. I’m always fucking honest.”
“Not about this.”
His eyes return to yours. “I told you, you can do better. That’s my honest opinion.”
“Fine.” You take a moment to study him. “Then why did you offer to help me?”
His head drops back against the wall as he mulls this over, but his gaze never leaves you. “Because you needed the help. I knew you could make more money if you just did things a little differently, and I was right.”
“Is that the only reason?”
“What else would it be?”
Your head tilts. “Why did you agree to be in the video with me?”
“You said you didn’t have anyone else.”
“Why did you get me custom jewelry with your initials?”
His teeth begin to grit, the grasp on his glass tightening some. “What?”
“The peaches would have been fine. My initials would have been fine. But you wanted me to wear your name,” you remind him. “Why?”
“I already told you, I wanted him to know who your real partner was—”
“Yeah? Then why did you leave?”
His lips press together. “I thought you didn’t care—”
“I do now. Why?”
“I had somewhere to be—”
“Where?”
“Where?”
“Yes, where? Where did you have to be?”
He seems to fight himself on the answer before finally admitting, “The gym.”
You lean back, blinking quickly. “I’m sorry, you rushed out of there to go to the gym?”
“Yes.”
Now it’s your turn to scoff as you shake your head. “Wow. No, I should have assumed as much. Makes perfect sense. Clearly that was so much more important than just telling me I made you uncomfortable—”
“You didn’t,” he suddenly interjects, shooting you this look like he’s disappointed in your response. “I left because I knew I couldn’t stay.”
“You couldn’t stay? And why the fuck not?”
“Because—” He stops himself, once again clamping his jaw shut as if wrestling with the truth. Then, he drops his head, eyes finding the floor as he glares at the marble beneath. “Because I couldn’t.”
And you want to scream because you don’t know if he’ll ever be honest with you. Don’t know what to do to reach him.
“You know what I think?” you finally huff, and he looks up. “I think this is about her.”
Confused, he glances over your expression. “Her who?”
“The girl who used to work for you. Your first assistant. The one who left.”
Instantly, the atmosphere changes, his entire demeanor shifting on a dime as he presses his back into the wall and shoots you a venomous look of intimidation. “Oh you do, do you?”
“Yeah.” You hold your ground, keep your shoulders stiff. “I think you loved her. I think you were honest with her. I think you let yourself trust her, and I think…she broke that trust.”
You can tell he’s not quite sure what to do with this, furrowed brows still knitted together. “And where the fuck did you get that?”
“Doesn’t matter. It’s true, isn’t it?”
His finger taps the edge of the crystal in thought, but his contemplative expression remains. “Even if it were, what does this have to do with us?”
“Everything,” you say simply. “She broke your trust, and you chose not to get close to anyone again. But then you started helping me. And we got closer. And created a bond—created trust. And the second you realized, you ran for the hills.”
He snorts again, but he doesn’t rush to deny it.
So, you carry on. “Max coming along only made things worse for your fragile little ego. And maybe you were trying to keep it from happening again, but you did a really shitty job of it. And now here we are, sitting on your floor, saying everything but what we really mean.”
He’s angry. He’s so very angry, and you watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows thickly, fighting himself on what he really wants to say.
You scoot closer, gently reaching out to take the crystal glass from his hand so you can place it on the floor. Then, you rest your palm atop his arm, and meet his eye.
“Harry,” you whisper, and he sucks in a sharp breath, tensing beneath your touch. “I’m not her. And maybe that’s a good thing, maybe it’s not. But I have only ever wanted it to be you.”
He’s quiet but you have his full attention. And the intrigue in his features urges you to continue.
“Even before you told me that you watched, I imagined you,” you admit quietly. “I’ve always imagined you. Your voice, and your hands, and your face. And yeah, I didn’t mind keeping things…professional. Strictly about the content and nothing more. But…you have to know I wanted more.”
Once again, the back of his head meets the wall, as if bracing himself from your honesty.
“I wanted more,” you repeat. “And I thought you did, too. Maybe that’s why it’s been so hard, and maybe that’s why I tried to use Max to move on. But I never wanted Max. I only wanted you. I just…I wasn’t sure I could have you.”
