uhuhmaries

[uhuhmaries]

Hi for some reason I can’t open part 1 of very pleasing when I click on it from the masterlist it doesn’t open when I click it from part 2 it brings me back to the masterlist is there anyway you could somehow give me the link that works? Thanks

HIIII SO SORRY FOR THE DELAY. I've updated on the masterlist as well!!!! xxx

Very Pleasing PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 3 | PART 4 | PART 5 | PART 6 | PART 7 | PART 8 Part 9 coming soooooooonnnnnnnnn

[uhuhmaries]

One Good Mistake | Day 3

NSFW/18+

Pairing: Frank from Endings, Beginnings (Sebastian Stan) x Reader

Day 1 | Day 2

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The morning light snuck in through the curtains, casting gold lines across the hardwood floor and your couch’s frayed edge. Frank was still there, sprawled like he belonged, one arm tossed over his face to block out the sun, his hoodie half-twisted around his shoulders.

You made coffee, two mugs out of instinct. When he stirred, you were standing in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, watching him come back to life.

He rubbed his eyes. Sat up slowly. Looked around like he forgot where he was for a moment, then his gaze landed on you.

“Shit. I sure do make a mean bong hit,” he rasped.

“You make a better blanket burrito.” You reply back at him.

That earned a chuckle. He stood, stretched, and crossed the room to take the coffee you offered without a word. He drank it black. Of course he did.

There was something fragile about the quiet. Like neither of you wanted to break the spell.

You didn’t ask if he was leaving. He didn’t act like he would.

Instead, an hour later, he asked, “You wanna get out of here?”

You looked at him. “Out of where?”

“Here. L.A. Just for the night.”

“That’s random.” “That’s the point.”

He downed the rest of his coffee, then walked over to the door like it was already decided.

“Pack a bag,” he said, grinning. “Clothes. Toothbrush. Maybe something you don’t mind getting dirty in."

You should’ve said no.

But you didn’t.

The drive started with silence and old music.

Frank played a scratched CD he found in his glovebox—something moody and sad, full of echoey guitars and mumbled lyrics. You leaned against the passenger window, the glass warm under your temple.

He didn’t say where you were going. Just “up north.”

You didn’t ask.

At one point, he lit a cigarette and rolled down the window. The wind swept through his hair, and for a second, he looked peaceful. Maybe even happy.

“You do this a lot?” You asked.

“Run?”

You nodded.

“Only when I feel like if I stay somewhere too long, I’ll rot.”

You watched the lines on the highway blur beneath the car.

“You ever stay?”

“Once. Didn’t work out.”

He didn’t elaborate. You didn’t push.

The cabin appeared after a long gravel road and a nearly-broken gate.

It was small, hidden behind trees that hadn’t been trimmed in years, and the front porch sagged like a tired shoulder. But there was something charming about it, too. Like a secret you weren’t supposed to find.

“This place looks haunted,” you said as he unlocked the door.

“Probably is,” he replied. “But the ghosts keep to themselves.”

Inside, it smelled like cedar and ash. The furniture was mismatched, the walls covered in old concert posters and faded Polaroids. A record player sat in the corner next to a crate of dusty vinyls.

He dropped his bag on the couch and pulled out a small tin.

“What is that?”

“Birthday present. From myself.”

He opened it. Pills. A tiny plastic bag of something that sparkled faintly pink. You didn’t ask. You didn’t want to know yet.

He poured a few into his palm, swallowed two, and held one out for you.

You stared at it.

“You don’t have to,” he said. “But you seem like someone who could use a night off."

You took it.

The high hit slow. Warm. Like honey melting in your spine.

Frank put on a record—Mazzy Star or something like it. You laid on the rug, watching the shadows shift on the ceiling. He laid beside you, your pinkies barely touching.

Everything slowed down.

At some point, he lit a joint. You smoked it in turns, laughing at nothing. You talked about childhood. About regret. About the weird scar on his hip and the time you ran away when you were sixteen and slept in your car.

He told you about the last time he was here.

“Wasn’t alone then,” he said quietly.

You turned to him. “Oh?” He didn’t answer. Just stared at the ceiling.

It started slow.

He kissed your shoulder first. Barely a whisper of lips.

You closed your eyes. You should’ve pulled away. Every nerve in your body screamed that this was the moment to stop it. But your limbs felt warm, fluid, treacherous.

“Frank,” you murmured. “Don’t."

He paused. “Don’t what?”

His fingers skimmed your wrist, your inner elbow.

“Don’t make this into something it isn’t.”

He leaned in, nose brushing your cheek, his breath hot. “Then don’t make it anything. Just let it be what it is.”

Your mouth parted. He kissed you, slow, coaxing, like he knew you were halfway to falling and just needed the right pressure.

He read you too well. The tension snapped. You pulled him in.

His hands mapped you slowly, teasing the edge of your shirt up over your head, his mouth finding the sensitive spot beneath your jaw. He took his time, dragging his fingers over your skin like he wanted to memorize it.

You arched under him, gasping when his mouth circled your nipple, tongue flicking, sucking. He moved lower, pulling your pants down inch by inch, kissing the line of your hip.

Every inch he touched lit up. Every hesitation you had dissolved under the weight of heat.

He pushed inside you slowly, watching your face the whole time. Your lips parted in a shaky breath.

It was too much. Too slow. Too deep. And you wanted more.

He moved with purpose, hands pinning yours above your head firmly, mouth devouring your neck, your collarbone, your shoulder. You moaned into his mouth, legs wrapping around him.

He whispered things you barely registered. “So fucking tight...” and “You feel better than I remember...”

You tensed.

“What?” You asked.

He didn't seem to hear or realize. Then it happened.

“God, Daphne,” he muttered as he thrust deeper.

Your whole body went still. You shoved at his chest.

He stopped, eyes wild.

“Shit. No. I didn’t—I didn’t mean that.”

You stared at him. “You did.”

He pulled out, sitting back, already defensive. “It was an accident. It didn’t mean anything.”

You sat up slowly, wrapping the blanket around yourself.

“It means everything.”

“Don’t make this bigger than it is,” he snapped.

You laughed, bitter. “You’re really good at that, aren’t you? Gaslighting women into thinking they’re crazy for feeling things.”

“You knew what this was,” he said, voice sharper now. “You knew I wasn’t healed. You signed up for the mess. Don’t act like I promised you something.”

“I didn’t ask for a promise,” you snapped. “I asked you not to lie to me.”

He stood, pacing, running a hand through his hair. “I didn’t lie. I just—fuck. I don’t know. It was a slip.”

You were already pulling on your clothes.

“Where are you going?”

“I need air.”

“You’re overreacting.”

You turned to him, fire in your chest. “No. I’m reacting. Because I deserve better than being haunted by someone else’s ghost."

He didn’t follow you when you walked out.

The sky was bleeding pink by the time you sat on the steps of the cabin, blanket around your shoulders, heart thudding like you’d survived a car crash.

Inside, Frank was quiet.

And you knew, something inside both of you had cracked.

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I hope at this point y'all understand how much i really want THIS MAN GOODNESS

[uhuhmaries]

One Good Mistake | Day 2

NSFW/18+

Pairing: Frank from Endings, Beginnings (Sebastian Stan) x Reader

Day 1

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You didn't sleep much that night.

Something about closing the door on Frank left a bitter aftertaste. Not regret. Just...static. Like your skin still buzzed from the heat of his presence. Like you could still hear his voice in the quiet house, laced with casual danger. You told yourself you did the right thing. That you were being smart. Boundaries. Control.

Still, you checked your phone more than once before bed.

Nothing.

The morning passed in a haze of routine: coffee, unpacking the final boxes, ignoring the silence in your living room. By afternoon, you had nearly convinced yourself to forget about him.

Until the doorbell rang.

You peeked through the peephole, expecting a delivery or maybe Ashley with her Sunday hangover kit. But it wasn’t either of those.

It was flowers.

A bouquet. Messy and wild, like something stolen from a roadside flower stand. Sunflowers, daisies, lavender, all tangled together. Bright. Unapologetic. Tied with twine, not ribbon.

The delivery guy handed it to you with a faint smile. "No card. Just this."

He held out a small envelope with your name scrawled on it in sharp, messy handwriting.

Inside:

“I’m not used to being ignored. -F”

You almost smiled. Almost.

You put the flowers in water. Told yourself that was the end of it.

But the day dragged on. And somewhere around 6 PM, there was another knock.

You looked through the peephole again.

Frank.

Black hoodie, jeans, hair damp like he’d just gotten out of the shower. He leaned against your doorframe with all the time in the world.

You didn’t open it. You watched him from the other side, breath shallow.

He knocked again. Twice.

Then nothing. He didn’t leave. You checked your watch.

Ten minutes. Still there. Fifteen. Twenty.

You almost opened the door then. Almost.

But it was thirty minutes before you finally turned the handle.

He looked up like he hadn't moved at all.

"Hey," he said, like it was the most normal thing in the world. "You gonna keep me out here forever?"

You stepped aside.

"I make bad choices," you muttered as he walked past you.

"Same," he said. "That's why I brought weed."

He didn’t bring a joint. He brought a whole bong. It was green glass, chipped at the base. He set it on your coffee table like a sacred artifact, then sat cross-legged on your floor, pulling a grinder from his pocket.

You watched him work. He was quiet, methodical. No bravado this time. Just Frank, hair falling into his eyes, smelling like cedar and laundry detergent.

He passed you the first hit. You hesitated, then took it.

It was smooth. Strong.

You passed it back. He took a long drag, exhaled, then fell back onto the carpet with a sigh.

"Fuck," he murmured. "Okay. You win. This is nicer than whatever I was gonna do tonight."

You laughed under your breath. "What were you gonna do?"

"Get drunk. Text someone I shouldn’t. Regret it tomorrow. The usual."

You sank into the couch, legs pulled beneath you. "So why here?"

He looked up at the ceiling for a moment. Then turned his head to face you.

"Because I want to friendly and know Ashley's new friend better."

You watched him. His eyes were glassy but sharp. There was absolutely pain under all the swagger. And something else. Something tired.

He shifted. "I’m not gonna lie. I’m in a fucked-up place right now."

"Because of Daphne?"

He blinked.

"So Ashley told you."

You nodded.

He exhaled. "Yeah. I was with her. Like, with her. We were complicated. Then I fucked up, she left, and dated my best friend, Jack. Then I came back, and... I don’t know. We saw each other again. Slept together. I thought she might... you know. Choose me."

"But she didn’t."

He smiled, bitter. "No. She didn’t."

Silence stretched.

You didn’t owe him comfort. But you gave him honesty.

"It’s still your fault," you said softly.

He turned to you, surprise flickering.

"I mean, yeah, she shouldn’t have cheated. But if you were in a good place, she wouldn’t have left. If you were solid, she wouldn’t have run back to Jack."

Frank looked like he wanted to be mad. But he wasn’t. He just nodded slowly.

"You’re probably right."

More silence. But it felt less sharp now. Like you were both settling into the truth of things.

Eventually, the room grew darker. The bong sat empty between you. Music played softly from your phone. Some sad indie band you forgot to turn off.

Frank laid his head back against the couch.

"This is the first time I’ve felt... okay in weeks," he murmured. "I’m gonna fall asleep if I sit here any longer."

You didn’t answer. And he didn’t leave.

You grabbed a blanket and tossed it over him.

He looked up at you, half-lidded eyes and a soft smirk.

"Thanks, Ashley's neighbor."

You turned away.

"Don’t thank me. I still think you're a bad idea."

"Yeah," he murmured. "But bad ideas make the best stories."

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LAWD I JUST NEED HIM PLEASEEEEEE EVERYONE PLEASE WATCH ENDINGS BEGINNINGS JUST FOR SEBASTIAN STAN I SWEAR TO GOD

[uhuhmaries]

One Good Mistake | Day 1

NSFW/18+

Pairing: Frank from Endings, Beginnings (Sebastian Stan) x Reader There will be 7 parts to this as I’m doing a whole week kind of thing with Frank which will be CHAOTIC MESSY ANGSTY

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The first thing you noticed when you arrived at Ashley’s was the heat.

It clung to your skin like sweat, the Los Angeles air thick and buzzing with music, pot smoke, and the low hum of strangers talking too loud over the sound of someone’s Spotify playlist. Ashley’s house sat like a beacon in the otherwise sleepy neighborhood you’d just moved into a week ago. You had three boxes still unpacked in your bedroom and a half-eaten burrito waiting in your fridge, but she had insisted.

“It’ll be fun,” she’d said, dragging you into a hug when she spotted you hauling groceries up your driveway three days ago. “You need to meet people. You’re too cute to be locked away with your plants and your sad indie vinyls.”

So you said yes. Then you regretted it the moment you walked in.

Ashley’s place was a circus. Bodies everywhere. Beer cans and cigarette ash. Some guy was already throwing up in the backyard bush, and it wasn’t even 9 p.m.

You drifted through rooms, nursing a warm beer, until you found a relatively quiet corner in the kitchen. You leaned against the counter, letting the chaos fade into background noise.

Then he walked in.

Frank.

You didn’t know his name yet. Just that he carried the air of someone who had loved and lost and chosen to burn down every bridge he crossed afterward. Scruffy. Tan. A little wild in the eyes. Shirt half-unbuttoned like he forgot or didn’t care. He looked older than most of the guys at this party, and unlike them, he didn’t seem to be performing.

He saw you. Like, really saw you.

He grabbed a beer from the fridge, looked you up and down, then said, “You don’t look like you want to be here.”

You didn’t flinch. “And you do?”

He grinned. “I don’t want to be anywhere.”

There was something about him that made you hold your breath. His presence was loud, but not in the way that demanded attention. It just existed like a low-grade fever, like heat lightning.

“Ashley said there’d be someone interesting here,” he added, nodding toward you.

You took a slow sip from your bottle. “Wrong one.”

He laughed. It was husky and genuine. “I don't think so.”

You shrugged and turned away, pretending to study the spice rack behind you.

Ashley swept in like a breeze, two shots in hand. “Oh my god, you met Frank! He’s a fucking mess.”

Frank bowed dramatically. “At your service.”

Ashley kissed his cheek sloppily. “He just got back from this fucked-up trip with his ex. Or almost-ex. Or whatever she is now. Daphne. It was a disaster, right?”

Frank’s smile faded slightly. “Total disaster.”

Your brows lifted. That name stuck. Daphne.

Ashley handed you a shot. You took it. The tequila burned. Frank didn’t drink his. Just watched you.

