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cloudyluun · 5 months ago

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No Cameras Allowed | famous!harry

Summary: You and Harry have been secretly hooking up for months, but at a high-profile event—surrounded by cameras, fans, and industry people—you have to pretend like nothing is going on. The tension builds to an unbearable level, leading you to sneak away for a risky, reckless rendezvous.

A/N: Listen, I started writing this thinking, “Let’s make this classy and controlled,” and then Harry had a meltdown over a missing condom and suddenly we were all in too deep. 🤡 This fic is 90% tension, 5% absolute recklessness, and 5% me screaming into my pillow because these two cannot behave. Hydrate, take deep breaths, and maybe say a prayer, because I swear, I’m just the stressed-out typist here. If you need me, I’ll be in horny jail. 🚔🔒🔥

Word Count: 2,7k

Warnings:

Explicit sexual content (Smut, NSFW, 18+)!!!

Jealousy & tension-filled interactions - Both are very jealous. I probably would be too.

Mentions of alcohol consumption

Strong language & dirty talk

Mentions of an implied lack of protection (brief but relevant to the plot)

Secret relationship shenanigans – They’re sneaking around, and they’re GOOD at it… except for when they’re not.

Unholy levels of sexual tension – You will feel the need to take a deep breath and maybe fan yourself.

Public sex – Yes, they did it where they absolutely should not have. No regrets.

Desperation – The kind where you physically feel the ache in your soul (and elsewhere).

No condom moment – Highly irresponsible. Highly hot. They make choices, not necessarily good ones.

Hand over mouth trope – He’s gotta keep her quiet. You already know.

Neck-grabbing, wrist-holding, wall-pressing – He’s got control issues, and you like it.

Mutual corruption – Neither of them is innocent, and that’s exactly why this is happening.

Proceed at your own risk. But let’s be real—you’re already in too deep.

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

The hotel room is bathed in the warm glow of the bedside lamp, casting soft shadows across the sheets that are barely covering your tangled bodies. The air is thick with the remnants of earlier touches, the room still carrying the heat of whispered confessions and the slow, lingering movements that had left both of you breathless.

Harry’s fingers trace lazy circles on your bare back, his touch featherlight, almost absentminded. It’s a stark contrast to the way his hands had gripped you just an hour ago—possessive, desperate, leaving invisible marks on your skin. Now, he’s all slow affection, the pads of his fingertips skimming your shoulder blades as if he’s memorizing every inch of you.

Your head rests against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, feeling the way it slows now that you’re here, settled, unrushed. His other hand is tucked behind his head, his bicep flexed just enough to make you roll your eyes at how effortlessly attractive he is, even in this sleepy, post-bliss state.

“I love how you think we’re subtle,” you murmur, a smirk pulling at your lips as you press a kiss to his warm skin.

Harry huffs out a laugh, shifting slightly so he can look down at you, his dimple peeking through as he grins. “No one suspects a thing.”

You tilt your head up, raising a brow. “Mitch literally asked me why I disappear at 2 a.m. all the time.”

Harry groans dramatically, rolling his eyes as he pulls you closer. “Mitch needs to mind his own business.”

You giggle against his chest, your fingers idly tracing over the swallows inked onto his skin. “I think he’s just concerned that I might be in some kind of secret underground fight club or something.”

Harry laughs, a full-bodied sound that shakes both of you. “Right. Because that’s the more likely scenario.”

“Exactly,” you tease, biting back a grin.

His laugh fades into something softer, more intimate, as his fingers slide down your back. Then, without warning, he shifts, rolling you onto your back so he’s hovering above you. His curls fall slightly into his face, his eyes darkening as he takes in the sight of you beneath him.

His voice is lower now, edged with something deeper. “Maybe I like knowing that no one else gets to see you like this.”

Your breath catches. It’s moments like this—when the teasing fades, when the weight of what’s between you presses against your ribs—that make your pulse stutter.

You reach up, threading your fingers through his hair, tugging just enough to make him hum in satisfaction. “You’re ridiculously possessive, you know that?”

He smirks, dipping his head so his lips hover just above yours. “And you love it.”

You don’t argue.

Instead, you let your lips brush against his in a slow, drawn-out kiss, savoring the way he melts into you. His body presses flush against yours, heat radiating between you, but it’s not rushed this time. It’s lazy and indulgent, like you have all the time in the world.

Which, of course, you don’t.

You sigh against his lips, pulling back just enough to meet his gaze. “So, the gala.”

Harry groans, dropping his head against your shoulder. “Way to ruin the mood.”

You laugh, running your fingers down his back. “I’m just saying—we’re really going to pretend we don’t even know each other all night?”

He exhales heavily, propping himself up on his elbows. “No flirting, no sneaky touches, no slipping away together,” he confirms, voice laced with mock seriousness.

You let out an exaggerated groan, throwing an arm over your face. “How am I supposed to act like I don’t want to drag you into a closet all night?”

Harry chuckles, but there’s something else in his expression now—something taut, restrained. “You don’t,” he says simply, leaning in so his lips brush the shell of your ear. “You pretend you don’t want me.” His breath is warm against your skin, sending a shiver down your spine.

You shift beneath him, already feeling the weight of what tomorrow will bring—the distance, the careful avoidance, the act you’ll have to put on for the world.

Harry pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, his green eyes flickering with something unreadable. “Think you can handle that?”

You swallow, your throat suddenly dry.

No, you think. Probably not.

But you don’t say that.

Instead, you force a smirk, pressing your palm against his chest. “Oh, absolutely,” you lie.

And Harry, the smug bastard, grins like he knows exactly how much of a lie that is.

Now you curse yourself for ever agreeing to this.

The flashing lights are blinding, the chaotic energy of the gala buzzing through the air as celebrities step out of sleek black cars, each one greeted by a wave of deafening screams. The photographers shout names, demanding poses, each snap of their cameras preserving fleeting moments for the world to analyze later. It’s all so polished, so orchestrated, yet it feels suffocating.

And Harry?

He’s already here.

You watch from the backseat of your car as he steps onto the carpet, buttoning his perfectly tailored suit jacket with the kind of effortless charm that makes the world swoon. His presence commands attention—broad shoulders, sharp jawline, a smirk so devastating it could be classified as a lethal weapon. His dimple makes an appearance as he waves to the screaming fans, his rings glinting under the camera flashes as he adjusts his cuffs.

He looks like he was born for this.

And the worst part? He looks completely unaffected.

Your fingers tighten around the fabric of your dress as you watch him. He’s talking to an interviewer now, flashing that coy, knowing grin that makes people hang onto his every word. You can’t hear what he’s saying, but you don’t need to. It’s the same carefully controlled persona he always wears in public—charming, composed, a little bit playful.

The side of your lip twitches. Bastard.

You’re still sitting in the car, waiting for your cue to step out, when you see it.

The shift.

One second, Harry’s engaged in conversation, his body relaxed. The next, his entire demeanor changes—his grip tightening around the glass in his hand, his jaw locking ever so slightly.

It takes you half a second to realize why.

You’ve been spotted.

Even from across the carpet, you feel the weight of his stare the moment you step out of the car. The cool night air barely registers against your skin as you straighten your posture, your carefully curated expression slipping into place. You’re aware of the way the crowd reacts—how the screams spike in volume, how the cameras angle toward you, how the buzz of murmured conversations follows in your wake.

You can feel Harry’s eyes on you.

But you don’t look at him.

You won’t.

Instead, you let your lips curve into a soft, controlled smile, pretending not to notice the ripple of attention your arrival has caused. You let the cameras take their fill, pausing just long enough for the photographers to capture the moment. Your outfit—a masterpiece of elegance and barely-contained sensuality—hugs your body in all the right ways, a choice you made with full awareness of the effect it would have.

