#guardrry
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stylesloveclub · 9 months ago
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been thinking about both of these harrys a lot lately…… https://www.tumblr.com/stylesloveclub/731048155682078720/had-a-beautiful-security-guardrry-idea-today-can
I WILL WRITE THEM!!!! i will :) pinky promise
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jawllines · 2 years ago
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part 4 of body guardrry pls can she give him head. And him eating her out too. Omg also I think it would be so hot and so on brand if y/n looked down at Harry while he was giving her head and he was j*cking off bc he was so into it and couldn’t help himself.
Also I feel like they HAVE to share a bed and y/n wakes up with his arm around her stomach and his head tucked in the back of her neck.
And then maybe he gets hurt and she has to take care of him for a change and they’re standing so close together while she patches him up 😳
OH VERY FUN VERY FUN
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moonchildstyles · 1 year ago
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Body guardrry asking her so say everything in the meu in french was so cute
And asking he to be in photos with him
And asking if the can see the eiffel tower again at night because he was in such wonder
Dont even get me started with him looking up pilates classes and booking one for her😭
eeeeek! im so happy you liked the new part thank you thank you thank you!!!! def loved like exploring their bond in this part and like depending it and getting them into their own relationshop outside of everything happening back home!! but ahhhhh just thank you so much can't wait to share tomorrow's part w u!
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erodasfishtacos · 2 years ago
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“I go fucking crazy when we’re apart. When I don’t have you next to me, when I’m unable to know you’re safe. When you’re with the king, a man you know is no good for you.”
secret love affair between guard harry and queen yn
“You don’t even care! You’re out there flirting with every maid that bats their eyelashes at you!” YN hisses angrily, trying to keep her voice down as it will echo through the marble halls.
“How could you say that? Have you gone mad? I haven’t even glanced at another broad in years,” Harry argues back lowly, he keeps a respectable distance between them.
“You have a poor way of showing it. Did not even greet me when we arrived back from our month journey down the countryside,” YN can’t hide the hurt that blossoms through her tone as she blinks back tears.
“I couldn’t bloody well wrap you in my arms and smother you with the affections i wished too in front of your husband.”
The distain is thick on his tongue.
“Did you even miss me?” The Queen whispers, vulnerable as she smooths at the expensive fabric of her evening gown.
Harry scoffs at the mere thought that he didn’t miss her with every ounce of his soul, “I go fucking crazy when we’re apart. When I’m not there to keep you safe. When you’re with the King, the man is no good for you.”
YN hesitates, always stubborn but after a moment she swallows her pride and requests, “I would like you to show me the affections you would have liked to do earlier right now.”
Harry glances down the corridor, both ways, before striding toward her and cornering her against the wall,.
“Yes, My Queen,” He agrees before he’s ducking down to connect their lips.
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hrina · 5 years ago
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Polished
PAIRING: Harry x Reader RATING: M WORD COUNT: 15.6k REQUESTED: nope!
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hi everyone 💘 this is the bodyguard AU that i’ve spent all week writing. she’s another long one (i think i have a problem lol) but i worked really hard on it and i’m super proud of how it all turned out. i really hope you like it! if you do, please feel free to leave me some feedback here. 
thank u to the people who acted as my betas for portions/the entirety of this fic: @emotionally-imbruised​, @gucciwoodnymph​, @poppunkdork​ and @atlafan​! i appreciate it so much! 
warning: this fic contains mentions of blood, minor violence, attempted assault, weaponry, and a single use of the f-slur. if any of this makes you uncomfortable, please keep scrolling.
with all of that being said, enjoy! i can’t wait to hear ur thoughts 💖
~*~
     September 18, 2020
“Cheers!”
The tequila burns its way down your throat as you toss the shot back. Your ears are ringing, the sound amplified by the music pulsing through the nightclub. Lights flash from the ceiling, bathing everything in pinks and blues and greens and purples. To your right, Sydney leans forward, smiles toothily, and yells something at the bartender. You think she might be telling him that it’s her birthday, even though that won’t be true for another month—perhaps it’s an attempt to secure an additional round of drinks. Your hips sway unconsciously as you sink your teeth into a slice of lime.
It’s a Friday night.
In the periphery of your vision, you catch the bartender nodding with a permissive smile on his face.
It’s a Friday night, and Sydney is handing you another shot of tequila.
Someone places their hand on the small of your back as they pass. A little zap of electricity races down your spine.
It’s a Friday night, Sydney is handing you another shot of tequila, and you’re drunk. You’re very, very drunk.
The pinch of salt that you lick off your hand stings the edge of your tongue. You don’t reflect on the sensation for too long, though, choosing instead to tip your shot glass back and let the alcohol run its course. The bottom of the glass thuds against the countertop when you slam it down, but the noise is lost amidst the heavy bass pouring through the club. Sydney smiles up at you as she bites into her lime, a green grin. You laugh.
“So!” your friend screams, grimacing at the sour aftertaste lingering on her lips. “Where’s Harry?”
“What?” You squint and lean in, bending down slightly so that you can hear her properly.
She rolls her eyes good-naturedly and repeats the question: “Where’s Harry?”
“Oh!” You smirk, shooting her a mischievous wink. “Managed to shake him off for the night!”
“No shit!” Sydney yells, her jaw dropping. “He let you come?”
You pucker your lips, averting your gaze. “Er…not exactly.”
In response, her eyes widen, and she just laughs. You grin when she slaps your arm gently and grabs your wrist, tugging you away from the bar and into the dancing crowd.
“Who cares?” she says loudly, throwing her hands toward the ceiling and shaking her hips. “He’s got a stick up his ass either way!”
Despite your inebriated state, part of you longs to correct her. He’s actually not that bad, you want to say, because it’s true. In public, Harry is stoic and reserved and always on high alert, but that’s because he has to be. It’s his job. You resent the fact that he intimidates your friends, and that it complicates your outings, but you don’t resent him. He’s been assigned to you for two years now, and there’s never been an incident—you wonder if it’s because he’s good at what he does, or because you don’t really need protection after all.
All this time…perhaps your mother was just overly paranoid. And perhaps she continues to be overly paranoid, even to this day.
You shake those thoughts from your mind; they’ll just give you a headache.
Another hand lands on the small of your back, but this time, the contact isn’t fleeting. Fingers pinch and tug at the material of your shirt, relentless. You’re about to whip around and demand that this badgering stranger unhand you, but then a pair of lips are right at the shell of your ear. Hot air fans down your neck—you shiver.
“Why do you insist on making my job so much harder than it has to be?”
~*~
Harry doesn’t speak a word after ushering you into the car. The whole ride back, you sit with your arms crossed, staring out the window and trying to shake off your dizziness. A deep pout is etched into your lips. Your somber expression doesn’t shift, not even when Harry pulls up to the tall metal entrance of your estate, punching in a code on the keypad and sticking his head out of the driver window to undergo a retinal scan. He settles back into his seat afterward, blinking rapidly and waiting for the front gates to creak open.
“How’d you find me?” you slur as you stumble into your bedroom. It’s the first time you’ve spoken since he dragged you out of the club.
Harry doesn’t answer as you make your way over to your bed; your room is large, rivalling the size of an overpriced studio apartment. The furniture is all carved from the finest mahogany, and a glass chandelier hangs from the ceiling. Tall, full-length windows are framed by satin curtains. On the opposite wall stands the door to your private washroom, and next to it, the entrance to your walk-in closet. It’s lavish, it’s luxurious, but it does nothing to ease the situation at hand.
“What?” you ask, plopping down onto your bed. You lift one foot up, fiddling with the strap around your ankle. “Ignoring me for the night?”
You purse your lips as you struggle to get your heels off. Your head is swimming, and a deep feeling of shame is blossoming in your chest. Groaning loudly, you smack your hands down against the duvet and squeeze your eyes shut.
Footsteps approach, but you pay them no mind. You only open your eyes once you feel a pair of rough—albeit nimble—fingers dance down your shin. Through the slight blur in your vision, you find Harry kneeling before you, his hands working deftly to unclasp the strap on each ankle and gently tug your shoes from your feet. You wiggle your toes, sighing appreciatively.
“Thank you,” you murmur, swallowing heavily.
He only grunts in response.
The two of you sit there in silence—you on your duvet and him on his haunches. He’s looking down at the ground, and you take the moment to study his features—the sharp bridge of his nose, the fluttering of his eyelashes, the twisting of his lips. His black suit fits him well, filled out in all the right places; gold cufflinks glint in the moonlight. He’s attractive, and you’re not blind. But your relationship is strictly professional, no matter how much you like to think that the two of you have grown close enough to be friends.
“Find my iPhone,” Harry mutters suddenly.
“What?”
You recoil. He looks up at you with piercing green eyes, and only then do you realise that he’s answering your initial question.
“Oh,” you say, nodding. “Well…good to know.”
His lips twitch.
You wobble into the washroom, trying your best to rub off the makeup on your face despite your inebriated state. Somewhere beneath the buzz, you know that you didn’t get all of it—and that there’ll probably be dried crusts of mascara beneath your eyes tomorrow—but you can’t bring yourself to care.
“You missed some.”
You jump, your gaze snapping upward. In the reflection of the mirror, Harry is leaning against the doorway. You groan, raking your fingers through your hair.
“Don’t worry about it,” you mumble.
Harry’s brows creep up his forehead, surprise evident on his face. “Aren’t you always telling me that it’s important to take it all off before bed?”
You roll your eyes. “I’m smarter when I’m sober.”
He snorts. “Good one.”
You frown.
He pushes off from the doorway, stepping closer to you and reaching for the pack of discarded makeup wipes. When his eyes meet yours in the mirror, he tilts his head to the side, gesturing to the toilet on your right.
“Sit.”
You pout like a child, plopping down onto the ceramic lid and waiting impatiently. Harry takes his sweet time, slowly pulling a wipe from the package and unfurling it gingerly. You’re momentarily entranced by the way the rings on his fingers sparkle in the light. But then a yawn tears past your lips, and you begin to tap your foot against the bathroom tiles, letting out an annoyed sigh.
“C’mon. I’m tired.”
He shoots you a stern look. It’s enough to shut you up.
You watch him intently as he crouches down in front of you and grabs your chin between his fingers. “Close your eyes,” he murmurs. The deep baritone of his voice sends a shiver down your spine.
His ministrations aren’t as tender as they should be—you make it a point to tell him as much.
“You’re rubbing too harshly,” you whine, squeezing your eyes shut. “Be gentler with it.”
“Quiet,” Harry huffs.
Spurred on by his irritation, you continue: “Are you always this rough? Your poor girlfriend…”
He grits his teeth.
“I don’t have a girlfriend,” he deadpans. You whimper when he drags the wipe unforgivingly over the delicate skin of your eyelids. “But if I did,” he adds, “she’d like it rough.”
Your shoulders stiffen once his words sink in. He says nothing else, choosing instead to crumple the wipe up into a ball and toss it in the garbage. You follow his movements with wide eyes, staring up at him as he stands.