Over the next hour, he found you three more times. Once by the bathroom, once on the back patio, and once near the staircase when someone spilled beer on your shoes.

“So where’d you move from?” He asked during the second encounter.

You gave a city. Kept it vague. He didn’t push.

“You’re an introvert,” he noted, taking a drag from his cigarette. “I like that. Means you actually listen.”

You said nothing.

When the party started to thin out, you made your escape. Quietly. Slipping through the side door and walking across the street to your house.

The night air was finally cooling. You exhaled.

You were halfway to your door when you heard footsteps behind you.

Frank. Of course.

He stood at the edge of your porch, hands in his pockets, looking like someone who hadn’t made a single good decision in weeks.

“You live here?” He asked.

You nodded. “Three days now.”

“Cute place.”

You didn’t respond. Just unlocked the door.

He didn’t leave.

“Mind if I come in?”

The porch light buzzed softly. Your fingers tightened around your keys. He wasn’t threatening. Just… tempting. Like a drug you weren’t supposed to take. Everything about him screamed bad idea.

“Yeah,” you said, stepping inside. “I do.”

Then you shut the door.

And leaned against it from the inside, heart thudding.

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I JUST REWATCHED ENDINGS BEGINNINGS AND I JUST GOTTA DO MY TAKE ON IT ALRIGHT FUCK SEBASTIAN STAN HE JJST DOES IT SO GOOD MAAAAAAAAAAAANNNNNNNNNNNNNN LET ME JUST HAVE SOMEEEEEEEE OF THATTTTTTTTTTT

[uhuhmaries]

Very Pleasing | PART 8

JUST PURE FLUFF

PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 3 | PART 4 | PART 5 | PART 6 | PART 7

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A soft clamour breaks your silence: silverware tinges against porcelain. Harry seems hesitant as he gathers the breakfast plates before you can speak. The pancakes were divine. Softer than clouds, but none of the flavors touch your tongue when weighed with everything unspoken between you.

“Last night was… unprofessional,” he says finally, exhaling. Your heart sags, but you hold your silence. You continue to eat, mechanically, your plate growing emptier. He watches you from opposite the table, reminding you of something dangerous and irresistible in glass form.

“But I enjoyed it. Very much,” he continues, voice brimming with a quiet candor. “I know we hardly know each other beyond the bedroom... and that first date of ours. I don’t want to rush into anything—not now.”

You breathe in relief and nod slowly. “That’s perfect. I just need clarity. I can absolutely stay professional, and if we want to see what this becomes—” You pause and meet his eyes. “I’m down if you don’t run away.”

He smiles. “Touché.” His laugh is soft but relieved. “So… we’re settling on guy-and-girl vibing to see where this goes?”

“Yes. That sounds good.”

He nods, eyes serious. It settles you—like sleeping on a shore after a long tide.

“Before we get ahead of ourselves... this means we can still date and see other people.” He adds carefully.

You lift an eyebrow. “Does this mean you have three wives and eight kids?” You tease with a crooked grin, trying to puncture the heaviness with humor.

He shakes his head, amused. “‘Just so we don’t feel too exclusive.” His tone is casual, but a flicker of something unreadable passes across his face.

You swallow. Grace under pressure becomes harder when you think: Is there something I did? Something wrong?

You push the worry aside. For now, you sip the coffee he's made and let the quiet warmth hold you.

“So... what do you feel like doing?” He asks.

You shrug. “No idea. Never really spent a weekday like this.”

He pulls out his phone, tapping it in your direction.

“Hey Mia,” he says into the line. “Can you bring some smart‑casual options to the house? Three outfits, please.”

He hangs up. “That’s my sister’s stylist. She’ll show up in ten.”

You nod through the plans unfolding around you. While you finish breakfast, he leans back, watching you–steady, attentive.

“I don't do walking much. Shopping... okay if it’s vintage-only. I prefer real pieces, not labels.” You explain.

He listens. “Interesting.”

You grin. “I paid fifteen dollars once for a skirt that belonged to Marilyn Monroe.”

He whistles. “Nice job, you.”

After breakfast, Mia arrives, prim, polite. Three outfits lie on the bed:

A cream-colored linen blouse with high-waisted trousers and block heels—elegant but vintage-forward.

A fitted dark-green velvet mini dress with delicate lace sleeves—flirty and bold.

A high-waisted floral midi skirt with a soft silk cami and leather sandals.

You take your time trying each. Instinctively you pick the velvet dress; it hugs in all the right places but still flares at your hips. When you step out, Harry’s eyes light up.

He wears white shirt with open buttons, black slacks, sneakers. Effortless.

“You look lovely—always,” he says softly. You can’t hide the swelling pride which turns into butterflies the moment he kisses your hair.

He opens the car door for you once you both step outside and into his driveway. On your seat lies a box with Miu Miu sunglasses.

“Don’t let your eyes take the hit,” he says. You slip them on—they’re chic and perfect. As you hit the road, your laughter blends with the breeze, and citysunlight sparkles through the shade.

The next twenty minutes are spent driving. Palm trees drift past. You talk about childhood obsessions, favorite films, life before LA, weirdest product ideas.

He suddenly parks by a cobblestone alley lined with vintage market stalls.

“I hope you don't mind a little bit of walking,” he warns with a grin.

As you step onto the street, his arm offering support, you realize how effortless it feels being by his side. From the stall to the next, you find pieces—retro leather jacket, crystal brooches, genuine sewing kits, playful earrings. You giggle when he buys you a stack of vintage scarves without warning. That’s his love-language: giving.

“You deserved this today for walking,” he says as you try on a scarf. It drapes just right around your neck.

You sit at a corner café, sipping iced coffee. He picks up a pair of classic silver hoop earrings, tugs your earlobe, slipping them through. He watches every detail as they dangle.

As the sun goes down and you're both already on your way back to your place— per your request—, you enjoy the scenery to the fullest. When you arrive back at your building, bags in hand, you pause at the door.

“This is me,” you say softly, nodding at the frame. You pull out your keys and gesture for him to follow. He enters without hesitation.

Inside, he places all the items by the door, carefully arranged. Then he gestures toward your living space.

“I’ll let you rest. I can bring the rest of your things tomorrow after work.” His voice is polite but oddly hollow now that you’re home.

You smile tightly, suddenly aware of the weight of reality.

He smiles back. “There’s no rule at Pleasing against dating your boss. So... we’re good.”

You laugh nervously. “Still… feels sort of unspoken.”

He leans you back gently and whispers, “Then you just take it with your boss.” Then he carries you effortlessly to bed and sets you down. He lingers. His eyes linger.

He kisses your forehead gently and presses one delicate kiss onto your lips. Then pulls away.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says softly.

“Okay.” Your reply is trembling.

He leaves. The door clicks.

You curl into yourself, warmth rushing through like remembered sun, heat, and silk. It's the most exhilarated you've felt and the most frightened simultaneously.

Morning, Friday You wake before your alarm. Shower, dress, caffeinate. Normality, or as close to it as things get. Walking into HQ at 8:45 AM, you nod to early staff. Your fingers tremble as you make your coffee in the kitchen. Rena appears.

“I heard there's some kind of an.... office romance?” She teases.

You shake your head. “We’re... taking it slow.”

She exhales, gives you a knowing look. “Make no mistake— he’s gorgeous, rich, charming, but none of the relationships around here last. Don’t let yourself get lost.”

You laugh weakly and head to your booth. The coffee buzz is more than just caffeine.

Harry emerges from his office, suit jacket in hand.

“Good morning,” he says softly.

You nod. He steps closer.

“I need you to cover some client meetings today,” he explains, pulling out his tablet. “I have label music meetings at noon. Grab the key from Alani.”

He places a hand lightly on your back before slipping back behind closed doors. The simple gesture sends a rush through your shoulders.

You return to your booth, stare at the tablet, then look to Alani. She’s already lingering at your desk. She clears her throat.

“Get a room you two!” Her tone is teasing.

You're blunt. “We're taking it slow, Alani.”

She sighs. “Just... open your eyes, okay? Don’t get lost. I overheard what Rena said to you earlier and I do agree.”

You smile uncertainly and turn to your work.

That afternoon, the office hums. Launch materials overflow. Styles is absent again—off to at least five meetings today. But something’s changed. You're not the intern he ignored anymore. You're the one he asked to stay. The one he invited.

You close your eyes for a moment and breathe.

The day shifts. Clients arrive. You pitch. You close. You sign papers with confidence.

When you leave at 6.30 p.m., the office is calm. You step onto the sidewalk with your bag. Out of the corner of your eye, a waiting black car. Tinted. Familiar.

Harry steps out.

“Need a ride?” He asks.

Your heart does that nervous jump.

“I... uh, sure.”

He smiles. No words spoken; none needed. You feel okay. And you think that's good enough for now.

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AAAARGHHHHHHH SO CUTE IM CRYING but im also sorry i keep making harry seem like a guy with tons of issues in all of my fics LMFAOOOOOOOO

@billweasleyswife @gem1712 @sstylezzz @angeldavis777

[uhuhmaries]

Very Pleasing | PART 7*

NSFW/18+

PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 3 | PART 4 | PART 5 | PART 6

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You lie there beside him in stunned silence for nearly fifteen minutes. Chest rising and falling. No words, no music—just breath. Eventually, Harry clears his throat and prop-yourself up slightly, eyes trailing your body until finding your cum-laced, slick core. He reaches a single finger toward you and begins circling your entrance. You bite your lower lip, tone tight with longing and silent restraint.

“Harry…” you murmur, breath catching. “Don’t we need to talk about this?”

He pauses, then slides another finger inside. “This?” he asks softly, eyes dancing with dark amusement. “Do you mean me fingering you like this?” One rapid stroke, then another. You can’t keep the moan inside.

He smirks and drives his movements deeper. “Let me fuck you with my fingers until you drip again. Maybe I’ll tease you with my cock… put it inside you right now, raw.” His voice growls, intimate and commanding.

Caught in the moment, you nod and gasp. He pulls out his fingers and wipes you clean. Then reaches for the nightstand drawer. From it, he lifts a lipstick‑pink dildo and a Pleasing vibrator.

“I placed these earlier,” he says. “In case it was useful. Guess now’s the time.”

He flips on the vibrator. It buzzes lightly. He teases your clit, and your body responds involuntarily. Your thighs try to close, but he pries them open and settles between your legs. His tongue traces along the toy and your entrance, sliding over your folds with meticulous care.

“You feel so good,” he murmurs into your inner thigh. Placing the dildo at your entrance, he pushes it in slowly. The vibrator stays firm on your clit. He flicks his eyes to you: breathless, open, desperate.

“Harry… please,” you pant, rocking your hips in time with the toy, desperate for fullness.

When the dildo is slick and warm inside, he pulls it out and holds it before your lips. “Taste yourself,” he orders. You obey, licking and sucking until you hum between moans. His eyes darken.

He shoves the dildo back inside, harder this time. One hand seizes yours and presses it to replace his grip. “Fuck yourself.”

You move your hips, thrusting the dildo deeper into yourself with new urgency. Meanwhile, his cock stands firm above you—long, thick, pulsing.

He slaps it lightly against your cheek. You grin and open wide. He burrows in, pushing deep into your mouth as you swallow him. His hand grips the back of your head, pulling you toward him in deliberate, hard thrusts. Saliva and sweat glisten on both of you.

“Don’t cum with the toy inside,” he warns, voice steely.

You can’t help yourself. Overstimulated. You try to shake your head, but he knows you. He withdraws abruptly and dives toward your belly, replacing the dildo with his cock. It spreads you open more fully than before. You moan as it slips inside, thick and stretched from earlier.

Your body trembles under him. You cry out his name as your release builds again. He hammers into you with precision—deep, assertive thrusts that attack the sensitive spot inside your core that makes your body crack open.

You can’t stop. You grip his arms with everything left inside you. You cum over and over, loudly and uncontrollably. And then he breaks, filling you with his warm release while still thrusting. You tremble again, fluid and heat pulsing between you.

“Jesus you're going to leave me marks.” He murmurs, voice huskily triumphant.

He stays on top, chest glistening with sweat, breathing heavily. After a moment, he lifts off and begins peppering soft kisses along your shoulders, neck, and jaw until you're still trembling but calm. His lips hover at your lower lip before he bites it gently. You respond instinctively with your tongue, reconnecting.

He shifts off-bed and heads to the bathroom, leaving you breathless. You stay still, feeling everything.

Soon, water runs. Towels rustle. He returns with warmth. Gently, he wipes your thighs clean, checking for every bruise or scratch. His touch is tender and caring—contrasting his earlier domination—that warm-afterglow care you didn't expect.

“Harry…” you begin.

He cuts you off, voice firm. “Not now. Not yet.”

You relax into him as he carries you to the bathtub. The water's already poured. He drops a scented lavender bath bomb. You sink in, near weightless.

He slips in behind you. Hands scrub your back. You inhale, the scent wrapping around. A cigarette appears. He lights one for you. The smoke drifts silently between soft splashes.

You wonder: are you broken or fulfilled? You wonder: did you just ruin your internship?

He breaks the silence, voice low: “Don’t come in tomorrow. Stay here. We’ll figure it out then.”

You blink, processing.

“What?” You whisper.

He tilts his head. “Your mind’s racing. Let’s pause.”

He hugs you from behind. Then lifts out. You watch him, body dimmed in warm lamp-light, walking away.

You stay immersed in lavender water, not ready to return to words or actions yet.

He’s the first to step out of the tub, water dripping from his skin as he wraps himself in a thick robe. A moment later, he returns with another—plush, warm, freshly scented—and drapes it around your shoulders gently and pulls you out to sit on the bed. He brushes your damp hair, soft care in every movement.

“Will this always feel complicated?” You whisper.

Without a word, he brushes past you and gestures with a subtle tilt of his head, silently guiding you out of the guest room and into the part of the house you’ve never been invited to—until now.

A soft invitation. And all at once: you accept.

He opens the ensuite door to his master bedroom: expansive, plush leather, ambient lighting, a king-size bed that feels like gravity.

He enters. Then looks back: “Come in.”

You follow. And what’s left of nervous breaks into eager. You slip inside and he closes the door.

He lets his robe slip from his shoulders, pooling silently at his feet, revealing his bare body—fresh from the bath, sculpted like something out of marble, warm and alive under the soft glow of the bedside lamp. Without a word, he climbs under the silk sheets, the fabric rustling softly as it welcomes him. Once settled, he lifts a corner of the covers and tilts his head, eyes finding yours as he gestures for you to join him.

You follow to peel off your robe and lay beside him. Warm metal lamp light catches your skin as he nestles behind you.