He looks down at your hand, gaze softening when he sees the way it looks on his arm. Like he’s mesmerized by your touch.
“And I need you to tell me right now what you want,” you say softly. “I need the truth. I have to know if we’re running around in circles for no reason, or if…maybe we can get off this ride together.”
He’s silent for quite a long stretch, letting himself ponder a response as the apartment fills with a solemn quiet.
You study his face in the soft glow of the moonlight, wonderstruck by the sharp curve of his jaw in contrast to the soft curls near his cheeks.
Even now, he’s breathtaking.
Finally, he clears his throat. “Ellie.”
“What?”
“Her name,” he says, “was Ellie. And you’re right, I did trust her. But I ruined it. Not her.”
Now it’s your turn to listen as he recalls this memory to you, nodding gently for him to continue.
“She didn’t…she loved somebody that wasn’t me. That was her only fault,” he murmurs, once again staring at your hand as your thumb strokes his tan skin. “And it wasn’t even a fault. But I hated it. Because I wanted it to be me. And it was never going to be me. We both knew that.”
Slowly, his arm turns over, allowing your gentle touches to dance along the more sensitive skin.
You smile.
“I crossed so many fucking lines,” he admits quietly. “As her boss, as her friend. I pushed her away only to drag her back and try to keep her close. I suffocated her. I let myself need her in ways I shouldn’t have. She had every right to leave. In fact, she should have left sooner.”
You feel the tips of his fingers brush against you as he subtly grabs on.
“And then you,” he whispers, eyes still locked on where you’re connected. “I’d been doing so good. Didn’t let myself slip again, and then you came along, and everything was fucked. Because I knew I couldn’t do to you what I’d done to her. But I let myself think about you anyway. Even when I shouldn’t have.”
You can feel tears crawling up the back of your throat, and the wounded look on his face is like a fist to the heart.
“And for some fucking reason, I thought offering my advice would allow me to know you without ruining anything,” he sighs, tugging you a bit closer until your knees collide with his. “Which obviously didn’t work. And then I was looking for excuses to be with you. To have you. To touch you. Even though I knew better. Even though I had to know better.”
He takes a deep breath. Holds it.
“I didn’t want to lose you,” he eventually exhales. “And I got scared that the only reason you felt like you wanted more was because I somehow tricked you into it. I confused you, I manipulated the situation. It wasn’t real. And I wanted it to be real. But then Max, and I got so fucking angry, and I knew I was doing it again. And I couldn’t. I couldn’t do that to you.”
He won’t look up. He won’t meet your eye, and the hard set of his jaw makes you take hold of his other arm and squeeze it tight.
“Harry,” you whisper, but his head shakes quickly.
“It doesn’t matter what I want,” he barrels on, fingers wrapping around your elbow, keeping you close. “Because I can’t have it. I can’t have you. And you were right, I can’t be your partner anymore. I can only be your boss.”
You frown but it’s sad. “Harry—”
“Mr. Styles,” he corrects, finally shooting you a look of warning that breaks your heart.
But you aren’t deterred. Instead, you release him so you can wedge yourself between his legs and take hold of his face. “Harry,” you repeat, urgent but gentle. “This? It’s not the same.”
He struggles a bit in your grasp, tensing up as he tries to pull away. But it only lasts a second before he’s settling into your embrace, allowing you to guide his attention to you.
“It’s real,” you whisper. “It’s so fucking real. It was real even before you called me poor and badly dressed.”
This earns you your first smirk of the evening, and the butterflies that explode in your gut nearly make you dizzy.
“You’ve tried to push me away over and over. But I’m still sitting here, on your floor, begging you to talk to me.” Your thumbs delicately brush across the bags under his eyes, and he seems to nuzzle into your palms. “It’s not the same. You’re not just my boss or my investor. You’re my partner, Harry. And I can’t do this without you.”
His arms slowly slip around your middle, encouraging you onto his lap as his legs drop.
And you eagerly oblige, straddling his hips with ease as you look down at him.
“I don’t want to do this without you,” you murmur. “So don’t make me. Please.”