“Brush your teeth,” he tells you, rubbing his fingers over his jawline. “Your breath stinks.”
And then he’s gone.
After a haphazard attempt at brushing your teeth, you shuffle back into your bedroom. Harry is still there, but he’s holding two pieces of fabric for you to take. You recognize them as the baggy t-shirt and the shorts that you usually wear to bed.
“Thank you,” you say, laying the material out on your mattress. Your lips part with another loud yawn as you unzip your skirt, letting it fall from your hips and pool around your ankles. When you cast a glance toward Harry, you find him facing away from you, his fingers laced behind his back.
Always a gentleman.
You tug on the soft, cotton shorts—the hem falls a few inches below your bottom. You reach behind your back, trying to thumb open the clasps of your shirt, but quickly grow frustrated as the seconds draw out.
“Harry,” you sigh, shaking your head.
“Yes?” He doesn’t turn around.
“Can you help me with this?”
Gingerly, he peers at you over his shoulder. Once he takes note of the fact that you’re dressed, he steps closer to you. You toss a thumb backward, gesturing to the column of buttons stacked along your spine.
Again, Harry manages the task easily. You stiffen as he parts the fabric of your shirt, your eyelids growing heavy with each new inch of skin exposed. Though he’s not standing nearly as close as you would like, you can still feel faint puffs of air floating across the nape of your neck. The room is silent; you’re afraid that he can hear your heart battering against the confines of your chest.
Do his hands linger a touch longer than necessary, or is it just your imagination?
“Thank you,” you say for what feels like the hundredth time tonight.
You pull your shirt off, leaving yourself in just a lacy black bra. Harry’s sharp intake of breath is audible, and then he’s whipping back around.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, shaking his head. “Give a guy a warning next time, yeah?”
“Next time?” you parrot, emboldened by the alcohol in your system. “Am I going to be stripping for you on a daily basis?”
He grunts. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”
You smile to yourself, unclipping your bra and shrugging on the baggy t-shirt he’d given you. “I know.” You clear your throat. “You can turn around now. I’m decent.”
Harry glances over at you as you climb into bed, pulling the covers back and nuzzling your face into your pillow. He bites his bottom lip, crossing his arms over his chest and watching as you settle in for the night. Once your shuffling has ceased, he squares his shoulders, his gaze flitting toward the door.
“Well, if that’s everything—,” he starts, taking a step back.
“Wait!” you say, shooting up into a sitting position.
He freezes, his eyes going wide. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” you reply. You shrug, picking at a loose thread on your duvet and avoiding his eyes. “Would you—I was just wondering if maybe—you could stay?”
“Stay,” Harry echoes. You nod, still refusing to look at him. He sighs, and the pet name that he seems to have reserved exclusively for you falls past his lips.
“Love…you’re drunk.”
“Exactly,” you shoot back. “I’m drunk and I just…it feels like I’m floating, and I need something to keep me grounded. And—” you groan, “I know that doesn’t make any sense, but could you please stay? Just—just until I fall asleep. Then you’re free to go, or whatever.”
Harry’s eyes are wide by the time you’re through with your little speech. His expression leaves you feeling even more embarrassed than before. You’re about to roll your eyes and grumble out a never mind, I’m being stupid, just leave, but then he’s approaching your bed cautiously, like you’re a deer that he doesn’t want to startle.
“Just until you fall asleep,” he confirms, drumming his fingers over his bicep.
You nod, expecting him to settle into the armchair a few feet away.
He doesn’t though; you watch attentively as he lowers himself down to sit at the edge of your mattress. His posture is stiff, back straight—he uncrosses his arms, but then locks his fingers together and places them securely in his lap. You hold back a laugh.
“You can relax, you know,” you say, rolling onto your side so that you can fix him with earnest eyes. “I won’t bite.” You pause. “Unless you’re into that kind of stuff.”
“I’ll leave,” Harry threatens without missing a beat.
You giggle, smothering your cheek into your pillow. “Fine, fine, I’m sorry.”
The ghost of a smile dances across his lips. Your eyes fall from his face to his lap; without thinking, you reach out, wrapping your fingers around his wrist and tugging his hands apart.
“It’s already chipping,” you say, a hint of admonishment seeping into your voice. “You should’ve let me put on the protective coat, dummy.”
“It’s fine,” Harry says, flexing his fingers in your grasp. “You’re just gonna redo them on Wednesday, anyway.”
“Still,” you murmur, thumbing over the purple varnish on his nails. You scrape your knuckles against his, letting out a quiet sigh. “What colour do you want next? Are we sticking with lavender again?”
“Nah.” He shakes his head. “Let’s try something new.”
“I went shopping yesterday with Sydney and bought mint green,” you tell him through a yawn. “What do you think of that?”
“’S nice,” he replies, though it sounds like he’s far away.
You peer up at him through your lashes, only to find that he’s staring at you intently. Under normal circumstances, you would offer up a quip about how he can’t seem to keep his eyes off of you. But you’re tired, and you’re warm, and his hand is now stroking over yours, and you don’t want to ruin the moment.
Maybe he’ll stay the night, is your last thought before you drift off to sleep.
When you awaken the next morning with a pounding headache and a dry mouth, Harry’s gone. The only proof left of the night before is a tablet of ibuprofen and a glass of clear liquid sitting on your nightstand. The ceiling wavers above you; you might still be a little drunk.
You sit up, popping the pill into your mouth and knocking it back with a large swig of water. There’s a dull ache in your chest but you ignore it, opting instead to pull the covers back up over your head.
He didn’t stay. You try not to feel too disappointed as the realisation sinks in.
     September 23, 2020
Harry is waiting for you once you get out of class.
Usually, you fall into step with him, ready with a teasing remark about how he must not have anything better to do with his time. He knows that the two of you probably look like quite the pair—you, with your bag and your coffee and your cheeky smirk, and him, resigned and rigid and expressionless. He would give anything to claw his way out of this situation, to smile along with you and laugh at your jokes and tuck your hair behind your ear. But he needs this job, and your mother loves him like a son, and he doesn’t want to do anything to screw that up.
Today, however, you leave class with a new friend. Harry’s entire body tenses when he notes just how closely the man is walking next to you. He follows the two of you from a safe distance, trying his best to be inconspicuous. You laugh at something that your companion says, and his jaw clenches—he pretends not to know why.
It feels like eons have passed before you and the man finally part ways. Harry doesn’t waste any time.
“Hey,” you say without even turning to look at him. When he glances down at you, he finds a shadowy smirk on your face.
“Hi,” he replies, clearing his throat. “Good class?”
“Mhm.” You nod.
“That’s good.”
He blows out a breath, pushing through a door and holding it open for you to follow. You thank him softly, releasing a happy sigh as the warm sunlight hits your face. Harry’s gaze is drawn to the serenity of your features, but he looks away quickly. He’s not really in the mood to endure your taunts. Not today.
“So,” he starts as the two of you amble down the sidewalk, “you made a new friend?”
“Yeah,” you say, shouldering the strap of your messenger bag. “His name is Kevin. He’s nice.”
“He’s funny, too, I’m guessing.” The slightest tinge of bitterness seeps into his words. He hopes that you won’t notice, but of course, you’re as perceptive as ever.
You glance over at him, lifting an eyebrow quizzically. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were jealous.”
Harry keeps his eyes trained in front of him, where he can see a black car inching into view on the road ahead. Your chauffeur rolls down the window, lifting one hand in greeting. Harry waves back, his expression betraying nothing.
“It’s a good thing you know better, then, isn’t it?”
You laugh at his comeback, but the noise isn’t as cheerful as usual. If anything, it sounds a bit forced.
“Yeah,” you say. Harry opens the car door for you, and you climb into the backseat. “I guess it is.”
~*~
“Your hand is shaking.”
“It’s not my hand, it’s yours.”
“You’re smudging it.”
“Because you keep moving!”
You sigh, sitting back against the headboard of your bed and squeezing your eyes shut. You don’t need to see Harry to know that he’s fighting a smirk. The discography of your newest celebrity obsession is playing on your phone. Harry has told you multiple times that he hates this song—and that’s exactly why you have it on repeat.
“Can we please listen to something else?” he asks, shifting carefully on your bed.
You crack one eye open. “Can you stay still long enough for me to finish doing your nails?”
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
You scoot closer to him, reaching for your phone and shuffling the songs in your library. Harry exhales in relief when a new, slower melody begins to trickle from the device. You toss it away, holding out your hand and looking at him expectantly. He lifts his chin, placing his fingers onto one of your crossed legs.
The sensation of his hand on your knee shouldn’t leave you breathless, but it does. You feel like his palm is burning a hole through your sweatpants. It’s been like this for as long as you can remember—painting his nails every Wednesday night, listening to music and enjoying each other’s company. Some evenings, conversation is scarce; others, it’s like you haven’t spoken in months. It doesn’t make a difference to you—you just like knowing that he’s there.
“How’d the call with your mum go?” Harry says. He makes a move to rest his chin against his fist before realising that the action will inevitably disrupt the polish on his other hand. You notice, smiling softly at the awkward moment.
“It went well,” you hum. Harry likes the way you purse your lips in concentration. “She’d landed in Amsterdam a couple hours prior. Called me when she got to the hotel.”
“That’s good.” He blows out a breath. “How long is she staying for?”
“A few months.”
“I see.”
You peer up at him, your eyes swimming with curiosity. “Do you know why she’s there?”
He shakes his head.
“Are you lying to me?”
“Love,” he starts, frowning gently, “you know she doesn’t—I’m not—she doesn’t keep me in her circle.”
“I know,” you say, somewhat mournfully. “I just thought—maybe she would’ve told you.”
A dejected crease forms on your forehead. Harry longs to lean forward and smooth it out with his lips. He hates when you get like this, but on the other hand, he can’t blame you. Surely, it must be difficult to be kept in the dark, especially for so long. It’s been years, and you’re still not exactly sure of what your mother has gotten herself into.
And despite your frequent questions about her trips, you’re not exactly sure if you want to know.
Silence ensues, and the two of you wordlessly agree to drop the topic—at least for tonight. You finish painting the nail on Harry’s middle finger, bending down and blowing cool air on the wet varnish in hopes of speeding up the drying process.
“Careful,” he warns when your hair tumbles over your shoulder. Without thinking, he reaches out, trying his best to gather the strands in one hand so that they don’t fall onto the freshly-painted nails splayed out over your knee.
You squawk in surprise, sitting back up and circling your fingers around his wrist. “What’d you do that for?” you say, admonishment evident in your tone. “You’re gonna screw these ones up!”
“I was just—!” he tries, but you shush him, scrutinising the semi-dry polish on his other hand. After a long moment, you sigh in relief, returning it and narrowing your eyes at him.
“You’re lucky,” you tell him, snorting quietly. “I would’ve killed you.”
“Like you could take me,” he mutters under his breath.
“What was that?” You cock an eyebrow.
“Nothing.”
You smirk, peering down at the mint green covering three out of his five nails. Absentmindedly, you run your fingers over the hills of his knuckles, softly tweaking his pinky at the end of your journey.