“God, this mattress,” you breathe. He chuckles softly.

Moments later, His lips press into your neck. He bites and sucks in a way that makes your hips twitch, heart thumping. He whispers against your skin: “To answer your earlier question in the car… yes, I did touch myself with your thong in hand on this very bed. Smelled you. Moaned your name.”

Your breath catches. A flush of heat creeps through you.

“Harry…” you start, voice cracking.

He holds you still, voice gentle. “I want a third time. I deserve it.”

Every nerve flares as one of his hands travels down to touch you. Slowly.

Your body responds. You tilt your neck back and shiver. You tense. Breath hitching.

He flicks his tongue around your nipple and flicks another fingertip into your core. You gasp and arch toward him.

“Lay down,” you beg, under your breath.

He complies, shifting to his back. You straddle him, guiding yourself down over his pulsing cock. Pressure overwhelms—and you freeze. Only the head is inside initially, causing both of you to tense and sigh.

Your eyes blur as you settle, clenching around his length, riding it slowly. He wraps his arms beneath your legs then grabs a fistful of your ponytail, pulling you forward with his hips. His thrusts deepen. They’re precise now. Subtle cruelty in each motion.

“Do you like this?” His voice is rough. “Being taken. Submitting. Letting me fuck you raw three times in one night.”

You cry out. “Yes… oh God… I love it.”

He picks up pace. Stronger. Harder. Each thrust echoes through your core like permission to let go. He rails into you until your body spasms again until you squirt again, and he follows, filling you again, letting yourself collapse.

He shifts you onto your stomach. Then scoops beneath your hips, mouth hot against you, plunging his tongue into your center. You writhe. He hums. Takes you deeper until you’re trembling again.

“Sit,” he whispers. You attempt to rise… but instead, end up turned around. Your face hovers near his cock and you slowly take him deep. While your body fucks his neck, he eats your pussy again, three fingers inside you. You moan and shake.

You cum in waves. There's no shame. You feel raw, vulnerable, loved.

Just before he reaches his peak, he suddenly pulls away only to reposition himself between your legs and press the thick head of his cock back against your swollen entrance. He thrusts into you hard, fast, relentless, desperate. There’s no mistaking it now; this is purely for him, a final chase for release. But even in his urgency, the way he pounds into your overstimulated body feels maddeningly good—each rough stroke scraping at your edge again. And then, with a strangled groan, he spills deep inside you, thick and hot, and you feel every pulse of him flooding your already dripping cunt.

Eventually, you collapse beside him on your side. Together.

After a quiet moment, he shifts to prop his cock inside you again—softly this time—just for the comfort of contact. Your bodies still linked as sleep claims you.

The next thing you feel is soft dawn light. You awake first. Harry is still behind you, arms around your waist. You’re warm, safe. Clock says 8 a.m. You’re supposed to be in the office in an hour, but normal rules don’t apply right now.

You let the moment last. Forty-five minutes flow by without noise.

You feel him stirring inside you, flesh shifting. You shift slightly, and his cock pulsing signals he’s waking too.

“Let’s get back to reality for a bit,” he whispers.

You nod, heart constricting, wanting more but knowing he’s right.

He rises without a shirt. You hear the shower start. Minutes later, he emerges in sweatpants, damp curls. He passes you a towel. “You can clean up. Clothes are ready too. Coffee and breakfast in the kitchen.”

You nod wordlessly and accept the towel from his hand. As he steps out and closes the door behind him, you rise slowly from the bed and pad your way to the bathroom. It's even more spacious than you'd imagined—sleek marble, gold fixtures, and a warm ambient light that softens every edge. Luxurious, serene. You step under the hot stream and let it wash over you for as long as your nerves allow, trying to delay the inevitable conversation waiting just beyond the walls.

Eventually, there's no avoiding it. You towel off, slip into the fresh clothes he left for you, and quietly make your way back out into the house. The scent of coffee drifts into the air before you even see the kitchen, and when you turn the corner, there it is: the table set, two mugs steaming, and Harry sitting calmly, thumbing through his phone.

He doesn’t look up right away, but when he does, his expression is unreadable. Then, finally, his voice breaks the quiet.

“Okay. Let’s talk about it,” he says simply.

And you sit.

⋆˙⟡ —⋆˙⟡ —⋆˙⟡ —⋆˙⟡ —⋆˙⟡ —⋆˙⟡ —⋆˙⟡ —

I just feel like their first time kinda sucky so here's to make it up for em HAHAHAHAHHSHHAHAHAHA

@billweasleyswife @gem1712 @sstylezzz @angeldavis777

[uhuhmaries]

i need the next part more than i need water

BABESSSSSS I OWE YALL A LOT SO I GOTCHU

Very Pleasing | PART 6*

NSFW/18+

PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 3 | PART 4 | PART 5

⋆˙⟡ —⋆˙⟡ —⋆˙⟡ —⋆˙⟡ —⋆˙⟡ —⋆˙⟡ —⋆˙⟡ —

The thing about you and nightclubs is… you lose control somewhere between cocktail number five and a stranger’s compliment. Not that you’re sloppy— never that. But your inhibitions go soft, your morals loosen at the seams, and you remember just how much you love being wanted.

You’d eaten, showered, and painted your face with intention. Your dress? A masterpiece of contradiction.... slutty, yet sophisticated. A backless mini so tight it clings to every curve, flaring just slightly at the hem to reveal the barest flash of your ass whenever you danced or bent too far forward. A color that complimented your skin like it had been made for you. You weren’t dressing for anyone in particular, and yet, you knew exactly who might haunt your thoughts when the bass dropped.

Golden Tiger is pulsing when you walk in with Sasha and Anna— the marketing girls who were only planning for themselves until you crashed into the conversation to invite yourself, both in equally revealing, equally powerful outfits. The three of you are glowing. Just girls out to drink, dance, and devastate every man’s self-esteem with nothing but a glance. Tequila is your weapon of choice tonight. Six shots line the bar, three paid, three gifted by the bartender who can’t stop stealing glances at your lips.

“To power and pussy,” Sasha jokes, and you all laugh, clinking your glasses twice before downing the first. Then straight away the second.

You feel it instantly. Your chest warm, the lights smeared like an oil painting, everything soft and delicious. You are buzzing. You are alive. You are a woman on the verge of something. In LA. Working a job you care about. Making money. Making memories. Living the life of your childhood's dream.

You end up on the bar counter with your friends, dancing barefoot at one point because the heels betrayed you. You dance until your feet ache, until sweat pools in the dip of your back and your curls cling to your neck. You dance like you're exorcising a demon.

Until 2 a.m., when the crowd starts to thin and your friends are waving their goodbyes and you’re walking them to the exit, slightly tipsy and floating on tequila legs. You sit on the nearest stretch of concrete outside, light a cigarette with shaky hands, and open your phone. There’s no thought behind it. You scroll. Harry's contact detail. You hover. You hit “Call.”

“Hello?”

His voice. Velvet laced with sleep.

“I’m drunk,” you say, like it’s a confession, like you owe him the truth. “I don’t know why I called you. I just... I just wanted you to know that I really enjoyed that night. The first.. and probably the last time we were together like that. You were... beautiful. You are beautiful. I know you know it, but I don’t think you hear it from people who don’t want something from you.”

There’s silence.

“I was getting kind of excited about what could happen between us if we just—”

“Stay where you are,” he cuts in. Then the call ends.

You stare at your phone, eyebrows drawn. You hadn’t told him where you were. You wonder if he’ll call again. If he’ll text. If he’ll even try.

But on minute twelve, a black car pulls up. The passenger window slides down and you see him. Harry. Looking criminally good in all black, jaw clenched, eyes sharp and unreadable.

You wobble to your feet, trying to fake more sobriety than you actually have. You slip inside the car, pulling your dress down instinctively, and blurt out: “How did you know?”

He doesn’t look at you. “I have intel.”

And then he’s driving. Not toward your place. You recognize the turn. It’s toward his house. You lean your head against the seat, breathing in the quiet, the tension, the way the silence between you is so thick it practically fogs the windows.

“You look good,” you murmur. “You smell even better.”

He exhales like he’s annoyed. You’re pushing again. You can feel it. You're breaking the walls you built at the first place.

And then: “When you found my thong…” You pause, licking your lips, voice dropping. “Did you touch yourself before you had it washed?”

That gets him. He turns to look at you, eyebrows furrowed, jaw flexed. “We agreed to be professional. I’m just taking you back to my place because I’m tired and I don’t trust you getting home alone when you’re like this. So let’s not say or do anything either of us will regret.”

He’s angry. More than annoyed. The kind of anger that only comes when someone is fighting themselves.

And suddenly, you’re sobering up. Fast. You sit up straighter, adjust your dress, fold your hands in your lap.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to... I’ll behave. I don’t get hangovers. I’ll be good for work tomorrow. I just... might need to borrow something to wear.”

He doesn’t respond for a while. Just nods as he pulls into the driveway. But when he gets out of the car, he still opens your door. Still walks ahead but leaves the lights on. Still brings you a bottle of water and a smaller one of coconut water.

“Bring those to the room,” he says, voice flat. “Hydrate.”

“I will. Thanks.”

He lays some clothes on the nightstand of your room, gestures toward the bathroom. You step inside and suddenly it all comes back to you. The soft sheets. The giant tub. You don’t even hesitate—you start filling the tub, peeling your dress off, left in nothing but a white lace thong that’s already going translucent with arousal.

As you remove your makeup, your hair pulled up, you forget the bathroom door. And he walks in.

Through the mirror, you see it: his pause, the way his gaze lingers, low and reverent, hungry and hesitant all at once.

You turn, covering your breasts with your arm. “Sorry. Forgot to close the door.”

He clears his throat. “No worries. Just dropping off the clothes.”

But when he moves to leave, you don’t stop yourself.

“Harry…” you call gently.

He pauses.

“Let me make you feel good. We don’t have to talk about it. We can pretend it never happened. Please.”

Your arm drops. Your breasts bare. You take slow, silent steps until you’re kneeling before him, cheek pressed against the bulge in his trousers.

“[Y/N]…” His voice is ragged, breaking. “Get up.”

But your fingers are undoing his belt, unbuttoning, unzipping. He doesn’t stop you. His cock springs free—thick, veiny, flushed at the tip. Your mouth waters at the sight.

“You wanted this,” he murmurs, voice low. “So fucking do it right.”

You look up at him, eyes wide, obedient. You lick the tip once, then take him in slowly, inch by inch, until your lips meet the root. He groans—deep, almost pained—and his hand finds your hair, guiding you as he begins to fuck your mouth with slow, rough thrusts.

“God, look at you. Look at this pretty fucking mouth being ruined for me. You love it, don’t you?”

You moan around him and he hisses, tightening his grip.

“You want me to use you?” He growls. “Want to be fucked like a little toy?”

You nod, gagging, and he chuckles— dark, satisfied.

He pulls out with a wet pop, chest heaving. “On the bed. Spread your legs.”

You crawl up and do as told, your panties soaked through. He lowers himself, eyes locked on your cunt. He doesn’t even pull the lace down. He dives in, sucking through the wet fabric, flicking his tongue until you're arching, whimpering.

Then—rip.

You gasp.

He’s torn a hole right through your panties, exposing your clit and pussy. The ruined lace now just a thin, decorative waistband framing your heat. He buries his face again, tongue flicking, lips sucking, fingers pressing inside—one, two, then three.

“Fuck, fuck Harry—please... I’m gonna—”

“Not yet,” he says, cruel and calm.

He stops just before you tip. You squirm. He licks once, then pulls away.

“Again,” he orders, and you nod frantically, desperate.

He edges you again. Then again. Four times. Four times he takes you to the edge and pulls back.

“Please,” you sob. “Please I need it. I need your cock—just the tip. Please—”

Smack.

He slaps your pussy so hard it echoes.

“Just the tip?” he mocks. “Is that what my filthy girl needs?”

You nod frantically, tears pricking your eyes.

He lines up, drags his cockhead through your dripping folds, using the ripped lace for friction. He pushes in as promised, just the tip, and you cry out, clenching, grinding against him.

“Don’t push me,” he warns, and your disobedience turns him wild.

He grabs your hips, slams the tip in again and again, until you’re trembling, legs wide open, begging for mercy.

“You said just the tip. You want more now? Kinda greedy, aren't you?”

He denies you until you're shaking. Then—finally—when you scream his name and squirt all over him, he snaps.

He sheathes himself inside you fully. One brutal thrust.

You both moan. Loud. Desperate.

He fucks you deep and rough, your soaked cunt clenching around him, and when you cum again—squirting harder than ever—he lets go, groaning as he empties inside you.

You collapse together, sweaty and breathless.

“Fuck,” he says, exhaling into the crook of your neck.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “Fuck.”

And neither of you knows what this means, only that it’s far from over.

⋆˙⟡ —⋆˙⟡ —⋆˙⟡ —⋆˙⟡ —⋆˙⟡ —⋆˙⟡ —⋆˙⟡ —

LAAAAAAWDDDDDDDD ITS MESSYYYYYYY......... personally and professionally

@billweasleyswife @gem1712 @sstylezzz @angeldavis777

[uhuhmaries]

Very Pleasing | PART 5

NSFW/18+

PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 3 | PART 4

⋆˙⟡ —⋆˙⟡ —⋆˙⟡ —⋆˙⟡ —⋆˙⟡ —⋆˙⟡ —⋆˙⟡ —

The clock blinks 4:15 a.m. You lie there, motionless. Your body is still, but your mind is crawling. A single night, and somehow it’s aged you five years. So much has happened— too much. The thoughts keep twisting into each other like tangled necklaces, and at some point, you either fall asleep or black out. You’re not sure which. Maybe both.

When you come to, the soft scent of pancakes filters through the hallway. The door to your guest room is cracked open. You peel open your eyes, face still half-pressed into the pillow. Your phone, now charging neatly on the nightstand —of course, Harry— tells you it’s 10:02 a.m. Saturday.

You groan.

This weekend feels never-ending, like a train that refuses to stop. You drag yourself up, slip into the clothes he left out last night, and walk out into the hallway barefoot.

And there he is.

Shirtless. Tattoos on full display, hair a messy halo of curls, gray sweatpants hanging low on his hips like he knows what he’s doing. He’s flipping pancakes like he’s auditioning for a cooking show. You could swear he’s trying to bait you— maybe he is.

You blink away your sleep, rubbing your eyes as you step up to the kitchen counter. “Morning.”

He flashes a soft, sleepy smile. “Morning, love. Hope you slept alright.”