For a moment, you aren’t sure what he’ll do. What he’ll say or feel. He’s still somewhat tense, and far too quiet.
Then, he tugs, crashing your lips into his.
And it’s the most honest thing he’s ever done.
“Turn around.”
The strong command leaves no room for argument as you quickly spin on your heel, eager to obey.
Your ass is revealed to the camera. Bright red from the many spanks Mr. Styles has landed to it. It complements the dark black lingerie set he recently purchased for you, something you’re both rather proud of, and perhaps the main feature of this video.
You hear him hum his approval as he approaches, large hands slipping over the curves of your hips. “That’s my girl,” he murmurs before shoving you onto the bed. “Think it’s time we show them what a wet little whore you are, hm?”
You feel his finger hook into the crotch of the panties before he’s ripping them aside, allowing your swollen cunt to glisten for the lens.
You gasp as the cool air hits you, but it quickly melts into a desolate whine when you feel his touch ghost up the back of your thigh.
“Look at you,” he muses, palms pulling on your cheeks to spread you open, giving your audience a firsthand glimpse of your mess. “So fucking pathetic, aren’t you, Peach? And all I’ve done is spank you.”
“Can’t…can’t help it, Sir,” you pant, steadying yourself on your hands and knees as your eyes flutter shut. “Just want you.”
“Oh you do, do you?” He kneads your bruised flesh with admiration. “Do you think you deserve it?”
You squirm a bit as you whimper, desperate to lean back into his touch before he lands another smack to your thigh, reminding you to stay still.
“Yes,” you finally answer, chin meeting your chest. “Wanna deserve it for you.”
You hear him chuckle under his breath as he allows his touch to travel toward your dripping pussy, large digit pushing through your folds just to make you mewl.
“I bet you do,” he replies, running up and down your cunt to collect you. Tease you. “But we have a deal, don’t we, honey?”
You want to kill him and kiss him all at the same time.
“Yes, Sir.”
“We do.” He pats you again, this time gently. “Go on and grab it, all right?”
With a nod, you outstretch your shaky hand for the object sitting on the bed only a few inches in front of you.
Already tender and slightly swollen from the way he played with you earlier (casually and much too cruel), you feel a rush of excitement as you hand him the chain.
After taking hold of it, he moves to sit in front of you, allowing him better access to the front of your body as he motions for you to sit back on your ankles.
“You ready?” he asks quietly, eyes flicking between yours as he looks for your consent.
You nod. “Always.”
With that, he reaches for your exposed tits and begins preparing your nipples for the clamps.
You swallow a dozen whines and whimpers as he works them shut, the subtle ache quickly dissolving into an immeasurable type of pleasure.
And he’s smiling so big, like he’s so proud of you. Proud of the way you look, proud of the way you feel, proud of the way you obey.
It makes the yearning in-between your thighs that much worse as he travels the other end of the chain down to your clit.
Once again, he plays with you. Drags his fingers up, down, and through to make you writhe, and make sure you’re ready.
Then, with great care but devious intent, he slips the clamp along the base of the sensitive nerves and secures it.
You choke on a gasp, body stilling as the sensation becomes a bit more familiar. It’s quite thrilling. Not painful, but prominent. Taunting you with its power as you glance down at the way it holds you.
Harry leans back to study you, carefully observing every pull of your brows or hitch in your breath. “You okay, Peach?”
You nod, lip sliding between your teeth.
He frowns. “Color.”
“Green,” you say quickly, nails digging into your thighs as you release a heavy exhale. “It’s just…new.”
His expression softens as he reaches out to grasp onto your chin and squeeze once. “I know, my love. But you’ll take it for me, won’t you?”
And you say, “Yes,” with so much adoration and excitement that it returns those dimples to you.
His eyes drift toward the computer, checking the status of the livestream you assume before he leans forward and presses his lips to yours.
You know your faces aren’t in the frame, but it makes your heart pound nonetheless as he offers you a moment of his affection.
“How’s your ass?” he mumbles between kisses to your bottom lip.
You nod gently and sigh into his mouth. “Good. Sore.”
And he chuckles as he sends you a devious wink. “Good.”