And judging by the way Harry is gripping his glass like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to the ground, you were absolutely right.

The red carpet is a practiced dance, one you know how to navigate flawlessly. You answer questions with ease, your responses light but distant enough to keep them guessing. You pose for the cameras, move toward the fan section, offering them your full attention.

That’s when it happens.

“Are you and Harry friends?”

The question is innocent enough, asked by a girl barely containing her excitement as she clutches her phone, ready to record your reaction.

You keep your smile intact. You don’t falter. “Yeah, of course! He’s lovely.”

The moment the words leave your mouth, you hear it.

A barely contained giggle. A whispered assumption.

“She totally blushed. They’re hiding something.”

You force yourself not to react, but the air shifts just slightly, your composure settling a little tighter around your frame. You laugh lightly, as if the idea is ridiculous, before moving along with the conversation.

But Harry?

Harry hears it.

From across the room, his fingers flex, resisting the urge to drain the rest of his drink. He watches the exchange with careful disinterest, his expression unreadable to the untrained eye. But you know him. You recognize the way his jaw tenses just slightly, the way his gaze darkens the moment your name is paired with his in that context.

Then, as if the universe is determined to push him closer to the edge, someone steps into your space.

It’s a man—some actor, charming and self-assured, the kind of person who knows exactly what effect he has. He leans in just slightly as he compliments your dress, his tone playful, his body language open. It’s harmless. Flirtatious, but harmless.

But from across the room?

Harry doesn’t look at it that way.

Your awareness of him sharpens. Even without turning your head, you know he’s watching. You can feel it in your bones, the heat of his stare like a brand against your skin.

You tilt your head, letting yourself laugh at something the actor says, just for good measure. Just to push back at the invisible tether Harry has wrapped around you.

Then you make the mistake of looking.

It’s quick. A glance. Barely a second.

But it’s enough.

Harry’s gaze locks onto yours, the weight of it nearly stealing the breath from your lungs. His fingers tap against the side of his glass, his lips pressing together in a way that tells you exactly what he’s thinking.

A silent challenge.

You swallow, looking away first.

Then, just when you think the tension has reached its peak, the night conspires against you once again.

The little moments start stacking up.

In passing, your hands brush—just a second too long. A lingering whisper of contact that shouldn’t mean anything. But it does.

Harry leans in to whisper something to a friend, but his lips nearly graze the edge of your ear as he passes. The warmth of his breath ghosts against your skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake.

And then—because the universe has a twisted sense of humor—you witness the moment that nearly breaks your resolve.

She’s stunning, the actress who leans in too close to him, her laugh like honey as she touches his arm in a way that feels practiced. You don’t know what she’s saying, but it’s enough to make Harry smirk, enough to make his fingers flex slightly where they rest on his knee.

You grip your glass tighter.

“I swear to god…” you mutter under your breath, not even realizing you’d spoken aloud.

Then, without warning—without a sound—Harry is behind you.

His voice is a low, taunting whisper, barely audible over the noise of the party.

“If you keep looking at me like that, we’re not making it through the night.”

A shiver rolls down your spine.

Your pulse jumps.

But you don’t turn around.

Because you know exactly what will happen if you do.

You can feel him watching you, his presence a weight against your skin, a force pulling you in even when you’re trying to resist. It’s unbearable—the tension, the push and pull of this secret that has stretched between you for months. You grip your drink tighter, the condensation damp against your fingers, and force yourself to stay rooted in place.

You exhale slowly. Then, in a move that is as reckless as it is calculated, you turn on your heel and walk away.

You don’t look back.

Instead, you slip into the nearest group of people, throwing yourself into conversation like it’s effortless, like your pulse isn’t hammering against your ribs. You laugh—too loudly, too carelessly—letting the sound carry just far enough. Your fingers graze someone’s arm, your smile lingers for a second too long. You don’t even register what’s being said; the words mean nothing. The only thing that matters is what’s happening behind you.

What Harry is doing.

Or rather—what he’s about to do.

You feel it before you see it. The energy shifts. The air crackles with a new kind of charge.

And then, out of the corner of your eye, you catch him.

Harry is watching.

His jaw is tight, his fingers flexing around the glass in his hand. He looks calm to the untrained eye, but you know better. You know that slight clench in his jaw, the way his throat bobs when he swallows, the restless way his thumb drags along the rim of his glass.

You keep talking. You keep laughing.

And then Harry downs his drink in one swift motion, his throat moving as he swallows the last drop of whiskey. He sets the glass down with just a little too much force, and without a single word, he turns and walks away.

Your breath catches.

You don’t move. Not immediately.

You wait.

One second.

Two.

A full minute passes before you finally allow yourself to move.

You slip away, just as quietly as he did, weaving through the crowd with practiced ease. The further you get from the main event, the quieter it becomes. The music fades into the background, the distant murmur of conversation growing softer. Your heels click against the polished marble floor as you move down an empty hallway, your heart pounding harder with every step.

You don’t have to look for him.

You already know where he is.

The moment you turn the corner into the restricted hallway near the VIP lounges, you barely have time to register anything before—

Strong hands grab your waist.

You gasp as you’re yanked back against the wall, the cool surface biting through the heat radiating off your skin. The shock of it barely registers before Harry is there, his body flush against yours, his scent wrapping around you—something deep and warm, laced with the remnants of whiskey and frustration.

His voice is low, rough, each word vibrating against your skin.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve been doing to me all night?”

Your breath is uneven, your pulse a wild drumbeat beneath your skin.

You tilt your head up to meet his gaze, biting back a smirk. His eyes are dark, burning with barely contained hunger.

“I think I have a pretty good idea,” you murmur, resting your hands against his chest.

The muscle beneath his suit jacket is tense, coiled tight like he’s barely holding himself together.

And then—

He kisses you.

Hard.

The second your back hits the wall, Harry’s on you. There’s no hesitation, no space, no air left between you. His body presses into yours, solid and warm, and his grip on your waist is possessive, like he’s making sure you don’t slip away.

He kisses you like he’s starving, like he’s been thinking about this all night—which, knowing him, he has. His mouth moves over yours, hot, open-mouthed, desperate, his tongue sweeping against yours in slow, deep strokes that make your knees go weak.

You fist your hands in his shirt, yanking him closer, feeling the crisp fabric tighten under your grip. It’s unfair, really—how he gets to look so put-together while you’re already falling apart for him. His suit, all sharp lines and tailored edges, contrasts with the way your body melts against his, your dress already slipping up your thighs.

His hands wander, explore, claim—roaming down your sides, gripping your hips, guiding your body against his. He tugs at your dress, fingertips skimming beneath the hem, teasing the fabric higher—so high that his knuckles graze the sensitive skin of your inner thigh.

You shudder. He notices immediately.

A slow, knowing smirk curls his lips against yours, but he doesn’t say anything—just drags his hand higher, his fingertips just barely brushing the damp heat between your legs.

You gasp into his mouth, your fingers tightening in his shirt, and he chuckles—a low, dark sound that makes your stomach tighten.

“You’re already shaking for me, baby,” he murmurs against your lips, his breath warm and teasing.

You bite back a moan, refusing to give him the satisfaction just yet. Instead, you tilt your chin up slightly, meeting his eyes, and shift your hips forward—just the tiniest roll of your body against his.

The reaction is instant.

Harry groans—deep, rough, almost guttural—and his head drops to your shoulder, his breath hot and uneven against your neck. His fingers dig into your waist, tight, desperate, like he’s barely holding himself back.

