#once i was walking around in a church. i see the skull imprinted on the floor like hannibal. i looked up and saw my angel.

[corpsecoded]

i am seeing angels in my dreams again !

[adashofniallandasprinkleoflunacy]

ugh pretend that woman's not there that's literally him getting a blowie and he's all dom and not rlly giving u a reaction just looking at his phone until ur choking around him

You’ve been on your knees in front of him for about fifteen minutes.

One hand is splayed across Harry’s inner thigh, softly raking your nails down his skin just how he likes it, the other one playing with his balls, rolling them across your fingers and massaging them gently with your thumb. 

You’d had him in your mouth for what feels like ages, pushing him down your throat and holding him there for a few seconds before slowly pulling him out, your bottom lip catching on the underside of his swollen tip every time. The hand on his thigh coasts up to grab at his length, thumb tracing the protruding vein at his base and following it up to the head, where you lean forward and kiss at it tenderly. 

Your lips smear over the tip messily, the ridges of your skin sending tendrils of electricity through his bones but he forces himself not to show it. You look up at him from beneath your lashes, blinking sluggishly due to the tense atmosphere of the room. 

Your fingers give him a few long, sharp strokes and you grin against his sweaty, flushed skin when you see the underside of his jaw tightened. Your voice comes out cheeky and matter-of-fact. 

“I know you’re gonna cum so why are you being so fucking annoying?”

He doesn’t respond, maintaining his stance. He’s leaned all the way back in the makeup chair, head hanging off the back with his phone in the air, parallel to his face. He’s doing it just to get on your nerves, well aware of how much you get off on seeing his reactions, therefore taking that reward away as some type of arrogant charade. 

Harry hasn’t looked at you once. Not when you sat down on your heels before him and questioningly tugged at the hem of his t-shirt. Not when you tugged his belt loose and rolled down his zipper, pasting wet pecks at the faint short hairs running down the bottom of his tummy into his underwear. Not when you fished him out of his briefs and gave him a round of desperate pumps with your palm in order to get him hard, mumbling about how you’ve been wanting to taste him all day. And the most irritating of all, he hadn’t even made a single sound when you’d pushed him down your throat, your nose brushing the crest of his belly button as your tongue cleaned the familiar salty taste off his cock.  

He had just kept scrolling through his social media, the colors of the screen reflecting off the glossy surface of his eyes as his mouth remained in a relaxed, absent-minded pout, not giving you the satisfaction of even the slightest twitch. The only thing he did was part his thighs wider, giving you access for whatever it is you wanted to do but maintaining a disinterested vibe, as if he couldn’t care less whether you stayed or left. 

In the time that had passed, you were hoping you’d be able to draw some type of response from him. However, he could be so fucking stubborn when he wanted to; the attempts had all been failures.

Harry doesn’t answer the question floating in the room, instead tapping out a text to an unknown person and continuing to mess with his applications. You decide to try again and though your patience is running thin, you go the sweeter, less snappy route, sugaring your voice down into a pleading whine that you know would tug at his heart strings a bit. 

“Harry, c’monnnn.” You slump your shoulders lightly, propping your chin on one of his inner thighs and gazing up at him with big doe eyes. “Please? Just wanna make sure I’m making you feel good, baby.” 

Your lips ghost along the sensitive muscles of his thigh, kissing delicately to guilt him into giving you what you want. 

Harry caves for a fraction of a second, glimpsing down at you over his cheekbones, absorbing the way your lips are quivering with longing. You blink up at him slowly, eyes watery, begging silently. 

Then the moment’s over and he looks away, nestling down further into the leather chair and regaining his scrolling.

You release a frustrated grunt, eyebrows furrowing and jaw clenching. “Fine, you prick.” 

Then he gifts you the first acknowledgment since you walked into the room: an amused snort at your snarky remark. 

It only grates you further. 

You push yourself up onto your knees fully, fingers tucking your hair behind your ears to avoid it getting in your eyes. You stare down at Harry’s tinted cock as it dribbles with precum, watching his stomach stutter with breaths at what might happen next. He knows he’s in for it. 

Harry was pretty big, that much is obvious. Because of this, every time you give him a blowie you always have to take him in gradually, working him into your mouth at intervals in order to accommodate his size. But burning irritation gets the best of you this time and without thinking twice, you shove him down in one go. 

You feel his leaking tip hit the back of your throat, your jaw aching at having to open wider than usual. For some ridiculous reason, you were hoping to accomplish this task without seeming phased, but it hits just how moronic that notion is when you suddenly can’t breathe. 

Your throat tightens around him, the sheer girth choking you and causing your nostrils to burn. But you’re just as determined as he is and you force yourself into holding your position, eyes squeezing shut as another round of gagging wracks your body. 

It had the intended effect. 

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

The moan he releases is gurgled, raw, and shamefully desperate and you couldn’t have asked for a better reaction. The hand that had been suspending his phone above his face drops to his chest, the device skimming down his stomach and falling off the side of the chair onto the ground with an empty thud. Harry can’t control himself, one of his hands wildly fumbling into your hair, fingers winding your roots around his knuckles. His other hand finds it way into his own hair, yanking at the curls almost feverishly to try and reign in even a slice of the composure he’d had a minute prior. 

His thick chest heaves with rattling breathes, his lower stomach tinged an angry shade of raspberry red that is quickly crawling up his flexing throat and pouring into his cheeks. He swallows heavily, his words sticking to the roof of his mouth like glue, but he manages to strain them out.

“Fuck, you’ve never gone that deep.” You gaze up at him with cocky triumph sparkling in your teary eyes, making your throat tighten around him once more, your body bracing the gagging with a bit more grace this time now that you’ve gotten a feel for it. 

