we love timo of course but my love for harry has well and truly been reignited, rewritten, flipped upside down spun around raised to the sky fallen down shattered and rebuilt itself during this era. i feel more obsessed with him than i ever did as a 13 year old girl and IM SCARED. i don’t know what he’s put in this tour and this album but i’m so glad he’s back. we are so fucking back
these photos required a blurb out of me sry it took 800 years but heres 4k of smut from the something old universe
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You flicked off the lights of the ensuite, throwing the towel into the hamper as you headed over to the floor length mirror in the corner of the bedroom, lotion in hand. It’s been a long week, culminating tonight with what felt like the longest work dinner of your life, capped off with desperately needed drinks with the only two coworkers who get it.
You barely saw Harry all week, two ships passing in the night as you dealt with extensive crises at work and he spent his days doing his unemployed side quests. He had texted you once the show was out, seeing if you wanted him to pick you up on his way back but you were already home by then, hopping in the shower to scrub the corporate small talk away. You tightened the rope on your robe and took a deep breath, more than ready to be in that bed and as far away from this week as possible.
You heard the front door open, immediately followed by his whistling. It was a tune you didn’t recognize but it still brought a smile to your face, the impact the show he just saw had on him seemingly immediate, even if he wasn’t conscious of it. His whistling is almost instantly drowned out by Sammy’s barks, and you can almost picture the scene as you hear it. Him crouching to greet the dog, his “‘s only me, Sammy! Just saw you a couple hours ago mate, ‘m not back from war” before a softer “yeah, yeah I missed you too.”
You place the lotion on the dresser, squirting it into your palm and rubbing it into your face and neck as you listen to him coo at the dog. It’s a few minutes before you hear his footsteps down the hallway, his knuckles on the door as he pushes it open and you look over at him, almost choking on air when you get a sight of him as he leans against the doorway, smiling over at you.
He looked good.
The beard and hair both growing in nicely, the mullet look you were tentative about at first really doing wonders on you now. And the fit?
The fit.
The blazer over the tight fitted tee, tucked into trousers that made his legs look like they went on for days. You couldn’t help gaping a bit, your eyes roaming up and down as you got a good look.
“Like the fit?” he asks with a laugh, your grin widening as you lock eyes.
“Love the fit.” you say, your eyes snagging on the words emblazoned across his chest, squinting as you try to read the lettering. “What’s the shirt say?”
He smirks, keeping his shoulder pressed against the doorframe as he uses his free hand to pull one of the lapels of the jacket open, helping you read the words 'I like to watch'.
You huff a laugh, smirking as you look back at his face, eyes staring back at you with a twinkle, a glint, and not an ounce of shame.
“Cheeky,” you murmur and if possible, his smirk only deepens, your stomach twisting. You just stand there, staring at each other for a few moments. “You look fucking fit.”
“So do you.” he says, eyes simmering as they sweep slowly down your body.
“Me?” you ask incredulously, looking down at yourself. “I’m wearing your old robe.”
“Meant what I said,” he shrugs, unbothered as he pushes off the doorframe and makes his way over to you.
His hands come up to frame your face as he leans in to kiss you, stealing a few in rapid succession before pulling away and wrapping his arms around you, pulling you close. You wind your arms around his neck, holding on as he rubs a hand up and down your back, pressing a kiss to your temple before pulling back to look at your face. “Hi.”
“Hi.” you say, leaning up to kiss him again. “Missed you this week.”
“Me too. You had a long week, huh? How was that dinner?” he asks, snorting a laugh when you make a face. “That bad?”
“Three of us immediately ran to a different pub the second it was over because we so desperately needed to talk shit,” you say, feeling warm down to your toes when he honks out a laugh. “The ballet was good?”
“So good,” he says, pulling a hand from your waist to brush a strand of hair behind your ear, brushing the backs of his fingers against your cheek before pressing a kiss there. “Really inspiring. The movement and the music - just the way they use their bodies to tell a story, express an emotion. Made me think about how much I need to stretch.”
You snort.
“Made me think about more than that, y’ ninny.” he says, pinching your chin between his index finger and thumb when you laugh. “‘M just saying, It really moved me in a way art hasn’t in a while, so I’m excited to see what comes from it.”
“Mmm, me too,” you say, leaning up to press a kiss to his cheek. “You haven’t called me a ninny since we were, like, 12.”
“Felt right in the moment,” he says with a smirk and you laugh, shaking your head before reaching for the lotion on the dresser and he whines when you move out of his embrace.
“I’m almost done,” you say, “Just be two seconds.”
You lift your leg, resting it on the pouf beside you and you hear his sharp intake of breath when the sides of your robe fall back, revealing the skin of your naked thigh. You go to squirt the lotion onto your hands when his hand clasps around your wrist.
“Let me do that,” he says quietly, taking the lotion from your hands as he presses a slow, soft kiss to your cheek.
He sits down on the pouf, looking up at you with a warmth in his eyes, the promise of more. He taps his thigh, before curling his hand around your calf, bringing it up so your foot rests on his thigh, your knee in line with his shoulder. He smooths his hand over your skin, your breath catching in your throat as he leans in to press his lips to your thigh. He closes his eyes, taking a shuddering breath and losing himself in the moment, as he slowly drags his lips up along your skin. He pulls back after pressing a kiss to your knee, squirting lotion on his hands before working them up your legs, rubbing it into the smooth skin, kneading the muscles. You have to reach out a hand to hold on to his shoulder for support as his hands move up under the robe, before sliding back out.
He places your foot on the floor and grabs the other, giving it the same treatment, taking his time to kiss up along your inner thigh before he works the lotion into your skin, fingers digging into the muscles until they loosen under his touch. You can’t take your eyes off him, feeling your breath quicken as he moves his hands over your skin, eyes not wavering from yours as he goes higher and higher, just shy of where you suddenly need him the most.
He smirks when you deflate slightly as he puts your other foot on the ground though he immediately makes up for it by wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you in between his legs, lips twitching at your sharp intake of breath. He rests his chin on your belly, looking up at you. You bring a hand up to drag through his hair and he leans into the touch, his hands holding you tight before loosening their hold, slowly moving up and down the robe, squeezing as he goes. He presses a kiss to the terry cloth fabric covering you before pulling at the tie, sighing happily when it comes undone, the robe falling open to reveal your naked body underneath.
He leans in slow, taking his time to kiss along your belly as his beard scratches your skin. His hand slides up to grope at your breast, arousal pooling in your stomach when you feel his tongue dart out against your stomach. He groans when your hand tightens in his hair as he switches hands, bringing one hand to grope at your bum while the other works over your other breast. Christ. You just stand there, practically panting as he makes you melt underneath his hands and mouth, taking his time to suck a mark by your ribs.
“Missed you so much this week,” he murmurs against your skin. “My hard working girl.”
He wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you down into this lap and burying his face into your neck, kissing a slow line up your neck.
“Smell so nice,” he murmurs, his hot breath making you squirm, your naked thighs sliding on his trousers. “Feel so soft and warm.”
His lips find their way up your jaw, nose brushing against your temple as he presses a slow kiss to your cheek, his hands slowly moving up and down your body, getting lower with each pass.
“Is this what the ballet inspired then?” you ask, breath catching when his hands knead your bum.
“No, this is all you, darling,” he murmurs against your cheek. “It’s always all you.”
His index finger draws back and forth on your jaw before turning your mouth towards his. He brushes his nose against yours, once, twice, wide grin breaking out when you let out a frustrated whine. His hand cups your face as he presses his lips to yours. It’s been mere minutes since he last kissed you, but it somehow feels like ages, both of you inhaling sharply at the contact before pressing in for more. Your hand sliding up into his hair as his mouth opens, his tongue rolling over yours in a smooth pass, making your thighs clench against his. Each kiss somehow deeper than the last, each of you pouring all you have into every kiss, every swipe of tongue, every lingering press of lips until you’re both gasping for breath.
“Need to touch you.” He pants against your cheek before taking your mouth again.
“Please - oh.” you gasp against his lips as his hands trail down your body, inching closer and closer to where you’re wet for him before he freezes, stopping suddenly.
“I - fuck. I’ve still got lotion on my hands.” he says breathlessly. “Trying to be sexy but don’t want to - like if I stick these inside you, I’m gonna give you an infection or summat.”
“Oh my god,” you laugh, feeling his stomach shake with laughter as he mutters apologies against your temple.