“You’re trying to kill me,” he pants, his voice rough, vibrating against your skin.

You smirk, breathless but smug. “That’s dramatic.”

Harry lifts his head slowly, green eyes blazing with something dark and dangerous, and then—before you can blink—he rolls his hips into you, pressing his body flush against yours.

You feel everything—the solid heat of him, the hardness pressing against your core, the undeniable proof of just how much he wants you.

A gasp catches in your throat.

His lips brush against your jaw, and his voice drops lower, rougher, more strained.

“Am I?”

The hallway is too quiet, the distant sounds of the gala making this moment feel even riskier. Muted laughter, clinking glasses, the murmur of conversations—all of it feels like it’s happening in another world, one you’ve completely abandoned the second Harry pressed you against this wall.

It should be a warning. It should be a reason to stop.

But all you can focus on is him.

The way he’s crowding you, caging you in, body heat rolling off him in waves. The way his eyes stay locked on yours, pupils blown wide, like he’s daring you to tell him to stop. The way he’s breathing heavy, shoulders rising and falling, like he’s barely holding himself together.

Then his hands are moving.

Sliding up your thighs, pushing your dress higher, higher, bunching the fabric at your hips. His fingertips graze the damp heat between your legs, teasing, barely there, but enough.

You whimper.

A quiet, desperate little sound that you try to swallow down.

But he hears it. Of course, he hears it.

And it makes him lose his patience.

His palm presses against you through the lace of your underwear, applying just the barest amount of pressure—but it’s enough to make your stomach tighten, enough to send a bolt of pleasure straight through you.

His lips aren’t on your mouth anymore. They’re moving—hot and insistent—trailing along your jaw, then down to your throat, biting, sucking, his teeth scraping sensitive skin. He’s not careful, not like he normally is. He doesn’t care if he leaves a mark. Maybe he wants to.

Maybe he wants you to feel him long after this is over.

Your breath catches when his other hand finds your wrist and pins it to the wall beside your head. It’s not rough, but it’s firm. Controlling. Like he needs to keep you exactly where he wants you.

His voice is a murmur against your ear, low and wrecked.

"You’re already soaked."

Heat rushes to your cheeks, and you squirm against his hand, hips pushing toward his touch despite yourself.

"Wonder why," you breathe.

Harry chuckles darkly, a sound that sends a shiver down your spine. Then, without warning, his fingers slip under the lace, dragging through your slick folds. He groans—low, deep, almost pained—his forehead pressing against yours like he’s trying to hold himself together.

"Fuck."

His fingers find your clit, rubbing slow, teasing circles that make your stomach tighten, your thighs clenching around his hand. It’s too much and not enough all at once, and your breath stutters, your fingers twisting in his shirt.

You bite your lip so hard it nearly hurts, trying to suppress the moan that’s threatening to spill out.

Harry watches you, studying every tiny reaction, his jaw clenched, his brows furrowed like he’s mesmerized by the way you come apart for him.

Then he slides one finger inside you—slow but deliberate—pushing in deep, stretching you open just enough to make you gasp.

And then he adds a second.

Your back arches off the wall, nails digging into his shoulders, your body desperate for more.

"Feel so good," Harry grits out, his voice thick with lust. His fingers work you open, slow and steady, curling just right, dragging against your walls until your thighs are shaking. His restraint is slipping—you can feel it.

"Always so fucking tight for me."

His words make your breath hitch, your chest rising and falling rapidly. You try to hold on, try to keep some kind of control, but his fingers are relentless, moving in and out of you, stroking your clit in slow, precise circles.

"Harry—" Your voice is barely a whisper, your eyes fluttering shut. "Someone’s gonna hear us—"

His free hand leaves your wrist, and before you can react, he covers your mouth, his palm warm against your lips, muffling the tiny sounds spilling out of you.

A smirk tugs at his lips, his breath ghosting over your cheek.

"Then you better be quiet, baby."

Harry’s fingers leave you, leaving behind nothing but an unbearable ache, an emptiness that makes your body tense with need. He doesn’t waste a second—his hands move fast, frantic, reaching for his belt, undoing the buckle with sharp, impatient movements.

You’re gasping, panting, your nails digging into his shoulders, hips rolling up to meet his, desperate for more. For him.

But then—he stops.

You barely notice at first, too caught up in the heat, too lost in the way his body presses into yours, how close you are to getting what you need. But then you feel it—the hesitation. The stiffness in his muscles. The way his forehead suddenly drops to your shoulder, his chest rising and falling with deep, frustrated breaths.

And then he curses.

"Shit. Fuck."

His voice is low, rough, like he’s physically forcing himself to stop. Like he’s just had the wind knocked out of him.

Your body stills, your mind foggy and desperate, your pulse hammering against your ribs.

"What?" you whisper, blinking up at him, confused, needing answers, needing him to keep going, needing him to fix whatever’s wrong.

Harry pulls back just enough to look at you, his jaw tight, his fingers threading through his curls in frustration. His pupils are blown wide, his lips swollen from kissing you, his whole body wrecked with restraint.

"I don’t have a condom."

The words hit like a slap of cold air against overheated skin.

Your stomach flips, pulse pounding in your ears. You should stop. You both should.

This is the moment.

The moment to take a breath, to come to your senses, to remember that this is a mistake. That it’s reckless, that it’s too risky, that there are a million reasons why you shouldn’t do this.

But none of them matter.

Because the heat between you is unbearable. Because your body is screaming for him, because the throbbing ache inside you is too strong to ignore, because stopping now would feel more painful than giving in.

Because you don’t care.

Your throat feels tight, your breath shaky as the words slip out before you can even think about them.

"I don’t care."

Harry’s head snaps up, his gaze locking onto yours so fast it makes you shiver.

His eyes—dark, intense, searching—burn into you, like he’s trying to see if you really mean it. Trying to find a reason to stop, a reason to be the responsible one.

But all he finds is desperation.

He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing, his breath uneven.

"Are you sure?" His voice is rough, raw, almost pained—like he wants this so fucking bad but needs to hear you say it again.

Your legs tighten around his waist, your arms looping around his neck, pulling him closer, needing him closer.

"Please," you whisper, the word barely audible, but it’s all it takes.

His control snaps.

Harry’s mouth crashes against yours—hot, messy, consuming—all teeth and tongue and raw need. His kiss is desperate, like he’s trying to devour you, trying to silence every thought, every doubt that should be pulling you both apart.

But there’s nothing else in this moment. Nothing but him.

His hands are greedy, impatient, everywhere all at once—roaming over your thighs, gripping your waist, tangling in your hair—taking, taking, taking, like he’s trying to memorize the feel of you against him.

He drags your underwear to the side, not bothering to remove them, just getting them out of his way. The fabric is soaked, ruined, and he groans when he feels just how wet you are, just how ready.

There’s a shaky, fumbling urgency to the way he shoves his trousers down, just enough, just far enough to free himself, because there’s no time for anything else.

No time to think.

No time to stop.

His cock presses against you, hot and aching, the tip slick with need.

You tense in anticipation, body going rigid, your fingers digging into his back as you feel him right there—so close, too close, not close enough.

Then—he pushes in.

A sharp, deep stretch, the overwhelming burn of being filled so fast, so suddenly, so completely.

You can feel every inch of him—thick, hard, hot, pressing deep, stretching you open until it’s almost too much.

Your lips part on a gasp, a sharp, startled moan spilling from your throat before you can stop it—

But Harry is faster.

His hand clamps over your mouth, muffling your cry, his forehead dropping against yours, his breath shaky and uneven as he tries to hold himself together.