“We’ve come a long way since the black, haven’t we?” you ask, a teasing lilt in your voice. “That was so boring.”
“It was.” Harry nods.
It’s comical, really—a big man like him, sitting cross-legged on your bed. A man covered in an intimidating black suit, hunched over and watching with wide eyes as you meticulously paint shiny varnish onto each one of his nails.
A year ago, you would have been reminding him of this at every available opportunity.
Now, though…now, you’re just enjoying the closeness of it all.
“Er,” Harry clears his throat, and you peer up at him through your lashes.
“What’s up?” you ask.
“I—,” he looks away. “I just wanted to apologise for earlier today.”
“Earlier today…,” you trail off, frowning in confusion. “What happened earlier today?”
“When I—when you—never mind.” He shakes his head.
You smile. “I’m totally fucking with you,” you tell him, snickering quietly. You shrug. “And it’s okay. I forgive you.”
Harry’s brow furrows. “You’re the worst,” he grumbles, his lips curling down into a scowl.
You laugh, reaching forward and shoving his shoulder gently. “You love it.” Your own shoulders shake as you look back down, dipping the dried nail brush into its accompanying pot of green polish.
“Plus,” you add, trying to keep your voice light. “You’ve got nothing to worry about. Unfortunately, you’re the only man in my life.”
Harry lifts one eyebrow, unimpressed. “Should I be insulted?”
You resume painting his nails, giggling at his sardonic tone. “You should be flattered.”
     October 10, 2020
You’re walking back to the car when it happens.
It’s a beautiful day—the sun is shining brightly, and there’s not a cloud in the sky. You and Harry pass by a woman walking her dog, but not before you bend down, transferring all of your shopping bags into one hand (a feat, Harry thinks) and cooing at the furry little creature.
“She’s adorable,” you tell the owner, peering up at her with shining eyes. “What’s her name?”
“Blossom,” the woman replies, smiling.
“Blossom,” you repeat, turning your gaze back to the fluffy white dog. “Oh, you’re beautiful, aren’t you? I just want to eat you up.”
The owner laughs nervously—Harry doesn’t blame her. You’re harmless, but he’s right behind you. He’s sure that he looks intimidating, lingering in a black suit with his arms crossed over his chest. He makes no move to engage with the woman or her dog, even though the little boy in him yearns to run his fingers through Blossom’s soft white fur. Instead, he stands there, waiting patiently as you bid the lady goodbye and blow one last kiss in her pet’s general direction.
The two of you continue walking; the car is only about fifty feet away.
“That was one of the cutest dogs I’ve ever seen,” you say once you’re out of earshot. You glance back over your shoulder, sighing longingly. “Do you think she’d put her up for sale if I asked?”
Despite himself, Harry smirks.
“Contrary to popular belief,” he begins, uncrossing his arms. “You can’t buy everything you see.”
“I bought you, didn’t I?”
“I’m not for sale. And even if I was, technically it would’ve been your mother who bought me.”
“Okay, well then, we bought…your services.”
“Jesus.” He shakes his head, chuckling a bit. “You make it sound like I’m a prostitute or something.”
You laugh.
Harry loves your laugh. He loves the sound, loves the tone, loves the pitch. He loves the way your features crinkle up with joy as the noise slips from your mouth. Every time he hears your giggle, his gaze is drawn to your face, like an inborn reflex.
He’s grateful for that. He sends out a prayer of thanks to whatever mighty powers that may be, because when he looks at you, he sees everything. He sees your smile, the apples of your cheeks, your full, fluttering lashes.
And he sees the shaky red dot positioned squarely between your eyes.
“Get down!”
You squawk in surprise when he tackles you to the ground.
“Harry—!” you start, but then a telltale whizz! rockets past your ear.
You scream.
Your shoulder makes contact with the cement of the sidewalk, and a flare of pain blazes up your arm. Harry’s on top of you in an instant, his hands on either side of your head and his green eyes wild with panic. You’ve never seen him look so scared.
You know what’s happening, but you can’t seem to move. Your pretty pastel shopping bags are lying around you in a heap. Some are still on your arm, digging into your wrist and cutting off circulation. Harry appears to realise this as well, because he climbs to his knees and yanks your hands free.
“Go!” he shouts, but his voice is muffled by the ringing in your ears.
The two of you stagger to your feet. You take in your surroundings, your lips parted in shock. “My—my bags…”
“Forget the bags!” he yells. He grips your biceps callously, spinning you around and shoving you in the direction of the car. “Fucking run!”
~*~
“Harry…”
“Harry.”
“Harry!”
“What?” he roars, whipping around.
You stumble backward, nearly bumping into the wall behind you. You’re standing in the front foyer of your estate, your face littered with tears and your hands perpetually shaky. Harry locks the door and then wrenches closed the curtains on the windows flanking the entrance. The abrupt action causes him to wince.
“You’re hurt,” you state, though your voice is weak. “Harry, your arm…”
“’S just a graze,” he mutters, turning on his heel and storming past you.
You follow him as he makes his way toward the tall, winding staircase in the middle of the room. The steps span every level of your house, from the top floor to the basement. Harry pauses on the first stair of the flight leading downward, his hand on the bannister and his back to you.
“Go to your room,” he orders lowly, refusing to look at you. “And stay there.”
“Go to my room?” you repeat incredulously, your eyes bulging out of your head. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”
Harry doesn’t reply; instead, he blocks you out, descending the stairs into the basement without another word. You let out an angry yell, furiously fisting the material of your cashmere sweater. A few long moments elapse before you grit your teeth, and then your feet are smacking heatedly against each step as you rush after him.
You’re quiet once you reach the bottom of the flight, looking both ways for any clue as to where he could’ve gone. You purse your lips when you see him turn the corner, his left hand clutching his right bicep and a deep scowl etched into his face. Silently, you follow.
He ducks into a room at the end of the hall, pushing the door closed. However, it doesn’t click into place, leaving a small crack for you to peek through once you reach the threshold. You place one hand over your mouth to stifle your breathing, watching with wide eyes as Harry yanks his suit jacket from his torso.
His white button up is crisp and pristine—save for the right sleeve, which is soaked through with blood. You nearly gag.
Harry stalks through another doorway—a quick glimpse inside reveals it to be a bathroom. You push open your door ever-so-slightly, taking in the scene in front of you.
His bedroom. Of course.
You’ve never actually been inside his room. You’ve always known he lived somewhere in the house—a safe haven to frequent after midnight—but you’d never been bold enough to seek it out. You’re surprised to find that his room is quite similar to yours. It’s smaller in size, but the layout is the same (excluding your full-length windows and luxurious chandelier). The walls are painted a deep shade of burgundy, and the bed is made up of black satin sheets. He also has a walk-in closet and an adjoining washroom, just like you.
Bolstered by your discovery, you slip inside, nudging the door closed. Something on his dresser glints, catching your eye—you turn toward it.
It’s a picture frame. Upon closer inspection, you notice that it bears a photo of Harry. He’s young, but not that much younger than you are, now—maybe nineteen or twenty. He’s got his arms wrapped around two women, holding them against his sides; one is older, her face slightly weathered with age, whereas the other is youthful and alert, sporting bright eyes and smooth cheeks.
With a jolt, you realise that Harry and both of these women all look eerily similar—and that they all share the same smile.
The sound of running water jerks you out of your daze. Your head snaps up in the direction of the washroom; the door has been left ajar.
Harry is standing in front of the sink, soaking a washcloth underneath the faucet. His hair is dishevelled, and his button-up has been ripped open, exposing his chest and abdomen. A silver pendant—a dog tag—hangs from his neck. You’re shocked to discover all of the tattoos littering his skin—you’ve only ever been privy to the cross inked into the dip of his thumb.
Your eyes trail up his body, landing once again on the bloody sleeve covering his arm. The sight of it is enough, giving you the courage you need to speak up.
“Just a graze, huh?”
Harry’s eyes flicker up to meet yours in the mirror. A small part of you is upset that you didn’t manage to catch him by surprise. Are you really that predictable?
“Thought I told you to go to your room.”
You place your hands on your hips, scowling deeply. “And I thought you were twenty-six, not fifty. Who are you, my father?”
“No,” Harry says, and you hate the coolness with which he addresses you. He wraps the wet washcloth around his fingers, squeezing excess water from the fabric. “But I am your bodyguard.”
“You’re also hurt,” you retaliate, taking a step toward him.
Harry moves to the side, trying to put some distance between your bodies, but you’re not deterred. You back him up until his leg knocks against the edge of the bathtub, lifting one eyebrow challengingly because he has nowhere to go. His nostrils flare in irritation—you don’t think he’s ready to give up.
“You have two options,” you tell him, set on holding your ground. “You can either stop being such a proud prick and let me help you, or we can stay like this, and you can bleed out onto the bathroom floor.”
A long stretch of silence ensues. Harry stares at you with hard eyes, but you refuse to let your foundation crumble. Just when you think he’s going to force his way out of the situation, he sighs in defeat, his shoulders slumping dejectedly. You hold out your hand, and he dumps the washcloth into your waiting palm.
“Come here,” you say, backing up.
You hop onto the counter, spreading your legs and beckoning him closer.
He hesitates. You roll your eyes.
“Get over yourself,” you snap, shaking your head. “You’re not that dreamy.”
It’s unmistakably a lie, and you both know it, but neither of you say anything. Harry settles into the gap between your knees, keeping his arms securely at his sides. You peer up at him nervously, setting the washcloth down onto the counter and reaching forward to lightly grasp the collar of his shirt.
“This might hurt a bit,” you whisper, tugging the material away from his shoulders. He hisses when the fabric passes over his wound, scraping unpleasantly against the raw skin. You purse your lips, murmuring gentle apologies.
His left arm is covered in tattoos. You want to stop what you’re doing, trail your fingers over each design, and marvel at every little detail. But you can’t—you have bigger things to worry about at the moment, and not even your priorities are that screwed up.
Harry swears under his breath when you press the washcloth to his bicep. The material is warm and wet, and you use it to soak up the blood that’s been smeared down to his elbow. Once you’ve cleaned the area around his wound, you lean in to get a better look at what you’re dealing with.
The skin is pink and irritated, and there’s a deep groove running across the width of his arm. He’s lucky—he’s so, so lucky—but even as you stare, blood begins to pool all over again. You quickly press the washcloth back against the laceration.
“Fuck!” he chokes, reaching out and gripping the edge of the counter with white knuckles. “A little warning would’ve been nice.”
“Sorry.” You shift, trying to catch his eyes. “Do you have any disinfectant? And bandages?”
He nods, bending down and pulling open one of the cupboards below the sink.
“Let me—,” you start, but he cuts you off quickly.
“Still got one good arm, don’t I?” he grumbles.
You chew on the inside of your cheek, unsure of how to reply.
The disinfectant stings like a bitch—you tell him as much before spritzing it onto his wound. He lets loose a string of colourful curse words, and despite the tension hanging in the air, you smile. The bandages are next; you rip off a long strip, winding it around his bicep and tying it into a tight knot at the end.