“Ruined the moment haven’t I?”
“A bit of a dip in the momentum, I’d say” you say and he sputters a laugh.
“Just let me - gonna wash my hands. Just don’t want to - feel like that would be itchy later on down the road.” he says and you groan before laughing again. “Sorry, darling - sorry - just give me a mo.”
He kisses you quickly before sliding you off his lap and shuffling to the ensuite as you take a deep breath, the unexpected break making you aware of your racing heart, the ache between your thighs. You can hear the sink and his frantic scrubbing, shaking your head as you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror, huffing a laugh as you take in the sight, the open robe, the messy hair, the sections of your neck where your skin’s been rubbed raw by his beard.
You hear the sink turn off, can hear his footsteps making their way back into the room and turn to face him. He stops in his tracks when you look at him, murmuring “wow” before shaking his head slightly and closing the distance between you, wrapping his arms around your waist once more.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to kill the vibe. But ‘m all clean now, ready to just -” he pauses, jabbing his two fingers in the air, his eyes twinkling with mirth, “get up inside you now.”
“Jesus Christ.” you honk out a laugh as he tightens his hold on you, giggling into your neck.
“Sorry, sorry, sorry” he apologizes through giggles. “Had y’ right where I wanted yeh a few minutes ago, let’s get back to that, yeah? Let me make you feel good.”
He leans in, lips brushing against yours as he mumbles “Back to our regularly scheduled programming” that has you laughing against his mouth.
“You are so stupid.” you say before he shushes you and quiets you with kisses, pressing his lips to yours firmly before sucking on your bottom lip. He dives back in for more, licking into your mouth slowly, letting you fall back into the rhythm you were in before only this time it's more charged somehow. He’s a man on a mission as he pulls away from your mouth, kissing down your neck, his tongue darting out for a taste.
“Yeah but y’ love me, right?” he murmurs, lips dragging against your skin. “Y’ think I’m funny? That I look nice?”
You hum noncommittally as he pulls you closer, though you find yourself taking in his outfit once more, eyes scanning him from top to bottom, snagging on the parts you like best. When you look back up at him, his eyes are dark, hungry, his jaw clenched as he brings a hand up to cup your face.
“Do y’ have any idea how you look at me when y’ like what I’m wearing?” he says, practically growling, his eyes lit up in the way they get when he’s got his mind set on something, a chill rushing down your spine at the thought of that something being you. “Not even sure if I can describe it…makes me feel like I’m on fire.”
He pinches your chin between his index finger and thumb, holding you in place as he claims your mouth, taking his time to kiss you so thoroughly your head spins.
“Sometimes when I’m, like, nervous about an outfit, I’ll picture your face seeing me in it,” he says when he pulls away. “The way you look at me - the way you devour me with your eyes. Makes me feel like I can do anything. Y’ make me feel so good about myself, the way you want me.”
“I do - I do want you” you say breathlessly, his confession making your heart race, the never ending pattern of his hands and mouth making arousal pool in your stomach. You’re needy and wet -
“Gonna show me?” he murmurs against your mouth, smirking when you nod. “Me too. Gonna show y’ how much I want you. How much I always want you. I always -”
You moan, cutting him off with a hard kiss, your tongue swiping over his in a way that has him groaning into your mouth. You pull him impossibly closer, your hands sliding up his blazer covered arms and over his shoulders, weaving your hand into his hair as you sink deeper into the kiss.
He pulls away slowly, panting as he kisses your jaw slowly, tongue darting out to taste your skin.
“Turn around,” he mutters lowly, spinning you in his hold until your back is against his chest, his hands splaying across your stomach. You look up to see that you’re both now facing the mirror.
Oh.
“Let’s get this off,” he murmurs, pulling the robe up and off your shoulders, letting it crumple in a pile at your feet. He pulls your body up against his as he hooks his chin over your shoulder, running his hands up and down your body. His eyes dragging up and down your reflection, feeling like molten lava as they take you in. “God, look at you.”
The momentary instinct to look away from the mirror, to hide from the reflection of your naked body is immediately overpowered by the sight you see, your naked body against him in his suit, his clutches turning white knuckled in desperation as he drags his mouth along your neck, mumbling praise into your skin without ever breaking eye contact with you. Where this should be a vulnerable situation, instead you feel dead sexy. Amost turned inside out with how much you want, how much you need him. You can feel how much he wants you, how he’s already hard for you, just from this. You can see it in his eyes, feel it in his touch. And fuck if it’s not the hottest thing you’ve ever experienced.
Your chest is heaving as he pauses his ministrations, resting his hands on your lower belly before bringing one up to clutch at your jaw, instantly covering your mouth with his. You wind your arm around his neck, hand grasping at the hair at the nape as he groans into your mouth, fingertips sinking into your skin.
He slides his hand down and you gasp against his mouth as you feel his fingers sliding through your folds.
“Fuck - feel that?” he groans as his fingers lightly circle your clit, your hips twitching towards his touch. “I know, I know. Gonna take care of you, baby.”
He kisses you deeply once more, before pulling away and guiding your head back to face the mirror.
“But I want you to watch.”
He hooks his chin over your shoulder, dark eyes never wavering from yours as he draws circles on your clit, kissing you on the shoulder when you moan.
“Yeah - let me hear you,” he groans as he continues to draw circles on your clit, increasing his pressure the more sounds you make.
Your stomach burns with arousal, feeling a deep ache in between your thighs as he teases his fingers over your entrance before bringing them back up to your clit. He does this over and over, smirking at you in the mirror before you finally break, a whimpered “please” that has him clenching his eyes shut for a moment. Seeing his reaction in the mirror makes you just about lose your mind. You slide your hand up his arm, clutching at the muscles that flex beneath your palm as the fire burns in your belly.
“‘M right here, baby. I got you.” he murmurs, resting his cheek against your temple, facial hair scratching into your skin as he dips his fingers lower, sliding two fingers into you with ease. “Fuck - all this for me?”
You nod, barely able to swallow back a moan as he works you over with his fingers, fucking them into you deeper before he reaches the spot that makes you cry out.
“Fuck, H -”
“That’s it,” he groans, his palm rubbing over your clit as he curls his fingers deeper. You’re practically soaking his hand but can’t bring yourself to care, not when he’s looking at you like that, not when he’s making you feel this good. You can feel your abdomen tighten, knees weakening as he brings you closer and closer to your high. He presses his palm down hard on one particular stroke that has you shutting your eyes and leaning your head back before he tuts.
“Eyes on me, baby. Want you to look at me when you come.” He smacks a kiss to your temple when you open your eyes. “‘S my girl.”
He doubles down on his efforts and what was once a slow burn is now a raging fire. Your eyes never waver from his as he murmurs endless streams of praise into your ear. You’ve never been so on display and you’ve never felt hotter as you hurtle closer and closer to the edge. You can barely make sense of the sounds you’re making, trying desperately to keep your eyes open, finding yourself transfixed by the way his brow is furrowed in concentration, his tongue darting out to lick his lips as his eyes never move from your reflection, sheer determination as he takes you apart.
Your chest heaves as you try to get a breath in but he’s overwhelming all your senses. You clench down on his fingers and it’s the guttural groan you get in response that sends your right over the edge with a curl of his wrist. You see stars as you come, hand sliding along his jacket sleeve as he mutters praise into your ear, working you through your high until you’re batting his hand away.
You watch breathlessly as he slides his fingers out and brings them up to his mouth, eyes locking with yours as he sucks, moaning at the taste. You spin in his hold, crashing your lips to his as you wrap your arms around your neck. His hands immediately adjust, big palms squeezing your bum as he kisses you deeper. You slide a hand up into his hair, pulling as he opens his mouth wider and you give as good as you’re getting. You pull your mouth away, moving to kiss along his jaw as you slide a hand down his front, fingers dancing over his pecs before sliding down his abs, smirking when the muscles jolt at your touch.
Without pulling your mouth away from his neck, you unbutton his trousers and slide your hand inside his briefs, sliding your hand along his length, gasping when you feel how hard he is for you. He grunts when you start to stroke him, fingers digging into your skin when you lean up to say in his ear, “Need this inside me.”
He moans, leaning down to capture your lips with his before walking you backward into the mirror, hand coming up to cradle your head from hitting it.
“Want it like this,” he mumbles against your mouth, hands coming to squeeze at your hips. “Want y’ against the mirror.”