"Shhh," he rasps, his voice wrecked, strained, like he’s just barely keeping control.

His jaw is clenched so tight, his arms shaking from the effort of not losing himself completely. His fingers dig into the plush of your thigh, his other hand flexing against your mouth, making sure you stay quiet.

"Fuck," he groans, voice low and guttural, his breath hot against your lips.

"Fuck, you feel so good."

You clench around him, the pressure making your whole body arch, making your legs tighten around his waist, your nails biting into his biceps.

"So deep," you whisper against his palm, already breathless, already drowning in him.

Harry lets out a choked, strangled sound, his head dropping to your shoulder, his teeth scraping against the delicate skin of your neck.

He grips your hip tighter, yanks your thigh up higher, angling you just right—

Then he moves.

His first thrust is slow, deep, pulling out just enough before sinking back in, like he’s savoring it, like he’s relishing the way you stretch around him, the way your body grips him so perfectly.

Then—he snaps.

His hips slam into you, his movements turning frantic, punishing, wild, as if he’s been holding back for too long and can’t anymore.

It’s rough, raw, overwhelming, his cock dragging against every sensitive nerve, making you feel every inch, every inch, every inch.

The wall is solid behind you, but it does nothing to ground you, nothing to brace you against the way he’s pounding into you, forcing the breath from your lungs with every sharp, perfect thrust.

Your hands scramble for purchase, fingers clutching his shoulders, his hair, his back, anything to hold on to.

The contrast is unbearable—the cold marble against your back, the scorching heat of his body against yours, the wetness pooling between you, the rough press of his fingertips against your thigh, your hip, your waist.

"I can feel you squeezing me," he pants, voice deep, wrecked, laced with pure lust.

His teeth graze your jaw, his breath hot, heavy, uneven as he presses deeper, harder, better.

"You close, baby?"

You can’t even think.

All you can do is nod frantically, your nails scratching down his back, your voice breaking, muffled against his shoulder.

"So close—please don’t stop."

He lets out a low, throaty growl, his hands tightening, his hips slamming into you even harder, rougher, faster.

"I got you," he grits out, his voice tight, desperate.

"Let go for me."

And you do.

It hits you all at once—a blinding, earth-shattering pleasure that crashes through you so violently it nearly steals the breath from your lungs.

Your walls clench, pulse, flutter around him, drawing him in deeper, tighter, squeezing him so hard he lets out a wrecked, strangled moan.

Your whole body locks up, then shakes, trembles, collapses as your orgasm tears through you, leaving nothing behind but a pounding heartbeat and the echo of his name on your lips.

Harry doesn’t last long after that.

His rhythm stutters, his grip on your body tightens, his breath turning ragged, uneven, choked.

Then—he slams into you one last time, burying himself deep, so deep, as deep as he can go—and he lets go.

A deep, shaky groan rumbles from his chest as he spills into you, his fingers digging into your hips so tight it’s almost painful.

For a long moment, there’s nothing but harsh breaths, trembling limbs, the sound of racing hearts.

Your bodies are still pressed together, still locked in place, neither of you willing to move, to let go, to face what you’ve just done.

No space between you.

No words.

Just the wreckage of this moment, of the heat, of the mess you’ve made together.

The world around you is silent.

Or maybe your ears are still ringing from the intensity of it all—the overwhelming pleasure, the crash of your heartbeat in your skull, the way your body is still trembling from the aftershocks.

You’re breathless, boneless, your limbs heavy and warm, still wrapped around him, still feeling the echo of where he’s been, of where he still is.

Neither of you move.

Not yet.

Harry’s forehead presses against yours, his breath hot and unsteady, his chest rising and falling against yours in the same frantic, uneven rhythm.

His hands haven’t left your body—fingertips tracing over the dips of your waist, the curve of your thigh, like he can’t stop touching you, even now.

He should feel guilty.

He should regret this.

This was reckless, stupid, dangerous.

Someone could’ve caught you.

Someone still might.

But instead of guilt, instead of remorse, instead of the sinking weight of what the fuck have we done—

All he feels is satisfaction.

His lips twitch. The corner of his mouth quirks up, amusement flickering in his dark, lazy eyes, like he already knows what you’re about to say.

And sure enough—

"We’re so gonna get caught one day," you breathe, still a little dazed, still not sure you can feel your legs yet.

A smirk spreads across his face, slow and wicked, as his fingers brush damp hair from your forehead, his other hand still gripping your thigh, holding you in place, keeping you where he wants you.

He shifts slightly—just enough to remind you that he’s still inside you, still buried so deep it makes your breath hitch.

Then he whispers, low and deliberate, his lips brushing against yours—

"Worth it."

You leave first.

Your legs are still shaky, your breath uneven as you move quickly down the hallway, trying to compose yourself before stepping back into the crowd. The moment you’re back under the bright lights of the gala, surrounded by elegant chatter and the clinking of champagne glasses, it’s like stepping into a completely different reality.

You fight the urge to touch your lips, knowing they’re still kiss-bruised and swollen from Harry’s mouth on yours. Instead, you fish through your clutch with trembling fingers, pulling out your compact mirror and flipping it open, only to let out a quiet curse under your breath.

Your lipstick is completely ruined.

Smudged at the edges, faint traces of it smeared beyond the natural curve of your lips, a dead giveaway to what you’ve been doing.

And that’s not even the worst of it.

You tilt your chin slightly, angling the mirror lower—your neck burns with the ghost of his teeth, the imprint of his mouth. You squint at your reflection, but you don’t have to look closely to see the faint red bloom of a mark beginning to form just under your jaw.

Jesus. You need to fix this.

Your heart pounds as you swipe a fingertip over your lips, smoothing away the damage as best you can, trying to make yourself look normal, untouched, innocent. You pat at your flushed cheeks, inhale a steadying breath, and pull your dress back into place before making your way deeper into the room.

No one is paying attention to you.

Or at least—that’s what you tell yourself.

Because the truth is…some people are.

The ones who notice everything.

The ones who have been watching you both all night.

It’s only five minutes later when Harry returns.

And that’s when the whispers really start.

📱 Twitter Explodes:

@YNUpdates: "Harry and Y/N disappeared at the SAME TIME and now her lipstick is smudged??? Someone explain." 👀

@Hstylesfan88: "Tell me why Harry looks wrecked after being ‘away’ for 20 minutes???"

@Directioner_for_life: "LOOK AT THIS. WHY DOES HE LOOK LIKE HE JUST GOT LAID." [Attached: a blurry photo of Harry stepping back into the gala, tie loose, hair messy, jaw tight as he adjusts his suit.]

@StylinsonLover: "I swear to god if they’re secretly fucking and we don’t know I will RIOT."

It’s all so fast.

You don’t even realize how much people have picked up on until your phone vibrates in your clutch, a message from a friend—

"You might wanna check Twitter."

Your stomach flips as you glance around the room, trying not to be obvious as you spot him across the crowd.

And holy fuck, yeah—they’re right.

Harry looks wrecked.

His tie is loosened, the first two buttons of his shirt undone, the strands of his hair slightly tousled, like someone’s fingers had just been gripping at it.

You swallow hard.

You shouldn’t be staring at him, shouldn’t be biting your lip at the sight of him still looking a little ruined from fucking you against the wall.

And yet—

The way he carries himself so effortlessly, the way his expression is calm, unaffected—like he hasn’t just been inside you, like he hasn’t just come undone in the deepest parts of you—it’s infuriating.

Because you feel so obvious.

Like everyone in this goddamn room knows.

And the worst part?

Maybe they do.

The night is winding down, the music softens, the lights dim just slightly, and the energy in the room shifts from excitement to exhaustion.