“You need to keep pressure on it,” you murmur, though you don’t know who you’re addressing. “That should stop the bleeding, eventually.”
“Eventually,” he echoes. You stare fixedly at his collarbones and nod.
A beat of silence passes between you.
“I’m sorry,” you finally mumble, looking down at your lap.
He grunts. “For what?”
“For this,” you say, shaking your head and gesturing between your bodies. “You—you got shot, Harry.”
“Graze,” he reminds you, but the correction only makes you feel worse.
“It doesn’t matter!” you say, looking up at him earnestly. “You could’ve died.”
“But I didn’t,” he says. He’s staring at the mirror behind your head, refusing to meet your gaze. “And if it weren’t for me, you would have died.”
“That’s exactly my point!” you cry. You wrap your fingers around his forearm, hoping that the contact is enough to make him understand. “Who says my life is more valuable than yours? Some stupid fucking paycheque? Or—?”
Harry cuts you off before you can say anything else, squishing your cheeks together with his left hand. You make a surprised sound in the back of your throat, your brows knitting together at the suddenness of the action. You’re sure that you must look extremely unappealing, with a puckered mouth and inquisitive eyes, but he just gazes at you solemnly, licking his lips before speaking.
“I would take a bullet for you, no questions asked.” He stresses every syllable, like he doesn’t want to risk any potential misinterpretation of his words. “And not just because it’s my job.”
For the first time since he’s known you, he witnesses you speechless. Your squished lips part, but no words come out. Harry sighs, releasing your cheeks and stepping back from in between your legs. You watch as he approaches the bathroom door, pulling it wide open and making his request clear.
“You should get some rest,” he mutters, and once again, he refuses to meet your eyes. “It’s been a long day.”
     October 12, 2020
Harry pokes his head through your bedroom door just as you end the call with your mother. You groan, tossing your phone onto your mattress and flinging yourself into the mountain of pillows piled against the headboard. When you catch sight of him in the periphery of your vision, you greet him with a glare.
“You told her?”
He shrugs, stepping into your room and clasping his hands behind his back. “It’s my job.”
“No,” you say, mildly annoyed. “Your job is to make sure that I don’t get killed. Not to go running to my mother at the first sign of danger.”
Harry bristles. “She’s my boss. And you’re her daughter—she deserves to know.”
You groan, shutting your laptop and rolling over onto your stomach. Your sheets are soft; you wish that you could sink into the fabrics and let them swallow you up until you wink out of existence.
“What did she say?” Harry asks, snapping you out of your reverie.
“She wanted to come home,” you mumble, shaking your head. “I told her to stay where she was.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m fine!” you tell him, exasperation leaking into your words. “And I know that I’ll never hear the end of it if she has to cut her trip short because of me. God forbid she act like a parent for once in her life.”
“She’s trying her best.”
You laugh hollowly, turning onto your back and staring up at the ceiling. “That’s a lie, and we both know it.”
Harry doesn’t respond.
You peer over at him with raised brows, like you’re truly noticing his presence for the first time. “I’m surprised you’re still on duty. Does she not care about the fact that you’re injured?”
Again, he doesn’t respond. His silence, however, reveals everything.
“You didn’t tell her, did you?”
“I didn’t think it was relevant.”
“Bullshit,” you bark out, pushing yourself up into a sitting position. “So, what?” you ask, your lips curling down into a scowl. “You get to decide what’s ‘relevant’?”
“I’m here to protect you,” Harry states firmly, fixing you with stern eyes. “And I can’t do that from the sidelines.”
You scoff but say nothing else. A hush washes over the two of you, hanging heavy in the air. You pick at a loose thread on your duvet, your brows tucked tightly together.
Harry is the first one to break.
“Have you told your friends?”
You shake your head.
“Why not?”
“They don’t need to know.” You shrug. “Sydney’s rented out a booth for her birthday on Saturday, so I’m just going to go and pretend like nothing ever—”
“Hold on,” he cuts you off, wrinkles creasing into the skin of his forehead. “You—you’re joking, right?”
“Why would I joke about Sydney’s birthday?”
“No, I mean—,” he grunts, pinching the bridge of his nose with two fingers. You stare at him, utterly bewildered. He stands up to his full height, and the exasperation warping his features fades; apathy takes its place. “I’m sorry, but you’re not going.”
“What?” you shriek. Your unbothered appearance quickly disintegrates into a heated grimace. “What do you mean, I’m not going?”
“You’re not going,” he repeats, and you hate the calm—almost tranquil—expression on his face. “That’s final.”
“Okay,” you start, scrambling to your feet and holding up your hands. “Let’s pause for a second, yeah? I know we fuck around and laugh about my daddy issues sometimes, but…you do know that you’re not actually my father, right?”
“This isn’t about your daddy issues,” Harry declares, though his tone is void of any and all emotion. “It’s about your safety.”
“And what about my sanity?” you fire back. You tug the sleeves of your crewneck over your clenched fists, desperately searching for something to keep you from falling apart. “Are you saying that I’m basically trapped in my own goddamn house?”
“You’re being dramatic.” The mask that he’s wearing seems to have been carved from stone.
“Well, you’re being a dick.”
“I can live with that.”
“Harry!” You stomp your foot—like a fucking child—as your eyes dampen with tears. Your initial sense of shock washes away, replaced by a helplessness that you haven’t felt in a long time.
The next question that leaves your lips is pathetically frail.
“Why are you doing this?”
He finally meets your gaze, and for the first time since he’d walked in, it feels like he’s looking at you rather than through you. His back straightens, shoulders squaring like he’s preparing for divine combat. You approach him carefully, a stray tear streaking down your face. Before you can wipe it away on the material of your sleeve, Harry is reaching out with his uninjured arm, cupping your cheek and catching the droplet with his thumb.
“Less than forty-eight hours ago, an attempt was made on your life,” he murmurs, staring at you with earnest green eyes. “And you’re already so willing to risk it again?”
You sniffle, lifting your chin in defiance and batting his hand away. Harry’s expression falls, and his gaze grows cold once more. You wrap your arms around your torso, glaring at him angrily. Your subsequent command drips with venom.
“Get out.”
He doesn’t put up a fight.
     October 14, 2020
It’s nearly one in the morning when someone knocks on your bedroom door. At first, you don’t hear it, too preoccupied with the song pouring from your headphones into your ears. But then it’s there again, a bit firmer this time, and you pause your music, calling out a gentle, “Come in!”
You don’t know who you’re expecting to see. Maybe it’s one of the housekeepers, doing some late-night laundry and bringing you fresh towels for the next day. Maybe your personal chef has been baking cookies again—a common coping mechanism for when she can’t sleep. Your mouth waters at the thought.
All of your hopes are dashed, however, when the door creaks open.
The first thing you notice is that Harry’s not wearing his usual attire. You don’t know why you’re surprised—it’s past midnight, and he’s technically off-duty. It’s still shocking, though, seeing him sporting a plain t-shirt and a pair of black sweatpants instead of the crisp, dark suit to which you’ve grown so accustomed. Your eyes drop to his hands—at least he’s still wearing his rings.
“Hi,” Harry utters lowly.
You turn back to your laptop, not saying a word.
He sighs, dragging a palm down the side of his face. Fresh bandages peek out from beneath the sleeve of his t-shirt. For some reason, the sight startles you, and you remember that this is the man who had quite literally taken a bullet for you.
You suppose that it’s time to remove your head from your ass.
You shut your computer, pushing it to the side before tossing your legs over the edge of the bed. Harry watches you cautiously as you approach him, still as a statue. Swallowing heavily, you reach out, pushing the sleeve of his shirt up and brushing your fingers over his wounded bicep.
“How is it?” you ask, your voice no higher than a whisper.
He relents, shoulders deflating as he exhales. “’S better. Still sore, but it’s healing.”
“Can I see?”
He nods.
You’re surprised at how easily he lets you take the lead. You push the door closed with one hand, lifting your chin in the direction of your bed. He obeys your silent request and pads over to your mattress, easing down onto the duvet with his sock-clad feet still flat against the floor. You join him a moment later, settling in on his right side and crossing your legs to get comfortable.
His arms are limp, but his posture is straight. He stares at the door as you tug on the knot of his bandages, watching as they loosen around his bicep. Slowly, you unwind the gauze, subconsciously holding in a breath and awaiting what lies beneath.
The graze has started to heal. The skin around it is a lighter shade of pink, and the wound itself has begun to mend. You’re relieved to see that there’s no blood dotting his skin. Out of the corner of your eye, Harry’s throat bobs with a heavy swallow.
“It looks good,” you murmur, unsure of whether you’re talking to him or to yourself.
He just nods again, remaining motionless as you wrap the gauze back around his arm. You redo the knot at the end, and then you have to physically restrain yourself from leaning forward and smoothing your lips over the concealed wound.
Instead, your hands fall to his wrist. Harry stiffens, but then relaxes when you lift his fingers up to your face. Your brows furrow as you study the chipped green varnish on his nails. He’s been choosing the same colour for weeks, now—you’re glad that he seems to like it.
“Do you want me to?” you ask softly, peering up at him through your lashes. You’ve never been in his company so late at night (whilst sober, at least) but you suppose that there’s a first time for everything.
“Yeah,” Harry mutters, fidgeting with the material of his sweatpants. “Please.”
You shoot him the tiniest smile imaginable, and then you stand, making your way into the washroom to retrieve the worn, well-loved nail kit hidden under the sink.
~*~
“Do you want to keep the green?”
He shakes his head. “No, let’s try something else.”
“Okay.” You nod, dumping the contents of the bag onto your mattress. Little, colourful glass bottles clink together as they roll out onto your duvet. You look up at Harry with a raised eyebrow, gesturing luridly to the selection laid out in front of him. “Take your pick.”
His gaze sweeps over each shade before he shrugs—you don’t miss the slight wince of pain that passes over his lips. “I can’t decide,” he says simply, and when he looks back up at you, he’s almost shy. “You choose.”
“You’re giving me a lot of power, you know,” you say wryly. A soft chuckle slips from his mouth. After a brief moment of deliberation, you settle on pastel yellow, holding up the bottle so that he can see it clearly. “This might be pretty.”
“Pretty,” he echoes, staring straight into your eyes. His gaze knocks the air from your lungs and leaves you wondering if he’s talking about the colour, or about…something else.
You give the tiny bottle a good shake, catching sight of your phone laying off to the side. Without thinking, you snatch it up from the duvet, unlocking it and tapping onto your music app.
You hand the device over to Harry. When he shoots you a confused look, you just say, “If I’m picking the shade, you can pick the songs. Seems fair to me.”
He smiles.
You screw open the cap of the nail polish, studying the consistency of the liquid inside. “I might need to apply two coats to make it opaque enough,” you mumble, mostly to yourself.
Harry just hums in agreement as he scrolls through your music library.
He eventually seems to settle on a decision, because just then, a soft, monotone note wafts out from your phone’s speaker. You recognize the tune right away.