With that, he stands, and begins to undo his belt as he returns to his spot behind you. He doesn’t plan to be gentle today. Not for your first live appearance, and you’re grateful for his punishing hand as it ghosts down your spine, guiding you.
It travels between your thighs, tapping them briskly as a reminder to keep them spread as you bend back over.
And once you’ve braced yourself against the mattress, you feel those long, skilled fingers nudging at you again.
“Sir,” you whisper, desperate for the friction as he keeps his touch light, merely tracing patterns along your folds while humming to himself.
“Yes, Peach?”
You swallow thickly. “Please?”
“Please?” His thumb moves up to brush over your tighter hole, and you gasp again as you await any sort of contact. “Please what?”
“Please…please touch me?”
“Touch you,” he repeats thoughtfully, as if considering it. “I don’t know. Have you disobeyed any of my rules?”
With a quick shake of your head, you glance down at the duvet beneath you, the expensive fabric soft beneath your clenched fists.
“Have you used any naughty language?” he asks, the tip of his middle finger lowering to circle through your arousal.
“No,” you breathe.
He begins to push in, leaving your other opening alone. At least for today. “Have you called me by the wrong name?”
Not aloud, you think, biting back a smirk as you murmur, “No, Sir.”
The digit travels a bit further, the feeling of him pushing past your tight walls like heroin as you reel.
“Have you taken your punishment like a good girl?” he inquires next, and you chew on the inside of your lip as you nod.
“Yes.”
And you can’t exactly see him, but you can practically hear his smirk as he suddenly adds a second finger in beside the first, just to surprise you.
“Yes,” he agrees. “You have. Been my perfect peach, haven’t you? Guess you’re showing off for them, hm? Letting them think you’re actually an obedient little cock-whore?”
And maybe you are showing off, at least a little, but it’s hard not to obey this man. He just makes it so…worth it.
“Yes,” you call again, desperate to please him. “Only for you, Sir.”
Suddenly, you feel his fist against your scalp, scraping through your roots as he furiously yanks, forcing your head up.
“Only for me,” he nearly seethes, dipping down to press his lips against your ear. “Want you to fucking say it. Every time I touch you. Every time I make you come. Want you to say it. Remind them who you really belong to.”
Apparently, having his initials glimmer from your nipples isn’t enough, but that’s more than all right with you.
You’ll happily vow your life to him as many times as he needs. Because there’s something empowering about having a man beg you to be his.
And for the first time since you’ve met him, you realize…you’re on the same ground. Equal partners. Equal power.
You and him.
One.
With that instruction, he curls, now stroking and thrusting into you with a fervent need to force you up the mountain.
“Only you,” you whisper between salacious moans for relief. “Only, Sir.”
“That’s right,” he hisses, smacking his other palm against your ass before groping at the tender skin. Soothing it and stimulating it at the same time.
The pace increases, faster and faster until you feel as though you can’t breathe. Until you’re trying to meet his rhythm by rocking back into his touch, but the hand on your hip holds you steady. Makes you patient.
“Only you.” It’s almost inaudible, released through quivering lips as you begin to slip into your first. “Only you. Only…”
He plunges in to the knuckle, beckoning you toward your release as it hits you hard. Fireworks go off behind your eyes as you keen, sweat beading around your hairline, and chest heaving.
“God, only you,” you barely manage as you fight for air. “Just you, Sir. Always.”
He takes his fingers out, allowing the world to see your come drip along the insides of your thighs. And the loss of contact makes your chest ache as you whimper and peek over your shoulder for a glimpse of his face.
He’s smug. Because of course he is, endlessly pleased with the way you’ve come undone so quickly.
Wet digits quickly outstretch for your cheeks, pushing on your lips to accentuate your already obvious pout.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he warns darkly. “You know better.”
You glance up at him with remorse and desperation, hoping your tiny hum will be enough to sway him. “M’sorry, Daddy.”
It’s the first time today you’ve used the nickname, and you watch the effect it has on him as he tightens his grip and scrapes his teeth together.
“Peach,” he grumbles, “don’t fucking test me. Not today.”
“I’m not. Promise. Just wanna feel you.”