People start to leave in waves—celebrities slipping out with their teams, photographers packing up their equipment, security guiding fans toward the exits.

You keep your distance.

You have to.

For months now, you and Harry have been careful—so careful.

Because if anyone found out, the questions wouldn’t stop.

Who made the first move? Who was the one who set the rules? Who got attached first? Who’s more obsessed? Is it real? Is it fake? When did it start? How will it end?

You already know what the media would say.

That you are just another girl Harry’s using.

That he is just another celebrity falling into a meaningless fling.

That this is just another story waiting to be ripped apart, twisted into something ugly, overanalyzed until there’s nothing left.

They wouldn’t understand that it’s not like that. That it’s never been like that.

So, you play your part.

You pretend.

You act like you’re just another guest in the room, sipping champagne and offering polite smiles and nods.

And you ignore the way your skin still burns where he touched you.

But every few minutes—you feel him.

A glance across the room.

A flick of his eyes down to your lips.

A tiny smirk when you press them together, nervous, flustered, still feeling him everywhere.

Your cheeks heat up, and you force yourself to look away, heart hammering.

You have to be careful.

But then—just as you think you’ve made it out without another close call—

A hand on your wrist.

Warm. Quick. Certain.

Your breath catches as you turn, only to find him there, impossibly close, standing just slightly behind you, tucked into the shadows where no one else can see.

Your stomach tightens.

You don’t even have time to react before his fingers slide down, trailing over your palm, catching your hand in his.

His grip is gentle but sure, fingers threading through yours like this isn’t just another secret touch. Like he’s holding on.

Your pulse jumps, and his thumb brushes over it, tracing the rapid rhythm.

When you meet his gaze, his eyes are dark, still hooded from everything you’ve done tonight, but there’s something else there now, too. Something deeper.

"See you later?" he murmurs, voice low, teasing, soft in a way that makes your chest ache.

You should let go.

You should be careful.

But instead, you lace your fingers through his.

Tighter. Certain.

You tilt your head, let a slow smile curve at your lips, and whisper back—

"Yeah."

A pause.

A flicker of something dangerous. Something real.

Then, his hand squeezes yours—a silent promise—before he finally lets go, slipping away into the crowd.

But this time, you don’t just feel his touch lingering on your skin.

You feel him everywhere.

And you already know—

This isn’t just some secret anymore.

It’s too much. Too intense, too deep, too important to be treated like something you can just hide forever.

You take a steadying breath, smoothing a hand over your dress, mentally preparing yourself to leave.

And that’s when you hear it.

A sharp click.

A hushed gasp.

A flicker of movement in your peripheral vision.

You turn your head—just in time to see a fan clutching their phone, eyes wide, staring straight at you.

The screen still glowing.

Still open to the camera app.

Your stomach drops.

The fan’s mouth parts like they might say something—might call out your name, might ask if what they just saw was real.

Your breath catches, a cold chill racing up your spine.

And then—

They take off.

Vanishing into the crowd.

With their phone.

With the photo.

With the secret you and Harry just lost.

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

[part 2]

Thank you so much for reading! I appreciate any support so remember to comment, reblog, & like ❤️‍🔥

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#harry styles #harry styles fic #harry styles writing #harry styles x reader #harry styles imagine #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles one shot #harry styles x y/n #harry styles smut #harry styles fluff

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mysunshinetemptress · 6 months ago

Text

Taste of Heaven

Tex Universe

You feel so out of place amongst the jerseys, your hat placed firmly on your head even as different passerby stare at you. You're used to rodeos, the smell of dirt and unruly animals, muck-covered boots, and dust-covered faces, not seats with backs on them, concrete floors and big green pitches.

You're decked out in your boots and hat, while people run around you in jerseys and shorts, flags covering their bodys and scarfs with who you can only presume are players faces on them, face paint covering their cheeks.

Mitch looks just as lost as he hands you a hot dog "Why are they dressed like that." He asks as a teenage girl walks past eyeing you suspiciously, "I think they are thinking the same thing." You decide finding your seats would be a better option then standing amongst the crowd.

At the rodeo, the focus was on the animals, the skill of the riders, the raw power of the competition. Here, the focus seemed to be on… everything else. The noise was deafening – a cacophony of cheers, chants, and the constant blare of music from the stadium speakers. It was a far cry from the low rumble of the livestock, the sharp crack of the starting gate, the announcer’s booming voice echoing across the arena.

You tugged on the brim of your hat a nervous habit you usually reserved for the moments Mitch or your brothers would burst from the chute on top of a bucking bull.

Finding your seat you can't help but stare at the pitch infront of you, it was an unnatural green, perfectly manicured and impossibly smooth, a stark contrast to the dusty, uneven ground of the rodeo arena. There were no bucking broncos, no charging bulls, no cowboys risking life and limb. Instead, small figures in brightly colored uniforms ran back and forth, chasing a small white ball. It seemed… tame.

"Wheres Leah." Mitch asks as he leans into you but you're already looking right at her, your eyes track her every move as she runs back and forth, you simply point at her.

The game unfolds in a flurry of movement. The crowd roars with every near miss, every close call. You still don’t quite understand the rules, but you’re starting to grasp the rhythm of the game. It’s a dance of strategy and athleticism, a constant push and pull between two opposing forces. It's not the raw, untamed energy of the rodeo, but it has its own kind of intensity.

Mitch, ever the pragmatist, is now fully engrossed in the game, asking you questions about the players, the score, the purpose of certain plays. You shrug most of them off, your attention fixed on Leah. You see her intercept a pass, her tall frame weaving through two her opponents. The crowd beside you erupts as she kicks the ball down the field, a collective groan echoing through the stadium as it’s blocked by the opposing goalie.

“She’s fast,” Mitch comments, nudging you with his elbow. You turn nod going to agree before you feel a tap on your shoulder. "I can't see."

You turn to find a small boy, maybe eight or nine years old, peering up at you from behind a bright blue jersey that dwarfed his small frame. He was clutching a foam finger almost as big as his arm. “I can’t see,” he repeated, his voice barely audible above the roar of the crowd. "Your hat, its in my way." You laugh letting out a small sorry before taking it off and placing it on your leg.

The boy beamed, his face lighting up like a Christmas tree. "Thanks!" he chirped, immediately turning back to the field, his eyes glued to the action. You glanced down at your hat, feeling strangely bare without it. It felt like shedding a layer of skin, exposing a vulnerability you weren't used to displaying in public. You were so accustomed to the familiar weight of it, the way it shielded your eyes from the sun and the judging stares of strangers.

The game continued, and you found yourself getting more invested than you expected. You started to understand the flow of the game, the way the players moved as a unit, anticipating each other’s actions. It was a different kind of teamwork than you were used to seeing at the rodeo, where it was often man against beast. Here, it was a collective effort, a synchronized dance of skill and strategy.

You watched Leah closely, admiring her athleticism and determination. She moved with a grace and power that reminded you of a wild mustang, untamed and free. You could see the fire in her eyes, the burning desire to win. It was a familiar fire, one that burned within you too, whether you were on horseback or simply watching from the sidelines.

During a break in the game, Leah jogged towards the sidelines, catching sight of you and Mitch as you slip your hat back on standing up to make use of halftime. A wide smile spread across her face as she waved. You gave her a small wave back, feeling a surge of pride. She was thriving in this environment, embracing the energy and excitement of the game.

The little boy behind you tapped your shoulder again. "She's good," he said, pointing at Leah. "She's gonna score next time."

You nodded in agreement. "I think you're right."