You mutter something incoherent and slide onto the counter stool. He’s already pouring coffee without you needing to ask. You take it from him gratefully and sip as the steam curls around your face.

“I’ve got a meeting at noon,” he says, still tending to the skillet. “Should be back around three. You’re welcome to stay, or Tino can take you home. Up to you. But... I was thinking maybe dinner again tonight?”

His tone is easy, but the words feel like something more. Not just a polite offer— an invitation. A continuation.

“Um... if we’re doing dinner again, I could probably just stay here? So Tino doesn't have to make the trip twice. Or I could meet you at the pl—"

“You can stay.” He cuts you off gently, glancing over his shoulder. “I’m not saying that to be polite. I trust you. There’s nothing here but vinyls and overpriced movies. I’ll have a few outfits sent up to your room— one of the staff can steam them.”

You just nod. Because what else do you say when someone hands you a Saturday that looks like luxury and tastes like ease?

He sets down a pair of plates loaded with pancakes and gestures for you to follow him to the table. You help by refilling coffee cups, trying to feel useful.

“Thanks for cooking,” you say quietly as you sit.

“Eat, eat,” he hums, and you do.

He’s good. Too good. The pancakes are tender and light, balanced between tropical brightness and cozy warmth. Fruits, textures, spices— he thought about this.

The room is quiet except for the clink of cutlery and the gentle slurp of coffee.

You clear your throat. “Actually, maybe we shouldn’t do dinner tonight. I think... Jordan’s back today.”

There’s a pause. Barely a beat. But something in his eyes hardens just a little.

“Right. Jordan,” he says, quickly. “That’s fine. We’ll drop you off on the way to my meeting.”

“Thanks,” you murmur, eyes low.

The rest of the meal unfolds in a stiff, polite silence. Gone is the intimacy from the night before. This is the version of Harry that your coworkers know— composed, unreadable, professional.

He clears your plates without a word and starts the dishwasher. “Need more coffee?”

You shake your head. “I’ll just grab my things.”

You make your way back to the guest room, heart suddenly heavier than before. The air feels different now... colder. Something shifted. You had a moment. And now it’s back to walls.

You pack quickly, not bothering to check your things properly. Just throw it all into your purse, anxious to leave. What you don’t notice is a small piece of red lace falling to the floor.

Your thong. The same one he licked you through last night.

You miss it entirely as you zip your bag and close the door behind you.

Tino pulls up out front, and you open the passenger side door.

“Sit with me,” Harry calls from the backseat.

You force a playful grin. “Sorry, boss. I made a deal with Tino.”

Tino laughs, and you slide in beside him, distracting yourself with light chatter all the way home while Harry sits in silence behind you. Maybe thinking. Maybe not.

When the car stops, you thank Tino and knock on the rear window. Harry lowers it just slightly.

“Thanks,” you say.

He nods, smiles softly, and the window glides back up.

That’s it. Like nothing ever happened.

You walk upstairs, toss your bag onto your bed, and start unpacking. You’re halfway through sorting things for laundry when you pause.

Wait.

The thong. Where the fuck is your thong?

You dig through every corner of your purse, every fold of your clothes. Nothing. You freeze. Ice crawling up your spine.

It’s either still at Harry’s house. Or lying somewhere on the street.

Both are equally mortifying.

You sink to the floor, face in your hands, groaning out loud. Fuck.

You lay there. For hours. Spiraling. Imagining his maid finding it. A stranger. A dog. It’s torture.

By the time you snap out of it, your stomach’s growling.

You grab a jacket and wallet but no phone. You’re not ready for whatever he might’ve texted. You just want ramen. Something hot. Normal.

You walk. Eat. Pretend to feel fine.

But when you return, Jordan’s waiting in front of your building.

Shit.

You tap his shoulder and pull him into a hug. “Hey! Sorry, didn’t have my phone. Were you waiting long?”

He chuckles. “No, it’s okay. Just wanted to tell you something. I’ve been offered a promotion... in another country. It’s permanent. I don’t really do long-distance, so... yeah.”

He shrugs. It’s casual. But final.

Relief floods you. Mixed with a strange pinch of sadness, maybe. But mostly relief.

“Wow. Congratulations. That’s amazing,” you say, managing a smile. “It’s been really nice with you. I think we can both agree it’s probably time.”

He grins. “Yeah. Still friends?”

“Always.”

He walks away.

Just like that, Jordan exits your life. Clean. Simple. Over.

You head upstairs and finally check your phone.

Three missed calls.

And three text messages.

From Harry.

The first is a paragraph. A paragraph.

Hey. I just wanted to say last night was incredible. I can’t stop thinking about you. Your touch. Your laugh. The way your fingers threaded through my hair while I had your soaked thong in my mouth. I do regret not pulling it aside and eating you properly all night. But still... everything about you amazes me. I liked having you near me. The night felt like two hours, not eight. And I can’t stop replaying it.

Then:

Did you leave your thong on purpose? Or did it just fall out? You’re teasing the fuck out of me. And I don’t want to sound like a creep. I’m going crazy.

Followed by:

Shit. Sorry. That was weird. If you want it back, I’ll have it washed and returned to you Monday.

And finally:

Come over. Please. Let me send Tino.

You stare at the screen.

This is too much. It’s overwhelming. It’s obsessive. It’s... kind of hot.

You shake your head, mutter “Oh my god,” and toss the phone down.

You take a long shower. Shave. Light makeup. Just in case.

But in the end, you text him back:

Hey H. Sorry, I was out. Yes please, if you can return it Monday. It slipped out, I didn’t realize. I’d like to spend the rest of my weekend alone. Thank you. And sorry again.

No reply.

The weekend drifts by. You rot in bed. Eat instant noodles at 11 p.m. Watch Netflix. Clean. Sleep.

By Sunday night, you’re back to functioning.

Monday arrives. You wake up early. Shower. Dress sharp. Coffee in hand, you arrive at Pleasing HQ at 8:45 a.m. Right on time.

You make your rounds, say your hellos. Some coworkers from the bar greet you with smirks.

In the kitchen, you bump into Rena. “Ooooh, I saw you with Boss H at Shady Pig’s. Spill!”

“Rena... please. Not before coffee,” you say, smiling weakly.

Right then, Harry walks in with a black bag in hand. He walks straight toward you and hands it over.

“Here you go,” he says.

“Thanks,” you murmur, cheeks burning.

Rena’s jaw drops. “Is it BAD?” she whispers.

You walk away, shaking your head. “Not telling.”

Work consumes you. Projects pile up. Harry disappears. First to Berlin, then Italy, then Japan, and New York. Weeks blur. The product launch looms.

Finally, launch day arrives. Pleasing’s adult line drops. And it explodes. Sales triple expectations. Staff cheers. You glow with pride.

You’re about to leave when Harry shows up. Of course.

“Everyone go home and rest,” he says. “Except [Y/N]. Come to my office.”

You sigh. Here we go again.

Inside, blinds drawn, door locked, he speaks softly. “I’ve been thinking. What happened between us... it’s not healthy. I’m still very much attracted to you. But I respect what you said about loving this job. So I think it’s best we don’t get involved personally.”

You nod slowly. “That’s... fair.”

“Any thoughts?” he asks, half-laughing, scratching his thumb.

You shake your head. “No. You’re right. I need to focus on my future.”

You leave quietly. And feel... hollow.

That night, you rot in bed again. Emotions swirling. It's over. Whatever it was.

Tuesday passes. Then Wednesday. Your last full day as an intern.

Around 11 a.m., a message from Alani lights up your phone:

Come to Harry’s office as soon as possible.

You walk in, expecting her.

It’s Harry.

He looks up. “Shut the door, please.”

You sit.

“I know it’s your second-to-last day,” he begins. “Alani and I both agree that your work’s been incredible. You’ve earned a full-time position here at Pleasing.”

Your heart races.

“But,” he adds with a sigh, “have you ever thought about trying something new?”

Your eyes drop. “I didn’t expect you’d be the one doing my review. You said you’d be traveling.”

“I postponed it,” he says. “Because this decision... it’s tearing me apart. I want to offer you the job. But I also want to fire you so I can date you.”

You stare at him, stunned.

“Harry. That’s selfish,” you say, breath catching. “You can’t risk someone’s livelihood just because you’re confused. I need this job. And you said it yourself, no hassle. So I’m taking the job. But you and I... we go back to boss and employee. Nothing more.”

He nods. “Understood. I’ll get the contract.”

You leave with your head high. It hurts, but at least now, you hold the cards.

Later that afternoon, you spot a marketing team whispering about an event. You invite yourself.

They welcome you warmly.

“We’re hitting Golden Tiger tonight. 9:30,” one says. “Come dressed cute.”

You nod. “I’ll be there.”

Back at your desk, the contract appears. Two years. Salary bump. Full benefits.

You sign.

Before heading out, you hand-deliver it.

“Here’s the signed contract,” you say, placing it on his desk.

“Welcome to the team,” he murmurs.

You smile. “For real this time.”

And walk out.

It’s not closure. But it’s something. And maybe, for now, it’s enough. Hopefully.

⋆˙⟡ —⋆˙⟡ —⋆˙⟡ —⋆˙⟡ —⋆˙⟡ —⋆˙⟡ —⋆˙⟡ —

This is an emotion rollercoaster...... IM SO SORRY IM TAKING LONG HAHSHSHHSHAH I WAS BUSY BUT IM BACK BABIES. Also spoiler next part gonna be kinda sexy 🙂‍↕️

@billweasleyswife @gem1712

[uhuhmaries]

Very Pleasing | PART 4*

NSFW/18+

PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 3

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Of course he pulls the "come over only for a nightcap" move.

You thought that line belonged solely to douchebags who don’t know how to communicate. But apparently, it also belongs to popstars-slash-business-owners who smell like cedarwood, smoke rarely but well, and can make you a perfect dirty martini.

Of course you love it. Of course your heart flutters. Of course your mouth is a second away from saying yes.

But if you do say yes, what does that mean? Are you just another girl? Are you naive? Reckless? You think of all the articles you've read about workplace boundaries, about power dynamics. You think of the word "intern" glued to your name like a fragile label.

If something happens tonight... that could jeopardize your role at Pleasing. But if nothing happens? If it's really just a nightcap and light music and drinks?

Still risky. But survivable.

Your eyes drift away from Harry while you spiral through your mental debate. He watches you for a moment before letting out a soft laugh.

"Are you on a long train of thought or what?"

You blink back into focus. "Shit. Sorry. I was just weighing the risks." You pause. "If you actually mean it when you say it’s only a nightcap, I’ll go. But if not... let’s end the night here. I really love my position at the HQ."

He raises an eyebrow, clearly surprised. Maybe even impressed.

"What do you think is going to happen?" He asks.

You give him a challenging nod. Game on.

"Then yes," you say. "Let’s get that nightcap at your fancy-sounding place with a private bar, I guess."

You both stay at the bar for another fifteen minutes. The clock creeps toward 1:30 a.m., and most people are either headed home or passed out across booths like sleepy children after a sugar rush. Shady Pig’s is winding down.

Alani stumbles out of the booth, stretching. "Okay. I’m leaving. See y’all Monday!"

"Don’t drive. I’ll get you a cab," Harry says, immediately sliding out of the booth to help her.

He is a gentleman. An infuriatingly attractive, intoxicatingly composed gentleman.

You finish your drink while chatting briefly with coworkers. By the time you grab your purse and coat, Harry's already waiting by the door, holding his suit jacket casually over his arm. He sees you, then moves to drape the jacket over your shoulders as you step outside.

"I have three bedrooms and live alone," he says, his voice casual. "If it gets too late, you can crash in the guest room. My sister used to send her PR packages here and forget them, so there’s women’s clothing you can use. All new."

He opens the car door for you, lets you in, then circles to the driver’s seat. He starts the engine but doesn't say anything until you’re on a quieter street.

"Mind if I smoke?"

You laugh with relief. "Oh thank god. I’ve been dying all night."

He laughs and lowers both windows. You both light your cigarettes—yours first, then his. The cherry glows in the soft dark, and conversation flows easier now. You talk about the staff, the weirdest product ideas, your shared hate for emails that start with “Per my last message.”

By the time you reach his place—a modern two-story home with dark wood paneling, big windows, and soft amber lighting—you feel like you're walking into a place you shouldn't be allowed in. It's warm, grounded, but sophisticated.

Three cars are parked in the garage.

Of course.

He opens the front door and steps aside. "Welcome to my safe space."

You step in, and the air smells like something herbal and warm—maybe sandalwood and something else expensive. He slides his jacket off your shoulders, hangs it neatly, and guides you through the hall.

"Come this way," he says.

He opens a door to a private bar and lounge. The room is dim but elegant, with deep leather sofas, a glowing bar stocked with the best bottles, and rows of vinyls stacked neatly. A record player glints under the ambient lighting. It's soundproof, you realize.

Harry walks behind the bar and starts mixing drinks.

"Sit, sit."

You sink into the couch, still taking it all in.

"This house is beautiful," you say.

He smiles. "Thanks. I spent way too much time making sure it didn't suck."

He hands you your cocktail—a dirty martini with olives to the brim.

Of course. He remembers. I mean, bare minimum but, still.

He clinks your glass. "Cheers."

You sip. It’s perfect. "Shit. This is amazing."

He chuckles. "My ex insisted I master the dirty martini. I had to perfect it just to shut her up."

"Bless her, then."

You sit in silence for a second, sipping slowly. Then he gets up and chooses a vinyl. The soft scratch of the needle meets Clara La San's "Good Mourning."

You smile, eyes lighting up. "God, I love her."

He grins. "Same. Discovered her recently. Her music feels like something, you know?"

He returns to the sofa—closer now. Close enough to feel his breath. His thigh almost touches yours.

"Harry..." you whisper, unsure whether it’s a plea or a warning.

He lets out a tight breath. "I know... I'm trying really hard to behave."

His head dips to your neck, peppering light kisses down your skin. Your glass trembles in your hand before you set it down and run your fingers through his curls.

"We agreed..." you whisper again.

He groans softly. "I’m not going to do what you think. I just... want to be near you. I won’t take advantage."

He pulls back just slightly. Your chest rises and falls rapidly. You’re not sure if you’re disappointed or grateful. Probably both.

He clears his throat and sips his drink. "Sorry if that made you uncomfortable."

"Just touch me, H," you say breathlessly.

He shakes his head. "No. Not tonight."

But something shifts in you. You twist your body to face him, hike up your dress, and spread your legs slightly—just enough to reveal your soaked thong.