And that’s the truth. It’s all you ever want. Want his cock, his time, his attention. Anything he’ll give you, and he knows this.
Because he wants you just as bad.
And maybe, if he had the strength, he’d punish you for this little game. He’d waste hours just making you wait for him. Tying you up, leaving you to beg, taunting you with something you can’t have.
But today, that would punish him, too. And you can see that he doesn’t have the capacity to go without you, not even for show.
So, he releases his hold on you only to land a very firm and sharp smack to your cheek. And it stings but it feels so good, forcing another groan as you lean back.
“And you will,” he finally decides, settling behind you again as he begins to tug his pants down. “Gonna feel me for days, honey. Make sure you can’t fucking sit without thinking of me.”
Just the image of you in one of those boardroom meetings, legs still bruised and clenched tightly together as you sit for hours on end makes you gasp.
He’s gotten braver recently. Normally, he’s tame. Making you rest on his lap in the privacy of his office while he absentmindedly runs circles over your clit. Answering emails as he plays with you. Like it’s just an average workday.
But now he tries to tease you in public. In meetings, at lunch, when you’re apart. Making you sit with a remote-controlled toy deep inside your cunt during a meeting with the board of directors. Changing the tempo over and over again while forcing your silence. Leaving you to squirm in your seat as you silently beg him for mercy.
Sometimes he gives it to you. Most times…he does not.
You imagine this week will be no different. Especially after today. He always gets a bit more insatiable after the two of you have posted a video together.
He’ll make you watch it in his office. His now favorite tradition. And the comments and response will encourage something in him that makes you giddy. Possessive yet proud. Like he wants to outdo himself next time. Make you come harder, longer, faster. Make everyone watching eat their fucking hearts out.
You feel the tip of his swollen cock brush down your folds, lazily rubbing against you as he alerts you of his presence.
Just the feel of him makes you breathless, back arching as you silently plead with him for more.
He won’t give it to you, at least not yet. Not until he’s had a chance to watch you soak him.
He presses his hand against it, trapping it to your cunt while gliding it through your arousal. Gentle thrusts that have you clenching around nothing until you hear him curse to himself.
“Beg me,” he calls, grasping onto your ass cheek to pull it apart, allowing him a better view. “Beg me to fuck you, Peach. Beg Daddy to make it better.”
“Please,” you comply instantly, a subtle quiver in your voice. “Please, Daddy. Need you. Need to feel you. Hurts.”
“Oh, honey,” he coos, finally circling the rim of your aching hole and pushing in only an inch just to pull back. “Bet it does. Know I’ve been teasing you all day, haven’t I?”
You whine again. “I deserved it. Always love it when you tease me.”
He chuckles under his breath, and you know you’ve made him proud. “That’s right. Know you do, my love. Because you know I just wanna make it better for you, hm?”
“I know.” You attempt to wiggle back into him, but his unrelenting grip keeps you frozen to your spot. “Always do, Sir. Always make it better.”
He slides in again, further this time, allowing your body to stretch for him. Then, he slides out, leaving you to wilt as you swallow a groan.
“And I always will,” he answers, knee knocking into your inner thigh as an instruction to spread your legs a bit further. “Just have to behave for me. Think you can do that, Peach? Think you can be good for me?”
And you’ve never wanted anything more, head nodding quickly before he finally thrusts into you with such power and dominance that it knocks the wind from your lungs.
Truth be told, you never know what you’re going to get with him. What rhythm will drive him. But you’ll take anything he offers. Because hard and slow or fast and eager…it’s perfect. Sets your nerves on fire and leaves you desperate and depraved.
The sounds of him pushing through and pulling out are sure to be captured by the microphone. You can’t see the computer, but you imagine the audience is loving it. They always seem to enjoy sounds as much as you do. And Harry’s sounds are the best.
Your quick breaths intertwine seamlessly with his unforgiving grunts. Like a melody for the soul, and you slowly slide down until your chest meets the mattress, although your ass stays up.
He seems to like this angle, nails scraping down your spine before he lands another smack to your cheek. “There she is.”
Both sets of clamps are stimulated as you’re pushed against the bed, making your eyes roll back every time he drives himself to the hilt.