“Girl Crush?” you ask, the corners of your lips kinking up into a nostalgic smile. “I would’ve never guessed.”
He returns your tender expression, tilting his head to the side sheepishly. “It’s a nice song.”
“It is,” you concur. A sharp spark passes between your fingers when you reach for his hand, but neither of you comment on it. “Okay,” you say, shooting him a faux-menacing look. “Don’t move.”
The two of you sit in silence for the next ten minutes. You’re meticulous as you paint the varnish onto each one of Harry’s nails, your tongue caught between your teeth and your brow furrowed in concentration. You can feel him staring at you—he’s practically burning a hole through your head—but you say nothing, mostly because a small part of you is enjoying the attention.
“What were you doing before I showed up?” Harry asks quietly, breaking the silence.
“Working on a presentation for my seminar class,” you hum, dipping the nail brush back into its bottle. “It’s due Friday.”
“Are you nearly finished with it?”
You shake your head. “Not even close.”
“Love,” he starts, and you think you hear a hint of admonishment creeping into his tone. “Why’re you wasting your time giving me a bloody manicure?”
“Don’t worry about it.” You wave away his qualms with an absentminded flick of your hand. “I’ll get it done; I promise.” You pause for a moment, puckering your lips before you add, “Plus, I like doing your nails. It’s therapeutic.”
“Therapeutic,” he repeats. It’s obvious that he doesn’t believe you.
“Yeah,” you nod, blowing cool air over his fingers. “It’s nice—this. Us.”
He doesn’t reply.
You start on his other hand, careful with your ministrations. The memory of his closing wound is still fresh in your mind, and you don’t want to risk any sudden movements that might open it back up. You work noiselessly for the next few minutes.
“It’s weird seeing you dressed like this,” you murmur suddenly. The words slip out before you have the time to register them.
Harry chuckles faintly. “I’m usually on-duty, aren’t I?” When you nod, he continues: “Plus, we’ve never done this so late at night.”
“We can,” you say, perhaps a little too quickly. Your ears grow hot with embarrassment, and you’re suddenly extremely grateful for the fact that you have an excuse to not look at him. You stare hard at the rings on his fingers, swallowing heavily. “I mean…if you want. I’m sure it’s more comfortable sitting in sweatpants instead of slacks.”
“Don’t you have an early class on Thursdays, though?” Harry cocks an eyebrow, his question ripe with subtle mockery.
You chew on your bottom lip and refrain from telling him that you’ll happily show up to class with bags under your eyes if it means spending more of your time like this—with him. “Oh. Right.”
He laughs softly, and silence falls over the two of you once more. Just when you think that your conversation has tapered off for the night, he addresses the elephant in the room that you’ve both been trying your hardest to ignore.
“I’m sorry about the other day.”
You freeze, nearly smearing a glob of yellow onto the cuticle of his pinky. When you offer up nothing in response, Harry persists.
“I’m sorry I made you cry,” he mutters, lowering his head in shame. “I hated seeing you like that.”
You look up at him with wide, shining eyes. You’ve never witnessed him so full of remorse—the sight makes your heart ache.
“It’s okay,” you tell him, discarding the nail brush back into the pot of bright varnish. “I—you were probably right, anyway. It’s too dangerous.”
“No.” He purses his lips. “I think I was just being selfish. I was…trying to protect my ego.”
“What do you mean?” you ask softly.
His fingers flex when you stroke over the rough skin of his knuckles. He sighs.
“It’s my job to keep you safe,” he says. The words are slightly strained. “And I nearly failed.”
“But you didn’t,” you say, leaning forward.
“But I almost did!” he counters. You recoil, stunned by the emotion in his voice. He clears his throat and covers your hands with his. You can’t even be bothered to worry about the fact that his nails might ruin.
“When you told me that you were going out again, and so soon…,” Harry trails off, shaking his head. “I panicked, and I tried to take control. I’m sorry.”
You squeeze his wrists comfortingly and nod. “It’s alright,” you say thickly. “I forgive you.”
He blows out a relieved sigh, straightening up and blinking rapidly. Just like that, all evidence of his personal sentiments is gone. He can turn his feelings on and off so quickly—you suppose that it’s necessary in his line of work. Still, though…you don’t know whether to be annoyed or impressed.
“You should go to Sydney’s birthday,” he states matter-of-factly.
A small smile forms on your face. “I—are you serious?”
“Yeah.” He bobs his head in approval. “But I’m coming, too, obviously. Need to make sure you stay out of trouble.”
Your modest smile grows into a bright grin. Somewhere beneath your vibrant excitement, you realise that both of your hands are still tucked tightly between his.
“Escorted to a party by my hot, British bodyguard,” you tease. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
     October 17, 2020
The club is packed. You can barely move, squished between perspiring bodies and gyrating hips. You can’t even see the bar because of how many people are crowding the counter, waiting to order their drinks. It’s dark, and hot, and the air smells of sweat and desire—typical.
Under normal circumstances, you would’ve never come out on a Saturday night. The pros simply do not outweigh the cons.
Thankfully, though, these aren’t normal circumstances.
The booth that Sydney has rented is a beacon of hope, a little island of peace in the surrounding sea of chaos. You’re right next to the birthday girl, laughing at how captivated she is by the song booming through the building. She wraps one arm around you, tilting her head up and accepting another swig of vodka straight from the bottle.
The rest of your friends are scattered. Some are with you, lounging in the booth and drunkenly screaming lyrics up at the ceiling. Others are out on the dance floor, blending into the crowd and twirling around without a care in the world.
Sydney is plastered; you’re not too far behind.
A quick glimpse at your phone tells you that it’s a few minutes past one in the morning. It also makes you realise just how badly you need to pee.
There’s a man standing near the bar—he’s been eyeing you unsubtly all night. From what you can tell, he’s cute. A baby blue button-up hugs his shoulders nicely, and his blonde, shaggy hair is swept sideways on his forehead. He’s tall and handsome, and you don’t think you’d mind kissing him. As you inch your way toward the edge of the booth, a large part of you wonders why you haven’t already made a move.
You trip over your own two feet as you stand, and you’re sure that you would have broken your fall with your face if it weren’t for the strong pair of arms that catch you mid-tumble.
And oh. It comes rushing back to you, wrapped up in stark clarity.
That’s why.
Harry’s pained grunt reverberates lowly in your ear. With a loud gasp, you realise that your fingers are digging loosely into his injured bicep.
“I’m so sorry!” you yell over the music as he helps you back onto your feet. “Are you okay?”
He just nods, shaking off his discomfort and clenching his jaw.
He hasn’t moved from the edge of the booth all night. He’s been standing there for hours, untouched by the turbulent current of drunk socialites. You suppose that it’s because he appears to be just another member of security, watching the crowd and ensuring that everyone is staying safe.
“Where are you going?” Harry shouts. His question is barely audible, swept away by the basslines vibrating through your body.
“Bathroom!” you yell back.
“Do you want me to come with you?”
A laugh bubbles up in your throat. You pat his shoulder gently and shake your head. “I think I’m perfectly capable of taking a piss by myself! Thank you, though!”
He frowns, looking like he wants to argue. When he sees the expectant, mocking expression on your face, however, he clamps his mouth shut.
You shoot him an appreciative smile, tossing your thumb over your shoulder and barking out a quick promise of, “I’ll be right back!”
You’re pleased to discover that the washrooms of the club are split up into private cubicles rather than simply aggregated in one big space. The walls of the corridor are lined with doors and littered with a few drunken stragglers. You pass a man and a woman who are locked in a blazing kiss, and a hot pang of longing claws its way down your sternum, settling uncomfortably in the pit of your stomach.
The last cubicle on your right is vacant. Breathing out a quick prayer of thanks, you duck inside. There’s an empty shot glass standing on the edge of the sink, but other than that, the room is in good condition. You tug your underwear down as you position yourself above the toilet, clutching the hem of your dress close to your chest and doing what you came to do.
Two minutes and one flush later, you’re screwing open the faucet, sighing happily as cool water runs over your wrists. To your right, a dispenser containing lavender-scented soap is nailed into the wall. You wash your hands quickly before wringing them out and wiping the excess wetness against your thighs.
When you open the washroom door, you freeze in your tracks. A man—that same man who’s been making eyes at you all night—is standing in the threshold.
He’s even taller in person. And now that you’re closer to him (and shrouded in better lighting) you can see that his hair isn’t blonde like you’d originally thought, but light brown. His eyes are a stark shade of cobalt blue, attentive enough to indicate that he might be one of the only sober people in the entire building.
“Hi.” His voice is as smooth as velvet.
“Hi,” you reply, offering up a small, wary smile. He’s cute, but who the fuck tries to pick a woman up as she exits the bathroom?
“My name’s Lukas,” he says, holding out his hand. You take it gingerly, quietly introducing yourself in return. He smiles at the mention of your name. “Nice to meet you.”
“You too.” You stand on your tiptoes, peering over his shoulder and chewing on your bottom lip. “Sorry, my friends are waiting—”
“That’s a pretty dress,”  Lukas tells you, placing his hands on either side of the doorway. Somewhere beneath the buzz of alcohol in your system, you’re aware that he’s successfully blocked your only way out. He takes a step toward you, and you match it with a step back, nearly tripping over a shallow crack in one of the tiles on the floor.
“Thanks,” you say, your lips curling into a dim scowl, “but I really should be going.”
“Or we could hang out in here,” he suggests, shrugging innocently (in the back of your mind, you know that his thoughts must be the furthest thing from innocent.) “Just the two of us.”
“No, thanks.” You shake your head vehemently. Your palm finds a place on the wall, and you use the leverage to keep yourself steady. Your eyes rake down his body as he inches toward you, searching for any potential weak points.
Elbow to the nose? Knee to the groin?
Just then, a gruff utterance of your name is heard from out in the hall. You nearly sob in relief.
“Harry!”
Less than a moment later, a large, sweaty hand slaps down over your mouth. You squeal, frightened tears rushing to your eyes as Lukas heaves you up against the wall. He digs his fingers into the column of your throat, keeping you pinned with one hand while the other reaches for the door, aiming to slam it shut.
Before it can close all the way, a strong, ringed hand appears out of nowhere, shoving the barrier back open. Hinges creak as the doorknob crashes into the side of the wall, nearly putting a hole through the plaster.
Harry’s nostrils flare as he absorbs the scene laid out in front of him. Only a second passes before he’s stalking inside the cubicle, his mossy eyes alight with one palpable emotion: rage.
“Get the fuck off of her!” he bellows.
His palms make contact with Lukas’ shoulders, and he uses the brunt of his weight to shove him away from you. The other man goes tumbling into the opposite wall, almost stumbling over the porcelain bowl of the toilet.
“The fuck is your problem?” Lukas snaps, rubbing the back of his head as he regains his bearings.
Harry pulls you out of harm’s way, putting himself between you and your aggressor. You watch the scene unfold from behind him, anxiously fumbling with the hem of your dress.
“Don’t—,” Harry points at Lukas threateningly. His voice has returned to its normal, low octave, but you can still hear the fury simmering beneath his words, “—ever fucking touch her again.”