“Are you a real cowboy?” the boy asked, his eyes wide with a mixture of awe and disbelief. You glanced down at your boots, worn leather scuffed from years of riding and ranch work, then up at your jeans, faded and patched in places. You were a walking, talking testament to a life lived outdoors, a stark contrast to the sea of brightly colored jerseys and painted faces surrounding you.

A small smile tugged at the corner of your lips. “I reckon I am,” you replied, your voice a low drawl that seemed to amplify the difference between you and the rest of the crowd.

The boy’s eyes lit up. “Wow,” he breathed, as if you’d just revealed some great, hidden secret. “Do you… do you ride bulls?”

“Used to,” you said, a flicker of memory – the adrenaline, the fear, the sheer exhilaration – passing through your mind. “Mostly horses now. And work the ranch.”

“Cool!” he exclaimed. He paused for a moment, then added in a hushed tone, “My dad says cowboys are tough.”

“They have to be,” you agreed, thinking of the long days, the unpredictable weather, the stubborn animals. It wasn’t a glamorous life, but it was a life you loved.

“Did you ever get bucked off?” the boy asked, leaning forward conspiratorially.

You chuckled. “More times than I can count,” you admitted. “It’s part of the job.”

The boy giggled, clearly delighted by this admission. He seemed to have forgotten all about the game for the moment, his attention completely focused on you.

Mitch, who had been listening to the conversation with amusement, leaned in and ruffled the boy’s hair. "She's the best cowgirl out there, don't let her tell you otherwise."

You shook your head, a grin spreading across your face. “Just a cowgirl” you corrected him gently.

Just then, the whistle blew, signaling the start of the second half. The crowd erupted once again, the noise washing over you in a wave of sound. The boy turned back to the field, his foam finger raised high in the air.

You watched Leah as she sprinted down the field, her eyes fixed on the ball. You saw the determination in her face, the same fire that burned within you. And you knew, with a certainty that settled deep in your bones, that she was going to make something happen.

And then, it happened. Leah received a pass, deftly maneuvering around two defenders. The crowd held its breath as she approached the goal. With a powerful kick, she sent the ball soaring through the air, past the outstretched hands of the goalie, and into the back of the net.

The stadium erupted. The roar of the crowd was deafening, a wave of pure joy and excitement. You jumped to your feet, clapping and cheering along with everyone else. The little boy behind you was jumping up and down, screaming at the top of his lungs.

“I told you!” he yelled, turning to you with a triumphant grin. “She scored! She’s the best!”

You laughed, clapping him on the shoulder. “You were right,” you admitted.

The match ends shortly after and you can't help but stand there awkwardly, what happens now, is that it, is that the only glimpse of Leah you get.

You watch as she flutters around people hugging them, chatting excitdly but mitch digs you in the back pulling your attention, "What now." You shrug "leave i guess she-she never said anything about after so i guess that was it." Mitch can tell your upset, its weird the connection you and Leah have, for people who spend such little time together.

Mitch gives you a knowing look, a slight smirk playing on his lips. "Come on, you really think that's it?" he asks, nudging you with his elbow. "She wouldn't have invited us if she didn't want to hang out."

You shift uncomfortably, tugging at the brim of your hat again, a habit you thought you really wish you would kick. "I don't know, Mitch. It's… different. This whole thing is different." You gesture vaguely around at the emptying stadium, the lingering echoes of the crowd's roar. "I doubt I'm exactly her type, am I?"

Mitch rolls his eyes. "Since when do you care about types? You two clearly hit it off. Just give it a chance." He claps you on the shoulder.

You shake your head your eyes searching for the blonde once more "Let's just go." sighing Mitch follows you as you head towards the steps.

"Oye Texas, where do you think you're going?" a voice called out, cutting through the dispersing crowd. You froze, your hand tightening on the brim of your hat. That voice, laced with a familiar mix of amusement and exasperation, belonged to Leah.

You turned, your heart doing a funny little skip in your chest. Leah was jogging towards you, her teammates trailing behind her, offering her high fives and words of congratulations. Her face was flushed with exertion and excitement, but her smile was bright as she approached.

"We were just… leaving," you mumbled, feeling suddenly awkward under her gaze. You glanced at Mitch, who was grinning at you like a Cheshire cat.

"I've got to be back in Montana soon, you know where i'm from not Texas."

Leah stopped in front of you, her smile widening. "Leaving? The party's just getting started!" She gestured to her teammates, who had now caught up and were looking at you with curious smiles. "Guys, this is my friend, uh…" she trailed off, looking at you expectantly.

"Y/n" you supplied quickly, feeling your cheeks flush.

"Right, this is Texas, and this is Mitch. They came to watch the game."

"It was a great game," one of Leah's teammates, a girl with a different coloured, jersey and a mischievous glint in her eyes, said. "You guys brought us good luck."

"Yeah, especially when you took your hat off," another teammate teased, nudging the first girl playfully.

You felt your face heat up even more at the mention of the hat. You glanced down at it, clutched in your hand.

Leah laughed, putting a hand on your arm. "Don't mind them," she said. "They're just messing with you. So," she continued, turning her attention back to you, "we're going out to celebrate. You guys wanna come?"

You blinked, surprised by the invitation. You glanced at Mitch, who was practically bouncing with excitement. You looked back at Leah, her eyes sparkling with genuine enthusiasm.

"I…" you started, then hesitated. You were still feeling out of place, still unsure of yourself in this unfamiliar environment. But there was something about Leah's open and welcoming demeanor that made you want to say yes.

"Come on," Leah urged, her smile infectious. "It'll be fun. We can talk about… well, anything but football, if you want." She winked.

You took a deep breath, pushing down your lingering doubts. "Alright," you said, a small smile finally spreading across your own face. "We'll come."

A cheer erupted from Leah's teammates, and you couldn't help but laugh. You looked at Mitch, who gave you a thumbs-up. You looked back at Leah, whose eyes were shining with excitement.

You wait kicking your boot into the ground impatiently for the girls to finish getting ready freezing as you feel your hat being pulled off your head.

Leah laughs "Can I try it on." You stutter to answer "I-eh-i" Mitch snatches it out of the England captains hand "Only if you plan on sleeping with her."

The air crackled with a sudden tension. The playful atmosphere shifted, a subtle undercurrent of something you couldn't quite place rippling through the group. Leah’s hand, which had been reaching for the hat, froze mid-air. Her eyes flicked from the hat in Mitch’s grasp to your face, a flicker of surprise, then something akin to… amusement?

Mitch, oblivious to the change in the air, grinned, holding the hat just out of Leah’s reach. “Only if you plan on sleeping with her,” he repeated, his tone light and teasing. But the words hung in the air, heavy with implication.

You felt your stomach drop. You shot Mitch a warning glare, a silent plea to drop it. This wasn't the time, this wasn't the place, and certainly not in front of Leah's teammates. You could feel your face burning, a blush creeping up your neck. You weren't used to this kind of open flirtation, especially not directed at you.

Leah, however, surprised you. Instead of recoiling or getting offended, a slow smile spread across her face. She tilted her head, her eyes twinkling with a playful challenge. “Is that how it works in Montana?” she asked, her voice smooth and teasing, a hint of a British accent coloring her words. “Hats as a pre-requisite for… companionship?”

The other girls erupted in giggles, the tension dissipating as quickly as it had appeared. Mitch, finally realizing he might have overstepped, lowered the hat slightly, a sheepish grin replacing his earlier bravado.

“Nah, I just… didn’t want you to mess up your hair,” he mumbled, offering the hat to Leah. He shot you an apologetic glance, a silent promise to explain later.