He spins you around, your chest pressing against the cool glass as he takes a step back and pulls your hips flush against his so that only your hands touch the mirror, your back arching to put you back on complete display, giving you a vantage point of everything. His eyes sear through you as he drags them up and down your form, knuckles clutching and eyes darkening as he visually devours you.
He nudges your heels apart with his foot, spreading you wider as he pulls down his trousers and briefs, just enough to pull himself out. Making no moves to take off any of his clothes. The image alone sends a shiver down your spine.
You’re so close together, you can feel when he strokes himself a few times, knuckles dragging against your bum. He looks up at you, shaking his head almost in disbelief before leaning in to press kisses along your spine, palms dragging up and down your spine.
“Look so hot like this,” he mutters, bringing one hand to rest on your hip while the other wraps around his cock, guiding it towards your core. You both moan when he slides the head against your entrance. He taps it against your clit, hand tightening on your hip when you gasp, eyes locking with yours. “Ready?”
“Need you.” you moan out and he pushes into you in one swoop, sliding his hand up your back to wrap around your shoulder, pulling you back as he thrusts forward.
“Christ,” he groans, taking it slow as he thrusts into you steadily, letting you get used to the stretch. “Feel so fucking good.”
You lock eyes in the mirror as you push your hips back, meeting his thrust halfway, brow furrowing as his mouth drops open from the feel. His grip on your shoulder tightens and suddenly, It’s hard and fast instantly, the sound of your skin slapping against each other reverberating through the room. You can’t take your eyes off his reflection. The clench of his jaw, the vein in his neck bulging as he pulls you back onto his cock over and over.
Your hands slip on the glass with the force of his thrusts, fire licking up your spine at the reflection in front of you. The way his muscles bulge under his clothes, the way his clothes look against your naked body. The way every clash of your hips punches out a sound from him that makes your stomach twist, how a particular circle of your hips has his eyes rolling into the back of his head.
“Prettiest thing I’ve seen all night. Love watching you. ” he grunts out, brushing your hair away from your sweaty nape, letting the cool air hit it before wrapping his palm around the back of your neck, fingers digging into your skin. “Gonna make me come. Y’close?”
You nod, words failing as each drive of his hips brings you racing to your finish for the second time tonight.
“Touch yourself for me, baby. C’mon.” he murmurs. “Wanna watch you come on my cock.”
No sooner are the words out of his mouth than you’re bringing your hand to your clit, rubbing fast circles that have you practically whimpering. He’s muttering encouragement as you struggle to keep your eyes open. His hand slipping from the back of your neck to the front. One squeeze is all it takes for you to come, feeling your walls flutter around his cock as you moan.
“So good for me. Such a good girl.” he grunts, squeezing his hand around your neck once more as he pistons his hips, before moaning lowly, coming hard as you feel him spill inside you, squeezing your neck as he collapses onto your back. He places on hand next to yours on the mirror for support, panting against your head as he catches his breath. His hand not on the wall dragging up and down your spine, pressing kisses to your shoulder as you both come down from your high.
He squeezes your shoulder before pulling out, tucking himself back into his pants as you push off the mirror, turning to face him. You smile at each other, huffing out laughs before he pulls you towards him, cupping a hand under your jaw as he captures your lips in a kiss, tongue smoothing over yours.
“That was fucking hot,” he murmurs before claiming your mouth again. You hum in agreement, sliding your hand up and into his hair, fingers looping through sweaty strands as you kiss each other deeper.
The kisses slow, eventually. Your racing hearts returning to their normal pulses, hands grazing each other’s bodies slower until you both pull back.
“Do you think that’s how everyone else ended their night at the ballet?” you ask and he barks out a loud laugh, eyes crinkling around the edges as he tilts his head back.
“Reckon so.” he says, pulling you in closer and pressing a kiss to your cheek. “I gotta take Sammy out.”
“I’ll come with you,” you say, heart flipping when his grin widens. “Just gimme a sec.”
You kiss him quickly before heading off into the bathroom, cleaning yourself up and catching a glimpse of your reflection in the mirror. How well fucked you look.
You head back out, grabbing an old shirt of his and gym shorts from the dresser, feeling his eyes on you as you quickly get dressed.
“You’re not going to change?” you ask, looking over at him as he shrugs.
“My girl likes my fit. Trying to see if I can get lucky twice in one night,” he says, grin widening as he holds open the door for you, hand on your lower back as you make your way down the hallway. He wraps his arm around your waist, slipping his hand up under your t-shirt, splaying his hand against your belly.
And yeah, he probably will.
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a/n: did not edit this whatsoever needed to get it out in the world bc i had been working on this for so long. and its absolute filth i could not bring myself to read back. lmk what you think !
Summary: The one where you were the one filming the BTS video, and Harry JUST had to get his greedy hands on the editing process.
A/N: You guys, I couldn't help myself. The Inspo speaks for itself that dude is hot as fuck!! This will be the last full post I'll be posting on Tumblr. Starting April 1st, everything I would originally post for free on Tumblr will be free on Patreon. If you haven't joined or have any questions, please don't hesitate to reach out
Link to Patreon -> Here <-
Word Count: 6.6k
Warnings: 18+, a little plot with a lot of SMUT, pure and filthy. Dom!Harry x Sub!Reader.
“Alright—hold still for a second. No, don’t look at me. Look at her. Actually, forget it, just do whatever you were doing before…”
That was the gig—you behind the handheld, two steps to the left of Laura Jane Coulson and her Leica, catching everything the still frames couldn’t—the in-between frames, the exhales, the moments when Harry forgot anyone was watching and just existed inside whatever weird, beautiful, sexy thing his body was doing on that desert highway that day.
Harry’s team had hired you to produce a behind-the-scenes video: a short, fly-on-the-wall reel that would run on their socials with no set date, and while it wasn’t the cover shoot, of course—that was Laura’s domain—it was yours in a different way, something more real than a two-second snap of a camera lens. You were the one crouched low, getting the ice bath from below, the metal stock trough catching the last of the afternoon light while Harry gripped the sides with white knuckles, making a face like the cold was assaulting all his senses.
You were the one who caught the Great Britain tracksuit moment— him glancing over his shoulder with “HARRY” printed across his ass, grinning like a kid with a secret. You filmed the infamous pink shorts, soaking wet, water dripping from his lean, muscular body. And god, how could you forget the shot with his arms wide, silhouetted as golden hour set in the dark sky, the night opening up with stars, the pink and orange vibing with the melody playing through the loudspeaker in the background, while he danced on the asphalt like nobody on Earth was watching.
Everyone was looking. You were all watching. But with your luck, the camera gave you the coveted excuse to never look away.
On the first morning, before the crew had fully set up, you had pulled him aside near the equipment trailer. You remember his hair was still messy from the drive out, sunglasses pushed up on his forehead, and he was holding a coffee. He was there early, ready to start the workday, and that surprised you.
“I want to capture things that are going to drive the fans absolutely wild,” you told him, not a hint of shame in the pitch. “All of it… like strong, sexy, charming, you know, silly—give the full range. Home video energy. I want it to feel like they’re standing right next to you...”
He had laughed at that and pointed at you with the hand holding the coffee. “I like that—Yeah—Let’s do that. I’m game for anything. I like your vision. I’m the one who suggested you. I’ve creeped all of your stuff on Instagram… like not in a creepy way. I just like really liked your style.”
All you could do was smile, and that was it, and then he was letting you in, treating you like a team player, like your role was just as vital as the photographers. That was the thing about Harry that caught you off guard. The fact that he didn’t perform for your lens the way he did for Laura’s. With her, he was a professional—hitting marks, shifting angles, following direction. With you, it was like he forgot you were there. Or maybe he didn’t forget. Maybe he just didn’t mind, and there was something about that cool confidence that kept you captivated.
Either way, your footage had something the photographs didn’t. You had the version of him that existed in the gaps, completely unguarded, and, if you were being honest, it was the version that had already become a problem before the first day even ended. Because for you it was when he had pulled himself out of the ice bath, drenched, ice water pouring down his hard body, and you were forced to keep the camera steady on his torso, standing there pretending like your hands weren’t trembling…then he looked up. Staring at the camera with one of those clever smiles, and it was like he fucking knew, like he knew the exact shot you wanted. His eyes flicked from the camera lens to yours, water still dripping, and he smiled, flexing his tight abs, the camera catching every perfect second. When you smiled back and said cut, he stood there for a beat longer, letting your eyes rake down his soaked body.