One hand dips between your thighs. You rub slow, deliberate circles over the fabric, teasing yourself.

"Or just help me get off. That’s not technically sex, right?"

He says nothing. Just sips. Watching. Then finally, his fingers rest on your knee, spreading your legs a bit more.

"You’re not going to stop, are you?"

"Not until I cum."

That’s all it takes.

He sets his drink aside, gently pushes your hand away, adjusts your thong back in place, and then lowers himself between your legs. He kisses your inner thighs, licks the mess you made, and groans.

"Fuck, you're so wet."

He presses his mouth to your clothed core. He sucks. Licks. Nibbles. The fabric only fuels the friction, and it’s too much. Your head rolls back.

"Harry… slide it to the side. Please."

He shakes his head, voice low. "No. If I do that, I won't be able to stop. Let me do it like this."

You whimper, grinding against his mouth. He teases and devours you through the soaked fabric. Your thighs tremble. You're not sure if you want to stop him or beg for more.

"Fuck… I'm gonna—Harry, I'm gonna—"

You scream.

You squirt. You soak the damn thong, your thighs, his jaw, the couch—everything.

You collapse against the cushions, chest heaving.

"You're evil," you whisper.

He sits back, licking the mess from his lips, clearly proud.

"You're welcome."

He rises and grabs a towel to clean the sofa.

"Whenever you're ready, I'll get you settled in the guest room. You’re definitely staying over now."

Your legs can barely hold you up. He notices, of course.

He lifts you bridal-style, effortlessly, and carries you through the hallway. The guest room is massive—almost like a master suite. He walks into the bathroom and gently sets you on the edge of the tub before running a warm bath, dropping in a fragrant bath bomb.

"I’ll leave some clothes and underwear on the bed, okay? All new. Just relax."

He kisses your cheek before walking out.

You strip slowly, still feeling the aftershocks of what just happened. You slide into the tub and sink beneath the warm, scented water.

You close your eyes.

Because on Monday morning, you have to walk into that office again.

Just an intern. Just a girl. Just... human

You spend about 30 minutes in the bathtub, and somehow the water stays at the perfect temperature. The warmth soaks into your bones, soothing the leftover trembles in your thighs and the ache behind your eyes. Outside, you hear the soft shuffles and quiet clinks—Harry cleaning up the bar, tidying whatever mess you made together. The music has stopped. The house feels still. Still, but not cold.

Just before you reach for the drain, you hear his steps approach, pause outside the door, and retreat again. A gentle knock of something soft being placed down. He dropped off the clothes.

You climb out slowly and wrap the bathrobe around you. It's plush, clean, and hugs your body so perfectly you consider just sleeping in it. Before leaving the bathroom, curiosity tugs at your fingertips. You step in front of the mirror and tug open a few drawers beneath the sink.

Everything you could possibly need—and things you never thought you'd find—is inside.

Feminine hygiene products. Hair ties. Skincare. Body butter. Nail polish in tasteful nudes. A mini brow razor. Tweezers. A silk headband. Hair ties. Multiple unused razors. It's like a well-stocked hotel room designed by someone who knows exactly how to make women feel at home. Or seen.

You blow-dry your hair lightly, trying not to overthink it. But your mind races anyway.

As you switch off the dryer, you catch a glimpse of him in the mirror.

Harry.

He leans on the bathroom doorframe in a soft, grey long-sleeve shirt and sweats, barefoot, looking freshly showered and somehow more disarming now than ever. His hair is a bit messy. He smiles.

"Feeling better?" he asks as he steps into the bathroom, his voice soft but not unsure.

You nod. "Yes, thank you. The bath absolutely drowned me—in a good way."

You chuckle, but your heart is galloping. He’s calm. Casual. Like he didn’t just make you unravel in his lap not thirty minutes ago.

Harry walks over slowly, leaning one shoulder against the wall, arms crossed. "You don’t have to worry about the sofa incident, okay? It was good. For me. And, hopefully, for you too."

You drop your head into your hands. "Oh god. I’m so sorry. That was embarrassing."

He walks closer and gently tugs your hands away. "No. That was hot. You have no idea how hard I had to work to not absolutely lose control when you started shaking like that."

He shakes his head and lets out a low, warm laugh.

Then, quieter: "You have no idea how much I want to take you right fucking now... but I’m trying to behave."

The words hang in the air between you like fog. Charged. He begins to walk away, backing out of the bathroom.

"Rest now," he adds, turning to leave.

But something inside you snaps. You reach for his wrist and gently hold him back.

"Why are you trying to behave again?" You whisper.

Harry pauses. Looks at your hand. Then up at you.

"Just wait until tomorrow," he says, voice low but steady. Then he pulls gently from your grasp and walks away, shutting the door behind him with a soft click.

You’re left standing in the quiet.

Alone.

You sit on the edge of the bed, the robe slipping slightly off your shoulder, and press your palm to your forehead.

"Fuck," you mutter. "Jordan."

Your heart won’t settle. Your skin still buzzes.

How are you supposed to go back to pretending that wasn’t the best night of your fucking life?

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LAWWWWWDDDDDDDDDDDDD

@billweasleyswife

[uhuhmaries]

erm so basically i need part 3 like yesterdayyyy

SO SORRY FOR THE DELAY MAAM

Very Pleasing | PART 3

NSFW/18+

PART 1 | PART 2

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You decide to slip into a black long satin backless dress. Nothing is ever wrong with that choice—not too fancy, not too casual. Just enough to handle whatever Harry has in mind. You pair it with a few rings, some dainty bracelets, and a thin gold necklace with a small crystal pendant. Your hair is down, styled in loose waves. Makeup is soft, brown-toned, warm. Mini heels on. It’s all perfect. Understated but magnetic.

At 7:45 p.m., you get a missed call from Harry.

One ring. One sign. You take it as a signal.

You walk out of your apartment, and sure enough, a big black car is waiting just outside the building. You assume—no, hope—it’s his, but when the door opens, it’s not Harry. A driver steps out.

"Hi, I’m Y/N," you say, extending a hand.

"Tino. Harry’s personal driver. Come, get in," he says politely.

"Actually… mind if I sit in the front? I don’t really enjoy being chauffeured like I’m some kind of Hollywood elite," you joke.

He looks surprised, then laughs. "First time that’s ever happened. I like it."

You take the passenger seat, and it feels right. You both talk easily, about his life, his wife, his kids. Eventually, you land on Harry.

"Speaking of Harry… where exactly are we going?" You ask.

Tino chuckles. "He made me promise not to say. But trust me—you’re dressed just right."

Twenty minutes pass like nothing, and then the car slows in front of an upscale restaurant. You glance out the window. Elegant but intimate.

Dinner.

You like it.

Tino opens your door like a pro. "Just ask for Mr. Styles at reception. And… thanks for riding up front. It made my night."

You smile. "It was a pleasure."

The inside of the restaurant buzzes with low jazz and even lower lighting. You find the hostess and mention Harry. She nods and guides you through the busy main dining area to a private booth in the back garden.

The second the door opens, you spot him.

Harry.

Sitting casually, legs slightly spread, glancing at the food menu. A bottle of red already opened. Two glasses poured. His has been sipped. Yours waits untouched.

He looks up. And smiles.

"Glad you made it," he says, standing and pulling out your chair.

You sit. "It’s… private."

He looks mildly guilty. "I just love their food. But if you'd rather sit outside, we can move."

You shake your head. "No. I like it. I can hear you clearly without having to repeat myself."

He grins. "Do you have any allergies or food dislikes? I want to order a few of their best."

"I’m an easy eater. I just love… food."

He orders effortlessly. A few appetizers, mains, wine refills. He knows the place like the back of his hand.

You peek at the prices. Jesus. One appetizer costs more than two weeks of groceries.

"So..." you lean in slightly, playful. "Is it okay to ask about your private life? Or is that off-limits on a dinner with your intern?"

He chuckles, chin resting on his hand. "Depends on the question."

"Age?"

"Thirty-one. You?"

"Twenty-five."

"Mm. Not too far."

The food arrives like art.

He lets you try each bite first. You close your eyes after one of the appetizers, humming in approval.

"Oh god. That’s insane."

"Told you," he says, watching you with quiet interest.

You reach for the wine bottle just as he does. Fingers touch. They linger. Neither of you pulls away.

He watches your face. "You look beautiful. That dress... it’s a lot to process."

You try not to show it, but you’re cold. Your nipples make that perfectly obvious. You notice his gaze flick from your eyes, to your lips, to your chest, and back up with a smirk.

You bite your bottom lip, digging your nail into your thumb.

You barely manage to say, "That was awesome. Thanks so much for this. But I believe you still owe me a cocktail and dessert."

He stands and offers his hand. You take it.

He knocks, and the garden booth door opens from the outside. Of course someone was guarding it.

"Ooooh I love disco music!" You squeal as the beat outside hits your ears. You shimmy a bit. Harry laughs.

"You’re very cute. And agreed—a woman of taste. Never doubted it."

He leads you to another reserved table. Best view in the house: city skyline, glowing lanterns, people laughing and dancing in polished shoes. You sit beneath a canopy of fairy lights.

"Let me guess," he starts, studying your face. "Definitely not a whiskey girl. Too girly for that—in the best way."

"True. But I do love Guinness. Still, I’ll keep it classy—dirty martini. Olives to the brim."

He laughs. "Noted, Miss Very Dirty Martini. And dessert?"

"Chocolate anything. Dealer's choice."

He orders three: tiramisu, blueberry cheesecake, and chocolate lava cake. A dirty martini for you. Whiskey on the rocks for himself.

The light banter stretches. You find yourself lightly touching his hand, his wrist. He doesn’t pull away. You talk about music, sales projections, family.

At some point, he caresses your arm with the back of his fingers. Goosebumps rise instantly.

"Sensitive, huh?"

"Not to everyone. Just... some."

You reach up and brush his curls. He leans into your touch. He’s smiling again.

Desserts arrive. You take turns trying everything. You steal the last bite of cheesecake.

Then he asks, "Do you want to dance?"

You pause.

"Sure. But don’t expect me to pull any good moves."

You both make your way to the dance floor. At first it’s simple—swaying, hands brushing.

Then you guide his hands to your waist.

He slides one up your spine, fingertips trailing your bare back. His breath hits your neck, warm.

He leans in. "You’re going to make me do something I’m gonna fucking regret."

You shiver.

"Harry... let's not get carried away tonight."

He exhales slowly. Nods against your shoulder.

You walk back to the table.

"I have Jordan," you blurt quietly. "I don’t know how I’d feel if something happened. Plus, you’re my boss."

He nods. "Doesn’t mean a popstar and a boss can’t enjoy dinner with a girl."

You laugh, relieved. "Touché."

You talk again—this time more about work, his travel, music, your family. Everything normal and safe.

At 10:30, you slap your palm to your forehead. "Crap. I forgot to text Rena. They’re at Shady Pig’s."

"Let’s go," Harry says casually.

You blink. "Wait. What?"

"I want to see what you all are like outside the office."

He gets the check. The card he pulls out is matte black, heavy, no numbers—just a name.

Of course. That card.

"I can’t afford this night even on my best day, but I owe you a dinner of my choosing next time."

"Deal," he replies.

In the parking lot, he opens the car door for you. He drives this one himself.

"You clean up nice," you tease as you get in.

"You too. I’m honestly shocked I haven’t run this car into a pole staring at your legs."

Shady Pig’s isn’t far. You arrive just past 11 p.m.

The moment you walk in, every head turns.

Rena’s jaw drops slightly. So do a few others. Smiles get passed around with glances.

Alani spots you both, raises her glass, and nods.

"Got it," she says.

Like she already knows everything.

The energy at Shady Pig’s is alive. Neon lights pulse over leather booths, and the low thump of bass moves through the floor. The music not too loud to talk, but loud enough to let things feel a little blurry around the edges. You’re glad he drove. It gives the night a looser, untied ending—you don’t feel like you’re on a clock.

People keep sneaking glances at your table, probably because Harry Styles is there, but it’s not invasive. It’s... subtle curiosity.

Harry throws his arm along the back of the booth, not touching you, but close enough to make your skin hyper-aware. Alani has shifted into social mode, chatting with the marketing lead beside her, so you and Harry are momentarily on your own.

You lean in slightly. “I’m glad you came. I didn’t think you’d really want to see your staff drinking tequila and dancing badly.”

He chuckles and leans closer too. “I needed the reminder that everyone has a life outside of reports and product names. Plus, I think you loosened me up a bit.”

“Me? I didn’t do anything.”

“You did,” he says, eyes flicking to your lips. “You’ve been doing it all night.”

The bartender arrives with another round—someone at your table must’ve ordered shots. Harry raises an eyebrow, silently asking if you’re game.

“One,” you say with a smirk, and he hands you the lime.

The tequila is warm, burning down your throat, but you chase it with laughter and citrus, and for a moment, you forget that your boss is sitting less than a foot away, watching you with those maddeningly calm green eyes.

The night blurs gently. More music. More laughter. Harry shifts even closer, and you feel his hand brush yours lightly beneath the table. You’re hyper-aware of everything now—his scent, the warmth of his skin, the way his knee brushes yours.

“You’re going to get me into trouble,” he says suddenly, low so only you can hear.

You tilt your head. “Says the man who invited me to a secret dinner and then showed up at my bar like a scene from a romance movie.”

He laughs at that, the kind of laugh that’s deep in the chest. He’s relaxed. Maybe more than you’ve ever seen him.

A beat of silence hangs between you. Then he leans in again, more serious this time.

"Want to come back to mine? Just for a nightcap. No pressure. But I’d really like to keep talking. Somewhere quieter."

You blink. Heart racing. You can’t tell if it’s the tequila or the tension.

He continues, “No expectations. Just… you, me, a drink. Some music."

You stare at him for a moment, the whole room soft behind your thoughts.

Your lips part to speak, but the words don’t come right away. Because this… this could mean something.

And you’re not sure if you’re ready to find out what.

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It's like forcing my barbies to kiss tbh

[uhuhmaries]

Very Pleasing | PART 2*

NSFW/18+

PART 1

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Two hours after you left Harry’s office, the red vibrator shows up on your desk in a Pleasing box, tucked in so neatly it almost looks like a marketing prop. You glance around before quickly shoving it to the side with a smile tugging at your lips.

“Oooh, a Pleasing box. Is it a gift from you to you, or did you use your staff royalty program?” Rena, your closest friend at HQ, raises a suspicious brow.

You lift one shoulder casually. “Let’s just say… it’s some kind of a reward.”