Leah took the hat, her fingers brushing against Mitch’s as she did so. She placed it carefully on her head, tilting the brim at a jaunty angle. She looked at you, a playful glint in her eyes. “How do I look?”

You couldn't help but smile. Despite the awkwardness of the moment, Leah handled it with grace and humor. She looked… surprisingly good in your hat. The worn leather and dusty brim contrasted sharply with her bright, athletic appearance, but somehow, it worked.

“Like you’re about to ride a bull,” you said, your voice a little rougher than you intended.

Leah laughed, a genuine, warm sound that made your chest feel tight. “Is that a good thing?”

“Depends on if you can stay on,” you replied, a playful smirk tugging at your lips.

Leah winked. “I’m a quick learner,” she said, adjusting the hat slightly. She turned to her teammates, striking a pose. “Right, ladies? Let’s show these cowboys how we do it in England.”

The girls cheered, their earlier curiosity replaced with genuine excitement. The atmosphere was light and playful again, the awkward moment forgotten.

As they finally headed out, Leah handed your hat back, her fingers lingering on yours for a brief moment. “Thanks for letting me borrow it, Texas,” she said, her voice soft.

“Anytime,” you mumbled, your eyes meeting hers. There was a moment of quiet understanding between you, a shared acknowledgment of the strange little dance that had just taken place.

As you walked towards the restaurant, Mitch clapped you on the back. "See? I told you she liked you."

You shoved him playfully, still processing everything that had just happened. "Shut up," you mumbled, but a small smile played on your lips.

The evening that followed was a whirlwind of laughter, good food, and surprisingly engaging conversation. You found yourself relaxing more and more as the night went on, the initial awkwardness fading into the background. You talked to Leah about everything and nothing – her passion for football, your life on the ranch, the differences between Montana and England, the similarities between rodeos and football matches.

You're so lost in converstation that you don't notice the skeeming going on around you until Millie Bright wraps her arms around you both "To the club."

The declaration hung in the air, thick with the promise of more noise, more people, and more unfamiliar territory. You blinked, momentarily stunned. A club? This was escalating quickly. You glanced at Mitch, who was grinning like a Cheshire cat, then at Leah, whose eyes sparkled with mischief.

“A club?” you echoed, your voice laced with a mixture of apprehension and curiosity. You weren’t exactly a stranger to bars – you’d frequented your fair share of honky-tonks back home – but a “club” sounded different. Louder. More… intense.

Millie, oblivious to your internal debate, tightened her grip on your arms, pulling you and Leah closer. “Yeah! It’s just down the street. They play great music, and it’s the perfect place to celebrate a win.”

Leah nodded in agreement. “It’ll be fun,” she reassured you, her smile warm and inviting. “You can show us some of those cowboy dance moves I’ve heard so much about.”

You chuckled, a nervous flutter in your stomach. Cowboy dance moves? You weren’t sure if the two-step you occasionally did at the local bar qualified as “cowboy dance moves.”

“I don’t know…” you began, your gaze shifting between Leah and Millie. “I’m not really dressed for…” you gestured down at your jeans and boots, feeling acutely aware of how out of place you looked compared to the other girls, who were dressed in stylish casual wear.

“Nonsense!” Millie exclaimed, waving her hand dismissively. “It’s a casual place. Besides,” she added with a wink, “you look great.”

Leah echoed Millie's sentiment. "You look fine, besides, it'll be a laugh, it's not like we're going to Buckingham Palace."

Before you could protest further, you were being swept along by the group, a tide of laughter and chatter carrying you towards the dimly lit entrance of the club. The bass thumped through the closed doors, a rhythmic pulse that vibrated in your chest.

Inside, the club was a sensory overload. The air was thick with the smell of perfume and sweat, the music was deafening, and the flashing lights created a dizzying kaleidoscope of colors. The space was packed with people, all moving to the beat of the music. You felt a wave of disorientation wash over you, a sudden longing for the wide-open spaces of Montana.

Leah, sensing your discomfort, placed a reassuring hand on your arm. “It’s a bit much at first,” she said, her voice barely audible above the music. “But you’ll get used to it.”

She led you and Mitch towards a quieter corner of the club, near the bar. The dim lighting cast long shadows, creating a sense of intimacy despite the crowded surroundings.

As you settled into a booth, a waitress approached, taking your drink orders. You opted for a simple beer, something familiar to hold onto in this unfamiliar environment.

The conversation flowed easily, fueled by the music and the celebratory atmosphere. You found yourself relaxing more and more, even managing to crack a few jokes that earned you genuine laughs from the group. You even found yourself dancing, albeit awkwardly, when a particularly catchy song came on. Leah, thankfully, was a patient and forgiving dance partner.

As the night wore on, the club grew even more crowded. People danced closer, the music grew louder, and the conversations became more animated. You found yourself drawn into the energy of the place, the collective euphoria of the crowd.

At one point, as you were talking to Leah about the differences between rodeos and football matches, she leaned in close, her breath warm against your ear. “You know,” she said, her voice barely a whisper, “I never thought I’d meet a real cowgirl."

You chuckled, feeling a warmth spread through your chest. “And I never thought I’d find myself an England soccer player,” you replied, your eyes meeting hers.

The music pulsed, a rhythmic heartbeat that vibrated through the floor and into your very bones. The flashing lights painted the room in shifting hues of red, blue, and purple, creating an almost surreal atmosphere. You were surrounded by a sea of bodies, all moving to the same infectious beat. It was a far cry from the quiet nights on the ranch, the vast expanse of the Montana sky stretching overhead. But here, in this crowded, pulsating club, you felt a strange sense of belonging.

Leah’s hand was warm in yours, guiding you through the throng of dancers. She moved with a natural grace, her body swaying to the music with effortless rhythm. You, on the other hand, felt a little more… awkward. Your boots weren’t exactly designed for dancing on a crowded dance floor, and your usual two-step felt out of place amidst the more modern moves on display.

But Leah didn’t seem to mind. She laughed as you stumbled slightly, her hand tightening on yours, pulling you closer. “Just feel the music,” she shouted over the din, her eyes sparkling with amusement. “Don’t think too much.”

You took her advice, letting the music wash over you, letting your body move instinctively. You loosened up, the tension in your shoulders easing as you started to find a rhythm of your own. Leah’s presence was a comforting anchor, her laughter and encouragement pushing you to let go of your inhibitions.

As the song reached its crescendo, Leah spun you around, her hand sliding down your arm to rest on your waist. You stumbled slightly, catching yourself on her shoulder. For a brief moment, you were close, your faces inches apart. You could feel her breath on your lips, the scent of her perfume filling your senses.

The world seemed to fade away, the music softening, the crowd blurring into a background hum. It was just you and Leah.

As the song reached its end, Leah leaned in, her lips brushing against your ear. “I’m glad you came,” she shouts, her voice barely audible above the music.

"I-I didn't think you would." she shouts again her grip on your waist tightening slightly pulling you impossibly closer, "I wouldn't miss this for anything" you shout back your hands resting on the back of her neck.

The world seems to disappear, the bass no longer thumps in your ears and the bodys that crash into you don't bother you anymore as your eyes flick between Leah's eyes and her lips.

You leaned in, drawn by an invisible force, your breath catching in your throat as leah rushes forward knocking your hat slightly.

Her lips were soft, warm, and hesitant at first, then they pressed a little firmer against yours. It was a brief kiss, a stolen moment in the chaos of the club, but it held a depth that surprised you.

When she pulled back, her eyes met yours, a mixture of nervousness and excitement shining in their depths. A faint blush dusted her cheeks, making her even more beautiful in the dim light. You felt your own face flush, a warmth spreading through your chest that had nothing to do with the heat of the club.