Harry’s body reacts just as you’d hoped, his back caving forward, hips lifting from his seat a few inches as he holds your head steady with an iron grip, a pitiful broken whimper scraping his lungs.  

“Holy shit, that’s so fucking deep.”

You fall back onto your heels, your jaw and jugular aching as he slips from inside your mouth. You gulp down air like it’s the last time you’ll ever get it, reaching up with the back of your hand and wiping at your messy mouth shakily. 

Harry’s hips fall back into the cushioning of the chair, his broad shoulders trembling and toes curling with pent up aroused adrenalin. His grasp tenses further against your scalp, causing you to wince a tad despite the fact that you love it. 

He looks incredibly hot. His body has been shocked into an incredibly sensitive state, limp against the seat as his brows cinch deeply, his teeth worrying the inside of his plumped bottom lip, cheeks glowing and jaw taut. The hand in his hair releases his locks, struggling to find a hard grip on the backrest of the makeup chair, nails digging into the leather as he grapples to keep himself somewhat upright. 

When his voice finally pipes up again, you can’t help but laugh at how he frantically begs; it’s borderline pathetic. 

“Can you do it again? Please? Please, darling, please? I’m sorry for being an ass, promise I’ll make it up to you.” 

You smack his hand out of your hair, slowly mounting yourself onto your wobbly feet. You blink the blurriness out of your sight, the edges of your swollen lips carving into an entertained smirk. You don’t say a single word, simply stepping over his feet with your intentions set on the door.

Harry immediately knows what you’re going to do and the way he grabs at your wrist so desperately makes your grin widen. 

“Y/N, I can’t go out on stage like this.” His voice is low, accent slathered over his petrified tone. 

You rend your arm from his fingers, shrugging your brows tauntingly. “You should’ve thought of that before being such a dick.” 

He sits forward, palms resting on your waist to keep you from leaving as he tilts his chin upwards, looking up at you with those big puppy dog eyes he’s so well known for. “Fuck, I’ll do anything, I swear. Just please take care of it.” 

You pick a few matted ringlets off his forehead, thumbing over his temples, feeling his pulse hammering inside his skull. You lean down and flush a lingering kiss to the center of his forehead, his eyes drooping shut sleepily as the warmth from your mouth melts down his eyelids and cheeks, numbing the tip of his nose. 

Another whimper squeezes its way out of his throbbing lips. Please…”

You cup his sharp jaw between your forefinger and thumb, his chin fitting perfectly into the alcove of your hand. You skim your mouth over his, noses bumping and breathing mingling as his grip tightens at your hips, rings imprinting into your skin through your jeans. 

“Let me see your eyes, H.”

His lashes flutter open, the green in his irises fading between a bright canopy jade and a cool, muted olive. You stare right into them, seeing his pupils faintly dilate at the suspense. 

Your answer is soft and whispered, but it rings in his ears like a church bell.

“Go fuck yourself.” 

There’s no time, apparently, because just then Harry’s stylist bursts into the room with nothing but a swift knock as a warning. 

“Shit.” Harry’s stiff fingers quickly stuff himself back into his briefs, grateful that you are standing before him to block a full frontal disaster.  

“Sorry to barge in and interrupt but we waited as long as we could. We gotta get you ready, babe.” Harry Lambert immediately begins shifting through the hanger of outfits at the corner of the room, glancing over his shoulder at Harry with an expecting nod.  

More people from Harry’s team flood into the room— his manager, professional photographer, makeup and hair crew— and you back away from him with an apologetic shrug that carries anything but its face value. “Good luck, honey. Can’t wait to see you on stage.” 

Harry has no choice but to oblige to his team, allowing them to surround him in a flurry of preparations, though he handles dressing himself (much to Lambert’s objections) to avoid a catastrophic situation. He ends up going on stage as you had left him, lucky enough that his pants are a loose flared fit that doesn’t showcase his issue. 

But the whole time he’s performing, there’s a certain itch in the back of his head (and at the underside of his balls) that won’t leave him be. And it doesn’t help that you’re is right there on the side of the stage, watching him with your arms crossed over your chest, features painted with smug delight. 

Every time your eyes cross paths, his cock gives a painful twitch; the bright lights and echoing screams aren’t helping at all. There’s a few instances where he can feel his pants growing tighter around his crotch and he tries to take care of it as nonchalantly as possible, but he knows there will be tons of videos and speculation running rampant across the media later tonight. Cameras don’t lie. 

Throughout the whole show, all he can think about is your mouth— how warm it is, how soft, the way you feel licking at him, how pretty your lips look covered in his jizz. It drives him off the fucking wall and you can see it happening in the way he progressively starts glancing at you more often. 

His disgraced lack of control slowly starts to mold into anger because now you’re mocking him in front of hundreds of people, possibly embarrassing him in front of thousands more on the internet. It won’t be a huge riot or anything— it’d probably be easy to debunk— but the strain it’s putting on him now is enough to infuriate anyone.  

At one point in the show, Harry jogs off stage to fetch a bottle of water waiting for him the edge of the curtain, right where you’re residing as you watch the performance. He bends down and scoops up the drink, unscrewing the cap and tilting it back, staring down at you intently through the whole exchange, sweat pouring down his temples and glistening across his exposed chest. He recaps the bottle, turning it over into your awaiting hand and giving you a swift once-over. 

He then leans forward as if to give you a kiss on the cheek, lips tickling the shell of your left ear as he quietly mumbles a very different promise than the one he’d made earlier in an orgasm-deprived stupor.

As soon as the words finish rolling down his tongue, he’s gone again, gripping the microphone stand and introducing the next track as if nothing was out of the ordinary. 

Harry’s words continue to sizzle across your skin for the remainder of the concert. 

“I’m gonna break your fucking back tonight for this.”