You’re grateful no one noticed you were in Harry’s office earlier. The demonstration happened way before the rest of the staff even trickled in. You go through the day with your head down, working through sales reports and upcoming pitch decks. Harry has left—again—and no one really knows where.

It’s not until you’re back home, alone in your studio apartment, that you finally lay the box on your bed. You take a deep breath before pulling at the ribbon and lifting the lid like it might bite.

Inside, cradled in sleek foam, is the red one. Probably the only one that exists in this color. Alani mentioned Harry changed the final palette to pink, so this feels... exclusive. Secret.

You reach for it—and that’s when a small card slips out. You frown and pick it up, reading the ink in a familiar scrawl:

“I'd love to have an honest review of the product if possible. Hope you'll have a pleasing time. —H.”

You let out a tiny, breathless laugh.

Fuck. He’s lucky you’re actually crushing on him, because if not, that’d be HR-worthy.

Still, you're intrigued. You wash it carefully—meticulously—because your brain is already buzzing with anticipation. Before long, you’re on your bed, no clothes, just skin on sheets. You flick the switch and the subtle buzz vibrates in your hand like a promise.

You run it along your thigh, teasing. When it finally slides inside, it’s a slow stretch—warm, smooth, and silent except for the low hum and the unintentional moan that escapes you.

It takes almost no time at all.

You come once. Then again. And then—shockingly, thrillingly—you squirt for the first time in your life. It startles you, but you laugh into your arm, breathless and shaky.

And somewhere in the back of your head, Harry’s grin flashes like a spark. You hate that it’s his voice you hear when you finally collapse in post-orgasmic bliss.

After a moment, you drag yourself into the shower, trying to clear your mind. You rinse, towel off, throw on pajamas, and collapse into bed. Sleep pulls you under fast.

Thank God it’s Saturday.

You wake up late. Satisfied. Powerful. Something about discovering a new side of yourself shifts your posture a little. Your skin feels brighter. Your hips, looser. Your confidence is blooming in places it hasn’t touched in years.

You’re pouring coffee when your phone buzzes.

Alani: Hey lovely. So sorry to bug you on a weekend but Harry just called and said he’d love to see you as soon as possible at his office. Again. Sorryyyyy!

You chuckle and type back quickly:

You: Alani!!! No worries at all. Hope you're enjoying the day! PS: literally not being sarcastic. Hope everything is good with you.

You throw on a clean outfit and walk to HQ—lucky to live just ten minutes away. The streets are quiet and sun-drenched. The whole thing feels surreal.

You arrive, buzz in, and head up.

Harry is in the kitchen, leaning against the counter in joggers and a hoodie. Chill. Unshaven. You hate that he looks even better like this.

“Hey boss man,” you call playfully. “What can I help you with on this beautiful and sunny Saturday?”

He grins. “You’re glowing. So... how was the vibrator?”

You blink. “Um. Huh. That’s a weird question when I think about it.”

“Sorry,” he says, laughing. “Not trying to be a perv. Just wanted to ask before you disappear into your weekend again.”

You fold your arms and raise a brow. “Well, Mr. Styles, you and your friend did everything right. It was… absolutely magical.”

You instinctively press your thighs together and close your eyes for a second, remembering.

Harry whistles low. “Good to know. My friends said the same thing.”

His friends? So he’s been asking around? You clear your throat and clap your hands softly. “Okay. So... can I go now?”

He nods with a half-smile. “Thanks for coming in. I’m just trying to get as many reviews as I can—see if it works universally, you know?”

“Did you reach orgasm? Squirt, even? If you’re a squirter.”

That stops you.

“Whoa,” you say with a laugh, “That’s kinda personal—but... yes. And yes.”

You hold up a finger. “First time ever.”

He scribbles something in his notebook like it’s just another data point, but you can see the pink rising to his ears.

You start backing toward the hallway. “Okay, well. I’m leaving. Great to see you today.”

You practically bolt out the building and inhale fresh air like you’ve been underwater. The city feels different now. Alive. Too alive.

You end up at a park, swiping aimlessly through Tinder. Maybe you just need to channel this energy elsewhere.

Eventually, you match with someone—Jordan. Cute, close in age. Works in accounting. Normal. Safe.

You date him. Dinner. Drinks. Sex, eventually.

Harry doesn’t cross your mind. Not too much. Not until a Thursday night when Jordan’s out of town and you’re horny again. You pull out the red vibrator. Snap a few photos to send Jordan. You look good. Red lace. Glistening thighs. Smirk on your face.

But just as you hit “send,” your phone buzzes with a new number:

Hey. This is Harry. I just wanted to check a couple things about the product with you if that’s ok? I also asked all of the people who have the sample in HQ and my friends.

The message loads just as your photo—that photo—delivers.

You stare in horror. You accidentally sent the image to Harry Styles.

You slam your face into your pillow and scream.

No reply.

Of course. He probably thinks you’re a lunatic.

After pacing for ten minutes, you finally type:

zI am truly sorry. That was not for you. And yes, anything I can help, let me know.

You don’t even want to finish what you started anymore. Your mood is gone. Shattered. Replaced by dread.

You go to bed praying for a blackout.

But morning comes—and with it, Friday.

Last day of the week.

You get up early, shower, and head to the office. You want to hide, but you also need to prove you’re unfazed. Professional. It’s 7:15 a.m. when you arrive—way before anyone else.

And that’s when you hear it.

Moaning. Whimpers. Guttural sounds echoing from somewhere deeper inside the office.

You freeze.

Someone is having sex.

You follow the sound, hesitant. Lights are still off. It’s too early for anyone else to be here... but then you see it.

Harry’s office. Door wide open. And inside—a woman sprawled back on his desk, heels in the air, Harry between her legs.

You back up, pulse pounding. You saw too much. You saw everything.

You rush to your booth and hide there, cheeks burning.

Twenty minutes later, you hear heels clicking toward the elevator. Silence follows.

Then:

“I really didn’t expect anyone to be two hours early for work. Guess we can call it even, though.”

Harry’s voice. You look up. His hair is tousled. His lips are—shiny. You hope it’s balm. You hope it’s not. You don’t even know what to hope.

You shake your head, dazed. “No worries. I swear I didn’t see much.”

“Oh, I kinda hoped you did. Just so you know how good I am.”

And then—just like that—he walks away. And just like that—you’re more confused than ever.

You spend the rest of the day floating—like your heels never quite touch the ground. Your brain is waterlogged with thoughts you shouldn’t be having, but your to-do list doesn’t care.

The launch date is set.

This means tunnel vision. Sales targets to hit. Clients to chase. Campaigns to prep. Your desk is chaos—in the best way—and you end up side-by-side with Alani for most of the afternoon. She leads the team like a calm captain steering through high tide, her clipboard always full but her face never frazzled.

Marketing tosses ideas like confetti. Sales sharpens pitches with precision. Accounting war-games pricing risks. Design shares sketches that make everyone nod with quiet admiration.

It’s synergy. It’s rare. And for the first time since arriving in LA, you feel like you belong.

At 4:30 p.m., a familiar voice cuts through the hum of productivity.

"Come on. Gather around the kitchen for some donuts and coffee. Y’all did too well today."

Harry.

A collective sigh ripples through the office as everyone gets up with the energy of seniors on the last day of school. You follow the current into the kitchen, grab a glazed donut, and fill a paper cup with dark roast. You are mid-sip, mid-laugh with someone from design when a voice murmurs beside your ear.

"You’re doing too good as an intern—I might have to do what I hate… hire you."

You turn and let out a soft laugh. "Thank you. That would be awesome, honestly. I appreciate the money and the environment. And I swear to you, you’ll have the best sales in your team. Win-win, don’t you think?"

He smiles, but there’s something sly at the corner of it. "Definitely not a win for me."

You frown slightly. "Why not?"

"Because if that happens," he says calmly, "I won’t be able to bed you."

That line freezes you. The donut in your hand suddenly feels absurd.

You straighten your posture, slow. "Whoa. That’s kind of inappropriate. Especially since you have a girlfriend."

"That wasn’t a girlfriend," he replies evenly. "That was a one-time thing. Needed to shake off the mental image of something that definitely wasn’t meant for me last night."

Your stomach knots. The photo. He’s talking about the photo.

You feel your face heat. Somehow, everyone else in the room is blissfully unaware. You’re in your own private fever.

"If you think I’m being inappropriate, I deeply apologize," he says, dropping his tone just enough to keep it private. "I don’t do this. Ever. Not with my staff. But if you want to see where this goes…"

He looks at you.

"Text me your address. I’ll send a car at 8."

And he walks away before you can reply.

You linger in the kitchen like someone shook your snow globe. Rena comes by for another coffee, babbling about someone’s dating drama, but your mind is nowhere near earth.

At 5 p.m., you pack your things with hands that feel a little too light.

"Hey girl! We’re going to Shady Pig’s tonight at 10! Come if you can! It’s close by," Rena calls.

"Ooh, that’s fun! I’ll text you if I can make it. Gotta feel the vibe first..." You wink.

"You naughty gal!" She chimes loud enough to echo.

You laugh, but your brain is already five steps ahead.

You walk home slowly, headphones in, but no music playing. Just his voice looping in your skull. Do you do it? Do you say yes?

By 6:30, you’re in the shower. By 6:45, you’re lotioning your legs. By 7:00, you’re blow-drying your hair.

You’re not even sure what you’re dressing for. But your vanity is chaos, your thong is red, and there is definitely no pad involved.

You open your messages with him—still empty, save for that photo you regret and maybe secretly don’t.

You type your address. You stare. Then you press send.

Before you can even put the phone down, his response pops up:

Got it.

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IM SORRY FOR THE CHANGE OF THE TENSES...... I was trying something new but like fuck it i love being a repeater of everything AYEEEE

[uhuhmaries]

Very Pleasing | PART 1

NSFW/18+

You as an intern at Pleasing HQ. Harry as your boss. Dream job.

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Harry Styles. To the world, that name means stardom, Grammys, Gucci campaigns, and screaming fans. To you? That name is written in tiny font at the top left corner of your internship offer letter—barely comforting, definitely intimidating.

You’d moved to LA just two months ago, a leap from your quieter hometown. Your dream was somewhere in the beauty industry. You weren’t picky. Landing a sales internship at Pleasing HQ felt like fate intervening.

But working for a celebrity brand wasn’t as glamorous as your friends imagined. Sure, the office was all velvet chairs, abstract art, and mood lighting—but Harry Styles? He was a myth. A tanned, denim-clad legend who only passed through for a day or two each month, if that. Always warm, never rude, yet never lingering long enough for any real connection. No one really spoke to him beyond what was necessary.

Your actual boss, Alani, was the real star of the show. Tall, poised, insanely organized, and the kind of kind that didn’t feel performative. She made working late nights feel like you were building something worthwhile.

“Hey guys, Harry just said he’ll be swinging by the office for about an hour today,” Alani called out mid-afternoon, clutching a cold brew and glancing around the room. “I hope everyone’s on top of their deadlines.”

A few murmurs rippled through the room. You just nodded and stared back at your monitor. Until 2 p.m.

Harry’s office door was open, and he stood there, leaning casually with his arms crossed. Tanned, taller than you remembered, hiding his tattoos under a grey jacket and fitted jeans. His hair was messy, in the way that probably took 30 minutes to look like it took zero effort.

He stepped out, motioning everyone to the communal space.

“We’ll be launching a lube. And a vibrator.”

Just like that.

A few people chuckled. No one acted surprised.

“I’ve been working on this with a good friend of mine for months,” he continued, smile creeping up. “I'm excited. Let’s make this feel good for our customers.” A wink. A laugh. And then everyone scattered like ants back to their departments.

Two weeks later, prototypes were everywhere. Vibrators in matte boxes, bottles of lube being debated for color-coding. Harry had been showing up more often—floating between rooms, quiet but engaged.

The closest you'd come to interaction? That one morning you poured cereal while he brewed coffee. You’d been three feet apart. You could smell the blend of mint and sandalwood lingering in the air. Masculine, cool, and frustratingly on-brand.

Thursday night, late.

The office had long emptied, but you stayed. A time zone issue meant your call with a major buyer was scheduled at 7:45 p.m. You were three minutes in, pacing the floor while explaining margins and seasonal displays.

Harry was still there. Alone. You noticed him through the glass walls of his office—elbows on his desk, playing with color samples, his expression unreadable.

Fifteen minutes later, you hung up. Deal secured.

“Great job on that.”

You turned. Harry was at his office door, holding one of the vibrator prototypes. You gave a small laugh, bowing your head.

“Thanks,” you said, trying to sound normal despite the literal sex toy in his hand.

“So…” he held up the prototype, “pink or red?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Uh… pink, I guess?”

He raised an eyebrow, smiling. “Pink. That’s what most girls like, right?”

“It’s cute,” you shrugged.

“Cute?” He snorted. “It’s supposed to be a kick.”

Then, to your surprise, he waved you over. “Here. You’re the first to touch the sample. Tell me how it feels. I mean—physically, not—” He rubbed the back of his neck. “God, I’m making this worse.”

You laughed gently. “It’s fine. I get it.”

Taking the device from him, you turned it over in your hand. “Honestly? Not too heavy. Feels solid. Compact. I have smaller hands, like most women, and it fits just right.”

He was watching you too closely. You noticed. He knew.

“Y/N, right?” He asked suddenly.

You hesitated. “Yes. Didn’t think you knew my name.”

“I looked over everyone’s CV when you started. Of course I know it.”

You flushed—half flattered, half annoyed that your little internal fantasy of being the intern he noticed was suddenly… not so unique.

“Can I turn this on?”

He nodded, amused. You clicked the button, the soft hum of vibration filling the air.

And then—god knows why—you tapped it against his arm.

“Shit, sorry,” you winced. “Instinct.”

He laughed, a low, easy sound. “You’re cute. Come to the demo tomorrow morning. My office. 8 a.m.”

You blinked. “We’re watching a vibrator demo?”

“Apparently.”

Friday, 6:30 a.m.

You barely slept. You walked to the office with two coffees in hand, one for him—not that you knew what he liked.

You knocked with your elbow. He was already inside.

“Hey,” you said. “I brought you this. No idea what you drink, but this one’s my favorite.”

He took the cup, gave a nod. “Mochachino. A woman with taste.”

You sat opposite him. Ten minutes passed. He worked silently. You existed cutely. Until—

Knock knock.

“Harry,” a woman said brightly as she stepped in, wheeling a suitcase. She spotted you. “And who’s this?”

“Y/N,” you said quickly. “Sales intern.”