That was three weeks ago.
Now you were standing in the foyer of his NYC apartment in the West Village, laptop bag over one shoulder, hard drive in your hand, sifting through a mental library of reasons why this was strictly going to be a professional visit, and nothing more.
The edit was your only job. That’s why you were here. Harry had asked—over text, directly to you, not through Jeff, not through the magazine—wondering if he could sit in on the final cut. “I had some time free up. I just want to make sure it feels right. I’m feeling very particular this round with my image. Hope you don’t mind if it’s just the two of us,” he had written. “You’ve got stuff no one else has. Want to make sure we use the best of it.”
And fuck, yeah, that would have been fine. That would have been a completely normal request from a client who cared about the work, except for the texts that followed in the days after. The ones that came at midnight, then later, then even later. None of them crossed a line per se, not technically, easy questions—a question about a certain shot, a voice note about the pacing of the edit, a photo of his running route along the Hudson with no caption—but they quickly accumulated into something that felt like its own kind of footage. A reel of intent, played back at a frequency just below what you could call out directly.
On some days, you would catch yourself rereading them in bed, scrolling up to map the shift. Scrolling to early messages. The professional, clipped ones. The ones signed off with a “cheers” or a thumbs-up emoji. But then somehow the tone loosened. He started asking about your day—not the footage—but your actual day. At one point, he sent you a song at one in the morning with “I think this is the vibe I’m going for, and the song I want to use for the edit,” and you listened to it three times, analyzing the song, before you even thought about what it meant that he was thinking about your footage at one in the morning. By the final week, the pretense had thinned to almost nothing, and the last message before you booked your flight was just: “Can’t wait to see you.”
Not “can’t wait to see the edit.” It was can’t wait to see “you”.
But here’s the thing—you still weren’t one hundred percent sure, and that was the maddening part. Because everything he said could still fit within a professional frame if you wanted one. Every message could have been a director talking to his editor. Every late-night text could have been a guy who kept weird hours and cared about his projects. You had built your entire career on reading rooms, reading people, knowing exactly where a moment was headed before it landed—but with Harry, you couldn’t find the cut point. You couldn’t find the frame where friendly became something else, and that uncertainty was doing more to you than any of the certainty you had in the past ever could have. It was like you were standing at a parallel, and maybe you wanted the latter more than you thought.
“Hey—come in, come in.” He greeted, opening the door wider when you knocked. He stepped aside, feet bare in grey sweatpants, a tight white tee clinging to his frame, complementing his fit body beneath, hair damp. The apartment smelled like coffee and sandalwood, like maybe he lit a candle before you arrived, the earthy smell ghosting through the threshold as you stepped in.
“Thanks for making the trip,” he said, closing the door behind you, and there it was again—that voice. The same one from the desert, that low rasp that had narrated the quiet moments when he peered over your shoulder during the shoot, except now it was in a quiet apartment instead of an open highway, and the intimacy of this setting made it land completely different.
“Of course. It was a nice flight actually…” You told him, taking in the cozy setting. “I brought the full cut and the raw selects if you want to go through both…wasn’t sure how hands-on you wanted to be.” Harry laughed, eyes cutting to the floor, smiling to himself, and you had to look away so he couldn’t see the heat blooming in your cheeks as your pulse drummed at the base of your throat.
If he noticed, he didn’t react, because he continued on, leading you through to the dining room to a long oak table near the windows that overlooked a tree-lined street. NYC was beautiful in the mid-afternoon light, the way it cast in clean slats across the surfaces of Harry’s open loft. You wasted no time setting up your laptop, easily connecting the hard drive, while trying not to think about the fact that he pulled his chair close enough to yours that you could smell his shampoo when he leaned forward to watch the screen the second you hit play.
For a while, it was just work. And the work was good, genuinely good, easy as the two of you moved through the cut together. He had a sharp eye for detail, adding pacing comments that were better than those from most clients you worked with. He even pointed to a transition and said, “That’s too fast, let’s let it breathe, yeah?—like stay on the wide shot one more beat maybe… for the effect,” and he was right—every time. When the ice bath sequence came up, he laughed so hard he tipped his chair back, and you couldn’t help but laugh with him because the face he made when the cold hit was, objectively, the funniest thing you guys had captured that day.
“You know what I love about your footage?” he said, pausing the playback on a frame of himself mid-stride, the golden hour light spilling across the road behind him. “None of this feels directed. It feels like you just... caught it…”
“Well, that’s the idea,” you answered. “If it feels directed, I didn’t do my job.”
“No, but you did direct some of it. Like the ice bath, when you told me to grip the sides.”
“I told you to grip the sides to play into the sexy…remember we needed that aspect…strong hands and such…you know how your fans work by now, I’m sure. I did a little research beforehand, wanted to nail it.”
He grinned, that same easy grin from the desert, and turned back to the screen, pinching his bottom lip between his thumb and index finger. Through it all, though, he didn’t move his chair away, and after a while his knee was touching yours under the table, and you both let it stay there, comfortable as his shoulder fell against yours.
You paid it no mind and kept editing, or at least you tried. He was skilled at keeping the conversation going—asking about your process as he moved closer, his hand reaching over to pause the video and ask about the gear you used. He wanted your full attention, and when he asked where you had shot before this, he nudged your knee under the table, a subtle gesture saying, “I know we’re touching.”
Now, it was your turn not to react as you told him about the documentary work you did in Morocco, playfully nudging his knee back while describing the music video that got you noticed. As you continued telling your story, he listened intently, eyes trained with a focus that made you feel as if you were the one being filmed. Every so often, his eyes would drop to your moving mouth, and you’d hold your breath for a half-second too long, pretending you hadn’t noticed as he smoothed his heart-shaped lips together.
By the time you reached the final shot—the wide shot of him with his arms outstretched against the mountains, the sky burning pink and orange behind him—the sun outside the apartment windows had dipped low, casting warm, amber shadows through the large bay windows. That’s when you realized that somewhere in the last hour, the energy in the room had shifted from collaborative to something heavy, something burning through your body and rising to your cheeks as he bit his lip, eyes locked on yours, the room around you darkening with the setting sun.
He was watching you more than the screen now. You could feel it without turning your head. You could sense the weight of his attention, the way it pressed against the side of your face. When you hit play on the final frame, neither of you said anything for a long moment as the clip ended and the screen went dark, and a quiet settled over the apartment.
“You’re really good at this,” he finally said, his voice closer than you expected.
And when you turned, he was right there—chair angled toward you, elbow on the table, chin resting on his hand, studying you with that intentional gaze, green eyes inches away in the low golden light of his dining room.
“Thank you,” you told him, clearing your throat.
“I mean it. You see things that other people miss. The way you move around a set—it’s like you know exactly where to be before the moment happens. I was in awe the whole time.”
“Um… I don’t know. That’s directing, I guess, like learning to anticipate…”
“Must be a fun job,” he stated, and you watched the corner of his mouth pull up. “Getting to tell people what to do all day.”
That’s when something in his tone made your stomach tighten. Not with what he said, but how he said it. Like the sentence was the door opening up, and now, he was just waiting to see if you would walk through it.
The truth was, you had been careful this whole time. For three weeks, you had been sitting back, analyzing, not acting—reading his texts with one eye closed, refusing to let yourself project an idea that you couldn’t be sure of. Staying inside the lines. But fuck, here you were, and the room was warm, and his knee was still touching yours, and his eyes hadn’t left your face—and suddenly you were so tired of being the one who always had to keep the frame steady.
“Sometimes…” you whispered, looking him dead in the eyes, “I want to be the one being directed.”
And that was all he needed; the shift was quick—your words acting as the permission he needed to change the tide of this work-balance outcome. With a curious eye, you watched it move through him. Watching the enticing flicker of hope move behind his eyes, his jaw setting, something primal unlocking in his posture that made him seem bigger in the chair, more calculated, like every casual thing about the last hour had been a costume he would shed in the seconds to come.
For a long breath, you sat there in anticipation, wondering what the next move would be. He didn’t rush. That was the part that killed you. He only held your gaze, letting the silence do its work, letting the weight of what you had just divulged settle between you like a tight wire stretching taut. Then he stood, slowly, pushing the chair back as the sound scraped and echoed through the room, and he reached down to close your laptop.