The pain is delicious. Exactly what you’d needed, and just when you think it can’t get any better…he slips an arm around your stomach and forces you back up.
Instantly, his hand is on your throat, tugging your back into his chest as he settles you down on his cock.
Dominant fingertips press into the sides of your neck, playing with your airways as you gasp. And for a moment, you are nothing more than his toy. Just a body for him to use, and the idea makes you clamp down on him until he groans and nuzzles his nose into your shoulder.
But you know it’s more to him than that. Know that you’re not just this thing for him to abuse and ruin. He wants to worship you. Treat your body like the divine gift it is, and even though this display of aggression is uncouth…it’s meant for you. To make you feel good. Everything he does is always for you.
“So good, baby,” he whispers, just quiet enough that only you can hear. “Fucking love the way you feel, Peach. Always so warm for me. So wet. My perfect hole.”
You shudder, nails reaching for his arm to scratch down his skin. Desperate to be even closer to him.
His hand then drops to your chest, finding your breast and groping at it mercilessly as you cry out. The clamps are tugged, stimulating the rings, and forcing your back to arch. So many sensations are being exploited that it’s nearly impossible to think straight. Your mind is mush, focused only on one thing to keep from drowning:
Him.
“Wanna come, don’t you?” he taunts, now louder so the audience can hear. “Wanna come on my cock, so they see what I do to you?”
You nod quickly, unable to vocalize your agreement. But he doesn’t need it. He knows. Can read your body like a book, and it makes him smile into your heated skin.
“Good,” he whispers, pressing a lingering kiss to your neck before reaching down to undo the clamp around your clit. “Go.”
The moment the pressure is released, it hits you. Your toes curl, your eyes roll back, and you make so many noises, you wouldn’t be surprised if the people below Harry’s apartment can hear you.
He works you through each ripple and aftershock, perhaps hoping to send you into a third, but your body needs a moment to recharge.
And this is more than fine with him because it gives him a bit more time to watch himself disappear into you. His favorite part.
You collapse in his hold, held up only by his strong arm that’s thankfully bare, allowing you to glance down at his tattoos.
He takes his shirt off for almost every video now. He knows that nobody will be able to recognize his tattoos, but he especially knows how much you love them. Love to lick them, trace them, stare at them.
Your perfect pastime, and you think this now as you grip onto his wrist and squeeze.
He exhales into your shoulder before he’s suddenly cursing and pulling out, the sound of his slick cock slipping from your cunt making you whimper.
With a single pat to your hip, he growls, “On your back.”
You nearly throw yourself down onto the bed, finally able to face him fully as you’re met with the sight of his flushed cheeks.
He’s so beautiful when he’s turned on, and you feel nothing but grateful to be able to witness this sight firsthand. Even your audience is denied such a pleasure, and it makes it feel that much more special to you.
He pushes your legs apart and settles between your thighs, grasping onto his cock before guiding it toward your chest.
He never comes inside you on film. He claimed it was because they don’t deserve to see it, and you didn’t argue. You like the idea. Occasionally he’ll capture a short clip of the way he leaks out of your pussy, but it’s never posted. Instead saved just for the two of you to watch whenever you need.
So while you’ll miss feeling him inside of you today, you know that it’s worth it. You like that you get to keep something for just the two of you. You like this possessive side of him.
Love it, in fact.
Nodding at your breasts, he silently instructs you to grab them, to which you do, pushing them together as he brings his swollen and soaked cock closer.
Slowly, he slides between your tits, disappearing beneath the supple flesh as you both groan your approval.
He’s already seconds away from his own release, but he edges himself by fucking your tits for as long as he can. Staring wordlessly at the way he looks beside his initials on your nipples.
“Fuck, Peach,” he breathes, brows knitted together as his jaw clenches. “Like it like this, don’t you? Like it when I come like this?”
And you do, a soft sough of agreement all you can offer as you look down at the way his tip pokes through the valley you’ve created. The contrast of his pink flesh against your skin is beautiful. Artful, even. And it makes you smile, wider than you have all day.
His pace is slow, allowing you to feel the slickness paint your chest before he’s suddenly tensing, the muscles in his stomach contracting quickly.