Lukas pushes himself off of the wall, cracking his knuckles and angling his head to the side. His blue irises glimmer maliciously as he looks over at you.
“Is this your boyfriend, sweetheart?” he asks. The words are nothing but a wicked taunt. He sizes Harry up, assessing his figure.
You watch his eyes widen when they land on the pale yellow polish decorating your bodyguard’s nails, and then—much to your horrified surprise—he laughs.
“Oh, my mistake.” He shakes his head, a spiteful smile splitting across his face. “He’s just a fuckin’ faggot.”
Harry doesn’t react to the insult—but you do. Before you can even register your actions, you’re slipping out from behind him, lifting your arm high into the air and delivering a sharp, backhanded blow to Lukas’ right cheek.
Your knuckles sting at the contact, but the pain is overshadowed by the smug sense of vindication that settles in your chest. Anger warps your features, turning you into someone unrecognizable.
“How dare—?”
The rest of your sentence dissolves into an alarmed shriek when Lukas seizes your wrist. He snarls.
“Know your place, bitch!”
You brace yourself for his retaliation, but the strike never comes. In the blink of an eye, Harry has Lukas’ arm pinned behind his back. Blue eyes well up with agony, and a pained shout slips from his lips. You recoil, startled by the sudden shift of power.
Harry leans down, his mouth just above Lukas’ ear. He glances up at you briefly before looking back down at the cowering man before him. In that moment, your gazes meet for only a millisecond, but the contact somehow puts you at ease.
“Apologise to the lady,” Harry mutters, pulling Lukas’ arm even tighter across his back. “Or I break it.”
Lukas whimpers, glaring up at you with angry eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he spits out, though there’s no sincerity behind the phrase.
Wordlessly, you lift your chin, spinning on your heel and making your way toward the door. Behind you, a surprised yelp slices through the air, followed quickly by a violent thud. When you peer back over your shoulder, Harry is brushing his palms off on the lapels of his suit, and Lukas is kneeling over the toilet, his chest heaving.
“Harry,” you say, calling him over. You hope that neither of the men can hear the slight quiver in your voice.
Harry approaches you, and you reach out for him. He offers you his uninjured arm; you link your elbow through the gap between his bicep and his torso.
You expect it to end there, but then Lukas mutters something unfamiliar under his breath. The words are nearly indiscernible, but you know for a fact that they’re definitely not English. Harry must hear them too, because he freezes in his tracks.
“Harry,” you say, tugging gently at his sleeve. “Harry, what’s wrong?”
“Say goodbye to your friends,” he replies bluntly, dodging your question. “We’re leaving. Right now.”
~*~
The journey back home is painfully quiet.
Harry says nothing until the car drags through the metal gates of your property and peels up the roundabout leading to your front door. Once your chauffeur cuts the engine, Harry turns to him, shaking his hand firmly and thanking him for the ride. You bid the man goodnight, catching his kind smile in the rear-view mirror.
He seems nice. You should probably learn his name.
But that can wait.
The effects of the alcohol in your system seem to have worn off. You attribute your sobriety to the fact that you were cornered and nearly attacked in a public bathroom not too long ago. You’re still a bit wobbly on your feet—not to mention the loud, persistent ringing in your ears—but your mind is clear. That’s all that matters.
Harry leads you inside, cupping his palm beneath your bent elbow and keeping you steady. Part of you longs for him to slide his hand closer and trail his fingers down your back until they’re tickling the base of your spine. But that would be unprofessional, you remind yourself, so you keep your mouth shut.
Walking into your room fails to bring you the familiar sense of comfort that it usually does. You swallow heavily, kicking off your heels (these ones aren’t embellished with any straps or buckles, thank God) and making your way over to your bed. As you approach your mattress, your fingers find their way to your back, grasping for the zipper of your dress that’s settled just above your shoulder blades.
You grit your teeth in frustration, stopping suddenly and casting a glance behind you. Harry is waiting at your door, standing rigidly with his hands clasped tightly in front of him.
“Can you…?” Your question is hushed and incomplete, and you don’t wait for his reaction before turning back around. The sound of his low footsteps reaches your ears; your skin prickles in anticipation.
His fingers are gentle as they tug your zipper down. He’s close—closer than usual. You can feel his warm, laboured breaths puffing out against the nape of your neck.
Harry pauses when he drags the zipper past the middle of your back, exposing the clasp of your bra. His hands abandon your body, leaving you confused. Before you can question him, however, he’s fiddling with the little hooks on the undergarment. A moment later, the cups holding your cleavage in place loosen and slip lower on your chest. A soft, dazed gasp tumbles from your lips.
Harry then resumes his previous actions, unzipping your dress the rest of the way and stepping back once he’s finished. You face him, clutching the sagging fabric against your sternum to keep it from sliding down your torso.
“Thank you,” you murmur. Suddenly, the floor is a lot more interesting than the man standing before you.
Harry just grunts in response.
You hesitate, sinking your teeth into your bottom lip. There’s a palpable tension hanging in the air; you feel like it might suffocate you if you don’t voice the question dancing on the tip of your tongue.
“What was it?” you ask quietly, refusing to take your eyes off of the ground. “In the washroom, before we left—what did he say? It wasn’t English—”
“French,” Harry cuts in. You pause, clamping your mouth shut and waiting for him to continue, but he doesn’t add anything else.
“What did he say?” you repeat. Beneath the loose, shapeless material of your dress, your heart is beating a mile a minute.
“Nothing,” Harry utters after a long moment of silence. “At least, nothing that you need to worry abo—”
“You’re lying,” you seethe, and the abrupt wave of irritation that washes over you is enough to make your head snap up. Your gaze burns into his face, lips curled down into a vivid scowl.
“Harry—,” you say, reaching out with one hand and shoving helplessly at his chest. He doesn’t budge, of course—the realisation only makes you angrier. “Stop lying to me.”
He clenches his jaw, and strong, slender fingers circle around your wrist before you can pull away. You squawk in surprise, your brows knitting together at the suddenness of the contact. Harry’s green eyes blaze with an emotion that you can’t quite recognize, but even then, it still leaves you utterly breathless.
You watch, stupefied, as he slides his palm beneath yours, lifting your hand to his lips and pressing a soft, barely-there kiss to the hills of your knuckles. Your jaw slackens, but—for the first time in your life—you have no witty comeback, no sharp retort.
“Une putain gâtée, tout comme sa mère.”
The words are a low murmur. His mouth brushes against your skin as he speaks. You’re enthralled by his French accent, but the sour expression on his face tells you that he must’ve just said something rotten.
“A spoiled whore,” Harry translates—he looks almost ashamed, “just like her mother.”
Your hand slips from his grasp.
     October 18, 2020
You’ve been in your room all day.
Harry hasn’t moved from his station outside, standing in front of your door with his arms folded over his chest. It’s been hours, and he hasn’t heard a peep from you. As much as he hates to admit it, he’s bored. You’re usually right next to him, talking his ear off and being your bossy, teasing self. He misses all of your little quips, not to mention the devilish smiles that you give him when you take a shot at pushing his buttons.
Now though, the silence is getting to him. He considers pulling his phone out and indulging in a trivial little game to pass the time, but then ultimately decides against it. The sun has fallen from the sky, and the moon has risen in its place—his shift is nearly over.
His cellphone chimes from inside his pocket. He fishes around for the device, eventually tugging it from the depths of his trousers. When he taps onto the screen, he finds a text from Lana, your personal chef.
Her dinner is ready. Do you want me to bring it up?
Harry purses his lips before typing his reply.
No, I’ll come down. Thank you.
A single smiling emoticon is her response.
After retrieving your plate from the kitchen and bidding Lana goodnight, Harry makes his way back upstairs. He stalls in front of your door for a few seconds before shaking off his uncertainties. His fist raps three times against the wood, and he waits expectantly for your answering call.
His shoulders deflate in relief when he hears a faint, yet familiar, “Come in.”
The room is dark, illuminated only by a small lamp on your nightstand. You’re lying on your bed, spine against the mattress and eyes trained on the ceiling. Your hair is fanned out against your pillow, and you haven’t changed out of your sleepwear (though it’s late now, Harry supposes, so there’s really no need). Cotton shorts sit low on your hips, but thankfully, your t-shirt is covering everything that needs to be concealed. When you turn your head toward the door, Harry notices that your eyes are rimmed with red.
You’ve been crying. The realisation makes his chest ache.
“Hi,” he says quietly, approaching your bed with cautious footsteps.
“Hi,” you croak. You sit up and clear your throat.
He holds out your plate. “Dinner is served.”
“It’s almost midnight.”
“That’s true.” He tilts his head from side to side, acknowledging your words. “But you haven’t eaten all day.”
“You don’t know that for sure,” you mumble, though you take the dish from him with eager hands, confirming his hypothesis. “Mac n’ cheese?” you ask, peering up at him with wide eyes.
He nods. “Compliments of the chef. She said it was your ‘comfort food’, or something like that.”
You pick up the spoon resting on the side of your plate, dipping it into the pasta and scooping up a large bite. Flavour explodes across your tongue, and you hum in appreciation at the taste. “Lana’s the best.”
Harry doesn’t respond. When you look over in his direction, you find him standing awkwardly at the side of your bed, like he’s not quite sure where to go.
“Do you want to sit?” you ask through a mouthful of food. His lips twitch at the warbled quality of your voice.
“No, I—,” he starts, shaking his head. “I can leave you alone.”
You swallow heavily, running your tongue along the roof of your mouth. “Stay,” you tell him, averting your gaze. The softness of your tone makes him pause, but you just shrug. “I don’t really want to be alone right now.”
~*~
You finish the entire plate of macaroni in a matter of minutes. Harry doesn’t think he’s ever seen you scarf down food that quickly. You offered him a bite, but he turned it down, claiming that you needed it more than he did.
He was right, of course. But you would rather die than tell him as much.
You set the dish down onto your nightstand, snatching up the reusable water bottle on the corner of the little table. Harry watches, amused, as you take a large gulp of the contents inside. Once you’ve swallowed, you chance a glance over at where he’s sitting on the edge of your mattress. There’s a small smile playing on his lips.
“What?” you ask wryly.
He chuckles lightly. “Nothing.”
You smirk but decide to drop the subject.
Harry shifts, rubbing his palms over his thighs nervously. “How are you feeling?”
You look away—you knew that he would try to breach the topic of last night, but the question is still a punch to the gut.
You shrug wordlessly. He clucks his tongue.
“That’s not an answer, love.”
Your shoulders slump in defeat. A loose thread on your duvet catches your eye, and you twine it around your index finger. Another long moment of silence passes before you finally speak.
“I’m just…confused.”
“Confused?” Harry’s eyebrows knit together.
You nod.
“How so?”
A rushed, humourless laugh falls from your lips. “You’re joking, right?”
When Harry shakes his head, you sigh.