“Stand up,” he said, voice dropping.
This wasn’t a request, and you stood, swallowing the giddy rush filling your chest as you sank your teeth into your bottom lip to suppress the smile.
He stepped closer, close enough that he had to tilt your chin up to hold your eye. His hand moved to your jaw, then slid to your chin, pressing his thumb and index finger into your skin to grip. Not rough or gentle, just certain, turning your face slightly, as if he were finding the angle, as if you were the subject now and he was the one behind the lens.
“Turn and face the table, ” He forced, making your breath catch, and you turned. The edge of the dining table pressed against your front as Harry moved behind you, and when he pushed his body into you, he slowly guided you forward with the press of his growing bulge to the curve of your ass.
For a second, you allowed the weight of your body to fall into his, let your eyes drift shut as his mouth moved to the shell of your ear, hands grazing down your arms with the tips of his fingers. “Maybe you can let me call the shots for a little while, sound good?”
As his warm breath hit your ear, you sucked in a sharp breath, silently nodding your head as Harry grabbed hold of your wrists, and he closed his body around you as he bent you forward. With the weight of his body, he forced your arms out in front of you, forcing you to catch yourself as you fell forward. He was rougher this time, his pelvis pressing harder into your ass. When your hands hit the table, your palms went flat, thudding into the cool oak surface.
“Tell me you want it,” he demanded, leaning up enough to run his hands over the curve of your waist. When his hands found your hips, he gripped hard, pulling your ass back fast to meet his erect cock. Then he pulled back and slammed into you hard, pressing until you were pinned, teasing you again as your gasp filled the lofty space.
“Please,” you pleaded, voice ragged, half-swallowed by the last of your nerves. “Harry, I want you to. Just—do whatever you want. I can take it.” But even as you said it, you knew how you sounded, every bit the director whose only directive left was surrender. You braced yourself on the table, nails pressing little indents into the wood, feeling the realness of the moment pulse between your thighs as the shift from concept to action crackled across your skin.
He didn’t answer right away. He let his hands do the talking first, moving with a new intent as they pressed into your hips, thumbs digging so hard you hoped they would bruise. The pain was welcome, and as he let the weight of his body fall against you, he reached around to the front of your pants and popped the button of your jeans open, while the other hand stayed at your hip, keeping you pressed to him.
He tugged the zipper down, and with one harsh motion, he dragged your jeans low, dragging your underwear along, too. The denim caught at your knees, then your ankles, rubbing rough against your skin and exposing you with a single, skilful yank. There was a brief pause where you felt the chill of the open air on the backs of your thighs, and then his hands were back—one splaying across your ass, the other threading into your hair at the nape of your neck, twisting just enough to make your scalp burn.
For a moment, he only touched you, the act rough enough to pinch at your nerves, yet gentle enough to tease. His fingers pressed into your flesh, mapping the soft curve from your hip to your thigh, while his hard-on branded your ass through the flimsy cotton of his sweatpants. You tried to push back, desperate for more, but he didn’t give you the satisfaction; instead, he restrained you with a single hand braced to the table. You could sense the roles switching with every breath, a role you had been dying to shed for a while, and the idea of that already had you so wet, so turned on that it scared you—because what were you even doing?
Then Harry’s hands were moving lower, dragging his palm down the backs of your thighs before kneeling abruptly behind you, and you held your breath, feeling all the blood in your body beat hot through your skin. Your heart was pounding, the pulse landing somewhere between your ears and your cunt. That’s when you felt him easing the denim and cotton from your ankles fully, hands sure, the metal button of your jeans clattering softly to the hardwood as he peeled them away. “Stay,” he said, and his voice was dark, but patient. “Don’t move.”
You didn’t dare move a muscle—you stayed, legs pressed closed, knees trembling, as the cold air hit the slick between your thighs. He gripped your right ankle, spreading you wider, then nudged the other aside. You heard more than saw him, heard the inhale of his breath as he crouched behind. He pressed his mouth to the inside of your knee, running his lips up your thigh as the faintest scrape of stubble tickled across your skin, as the pressure of his hands held you steady; it was vulgar how much you craved the next second, the next inch.
He worked his way up, kissing and licking the inside edge of your thigh, until his breath was so close you could feel it cooling the shine of anticipation slicking your skin. “Lie flat against the table for me,” he rasped. You did what you were told, leaning forward until your shoulders and chest hit the wood. Your cheek was squished to the surface, hair tangled, eyes half-closed, the edge of the table biting into your hip bones.
He kept you there, bent and split, spreading you with deft, confident hands, silently examining you. When you heard him exhale, a quiet note of approval, you were still holding your breath, waiting there with the heat of his mouth on your skin. Then there was no more hesitation—not even for another breath—before he was licking straight up the seam of your pussy, tongue wide and greedy, like this had been his mission all along, getting you just like this. You gasped, arching against the cold table, the sudden intensity rolling through your body in waves. All at once, he had you open and exposed, hands spreading your ass cheeks as he devoured you from behind, mouth filthy and ruthless, hungry, taking exactly what he wanted.
He worked you fast, tongue teasing your clit, then lapping back to fuck inside you, making a mess of you, dragging your hips back as if to keep you in place so he could get more. You felt his jaw working, the hard scratch of his stubble against your delicate skin, the wet sounds of him eating you out so loud in the cavernous room you almost couldn’t take it. He moaned into you, a vibration that traveled all the way up your spine and left your knees threatening to buckle.
He was desperate, not even letting up for air. He pressed his thumbs hard into the tops of your ass cheeks, spreading you wider, like a fucking book as his mouth got rougher, more possessive. Your vision blurred white, your hands gripping at the flat table for a tether, unsure whether to push away or pull him closer, no longer even trying to make sense of what surrender actually meant. You were already soaked, already pulsing, but he didn’t stop—not even when your hips started to shake, or when your breath hitched, your first orgasm threatening in your guts already.
He kept at you until you were bursting, until your legs gave out and your voice rose shrill and high—begging him not to stop, your own voice echoing back at you off the glass, off the exposed brick—the sound humiliating and revelatory at the same time. And maybe it was sick, but fuck it, you wanted it, was breaking for it even now as an orgasm began to rise.
Still, he didn’t stop. Not even when you told him you were coming. He just kept feasting, devouring, sucking, and lapping and grinding his mouth into you as tears spring to your eyes. When you came, you were loud enough to scare yourself, face smashed to the table, breath caught in your lungs. You tried to clamp your legs, but he kept you open, hands digging, tongue insistent, working you through every aftershock until you were sagging, your body useless, nearly slipping off the slick surface of the table.
That’s when he let you go, just for a second. You heard the scrape of the chair as it was ripped aside to open up space. His large palm was on your spine as he stood and pressed his thick cock against your ass, and when you forced your gaze over your shoulder, he shoved the front of his pants down. With one hand, he painted up the line of your thigh. With the other, he hauled you upright by the scruff of your t-shirt, then bent you again, forcing you to feel the heft of him rubbing gradual, menacing strokes between your cheeks as he pressed your body to the wood with his palm now flat at the center of your back.
You had never been so desperate, felt so empty, needy, aching to be filled. You reached blindly back for him, needing to touch. You heard him tsking his tongue, then pinned your wrist flat to the table as a warning rumbled through his throat, then he hooked his fingers around your jaw and tilted your head, so you had to look at him in the glass of the darkened window—the two of you staring at one another, the reflection a call out for every dirty thought you had collected since you met.
And now you knew, neither one of you was innocent.
“Is this how you want it?” he asked, and you could only nod, breathless. “You want me to fuck you right here in my dining room?”
“Yes—” and just as the words left your mouth, the answer was punched out of you by the blunt, onslaught force of his cock as he split you open without a single ounce of grace. It was another brutal feat—the way he shoved his dick all the way in, filling you with a thickness that made your muscles spasm with the effort of taking it. He yanked your hips back to impale you fully, the hand at your throat tightening just enough to let you know he owned you now, all of you. Every morsel of sting and stretch was his. Because suddenly your mind was mush, and that sudden savage drive was so intense you didn’t know if you were whining or howling or just sucking air through gritted teeth.