“Cute outfit. I’m Alissa.” She extended a hand. “I’ll be leading the demo.”

You shook her hand, trying not to panic. Demonstration? Was she about to—

“Darling, can you sit next to Harry?”

You looked at him. He patted the seat beside him. You obeyed.

Alissa opened her suitcase: bottles, boxes, and a silicone vulva prototype.

Oh. Thank god. It wasn’t… live.

She started with the lube.

"This one’s silicone-based, infused with aloe and vitamin E," she explained, applying it to the model. The squelch echoed in the quiet office, embarrassingly vivid.

You instinctively pressed your thighs together. Harry noticed.

She moved on to the vibrator.

“This is the mid-speed setting—great for clitoral stimulation, with soft silicone for comfort. Don’t use the lube with this though—both are silicone-based. They’ll break each other down.”

You nodded slowly. Good to know. Would’ve been very bad to pitch that bundle.

You and Harry watched silently. Too silently.

Both leaning forward slightly. Both pretending it was strictly business.

“All right,” Alissa clapped her hands. “Good to have someone from Sales in the room. Now you can train the team.”

You let out a polite laugh.

Harry stood. “Thank you, Alissa. Always a pleasure.”

He walked her out, then turned to you. “Stay a sec?”

You did.

He closed the door.

“I’m not trying to be inappropriate,” he said, walking toward his desk, “but if you’re interested in a sample… I can get you one. Least I can do after keeping you here early.”

You smirked. “Actually, I am interested. I’ll take the red one.”

He paused. Jaw slightly ajar.

You left with a wink.

⋆˙⟡ —⋆˙⟡ —⋆˙⟡ —⋆˙⟡ —⋆˙⟡ —⋆˙⟡ —⋆˙⟡ —

I AM BAAAAAAAAAAAAACKKKKKKKKKKK

PART 2

[uhuhmaries]

Tommy Lee | S.S.

Y'all know.... if it's mine, most of the times.... it ain't safe...... NSFW/18+

This may be not for everyone but I just finished Pam & Tommy last night in one sitting and oH MY GOD SEBASTIAN WTFFFFFF

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You’re just walking down Sunset with a cold brew in hand when you see him. At first, you’re not sure. The skinny jeans, the unbuttoned shirt, the leaner frame—it’s not quite the Sebastian Stan you remember from The Winter Soldier or Fresh. But then he turns slightly, and it’s the eyes. They’re unmistakable. Electric blue and a little guarded under his sunglasses.

And those… nipple piercings that came out of nowhere.

Your gaze lingers just a second too long.

He notices. Shit.

He quirks a brow, subtle amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth, but says nothing. Keeps walking. You don’t.

“Sebastian Stan… right?” You call out casually, falling into step beside him. “I don’t know, you look kind of different. But it might be for a new project or something.”

He stops. Turns his head toward you. Smile now fully formed. “Hey. Yeah, I am him.”

There’s a slight pause before he adds, “I’m playing Tommy Lee for a new show.”

You blink. “Oh shit. Cool. Couldn’t imagine you as him, but I guess I got the gist earlier than the rest of the world.”

“You sure did.”

That little smirk sharpens.

The tension builds like a spark crawling up dry kindling. His shirt is only halfway buttoned, and the fake piercings glint under the L.A. sun like bait.

You shouldn’t say anything else..... But you do.

“So… are those real?” You nod down at his chest, voice teasing, toeing the line. “They look pretty damn convincing.”

He laughs, the sound low and amused. “Nope. Prosthetics. Good ones, though.”

“Huh,” you say, taking another sip of your coffee, then licking the straw a little too slow. “Can I touch them?”

His eyes cut to you, sharp now. Reading. Measuring.

“Are you always this direct?” He asks, but he hasn’t stepped away.

You grin. “I'm just a curious kid by nature.”

“You’re not starstruck?”

“Nah. I just want to know if it feels as real as it looks.”

He huffs. “Jesus.”

You close the gap. “That a yes?”

He should say no. You can see him about to say it. The polite Hollywood brush-off. But then your gaze drags slowly down his chest again, and his restraint flickers.

“Come on,” he mutters under his breath. “I’m not doing this on the street.”

Your heart stutters. “So we are doing something?”

He turns and gestures with his head. “Hotel’s around the corner.”

The door clicks shut behind you, and suddenly you’re alone in a dim suite that smells like leather and clean linen and the faintest trace of his cologne. He throws his sunglasses onto the dresser and shrugs off the thin shirt.

You step in front of him before he can second guess it.

Your fingers brush his chest.

They do feel real.

A little warm. A little raised. The piercings are cool to the touch and make him twitch beneath your palm.

You glance up. “Sensitive?”

His jaw ticks. “More than they should be.”

“Bet they didn’t warn you about that.”

“No,” he breathes.

And then you kiss him.

He tastes like coffee, cigarette, and heat. His hands are big and rough as they find your hips and guide you toward the bed. Your lips part as you climb into his lap, straddling him. The bulge in his jeans presses up against your core, and you grind down, just enough to hear him groan into your mouth.

“I didn’t even ask your name,” he mumbles.

“And you don't have to.”

You tug his hair and bite his lower lip.

His fingers slip beneath your top, and he lifts it with one smooth motion, mouth dragging along your collarbone until he reaches your breasts. But you’re greedy—your hand drifts down, unzipping him, fingers brushing his cock through his boxers.

He hisses. “Impatient much?”

“You’ve been hard since I asked to touch your nipples. Those skinny jeans betrayed you.”

His laugh is low and dark. “You’re fucking evil.”

You kiss his throat. “Just a little cheeky, in my own personal opinion.”

He doesn’t answer. Just flips you over.

The sheets are cool beneath your back as he pulls your jeans down your thighs. He takes his time, kissing the inside of your knee, then your thigh, lips brushing your skin like a secret. When he finally dips between your legs, it’s without warning.

His tongue is hot, slow, devastating.

You cry out, fingers gripping the sheets as your thighs clamp around his head. He doesn’t stop. If anything, he groans into you, like your reaction just fuels him. His hands spread your hips wide, holding you down while he drags his tongue through your folds, savoring every flick, every tremble. His mouth closes around your clit, sucking with a rhythm that’s too precise to be casual.

Your vision blurs. You’re writhing.

And when he finally pulls away, you’re trembling— slick, aching, needy.

“You ready?” He murmurs, voice low and ruined. He’s already stroking himself before he unzips and kicks off his jeans, the metallic jangle of his belt echoing faintly in the quiet room. His boxers follow, slow and deliberate, and when his cock springs free, your jaw drops automatically.

You don’t even try to hide it.

He’s thick—long and veiny, with the kind of arrogant curve that says he knows exactly what he’s doing with it. The tip is already leaking, and your mouth waters before you can think twice.

Sebastian catches your expression and smirks, all self-satisfied charm and heat. His thumb swipes over the head, spreading precum lazily, almost like he’s giving you a show.

“What,” he teases, voice like silk dragged across bare skin, “never seen one like this?”

You swallow, eyes still locked on his cock. “I mean… not one combined with fake nipple piercings.”

He chuckles and starts stroking himself with slow, firm passes. “I’ll have ’em out for the show too,” he says, gaze narrowing. “In case you miss this moment.”

You lift a brow, breathless and hungry. “Trust me. I won’t.”

His smile fades just a little—not in disappointment, but in focus. Then he crawls over you, slow and predatory, the head of his cock dragging through your folds. You jolt at the contact. He hisses.

And then—he pushes in.

It’s slow. Painfully so. Stretching you open inch by inch, your slick walls clenching as he fills you. He groans through gritted teeth, both hands gripping your thighs to hold you open, watching every twitch of your face like he’s cataloging it.

“God, you’re tight,” he mutters, jaw clenched. “Fuck—tight and wet.”

You let out a gasp, nails digging into his shoulders as he bottoms out. The stretch is deep and raw and perfect.

His breath is ragged near your ear as he stills inside you. “Are you always this easy to pick up by bad boys, huh?”

You blink through the haze, locking eyes with him.

“Only,” you whisper, your hips tilting just a little to tease a groan from him, “if he knows how to use his dick.”

He growls then—literally—and starts to move.

His thrusts are sharp after that. Deep. Relentless.

You moan loudly, dragging your nails down his back, tugging at his shoulders until he kisses you again hard, messy, like he’s been dying to.

“You wanted attention,” he growls in your ear. “Well, now you have it.”

You clench around him, and he groans, head dropping into the crook of your neck. “Fuck—gonna cum if you keep doing that.”

“Then cum,” you whisper, voice wrecked, legs wrapped tightly around his waist. “Fill me up, Tommy.”

That does it.

He curses at the name—deep, filthy, and unfiltered. His thrusts go erratic for a moment before he drives in hard, hips slamming flush to yours as he buries himself deep with a guttural moan.

“Fuck, don’t do that,” he growls against your mouth. “If you played Pam, the whole show would have no plot. Just sex. Constantly. I’d never keep it together—I'd sneak in scenes just to fuck you on camera.”

You laugh breathlessly, your body trembling beneath him. “ I heard Tommy Lee fucks good,” you pant, “so you better get your reps in before shooting.”

That pushes him over the edge. He thrusts again—harder. Deeper.

You don’t expect it, but it hits you like a wave. Your body seizes, and suddenly you're gasping, thighs shaking, as your orgasm crashes through you. You squirt—a hot, overwhelming release that soaks both of you.

“Holy shit,” Sebastian groans, cock twitching inside you. “You just—fuck.”

He lets go completely, cumming with a hoarse growl, emptying himself in deep, twitching pulses. But he doesn’t stop. As soon as he finishes, he drops between your legs and buries his face in your soaked, throbbing cunt.

You yelp at the contact. “Seb—fuck—wait—”

But he’s insatiable.

He licks and sucks with ruthless focus, overstimulating you with every flick of his tongue. Your hands push weakly at his hair, but he just groans and pulls you closer, like he needs it—needs to taste all of you, all over again.

By the time he finally pulls back, your body is wrecked—legs trembling, breath shallow, chest heaving.

The afterglow is thick and hazy, the kind that clings to your skin. The only sound is your shared breathing and the low hum of the air conditioner in the corner.

Sebastian flops down beside you, one arm behind his head, the other lazily tracing a line up your thigh.

He looks at you, chest still rising and falling. “Fuck… you're hot.”

You smirk, eyes half-lidded. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

He chuckles, grinning as he turns his head to face you. “Thank you.”

You hum, curling closer to him. “I still think the show should have more sex.”

“Oh, you’re dangerous,” he murmurs, pulling you in by the waist. “If I see you again anywhere near the set, I’m dragging you into my trailer.”

You grin. “Promise?”

[uhuhmaries]

Dayum, your stuff is so good

Is it ok if I just blow up your inbox with ideas 😂

BABE FEEL FREEEEEEE

[uhuhmaries]

Hi! Could you write a one-shot where Harry is in his current era and in a low-key relationship with Y/N, who’s much younger than him? She’s sweet, gentle, very feminine and obedient. They’ve been together for less than a year and are spending the summer in Italy — he’s on a break from touring and she’s off from university.

Harry is protective, affectionate, and noticeably possessive in a quiet, controlled way. He takes care of every detail of the trip, loves guiding her, and makes it very clear — without needing to say much — that he’s the one in control of the relationship. And Y/N doesn’t just accept that, she craves it.

While in Italy, Harry decides to introduce her to a few of his closest friends, which makes her place in his life even more obvious.

It turned out a little more detailed than I planned, sorry for that hahaha. I just really love your writing and would love it if you’d consider creating something in this vibe 🩷

OOOOOH ITS SO GOOD LET ME COOKKKKK HERES MY BRIEF TAKE ON IT

La Sua Ragazza | H.S. Blurb

The morning sun breaks lazily across the Amalfi Coast, honey-dipped and slow, warming the white cotton sheets tangled at your ankles. You hear him before you see him—ceramic clinks, a soft grunt as the moka pot sputters its final breath, and then the sound of his bare feet against the tiles.

Your eyes flutter open just as he steps back into the bedroom, shirtless, tanned skin glowing, curls damp from the quick rinse he always takes before breakfast. He’s holding two espresso cups, and his rings glint in the light. He eyes you with a smirk that never quite leaves him, even when he’s quiet.

“Finally,” Harry murmurs, setting the cups down on the table by the window. “Was wondering if I’d have to wake you with my mouth again.”

You flush, sit up slowly, stretching. “You wouldn’t dare.”

He walks over, bends to kiss your temple. “Would, actually. But thought I’d give you the chance to open those pretty eyes first.”

You’ve been in Italy for two weeks now—a long, languid escape from London, from paparazzi, from lectures and library deadlines. It’s the longest uninterrupted stretch of time you’ve had together since you met, and Harry’s been savoring it quietly but intensely. Not with chaos or desperation, but with a steady, insatiable hunger. You feel it every time he grips your thigh beneath the table, every time he opens your car door like it’s second nature, every time he gently corrects your Italian for the fifth time that day only to kiss you hard for trying.

He’s usually dated someone his age or older, but this time… somehow, it’s you. The age difference is unmistakable—he was already in elementary school when you were just learning to crawl. Not so wide it feels impossible, but enough to remind you both that you come from very different worlds.

“You didn’t have to make breakfast,” you say, taking the espresso cup from his hand, fingers brushing.

“I didn’t,” he says, sipping his. “Had Lorenzo drop off some fruit and focaccia.”

Right. Lorenzo, the chef-slash-friend Harry seems to know in every city. You still don’t know how his web of connections works, but he always handles everything: food, transport, villas. Your job is just to show up, look pretty, and let him lead.

And God, do you let him.

You didn’t used to. Not with anyone. Even when you were soft-spoken and gentle, there was always a little wall up— something that said I can take care of myself, thanks. But Harry doesn’t fight that. He just makes you forget you ever needed the wall.

Today, he has plans. You can tell by the crisp linen shirt he slips on, the way he’s already got sunglasses hooked into the collar.

“We’re going to the marina later,” he says. “And I want you in something light. Something white.”

You nod, swallowing a sip of espresso. “Who are we seeing?”

He glances over, smile tucked into the corner of his mouth. “Some mates. Keep it simple, yeah?”

You know what that means. Let him lead. Let him introduce you how he wants. Let his hand rest on your waist a little firmer than necessary when they ask who you are.

By early afternoon, you’re perched on the deck of a sleek, low yacht, surrounded by slow laughter and clinking wine glasses. The water is impossibly blue. You’re wearing a white linen sundress Harry picked out in Positano, and you feel it every time he looks at you— the approval.