Her eyes don't leave yours as her hand reachs pulling the hat of your head and placing it on her own again. You smile unaware of leahs intentions "I'm wearing your hat." she shouts you laugh "I already told you you look good in it." Leah shakes her head "No I'm wearing your hat." You tilit your head in confusion before Leah pulls you into another kiss "Take me home Texas."

The request hung in the air, a potent invitation. You looked at Leah, really looked at her, and saw a vulnerability beneath the playful exterior, a genuine desire that mirrored your own. The initial shock of her boldness gave way to a surge of exhilaration. This wasn’t just a fleeting connection, a drunken kiss in a crowded club. This was something more.

“I’m from Montana,” you corrected gently, a smile playing on your lips.

Leah laughed, a bright, melodic sound that cut through the noise. “Details, details,” she said, her eyes sparkling. “Just… take me home.”

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mariacallous · 3 months ago

Text

Last week, President Donald Trump finally unveiled his tariff policy — an incoherent bolus of sky-high taxes on goods from every inhabited country and some small islands which are home only to penguins.

The tariffs are so high, and so obviously nonsensical in development and implementation, that they caused a terrifying stock selloff. The market lost $6.6 trillion in two days, the biggest two-day wipeout on record. (And the selloff is set to continue this week.)

Trump’s tariffs will cost the average American family $3,800 a year. They are set to devastate supply chains for small businesses. As other countries crank up retaliatory tariffs, farmers are going to face major barriers to selling on the world market. The administration’s conflicting messages about why the tariffs are in place, and under what conditions they will remain, have only added to the chaos and confusion.

The only thing that seems certain at this point is the likelihood of more, and escalating, economic devastation.

Trump’s decision to single-handedly hobble the world economy and immiserate tens of millions of Americans has presented his fellow Republicans with a stark choice. Do they continue to kiss his orange butt and slavishly nod along to every nonsensical whim of their idiot Golfer King as he leads them into a recession and almost certain electoral apocalypse? Or do they defy him, splitting the party and opening themselves to a primary challenge … and possible electoral apocalypse?

The good news is that some GOP senators and members of Congress are actually disturbed enough by the prospect of their voters starving in the street that they have taken steps to push back against this grotesquely self-destructive trade policy. The not so good news is that the pushback is hesitant and half-hearted — and the majority of the party remains ready to torture and impoverish their constituents for the greater glory of Trump.

The tariffs, and the quick slide into economic calamity, have sparked real resistance. They’ve also demonstrated just how craven and/or hypnotized the GOP has become, and the extent to which most Republicans would do anything — literally anything — rather than point out that the emperor is wearing a grotesque meat suit made of the skin of his constituents.

Revolt of (a few) Republicans

As they are wont to do, many Republicans have gotten on their bellies to grovel and spout the usual Trump-flattering balderdash, either because they are desperate to propitiate their master or because they are genuinely fools.

Commerce Secretary Howard Lutnick has been leading the charge of the sycophants. In interviews he’s blathered that Trump’s trade policy would force other countries to “stop picking on us” and bleated, “Let Donald Trump run the global economy. He knows what he’s doing.”

Some of Lutnick’s fellow Republicans do not, somehow, find his mix of whining and wheedling persuasive.

Shortly after Trump announced his one man assault on the world economy, the Senate passed a bill on a straight majority vote to end the 25 percent emergency tariff declaration against Canada, which Trump had already announced before his latest round of additional bonus tariffs.

The bill was sponsored by Republican Rand Paul of Kentucky and Democrat Tim Kaine of Virginia. All Democrats voted for it, as did Republicans Mitch McConnell, Susan Collins, and Lisa Murkowski. It passed 51-48.

“We're not at war with Canada," Paul said, sounding about as sensible as he ever has. “They're an ally that buys more of our stuff than almost any other country in the world.”

The vote was largely symbolic. Senate Democrats, led by minority leader Chuck Schumer, cravenly caved and gave Republicans the votes they needed to pass a continuing resolution which funded the government, but also stripped Congress members of the ability to bring bills to the floor to vote on repealing presidential emergency declarations.

Meanwhile, House Speaker Mike Johnson, the high priest of Trump enablers, will almost certainly prevent the bill from ever coming to the floor. Even if it were to pass, Trump could veto it — and it’s very unlikely Republicans could find enough votes to overcome a veto.

Despite these barriers, Democrats — and some Republicans—are trying again. Republican Sen. Chuck Grassley — whose farm state of Iowa will be devastated by the tariffs — has joined with Democratic Sen. Maria Cantwell to cosponsor a bill that would claw back the oversight power Congress has recklessly ceded to the president on trade over the decades.

Per the Grassley/Cantwell bill, the president would need to notify Congress within 48 hours of new tariffs, explaining the reasoning behind them and estimating economic impact. Congress would have 60 days to approve the tariffs; if they failed to do so, the tariffs would expire.

In addition to Grassley, the bill is cosponsored by four other Republicans: Jerry Moran, Thom Tillis, McConnell, and Murkowski. Add in Paul and Collins, who voted for the Kaine/Paul bill, and that’s at least seven Republican votes — enough to pass the bill on a simple majority, though not enough to overcome a filibuster.

There have been other signs of Republican unrest too. Nebraska moderate Republican Rep. Don Bacon has said he plans to introduce a House version of the Grassley/Cantwell bill. Normally solid Trumpists like Ted Cruz and billionaire executive branch arsonist Elon Musk have also both expressed skepticism about Trump’s tariff policy.

Profiles in (not quite) courage

Republicans are publicly criticizing Trump. They’re also introducing and voting on bills to curtail Trump’s tariffs. This matters. It means the media has more room to portray the tariffs as actually bad, rather than simply defaulting to easy “R said/D said” both sides narratives.

In addition, open dissent by a significant number of Republicans helps break the collective action problem. Trump can target one or two GOP dissenters, but it’s much harder to excommunicate nine or 10, including co-president Musk. A quorum of people speaking up makes it possible for even more people to dissent. This is how you build up to effective resistance.

But while effective resistance is dimly visible somewhere in the future, we have not arrived there as of yet. Again, there aren’t enough Republican dissenters to pass Grassley/Cantwell over a filibuster, much less a presidential veto. And it’s unclear that the GOP anti-tariff caucus has the stomach for more aggressive tactics.

Would the GOP anti-tariff caucus be willing to join with Democrats to sink the Republican reconciliation bill with all its billionaire tax cut goodies unless and until it includes provisions stripping Trump of tariff power? Would Bacon and other anti-tariff House Republicans withhold their votes in the House?

Given that we’re facing what could be the worst economic crisis since the Great Depression, you’d like to think that the answers there would be an easy “yes”. But, considering Republican fecklessness, it seems more than likely that Grassley, Paul, McConnell, Tillis, and the rest will throw away their leverage the minute they have to actually oppose Trump directly.

Congress has a great deal of power to restrain the president — in theory. In practice, many congresspeople and senators are true believing cult members, and those who aren’t are extremely risk averse. They don’t want to take controversial votes or be responsible for anything. They certainly don’t want to oppose the president of their own party even when that president is obviously a callous fool hellbent on demolishing the economy and with it farms, small businesses, and consumers, all for reasons he and his minions aren’t able to articulate coherently.

Republican dissent is a hopeful sign. The hard limits on it, though, given the magnitude of the crisis, are a bleak reminder of how we ended up in this nightmare to begin with. Any successful resistance is going to require a fair number of Republicans to abandon their orange idol. It’s good to see them starting to do that. But it’s undeniably grim that the fate of the nation rests to any degree at all on these, gutless, spineless, christofascist quislings.

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