“Fuck, you’re taking me so well, love—was ready for me weren’t you? Got you nice and wet—tasted so fucking good,” he grunted, as the wet slap of flesh echoed in the room. His huge hands were greedy at your waist, dragging you into him with every brutal thrust, like making it hurt was the promise he had been working toward since the start. Each movement was punctuated, exact, the table shuddering beneath your ribs as he used it—and you—for leverage.
You braced your palms against the smooth surface as best as you could, splays of sweat blooming out under your hands as you tried, stupidly, to keep some sense of dignity while he fucked you into submission. But there was no use, because every time you thought you had gravity on your side, your hands would slide, and he would grip you hard to keep you right where he wanted you. Because he was taking you harder, deeper and deeper. Thrusting in and out of you until the thickness of him pressed right up against the delicate edge of bearable, and still he kept going, the rhythm so captivating it seemed to be fucking away everything smart or clever in your head until only the crude want of need was left.
“Like that,” you choked, and instantly his hand went to your hair, twisting and pulling, crushing you harder into the table as he leaned into your back, letting his weight press into you.
“This is what you wanted, right?” he whispered with a mean edge, and as you tried to mutter out the words yes, he tore his cock from inside you and gripped a handful of your shirt, and yanked you up like the dirty little rag doll you were becoming for him. “On your feet—want to turn you around. Want to see that pretty little face when you come for me again.”
And fuck, you could have come with just his words. It was all too much, the room spinning as he maneuvered your fucked out body, legs shaking as he turned you around, and hoisted you onto the table like you weighed nothing, like this was an everyday event—like your body didn’t feel like dead weight under his grasp. Through the haze of movement, you caught his eye, caught sight of his blown-out pupils. Caught the darkness raging within. He wasn’t scary; in fact, you trusted him, trusted that whatever was going to happen would be something that you both just needed to get out of your system.
Then his hand was reaching for the hem of your shirt, lifting it, and for a second, your mind was clear as he began to strip you bare in the open city dusk—the two of you working together with shaky hands to pull it over your head—your hands at work to unhook your bra as Harry tossed it aside. It was his turn next, your eyes raking over him half-crazed with need, and his shirt was off in seconds, leaving you both in a messy mix of breaths as Harry’s mouth went to your nipples—sucking and biting as your head fell back—his mouth giving each one the right amount of attention. The sensation was so good you almost found yourself on the edge of another orgasm.
But Harry must have sensed this, because then his head was pulling away, and his hands were on your hips again, ripping your body to the edge of the table in one swift motion, holding your gaze the entire time. For a long moment, Harry didn’t say a word, the two of you catching your breaths in the silence, smiling at one another in anticipation—a clever conversation had without even saying a word as you smoothed your fingers up the slit of your pussy to get ready for round two.
And maybe you imagined it, the growl you thought you heard as Harry grabbed hold of his cock and nudged your legs open hard. Then he shoved his cock inside again, not wavering, not asking, just sliding into you with a raw hunger that left you scrambling for a handhold on his arms. You didn’t just let him—you needed it, needed the burn, the force, the invasion. You locked eyes with him, and it leveled you, the way he looked at you, that intentional gaze, staring at you as if the rest of the city had fallen away and you were the last two people on earth. You felt yourself melting, your thighs shaking from the effort. You couldn’t hold his gaze and not shiver. It was like he was filming you, memorizing your face, capturing what he wanted for later.
But little did he know you were doing the same.
He thrusted in harder, and your body took it, each time your noises got louder, sounding not like yourself, but some version of you that didn’t have to be cool or careful. Because you were losing it, because it was only a handful of strokes and you were already close again, your body traitorous and greedy, and fucking desperate to milk his big wet cock.
So you clawed at his chest because you needed something to ruin, and he grabbed your wrists, pinning them above your head, holding you in place with just one hand. The other dug under your thigh, pushing your knees apart, lifting until he was splitting you at the exact angle that let him fucking hammer you. The soreness was sheer perfection, the friction rubbing you open, and every time you looked like you might break, he only said “good girl” and kept going, driving you insane.
You gasped, “Harry I—” and he cut you off by slamming deeper, jaw clenched so hard you could see the muscle pop at his temple. “Gonna make you come again,” he grunted, sweat slick along his collarbone, “but you gotta hold it—I want to come with you. Can you be a good girl for me?”
You nodded, delirious, thoughts splitting and blurring. He let go just long enough to palm your jaw and force your eyes to his. Fuck, you wanted to be ruined for him, wanted to be marked and remembered, even if this never happened again, even if you never saw him after the gig, you wanted this to be the part of you that stuck with him. The part he jerked off to in some hotel room and thought, “god, that editor was a fucking menace.” And it was that thought that had you soaked, and you felt a fresh wave drip around his cock as he started fucking you even harder.
It only took a few more strokes, and he gripped you closer, his voice a gravelly whisper in your ear, and he said, “That’s right, look at me, don’t stop, come for me—”
That was it, and you fucking shattered. Fracturing into a million nerve endings of pleasure bursting through your body, from the tips of your toes to the fucking crown of your head, you were a goner. But he didn’t last a second more. As soon as he saw your face twist, as soon as your pulse went insane, he let out a low, desperate sound and buried himself as deep as he could, eyes locked on yours like the act would sear the memory in, brand it into both your brains forever.
You felt him jerk, every vein and tremor pulsing, and then he exploded inside you, thrusting deep, pinning your wrists so hard you thought your bones would splinter. Then there was a flash of surrender in his face—almost tender, almost boyish, nothing like the savage control that preceded it—and you realized you had never had someone look at you like this, like you were the only evidence left of something holy, like maybe he too was savoring every second of you.
And maybe he was, because he didn’t pull out, not for a long, lingering second. Not until your bodies had both stopped shaking and the only sound left was your combined breaths, heavy and close, the city buzzing outside while you drifted back down to earth.
Eventually, you felt him soften, the afterglow making your skin hum, sweat sticking the two of you together. He shifted, hands loosening their grip. You wrapped your arms around him, taking him in a delicate embrace, and when you felt his hands wrap around you, you let your body relax into him. Before long, you were laughing into the sticky, salty crook of his shoulder. He smiled and nuzzled you, his lips at your ear, his chest still expanding and contracting, rising and falling against yours in perfect sync.
When he finally pulled back, it was only far enough to see your face. His thumb brushed under your eye, catching something—sweat, maybe a tear you hadn’t noticed—and his expression shifted. The edge was gone. That commanding bite, the jaw-clenched control—all of it was fading into something real again, quieter, almost shy, and that seemed to hurt you more than any of the roughness that had just happened.
“So…” you breathed, voice raw, “you’re a pretty good director.”
He let out a soft laugh, his forehead dropping to yours. “I picked up some tips from the best. She’s very talented… I imagine she’s a little bossy, though.”
“Shut up.”
“See? Bossy.” He chuckled, pressing a kiss to your forehead.
When you laughed, his mouth moved to yours, and he caught it, pressing his mouth to yours mid-sound, and everything seemed to stop, seemed to slow down, and narrow to just this—to the press of his warm mouth to yours, his lips moving in a tender rhythm that was quickly stealing your thoughts again.
It was the first time he kissed you. After everything, after all of it, this was the first time his lips actually met yours with intention, and it wasn’t fast or hungry or desperate. It was slow. So slow it made your chest ache. His hand slid from your jaw to the side of your neck, his thumb resting in the hollow beneath your ear, and he kissed you like he had nowhere else to be, like the city outside could keep going without him.
Your body melted into the kiss, your fingers loosening their grip on his shoulders, softening against his skin. His other hand found the small of your back, resting warm and steady, and he pulled you closer. The touch was gentle this time, not with a speck of urgency, just gravity working with his tender embrace, pressing your body to his, as if he wanted to eliminate every remaining inch between you.
When he pulled away, he didn’t go far. His nose brushed yours, lips still close enough that you could feel the rise of his next breath. His eyes were wide, searching yours with a curious, unguarded gaze, reminiscent—like the man you captured in the desert, in those quiet moments when he was alone with his thoughts—the one who existed in the apertures of light only you got to see.
“I would say that was the director’s cut…” he murmured against your mouth as a smile rose.
“Better than the original?” You asked, pushing a kiss into the corner of his mouth.
“Mm… I’d say we’re not even close to being done with the edit… I think my directing skills could use some perfecting… Maybe you could teach me a few things. I can be a good listener, they say.” Then his thumb traced the line of your jaw, slow, tantalizing you, and you let him—let him tease the curve of your lower lip with the tip of his finger. Let him take his time, the way you had done with your camera when he wasn’t watching. Except now he was watching, and you were letting him, and neither of you was pretending otherwise.