“All my life,” you say, a lump forming in your throat, “I’ve been kept in the dark. Do you know how embarrassing it is, as a little kid, to not have an answer when your friends ask what your parents do for a living?” You wrap your arms around your torso, hugging yourself tightly.
“I even used to joke about it at school,” you scoff, rolling your eyes. “‘Yeah, guys, my mom’s secretly a drug dealer!’”
Harry doesn’t say anything. You take his reticence as a sign to continue.
“But then, as I got older, I realised that maybe I wasn’t that far off. She might not be in a fucking drug ring, but she’s still doing something illegal. There’s no way that we could afford to live like this, otherwise.” You gesture toward the glossy chandelier hanging from your ceiling.
“And then you came into the picture,” you say, rubbing tiredly at your eyes. “And that’s when I really started to panic. But I didn’t want to show anyone how I was feeling, obviously—so I kind of just kept it all bottled up.”
“Until now,” Harry murmurs, his expression unreadable.
You nod. “Until now.”
The material of your t-shirt is twisted up in your fists. You exhale heavily, releasing the fabric and smoothing it out with your palms. Several long seconds of tranquility ensue, until—
“Arms.”
Your gaze snaps over to Harry. “What?”
“Arms,” he repeats gruffly, staring directly at you. “She’s not dealing drugs. She’s dealing arms.”
You sit back against the headboard as his words sink in. Silence hangs in the air, growing thicker by the moment. Your mouth opens as you try to make sense of this newly-revealed information, but your lips only form around dying sounds and nonexistent sentences. Eventually, you settle for a simple, “Huh.”
And despite the trepidation of the situation, Harry laughs.
The sound brings a small smile to your face. It quickly slips away, however, when you remember something else.
“Last night, the guy at the club…,” you trail off, chewing on the inside of your cheek. “I don’t think what he said was just an expression.”
Harry’s eyes are solemn. “Neither do I.”
“He told me his name was Lukas,” you say, straightening up. “Has my mother ever mentioned him before?”
He shakes his head.
“I don’t know anything else,” he replies. Deep down, you recognize that he’s telling the truth. “She only shares things with me when it’s absolutely necessary. My job—first and foremost—is to protect you. I’m sorry.”  
“It’s okay,” you say quickly, shifting closer to him. Harry stiffens briefly when you place your hand on his arm, but then relaxes again. The fabric of his suit is soft, pressed to perfection. “I—thank you for being honest with me. I feel better now that I know.”
He nods.
“And thank you for yesterday,” you add, swallowing heavily. “For keeping me safe.”
“Next time, I’m accompanying you to the bathroom,” he mutters. “End of discussion.”
You laugh. A tiny, barely-there smile creeps onto his lips. Your eyes fall to the yellow polish on his nails, and you hesitate.
“Harry,” you say. Anxiety unfurls in your stomach. “Can I ask you something?”
“’Course.” His voice is a low rumble. “What is it?”
“Last week,” you mumble, fidgeting with your fingers, “after you got shot—or grazed, whatever you want to call it—”
He freezes. You have a strong feeling that he knows where you’re going with this.
“You said—”
“I know what I said.”
I would take a bullet for you, no questions asked.
Your mouth goes dry. Harry won’t look you in the eye, but you refuse to let him shy away. You squeeze his forearm softly, hoping that the contact will prompt him to meet your gaze.
It does. When he peers up at you, the green of his irises sets off a series of echoes in your head.
And not just because it’s my job.
And not just because it’s my job.
And not just because it’s my job.
“Why did you?” you whisper, leaning toward him.
He blinks, embarrassed.
“You know why,” he grumbles, staring fixedly at your duvet. A loose strand of hair flops onto his temple as he shakes his head. “Don’t make me say it.”
Something shatters inside of you. Impulsively, you lurch forward, pressing a quick, chaste kiss to the corner of his lips.
Harry’s face snaps toward you as you sit back. You’re greeted by wide eyes, foreign and unrecognizable, and seemingly unable to make out who you are. The small mountain of hope that had been growing in your chest crumbles into nothing, scattering like dust in the wind.
You clench your jaw, trying to keep yourself composed. He’s looking at you like you’re a stranger.
“Sorry,” you sputter. Panic washes over you, and your eyes prick with the telltale sign of tears. “Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry—”
Just as it had last week, Harry’s hand finds your face, squishing your cheeks together and cutting off your apologies. You gaze up at him as he leans in; he’s shaking his head ever-so-slightly.
“Why would you do that?” he asks, and it almost sounds like he’s berating you. “Why would you—?”
“I’m sorry,” you eek out. Water beads along your bottom lashes.
“I’ve been trying so hard,” he carries on, smoothly disregarding your regrets. “Trying to keep myself from—”
He breaks off, gritting his teeth and staring directly into your eyes. His next words are stern, finite.
“It doesn’t fucking matter anymore.”
His fingers release your cheeks and migrate to the back of your neck. He uses the leverage to pull you in so that you can meet him halfway, and then he’s kissing you. It takes a moment for everything to register in your brain, but soon thereafter, you’re melting into him and kissing him right back.
You grip the lapels of his suit between tight fists, tugging him closer as you pour every ounce of yourself into his embrace. Harry’s lips work fervently against your own; the palm on the back of your neck slips lower, settling at the base of your spine. His other hand comes up, splitting apart so that his thumb and middle finger find themselves on each side of your jaw. The grip is bruising, unforgiving—you whimper in delight.
“This is—,” Harry can barely get the words out. “—unprofessional.”
“It is,” you murmur, nodding fiercely.
“We shouldn’t,” he says.
“We shouldn’t,” you agree breathlessly.
But neither of you stop.
Harry lays you down on your bed, climbing on top of you whilst still doing his best to keep your lips attached. Your hands slip beneath his suit jacket, fingertips digging into his back over the white button-up covering his torso.
“You’re wearing too much,” you whine once the two of you break apart for air.
He chuckles, pushing himself up onto his knees. You watch, awestruck, as he fiddles with the buttons lining his abdomen, undoing each one swiftly before yanking the jacket from his shoulders. A shadow of pain passes over his features.
“Careful,” you say softly, referring to his injured arm.
He doesn’t reply. Instead, he brings himself back down to where you are, wasting no time and dipping his tongue into your mouth.
“Mm,” he hums, smacking his lips together. “Mac n’ cheese.”
You giggle. “Guess you got a taste, after all.”
He nods, smirking. “In all honesty, though,” he murmurs, his lips smearing against the lower-half of your cheek, “I’d much rather get a taste of something else.”
He punctuates the innuendo with a gentle bite to your jaw, and you moan.
It doesn’t take long for his hand to travel south. Harry gives you a questioning look when his fingers reach the elastic waistband of your shorts.
“Can I?”
You nod.
He curses when the digits slip beneath the fabric, because you’re not wearing anything underneath. His palm scrapes over the triangle of trimmed hair at the apex of your thighs, and he nearly starts salivating right then and there. You whine impatiently, bucking your hips up to spur him along.
He chuckles, pressing a gentle kiss to the side of your neck. “Gagging for it, aren’t you?”
A strangled squeak echoes in the back of your throat, but you say nothing.
“Answer me,” Harry growls, nipping softly at your earlobe. “Tell me you want it.”
“I want it!” you choke out. You wrap your fingers around his forearm, guiding his hand lower so that he can feel just how wet you are. “Please—I want it.”
“So polite,” he murmurs, sponging his lips up to your temple. Your eyelids flutter shut when he begins to rub languid circles into your clit. “Where are those manners usually hiding, hm?”
“Harry—,” you sigh, feeling your face grow hot. You’ll never admit it, but his taunts stoke the fire building in the pit of your stomach. He laughs darkly, sliding his middle finger down your slit and prodding coyly at your entrance.
“You’re soaked, and I’ve barely done anything,” he mutters. His thumb stays positioned squarely on your clit as he lowers his head, pecking your lips delicately. “Want me inside?”
You nod, but he only tuts in disapproval.
“Words, love.”
“Yes!” you whine, pouting deeply. “I—I want you inside.”
He smiles.
You squirm when he slips his finger into you, adjusting to the intrusion. Harry probes around curiously, stroking along your walls until he brushes against a spot that has you crying out in thrilled surprise and squeezing your eyes shut. The patronizing laugh that falls from his mouth is hot and heavy against your warm cheeks.
“That’s it, yeah?” he asks. “That’s the spot?”
You breathe out a weak whimper of confirmation, and he snickers. When he peers up at you and finds your eyes closed, a small frown tugs at the edges of his lips.
“Look at me, love,” he orders, adding another finger into your heat. “I wanna see you.”
You shake your head and turn away, face hot with humiliation. It’s good, though—it’s so, so good.
“Look at me,” Harry repeats, “and I’ll let you cum.”
It’s an offer that you can’t refuse.
Slowly, your eyelids flutter open. He grins at you, pride sweeping over his features. You keep your gaze trained on him, even when he speeds up the movements on your clit, his thumb rubbing quick shapes against the sensitive nub. Your back arches, toes curling into the duvet as your orgasm approaches. Harry kisses your lips, humming happily at the contact.
“Cum,” he commands quietly. “Cum for me, and then I’ll ruin this cute little cunt.”
The filthy promise has you falling apart.
He holds you tightly as your high washes over you, absorbing all of your little moans and cooing words of encouragement into your mouth. You shake, staring up at the ceiling and watching as the chandelier above you splits into doubles. The glass crystals twinkle alluringly in the dim light of your room.
“So pretty,” Harry whispers. He pecks the clammy skin of your cheek, and you sigh.
“That was…,” you trail off, unable to find the right words.
“Good?” he supplies, pulling his hand out of your shorts.
You bark out a weak, incredulous laugh. “Way better than ‘good’. I don’t think I can feel my—”
Your confession falters when you turn to the side, just in time to witness Harry slide two of his fingers past his lips. He groans desperately at the tang that spreads over his tongue.
“Sweet,” he murmurs, almost like he’s in a trance. He nuzzles his nose against yours, dropping his hand onto the bed next to your head. “You’ll let me have a proper taste next time, yeah?”
Without a second thought, you nod rapidly. “Yeah.”
Harry grunts in surprise when you push him off of you. His back lands against your mattress with a dull thud, and he chuckles faintly when you sling your leg over his waist, straddling him.
“What’re you doing?” he asks playfully as you begin to unbutton his white shirt. You pepper kisses down his chest, worshipping each new inch of skin that becomes exposed. His hands subconsciously find their way into your hair, gathering the bulk of it into a makeshift ponytail. Your clit positively throbs, ignited by the dominant undertones of the action.
“You got me off,” you say. Though the accompanying shrug of your shoulders is nonchalant, your heart is thundering beneath your ribcage. “Seems only fair, don’t you think?”
You undo his belt and flick open the button of his black trousers. Harry groans as you palm him over his slacks, sinking into the plush pillows cradling his head.
“Right,” he breathes. “Only fair.”
His cock twitches when you dip your hand into his boxers, and God, he thinks to himself as he shudders, he loves you.