He’s sitting beside you, hand draped casually over your thigh. Always touching. Never far. Every so often, his thumb strokes over your skin, quiet and grounding.

“Y/N, this is Mitch,” he says, nodding to a man across from you, beard thick and hair tucked into a cap. “And his wife, Elle. We go back years.”

You smile politely, fingers curling in your lap.

“How long have you two been together?” Elle asks warmly, tipping her sunglasses down.

Harry answers before you can.

“Nearly a year,” he says. “Still figuring out if she can put up with me.”

You turn toward him, about to make a playful retort, but he gives you that look. The one that says don’t get cheeky, darling, without saying a word. So instead, you blush and take another sip of wine, letting the group laugh.

He doesn’t always say much, but the message is clear. You’re his. You’re not here to impress them. You’re here because he wanted you here. Because he wants them to see how gentle you are, how quietly you fall in line. How much you trust him, even if it’s still new. Even if sometimes you hesitate.

But the truth is, you like that he takes the reins. You like how everything feels less overwhelming when you let him think for you. Plan for you. Speak for you. He makes you feel like it’s not just okay to let go— it’s expected.

And the way he looks at you when you do? It’s addictive.

Later, when the boat docks and everyone’s slipping into their cars, Harry opens your door and kisses your forehead. “You did well.”

Your heart jumps at the praise.

You drive in silence for a few minutes before he reaches over and places a hand on the back of your neck, thumb brushing your hairline. His voice drops.

“Know you don’t always like letting people in. But I like having them see you with me. Like showing you off.”

You blink out the window, heat blooming in your chest.

“I didn’t mind,” you whisper. “It’s just new.”

He hums. “You’re getting better at letting me take control.”

You bite your lip. “I didn’t mean to.”

He laughs softly, turns to look at you at a stoplight. “Doesn’t matter. You always do. And you like it.”

You don’t say anything. You don’t have to.

Because when he parks at the villa, you’re already moving around the car to his side before he can call you over. Already taking his hand when he offers it. Already looking up at him like he owns you.

And Harry? He always takes what’s his.

Even when you’re only just starting to understand how much you want to give.

La sua ragazza — his girl. Always.

⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹

GOD IM IN MY FEELINGS BC OF THIS I CANNOTTTTT I MISS HIM SO MUCH

[uhuhmaries]

Congressman Barnes | B.B.

NSFW VERY NOT SAFE AARGHHHHHHHH

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You only went to that bar because your roommate convinced you to.

Said you needed a “celebration fuck” before your big girl job started tomorrow. Said the whole “capable working woman” thing really gets guys going. You thought she was full of shit, but you humored her.

And apparently, she was right. Because not even two martinis in, you saw him.

Dark suit, sleeves rolled up, forearms a story of veins and tension. Thick thighs spread confidently at the stool. A few silver streaks in his hair. Gloved hand cradling a tumbler of whiskey. Eyes like winter pressed into steel.

And when his gaze met yours, the rest of the room melted.

You don’t remember exactly who made the first move. But you remember what he said.

“You look like trouble. I'm James.”

“You look like you can handle it. You don't need to know my name.”

That grin—wolfish and worn, like he’d been around long enough to know exactly how this would end. And still, you went with him. Into the backseat of a car he didn’t have to drive. Into an apartment too clean for how messy the night became.

“Can I take this off?” He asked, voice low and rough, fingers curling under your top.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “You can do anything.”

Clothes scattered. Hands greedy. Mouths reckless.

But you jolted a little when you felt the cold metal against your thigh. You hadn’t noticed before.

His vibranium arm. He stilled immediately. “You okay?”

You looked up, chest rising fast, heart racing harder. And nodded.

“It’s... kinda hot.”

That got a chuckle out of him. One that turned into a groan as you dragged his hand lower.

That arm pinned both your wrists above your head as he fucked you slow, hips grinding deep, letting you feel every inch of him like he wanted to brand you from the inside.

“Sweet thing like you shouldn’t be walkin’ into bars alone,” he murmured as you came undone. “You’ll get yourself in trouble.”

“Already did.”

You left without saying anything while he's in the bathroom. No number. No name. Just a sore body and a throbbing memory.

“Good,” you told yourself. “Clean break. One and done.”

Until the next morning.

Your name gets called in a room that smells like mahogany and politics. You're in your new pencil skirt, your hair twisted all professional, a planner clutched to your chest.

You glance up. And the world stops again.

There he is. James. In a fitted suit and flag pin. Standing tall and composed, face unreadable, eyes sharp as hell.

“Congressman Barnes,” your new boss says brightly, shaking his hand. “This is our new executive assistant. Just started this morning.”

Congressman Barnes. He was just James to you last night. James Barnes? It didn’t even sound real then—like a fake name someone gives when they don’t want to be found.

But now? Now it is real. And so is the weight of the moment.

James looks at you. You look at him.

And the fact that he doesn’t so much as flinch?

Almost worse than if he had.

“Just... Bucky,” he says smoothly, lips twitching with a secret. “Nice to meet you.”

Your throat goes dry. Bucky? As in the Bucky?

You’ve heard things—rumors, history, whispers about vibranium and war—but you were never into that world. Never the type to care about super-soldiers or whatever kind of myth they made him into.

But now it all clicks. The arm. You’d known there was something different about it—but vibranium?

Jesus Christ.

Still, you clear your throat and manage a smile.

“Likewise.”

You avoid him the rest of the week. You try. But you feel his eyes on you in every hallway.

Every time you bend over a file drawer. Every time you pass papers across the table.

He barely says anything. But when he does?

“Missed a button, sweetheart.” “You always this eager in the mornings?” “You still sore, or do I need to remind you how to behave?”

And the worst part? You want him to. You ache for him to.

It finally snaps a week later.

You’re gathering folders from the empty conference room late afternoon when the door clicks shut behind you.

You whip around—and he's there.

Loose tie, rolled sleeves, hair a little messy like he’s been running his hands through it all day.

“Congressman—” you start, but he cuts you off.

“Why’d you leave?”

You blink.

“That night.” He steps closer. “You ran off like it meant nothing.”

“I thought—” Your throat tightens. “I thought it was just a one-time thing.”

His gaze hardens, jaw ticking. “So you were raised without manners, then?”

Your stomach flips. Heat pulses low in your belly.

“Was I supposed to leave my number on your nightstand?” You ask quietly, pulse quick. “Would you have even used it?”

That grin again—slow, dangerous, amused.

“I would've appreciated a goodnight and a proper goodbye,” he says, voice like velvet and gravel. “Didn’t realize the modern world made it standard to fuck and vanish.”

And then he’s on you.

He crowds you against the table, hand on your neck, thumb brushing your jaw. His metal fingers glide down your spine, teasing the zipper of your skirt.

“Still wet for me?” He murmurs into your throat. “All week you’ve been walking around like a fuckin’ temptation. Acting like you don’t know how good this cock made you feel.”

You whimper. “I remember.”

“Bet you do.”

The hand on your waist tightens. He flips your skirt up. No warning.

No panties. You've been expecting, indeed.

“Christ,” he groans. “Knew you were a fuckin’ tease.”

His flesh fingers dip between your legs. Find you slick. Pulsing.

You gasp, gripping the table as he sinks two fingers into you.

“Look at that,” he mutters. “Still so tight.”

He fucks you open on his hand, curling just right, until your knees buckle.

Then he pulls away.

You whine, turning your head, lips parted in protest—but he’s already undoing his belt.

“Gonna give you what you’ve been begging for every time you walk by my office,” he says, voice gone to gravel. “Gonna fuck you right here, where anyone could walk in. Let you remember who you belong to now.”

He bends you over the conference table. Drives into you in one long, deep stroke.

You cry out, clutching the wood. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t let you adjust. Because you don’t want to. You want him to take.

“Doesn’t really qualify as a one-night stand anymore, does it?” He growls in your ear, hips pounding into you, the cool pressure of his arm gripping your waist.

You shake your head, tears prickling.

“Answer me.”

“N-no, sir.”

He groans. “Fuckin’ love the way you say that.”

His cock hits every perfect spot, thick and hot and demanding. His hand slides under your blouse, yanking your bra down, teasing a nipple until you sob.

“Just know.... that I don’t share,” he growls. “Not with anyone. You’re mine.”

“Yours,” you gasp. “Yours.”

He fucks into you harder, rougher.

“You come when I say.”

You nod, breath ragged. “Yes, sir—please—”

And when he finally says the word, you break apart around him—tight and shaking. He follows with a low, guttural sound, hips stuttering, cock buried deep as he spills inside you like it’s a claim.

Not a release. A mark.

You're both a mess. Breathing hard. Clothes wrinkled. Skin flushed. Sweat slick between your thighs.

He tugs your head back by your jaw, eyes locked on yours—like he’s daring you to run again.

“That what you’ve been aching for all week?” He growls, his body still pressed tight against yours. “Saw me once and couldn’t stop thinking about getting fucked like this?”

Your voice is hoarse when you answer, trying to steady yourself. “I work here now. I was just trying to do my job.”

It’s a weak lie and you both know it.

He lets out a low, humorless laugh. “Sure.”

He zips up without breaking eye contact.

Straightens your skirt with rough, deliberate hands. Like dressing a doll he owns.

Then he presses a hard kiss to your cheek—not tender. Not sweet. Just final.

“Lunch tomorrow. Be ready.”

You blink. “You don’t even have my—”

He’s already pulled your phone from your bag. Fingers flying over the screen.

“Congressmen get access to a lot of things, sweetheart.”

You stare, stunned, breath still catching.

He pockets your phone. Brushes your neck with his thumb like he’s checking the pulse he just wrecked.

Then leans in, voice low and certain against your skin.

“And you?” “You get used to this.”

[uhuhmaries]

Feel Free To Touch | L.T. Blurb

NSFW/18+

⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹

You know it’s part of the gig.

The barricade jump, the up-close moment. The way Louis smiles like he’s invincible, body buzzing off adrenaline and praise.

But the hands. The hands are what do it.

Strangers reaching for his arms, his chest, his tattoos like he’s some prize on display. Like he’s theirs. Like you’re not even real in the background, watching him soak it all in with that cheeky grin.

You don’t say anything right away. Not until the lights dim, not until he’s back in the green room towel-drying his hair like it’s just another night. You’re sat stiff on the edge of the couch, chewing the inside of your cheek.

He catches the tension immediately. Of course he does.

“Alright, what’s going on in that head of yours?” he asks, leaning one elbow on the counter, shirt damp and clinging to his chest.

You shrug. “Nothing.”

“Try again.”

Your eyes flick toward him. “You let them touch you.”

There’s a pause. A loaded silence. Then:

“They’re fans, love.”

“Yeah. I know.” You say it too quickly. Too sharp.

Louis narrows his eyes, crossing the room with slow, cocky steps. He doesn’t even try to hide the smirk that’s spreading across his lips. “You jealous?”

“No,” you lie.

He’s on you in seconds, all smug attitude and hot breath, crowding you against the arm of the couch like he’s daring you to push him away. His fingers grip your chin, lifting your face to meet his.

“Thought you liked when I got attention,” he murmurs. “Or is it only alright when you’re the one on your knees stroking my ego?”

You swallow hard. “It’s different.”

“Oh, it’s very different,” he agrees, letting his hand trail down, dragging over your thigh, your inner seam, until he’s palming you through your jeans. “Because you’re the only one who gets to touch me like this. Any time. Anywhere.”

You squirm beneath his hand, heart racing, heat pulsing between your legs. He presses harder, right where you need him, his voice going low and rough.

“They don’t get to feel how hard I get when you bite my neck. They don’t get to see the mess I make out of you when I finger you in the backseat ‘cause you couldn’t wait until we got home.”

“Louis,” you gasp, breath hitching as his fingers undo your button and slip inside, warm and greedy.

“Let ‘em scream for me. That’s all they get.” He kisses you, filthy and possessive. “But you? You’re the one who gets to ruin me. Who gets to crawl into my lap backstage and ride me if you wanted. Who gets to say mine, and I’ll fucking listen.”

You moan as he curls his fingers inside you, confident and deep.

He grins against your mouth. “Feel better now, yeah?”

You moan as he curls his fingers inside you—rough, fast, and unforgiving. Like he’s proving something.

And maybe he is.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, dragging his mouth along your jaw, his breath sticky against your skin. “Whining for me the second I remind you who this dick belongs to.”

“Louis,” you whimper, hips stuttering against his palm, needy and already so close. “We shouldn’t—someone could walk in—”

“Then be quiet.” He grins. “Bet you can’t, can you? So fuckin’ desperate to be reminded who’s yours.”

You don’t have time to argue before he’s yanking your jeans down past your thighs. Your panties go with them, soaked and useless. He drags his hand up your front, pausing briefly to suck his own fingers into his mouth with a moan.

“Fuckin’ sweet,” he groans, unzipping his jeans just enough to free his cock. He’s already hard, flushed and leaking at the tip, thick and hot in his hand. “You’re the only one who makes me like this.”

He doesn’t waste a second. He turns you around, presses your chest down onto the arm of the couch, and pulls your hips back toward him. No teasing. No asking.

Just one sharp thrust that punches the air out of your lungs.

You gasp—half from the stretch, half from the overwhelming rush of it all. He doesn’t give you time to adjust. He’s fucking into you like he means it, deep and fast, rough enough to make the cushions squeak beneath your fingers.

“All those hands on me tonight,” he pants, voice right by your ear, “but this—this—is what I was thinking about. Your tight cunt. Your mouth. Your fucking jealousy.”

You whimper, nails digging into the cushion. “You love it.”

“Course I do,” he groans. “You stroking my ego, glaring at anyone who breathes too close—nothing gets me harder.”

One hand sneaks under your shirt, tugging at your bra, pinching your nipple. The other grips your hip, anchoring you as he slams into you over and over until the sounds in the room are just wet skin and muffled gasps.

“Say it,” he growls. “Tell me whose cock is this.”

“Mine,” you gasp, shaking. “Always mine.”

“Fuckin’ right it is.”

You come hard, clenching around him, and he follows seconds later—loud and messy, hips stuttering as he spills inside you, grinding through it with a strangled moan of your name.

He slumps over you, panting, still buried deep. A lazy kiss presses against the back of your shoulder. His palm rests on your waist, possessive even in the afterglow.

“Next time you get jealous,” he says with a smirk, still catching his breath, “just ask me to fuck you against the mirror. That way you can watch how good I only ever give it to you.”

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I CANNOTTTTT HES SO HOT GAHDAMN