The apartment had gone dark around you, the last of the daylight now just a thin glow along the edges of the windows. Below, a car horn sounded and echoed up, then faded to distant chatter as you stared up at him. His fingers moved through your hair, tucking it behind your ear, the gesture small and ordinary, but you found yourself wanting more than anything else, like what you started here wasn’t finished just yet—
“Hey,” he said quietly. “What are you doing for the rest of the weekend?”
And as he smiled down at you, a playful smile turned up the corner of his mouth, and all you could do was stare at him as you processed the question. Because here was Harry Styles standing in the last light of the sun in his dining room, bare before you, asking you to stay, and for the first time in three weeks, you didn’t need to read between the lines.
“Nothing,” you told him. “I’m not doing anything.”
Summary: The one where you couldn't stop thinking about fucking your boyfriend. The thought of every detail, making you feral as fuck to get to him.
A/N: @zclhes and I did a quick little Collab. @zclhes is so talented and creative and has made these characters the perfect canvas to be feral. As soon as I read this text thread I was foaming at the mouth to write the smut for it!! So, thanks Z for trusting me with these two!! If you want more of these two be sure to follow @zclhes she's always posting, always keeping us fed!!!!
Zclhes: -> Text Masterlist <-
Word Count: 6.3k
Warning: Age Gap. Choking, Consensual Power Imbalance. PURE SMUT.
Also, shout out to @deliriumwriting for giving this story a squeaky clean edit!! That alone was an adventure for me!! 😅🙈🫣
Barely—that would be the word that echoed with every breath.
You thought you were going to die; No, in fact, if you didn’t get to him soon, you were for sure going to die. It was torture, every second that ticked by, literal torture, every breath an opportunity to think about his stupid, pretty hands and the way he gripped your hips, or held you down—made you stay, made you feel it. You must have looked rabid, sitting there in your seat, chewing through the fucking end of your pen, barely hearing a single word of the lecture because your brain was somewhere off campus—pressed into a mattress, taking your boyfriend’s massive dick like a pro, as he fucked every ravenous nerve from your body like the feral animal you were becoming.
When you finally made it out of the building, you felt like this wild, untamed thing as you burst through the doors, cheeks flushed with anticipation, thighs grinding together with every step, trying to satiate that need pulsing through your clit, because wow, you were already so wet, already ready for him to give you everything you asked for. When you made it to his flat, you sent a text, thumb shaking with adrenaline, as you tried to pass off the urgency with the possibility of hunger or maybe low blood sugar—anything else—as you felt your whole fucking nervous system spark like live wire, broadcasting ‘please fuck me’ to anyone passing behind you as you finished sending the message—
Y/N: Here.
Y/N: You said an hour I MADE IT AN HOUR
Y/N: DO I GET A PRIZE
emotional support adult♥: Come up.
God, his casual disregard for the urgency at hand shouldn’t have done such things to you, but it did, and you took the elevator like a good girl, didn’t even run up the stairs, but the second the doors opened you were already fumbling with your phone, almost losing grip of your bag, your keys shaking in your hands—everything a horny mess, because you needed him, and he was so close now. Dignity didn’t matter; not when you could almost taste him. Hell, you didn’t even care if his neighbors saw you panting like a dog in the hallway. All you cared about was the click of the lock, and that mounting moment when he finally looked you in the eye, and you could rightfully combust in his arms.
When he opened the door, he was composed, nothing out of place, the exact opposite of everything fussing inside you—an annoyingly appropriate contrast to the screaming nerves ready to pounce. His eyes raked over you then, slow, and all the while you felt yourself melting, knees going jelly, and then he was pulling you inside, and it didn’t matter that your mind was already mush, because then he was closing the door behind you, already taking control of the frazled mess before him and pinning you up against it before you could even think any further.
“Good girl,” He rasped, and the way his voice wrapped around the words made you want to whimper.
You couldn’t speak; you only nodded, eyes wide, pussy throbbing as your lips parted, and then his hand was on your neck, his loose grip welcoming, already suggesting what was to come, letting you feel every inch of his control. He kissed you hard, mouth open and hungry, teeth grazing your lower lip, then bit down in a way that made your hips jerk forward, needy for the friction of his body, for anything as your mind yelled out “please,” that whimper finally rising.
“You were very impatient today,” He whispered against your mouth, thumb stroking your jaw. “A needy little mess, aren’t you?”
Then his hand was dragging down slowly, skimming to your chest, leaving goosebumps in his wake, and he palmed your breast, the caress making you shiver, as you squeezed your trembling thighs together. But his hand didn’t stop after he released you, and you felt his fingertips press through the fabric of your dress, moving down your stomach until it stopped at the hem and you held your breath, as he cupped you over your panties, pulling a soft whine from your mouth, and he grinned—his smile turning to teeth, growing into that knowing smirk, that only meant promise.
“Mmmm…so wet for me, love, and I’ve barely touched you,” He taunted, with a smug smile, and dammit, you would have complained, would have argued, but then he pressed harder, and all you could do was moan, the sound full, running through you with no shame, letting it rip through the room. Because his grip was everything you needed, his fingers over your panties ready with intention, the pressure growing firm. You rocked your hips into his palm, yearning for more, for friction; for touch, for whatever he was going to give you, already knowing he was going to give you everything, just the way you needed it, but you had no patience.
As you arched for him, trying to rut against his hand, he held your neck a little tighter. The strain was just right, so good that it made your blood fizz as a heady rush took you, making your clit pulse and ache with every heartbeat, your mind melting further and further out of control. He didn’t say a word, not one, just kept you pinned, hand flexing at your throat, jaw set as he watched you wriggle, all messy and fucking helpless, because he made you that way, because he liked you this way. You could see it in his eyes—the way his tongue flicked across his lips, mouth twitching with the barest hint of a smirk as he traced the outline of your heated center, pressing right against your clit, not moving, not giving in, not until you begged, and god, he knew you would, you always fucking did.
“Please,” You whispered as your eyes fluttered closed, and you spread your legs wider for him, needing him, hungry for him.
“Please, what?” He rasped against your lips, sending a dangerous rumble through your body. His grip on your neck never wavered, only flexed with every word, and you whimpered again. But the plea made him laugh, the sound breathy across your cheek, knowing you were about to crack, because this man knew you from the inside out, knew your every filthy urge and how to bring them to life, and all you ever had to do was ask.
“Need you… Inside me—sir,” You gasped, the words nearly lost to the pounding in your skull. Then his fingers moved, making your tense body relax, just slightly, as he shoved your panties aside. His touch no longer gentle, just greedy, and this time his fingers slipped straight to your soaked slit, sliding through your folds to gather and spread your slickness everywhere—his every move shameless and humiliating, making a complete mess of you right before his eyes.
That’s when a single finger found the heated center of your throbbing pussy and circled, swirling with the teasing tip of his finger just at the pulsing point of your clit, forcing an agonizing surge of pleasure through you. You reached out for him then, desperate for more. But as you reached, he stopped, giving you a look you knew all too well. The look that meant he was about to put you back in your place, and just as that sweet pleasure jerked to a haulting pause, he whispered, “Be patient…” while taking your bottom lip between his teeth, and you nodded, lifting your hips to tuck your hands behind your back, then he sucked your lip into his mouth, running his tongue over the supple swell of your lip.
When he released your lip, he pressed two perfect fingers into your clit this time, his motion sluggish at first, pestering your nerves again, but it was just enough to make your knees tremble. As his other hand closed tighter on your neck, he began rubbing tight, focused, relentless circles on your clit. The pressure was nearly blinding, sending your thoughts scattering until every last rational thought in your brain was gone. Emptied out—your slick pussy saying it all. Each thought replaced by a single, blinding tide of pleasure.
A hand broke free as he kept up his pace, moving to claw at his bicep—nails digging in, thighs threatening to buckle. Your head tilted back so you could breathe, but he didn’t let up, not in the slightest—not even when your body tried to crumble beneath his touch, your orgasm looming close already. He just held you there, long fingers pressing into you, laughing that low laugh when you started to sob. Because fuck, you needed him so bad.