You await his offering eagerly, practically panting as you watch him run his palm along his cock before he’s releasing all over your torso and chest.
He falls forward, bracing himself with a hand beside your head while you throw your arms around his neck to keep him close.
“Thank you, Daddy,” you whisper as he milks the last few drops. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
You feel a shiver roll across his body at your comment before he’s smashing his lips into yours, dancing his relieved sighs across your tongue.
It takes a good minute or two for you both to find your bearings, but once you have, he reaches toward the nightstand where the remote lies.
Aiming it at the camera, he clicks a couple of buttons, and the red light turns off, signaling that the livestream has ended.
Now alone in his massive bedroom, he grins down at you. “My sweet fucking girl. Did so well for me, honey.”
You bask in his praise, nuzzling your nose against his before pressing a kiss to his cheek. “That was fun. Like it when you fuck my tits.”
“Yeah?” He’s smirking again, palm now smacking against your breast just to watch it jiggle. “Good. ’Cause I don’t plan to stop.”
Your arms snake tighter around his neck until he’s forced to lay his chest against yours. “Think they liked it?”
“I know they did,” he murmurs, face disappearing into your neck as he breathes you in, sweaty or not. “They love you, Peach. You’re so good to them.”
You press your lips into his hair.
“You’re good to me, too,” he adds quietly, sliding his hand across your body until he can hold onto you. “Always so fucking good. Best thing that ever happened to me.”
A sort of flutter happens in your stomach as you squeeze him tighter. “Ditto.”
You stay there for a few minutes at least, teetering on the verge of sleep before Harry declares you need to get clean.
He scoops you up and carries you to his large bathtub, dipping you into the warm water once it’s ready and settling himself on the other side to face you.
You talk for what feels like hours, until you’re pruned, and the bubbles have disappeared. You go over the scene, go over what you think the comments will be, and even go over his schedule for the upcoming work week.
It’s weird the way you’ve managed to balance the relationship of boss and lover. You’re able to distinguish the two and create the appropriate boundaries. Making it easier to work together without driving each other nuts.
Something else you’re grateful for.
You stare at his wet abs as he talks, smiling to yourself as you admire every curve of his stomach, and every nipple he has to offer.
He splashes some water at you when he realizes before grabbing hold of your ankles and sliding your closer.
You kiss until you can’t breathe, and life feels really good.
Really fucking good.
Once you’re out and dried, you make your way back to his bedroom to make sure everything from the livestream is in order.
You scroll through a few of the responses together, making mental notes of what to do next time. And once you’re both in agreement that everything looks good, he adds it to your shared profile.
Appropriately titled,
Peaches and Cream.
I have no excuse for this or explanation, I'm just gonna blame it on the sick meds I took 🙃
I already miss them but I'm absolutely going to be doing some extras and maybe that'll make it not hurt so much 😭💞
Thank you to everyone who's read and been so kind and supportive!!! You have my entire heart forever and ever, I cannot tell you how appreciative I am 🥹♥️ This has been so fun!!
Peaches and Cream forever!!
Previous Part:
~ Four to Go*
~ Full One for the Money Masterlist
~ Other Harry Blurbs
~ Full Masterlist
Credit for the incredible and perfectly peachy dividers to @firefly-graphics!!
Taglist: @walkingintheheartbreaksatellite @keepdrivingkisses @swiftmendeshoran @tiredinwinter @straightontilmornin @justlemmeadoreyou @harrysdaydreams @tiaamberxx @peterparker1sgf @myfavfanficsever @littlenatilda @vamprry @fdl305 @tchalametishot @ssaama @indierockgirrl @kathb59 @iamjustaholeforyousir @buckyssbestgirl @harrystylesfan2686 @cherryluvhobi @narry-heart @daphnesutton @uniquesexything @amateurduck @ilovec0lbybr0ck @winterrays @milfrrynation @definegirlfriendsx @allthelovehes @amiets2 @likeapplejuicenpeach @nega-omega @sucker-4-angst @hsgucci94 @gills-lounge @kennedy-brooke @avasversion @stylesfever @saturnheartz @finelinesss
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