~*~
You awaken in the middle of the night to sounds of restless shuffling. Your room is dark, engulfed in black. Blinking the sleep from your vision, you push yourself up, peering around and waiting for your eyes to grow accustomed to the obscurity of your surroundings.
The spot next to you on your mattress is still a bit warm, covered with wrinkled sheets. When you finally zero in on the source of the noise, you find Harry sitting in the armchair a few feet away from your bed. He’s slouching, his head supported only by a closed fist. His white shirt is draped over his shoulders, completely unbuttoned. Gray boxers sit low on his hips, revealing a pair of ferns inked into the skin just above his pelvis.
Not even five hours ago, you trailed your tongue along those very same tattoos.
“Harry?” you say groggily, and he freezes. “What—what are you doing?”
His eyes are bright, despite the encompassing darkness.
“I—,” he hesitates. “It’s alright. Go back to sleep.”
“Not unless you join me,” you retort. You slide your legs over the edge of the mattress so that you can face him properly. “What’s going on?”
He shrugs, avoiding your gaze. “We kind of just passed out, and…I wasn’t sure if you were comfortable with me, like, sleeping in your bed. I didn’t wanna cross any lines.”
You balk.
“Harry…,” you start, fixing him with a drowsy yet bewildered look. “You’ve literally had your fingers inside of me, and now you’re worried about crossing a line?”
A quiet chuckle of accountability falls from his lips; the sound makes you smile. You reach out with one hand, wiggling your fingers at him and tilting your head toward the rumpled pillows waiting for you.
“Come back to bed.” Your request is soft.
The storm in his eyes dissipates, and he obeys.
You sigh as you settle back underneath the duvet, snuggling into his side and tossing a leg over his thighs. Harry wraps his good arm around you, craning his neck and pressing a tender kiss to your hair. Your fingers creep up his chest, toying with the dog tag resting between his pectorals.
“Is this going to change things between us?” you ask in a small voice.
A long moment of silence ensues.
At last, Harry replies:
“I don’t know.”
You were expecting that kind of answer, but it still stings. A big part of you wants him to say no, things won’t change. He’ll still have you, and you’ll still have him, and the two of you will still bicker back and forth like children fighting over a candy bar. He’ll still roll his eyes at your antics whilst nevertheless being willing to take a bullet for you. You’ll still tease him relentlessly to mask the way your heart races whenever he’s around (which, unfortunately, is all the time).
But the logical side of your brain knows that those fantasies are just fabrications of flimsy, wishful thinking. The two of you have crossed a line—just like he said—and you can’t go back.
As though he can sense your inner turmoil, Harry squeezes you closer into his side. “I was looking online…,” he begins, and you peer up at him with curious eyes.
He meets your gaze—his chin creases adorably—and continues. “And I saw these cool photos of someone’s nails; they painted little cherries on them.”
“That sounds cute,” you mumble.
“It was.” He nods. “And I was thinking that maybe, on Wednesday…would you want to try something like that?”
Warmth spiderwebs through your chest.
The two of you have crossed a line, and you can’t go back.
But you can move forward. And perhaps better things are waiting on the horizons up ahead.
“It might not turn out like the pictures,” you warn lightly. “I’ve never really done nail art before.”
“That’s alright,” Harry says, brushing your hair out of your face. “I just thought it’d be fun to give it a go.”
You lean up, slotting your lips against his. Harry cups your cheek, keeping you close. When the two of you finally break apart, you smile, running your thumb lovingly over the edge of his jaw.
“Remind me to pick up the tools tomorrow after class.”
~*~
READ PART 2 ON PATREON
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stylesloveclub · 1 year ago
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had a beautiful security guardrry idea today
can we hear about it 👀
YES . I WILL GO INTO MORE DETAIL WHEN IM LESS EEPY BUT BASICALLY HE IS THE SECURITY GUARD AND MAYBE SHE IS AN INTERN AT THIS BIG COORPERATE BUILDING AND SHE'S ALWAYS RUNNING LATE .AND ALWAYS forgetting her id or badge thingy and has to ask him like HARRY please can u let me in u know i work here come on im late i cant go get my card LET ME IN!!!! and it's very sweet innocent like work relationship . and also her car battery dies one day after work and it wont startand it's late and dark and harrys the only one in the building just patrolling as he does . and she needs to be like harry :( help me :(
ALSO had a mechanicarry idea where like he's not formally a mechanic like we meet him first as a friend of a friend that she has to drive home one night .and then he hears her car being super squeaky and making noises and he's like ur car is FUCKED UP bring it by my shop and i'll fix it for u :) and their dynamic would be SUPER flirty mechanicarry and super shy y/n like he'd flirt w her and beg for her to let him take her out but she's just super guarded like ... um... :( idk .....
ok those r my fic thoughts . now i sleep . needed to write them down before i forget them in the morning LOLOL
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stylesloveclub · 1 year ago
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i also want to do a security guardrry one day
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stylesloveclub · 1 year ago
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had a beautiful security guardrry idea today
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hrina · 3 years ago
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Tomorrow it’s the 2 years anniversary of my favorite fic EVER 🥺
OMG IS THAT TOMORROW????? i didnt even realise…
but ur soooo sweet thank u so much my love 🥺🫶🏻 its def one of my favs that ive written too
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hrina · 4 years ago
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sneak peek ?👀🤲
sneak peek of polished pt. 2 below the cut!
“Don’t look at me like that,” you mutter, refusing to meet his eyes.
“Like what?”
“Like I’m a pathetic mess.”
“You’re not,” he says, shaking his head. Your heart somersaults in your chest when he reaches for your hand, linking your fingers with his. “You’re just anxious.”
“No shit,” you snap. He stiffens at your harsh tone, and you immediately wince. “I’m sorry,” you amend, sighing. “I know you’re just trying to help.”
You squeeze his hand appreciatively, and he relaxes.
“I think you need to take your mind off of it,” he murmurs, stroking his thumb over your knuckles.
You bark out a bitter laugh. “I’m really not in the mood right now, Harry.”
“That’s not what I meant,” he replies, chuckling quietly. “Just…go take a hot shower or something. The warm water might loosen you up.”
“‘Loosen’ me up? Are you hearing yourself?”
He bows his chin, fighting a smile. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Yeah, right,” you scoff. Nevertheless, you allow him to tug you to your feet and guide you into the washroom. You glimpse yourself in the mirror and cringe at your appearance—tired eyes, sallow skin, puffy cheeks. The sight fills you with shame…part of you wants to bolt back to your bed and hide under the covers until morning.
“I look gross,” you mutter to no one in particular.
Harry turns, his brows knitting together in discontent.
“You look beautiful,” he says. You balk at the earnestness woven through each syllable. He cups your face in his hands, slanting closer and brushing a feathery kiss over your forehead. You grip his wrists tightly, afraid to let go.
“Will you join me?” you croak, and then hurriedly add, “My conditioner smells like coconut. I think you’d like it.”
His lips twitch at your poorly-constructed façade, but he nods.
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hrina · 4 years ago
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besties i just came up w most of the outline for the guardrry extra and umm 😳 if i can execute this the way im envisioning it in my head 😳 yall r not ready
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hrina · 4 years ago
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BESTIE THAT ONE PART FROM THE SNEAKIE WHERE HE PUT HIS ARM ON THE ROOF OF THE CAR GAVE ME BUTTERFLIES AND GOT ME WET SIMULTANEOUSLY I belive in guardrry supremacy
SOMETHING ABOUT MEN LEANING IN AND BEING KINDA IMPOSING BUT RLY SOFT AT THE SAME TIME…
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also thank uuuuuu ❤️🥰 he rly is god-tier
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hrina · 4 years ago
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POLISHED II - now available on Patreon
Find a sneak peek under the cut!
“Okay. Now that that’s settled,” you start, turning back to the contents of your nail kit. “Which colour should we do tonight? I was thinking lilac, maybe? It’s been a while since you—”
“We can’t keep doing this.”
The words cut through you like a knife, but you prattle on as if you never heard them.
“I also have this pretty coral shade. I think it would compliment your skin tone really well—”
“Love.”
You halt, eyes stamping shut. Why the hell did he say that? Why not just use your actual name? There’s a distinct cruelty in building someone up just to watch them fall, you think—he knows it, too. Fuck him for playing hopscotch with your heart.
Silence hangs in the air, thick and viscous, seeping into your mouth and your nose, choking you.
“Why?” is all you say. You keep your attention pinned to the mattress, refusing to meet his gaze.
Harry scrubs a hand through his hair. “The other day…I made a mistake. I didn’t follow the protocol. I let my guard down.”
“And we almost died because of it,” you finish, tone bleak. You run your tongue over your teeth, fighting back tears. “And now you’re going to say that being with me is too much of a distraction, and insist that this is for my own good—the only way to keep me safe.” You look at him evenly, your expression inscrutable. “Am I right?”
He nods again.
“Okay.” You sweep a palm across the nape of your neck. “Get out.”
Harry blinks, swallowing roughly. “Er, what?”
“Get out,” you repeat. You gather the various polishes strewn across your bed, stuffing them back into their collective pouch. “You’re fired.”
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hrina · 4 years ago
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highkey wondering if i should just say fuck it and dub the guardrry extra Polished pt. 2 because this shit is gonna be over 10k and i feel like there's a lot of development going on here that is not shallow enough to fit into something as measly as an "extra"
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hrina · 4 years ago
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what can we expect from the guardrry extra? we know there's going to be angst, but what else is going on?
obscene levels of yearning, the MC being a brat while also being whipped as fuck for harry, and some nasty + tender smut aka my fav kind of smut
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hrina · 5 years ago
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“Where’s Harry?”
“Oh!” You smirk, shooting her a mischievous wink. “Managed to shake him off for the night!”
“No shit!” Sydney yells, her jaw dropping. “He let you come?”
You pucker your lips, averting your gaze. “Er…not exactly.”
In response, her eyes widen, and she just laughs. You grin when she slaps your arm gently and grabs your wrist, tugging you away from the bar and into the dancing crowd.
“Who cares?” she says loudly, throwing her hands toward the ceiling and shaking her hips. “He’s got a stick up his ass either way!”
Despite your inebriated state, part of you longs to correct her. He’s actually not that bad, you want to say, because it’s true. In public, Harry is stoic and reserved and always on high alert, but that’s because he has to be. It’s his job. You resent the fact that he intimidates your friends, and that it complicates your outings, but you don’t resent him. He’s been assigned to you for two years now, and there’s never been an incident—you wonder if it’s because he’s good at what he does, or because you don’t really need protection after all.
All this time…perhaps your mother was just overly paranoid. And perhaps she continues to be overly paranoid, even to this day.
You shake those thoughts from your mind; they’ll just give you a headache.
Another hand lands on the small of your back, but this time, the contact isn’t fleeting. Fingers pinch and tug at the material of your shirt, relentless. You’re about to whip around and demand that this badgering stranger unhand you, but then a pair of lips are right at the shell of your ear. Hot air fans down your neck—you shiver.
“Why do you insist on making my job so much harder than it has to be?”
Polished - coming soon! [masterlist] [inbox]
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