“So sensitive today, baby,” He cooed, and you whined his name, tone pleading against the control he had over you, only able to say that single word, as the heat built, higher, rushing to your face. The tension was sharp, coiling through your whole body, making every muscle strain, knowing you were about to come—that edge so close you could taste it—but you just needed a little more, only a few more thrusts of his fingers against that spot, and just as you were about to reach the crest of that aching desire, standing right at that cusp, he stopped—
Just fucking stopped—like he could sense your climax coming, and he ripped his hand away, dragging your slickness with him. And as the cool air hit your thighs, it rushed over the wetness dripping between your legs. Then the grip on your neck was gone, dropping away as fast as his fingers had slipped from your pussy, making you almost collapse against the door.
The cold left in the wake of his touch was making you insane, your mind reeling in a frenzied panic to drag his hand back between your legs. Already, you were stingy for the feeling of being filled, for every authoritative inch of control he held over your body. That’s when you noticed he was watching you, head cocked to the side, eyes narrowed and dark as they fixed on the mess he had just made of you. You could tell he was proud, those green eyes gleaming—his eyes searching yours as he considered his next move—and then his hand was back, but not where you needed it, not yet.
His hand went back to your throat again, palm sliding over the front of your neck, squeezing—still not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to make your head spin and your pulse jump. As his other hand grabbed at your face, his thumb dug into your jaw, plowing into the plush of your cheek to force your mouth open. Surprised, you gasped, and he used that moment to slip his fingers between your parted lips—the two that were soaked in your own slick. The taste of salt flooded your tongue, the warm, briny finish settling, as the notion of what he was doing filled your fucking mind–causing your brain to short-circuit with the filth of your own delight.
“There…” Harry ground out, voice gravel, as his eyes burned into yours, “Taste how needy you are for me, baby. Got these filthy fingers soaked, didn’t you? Ready to be ruined, aren’t you?”
It was sick and twisted, but you loved it. Loved the shame that made your cheeks burn, as every nerve in your body fucking vibrated—as if you could come just from his words. From the way he forced your mouth open, stuffing your own wetness down your throat as you gagged—his other hand never leaving your neck. Loved the moans that were rushing to your throat, curling around his fingers as you tasted yourself, wanting more, needing more. Your hips buckled hopelessly against nothing as the ache between your legs turned erratic—and it was all too much and not enough at all. Yet, he loved it; you could see it in the way he was watching you choke on him, and your eyes rolled back, as your thighs trembled with every gasping breath.
“That’s my Good girl—you like that, don’t you? Like to choke on me anyway that you can,” He spat, his grip somehow getting tighter, pulling and owning every reaction he could. And you felt it, felt the way your entire body was tightening up, his fingers down your throat getting you close. So fucking close already, just from the way he was man-handling you, just from the sick, gorgeous dominance of his eyes and hands at work, making his dirty words sound pretty and sweet as you melted for him, fucking dissolving–head hazy, mouth drooling, pussy gushing, as the sticky wet of your arousal grew tacky between your legs.
Then his mouth dropped to your ear, biting at your earlobe as he whispered, “Look at you… Falling apart, and I haven’t even started yet.” Then he pulled his fingers free, dragging them over your lips, smearing your spit over your cheeks, painting it there, leaving a reminder of what you were, what he did to you—with his hand still locked around your neck he shoved you up against the door with even more force, making you whimper out a helpless cry, your legs now completely jelly, as your cunt throbbed in eagerness.
That’s when you saw it—the hunger in his eyes, all the promises they held as he began to unbutton his jeans with his free hand. It was like a warning, but flashing like a threat, the smoke signal that you were about to be devoured. Whatever you thought you could handle, it would never be enough. Not when he had you out of your mind like this, when he made you this feral animal, acting out with your brutish behavior.
This was his fault, all of it, but you would be the one to pay, and that’s how you wanted it. You wanted him to fuck some sense back into your brain, to shove that big dick so deep inside you that you wouldn’t remember your name, or the day of the week, or where you were—only lost in that feeling of being filled to the fucking brim with the best cock you had ever had.
And fuck, he knew it. As his jeans flapped open, his grip tightened around your neck, and you choked on a hard breath as he pulled you away from the door. Through watery eyes, your hands flew to his wrist as he began to guide you. All he said was: “couch…” Then his hand dropped, and you held onto his wrist, trying to find your balance as air struggled to fill your lungs, and he pulled you with him, your legs wobbly, stumbling the short distance to the sofa.
“Take that dress off…” He commanded as he shoved his jeans down his thighs. He braced himself on the arm of the couch, those hungry eyes watching as your dress slipped over your head. He followed every trace, every curve of your body as you stood there in your underwear. But when you reached for the clasp of your bra, he blurted out—"No, did I say those could come off yet?”
You swallowed hard, heart racing, “No…Sir,” You croaked out, your throat feeling fragile and raw.
“You’ll take those off when I say. Now come here…”
Your body began to shake as you walked towards him. You weren’t scared, fuck no. It was the fucking anticipation, the need to have what you wanted all day. As you got closer, he took a seat on the couch, naked except for his boxers, but you could see the hard press of his dick, the fabric tenting—his need for you just as strong as your need for him.
“Stand right there—” He directed as he leaned forward to shove the coffee table with his foot hard, making you jump as it scraped across the wood floor.
You bit into your lower lip to keep from shaking, the sharpness of your teeth against your own flesh something to keep you present in the adrenaline rush of it all. The savage act brought out that sick twisted edge, that knowledge that you would do fucking anything for this man if it meant that he would end up inside of you. What was even sicker was how much you loved him getting to see you like this; getting to show him exactly how rabid he made you, how far gone you could be just from the look in his eyes, the low timber of his voice in your ear and the way his energy was taking up space—as if he owned the very air you breathed.
Because he did, didn’t he? There was no oxygen in the room unless he willed it. In fact, in that moment, you were convinced of it. Standing there in the tiny pool of sunlight in front of him, cheeks burning, whole body thumming, your thighs slick and trembling as every thought in your brain reduced to nothing else, but want and need.
You were practically salivating as you stood there, watching him lean back, lazy as a fucking king, hands braced on the cushions, that perfect cock fighting the fabric of his boxers, the outline thick and blunt, and fuck, the perfect monster between his legs. The look on his face was almost mean, like he wanted to make you wait, make you stand there and soak it in, but the truth was, it worked, because you couldn’t look away. Couldn’t even blink as he moved a slow hand to skim the waistband of his boxers, then pushed it down inch by inch, teasing you, acting as if maybe he might change his mind and make you keep waiting—but he wouldn’t, he knew how desperate you were, and that’s exactly why he did it so tormentingly slow.
And torture it was. Because by the time he finally shoved the tight boxer-briefs low enough for you to get a peek, the fucking waistband caught on his length, stifling the reveal, and for a second, you swore you thought you were going to combust from the build-up of it all. Then, there was that fucking moment—the moment that thick, flushed tip finally broke free, smearing the sticky bead of wetness up his lower belly, and god, the heaviness of his cock, the way it slapped against his thigh, made your clit quiver for it. Watching as he exhaled in that easy, cocky way, like he absolutely knew what he was doing to you, just reminded you that this was nothing for him; he could play this game all day.
That’s when his hand wrapped around himself, lazily moving, causing your brain to go dizzy just observing the movement. Every fiber of your being became transfixed just by the way his knuckles flexed, or the way the thick vein running through his hearty length throbbed with the beat of his pulse. Then he started to stroke himself, leisurely, easy with no intent to finish, but just enough to keep the tip glossy and leaking—enough to keep you waiting. When his shaft flexed in his grip, twisting at the end, you licked your lips—and you realized, there was no way to play it cool, none at all, not when your whole body was ready to drop to your knees and beg.
You shifted your weight, thighs pressing together, panties sticking to the sticky mess of your cunt, searching for any kind of relief from the sight before you—your eyes glued to every movement of his hand, each new shiny glisten of precum swiped away by the curve of his thumb over the head. That tight grip. The way his eyes didn’t stop dropping to the ache, only thinly veiled by your panties. It was laughable, the way you watched, the way you licked your lips, eyes so hungry for him you could have drooled if you weren’t careful.
But just as soon as his hand started, it stopped. It felt terminal, the jolt of panic that went through your body, and you straightened, ready to jump at his next order, ready to bark and whimper if he asked. But Harry said nothing, sending your mind reeling. As if you weren’t out of your fucking mind already. he just shimmiedthe rest of the way out of his boxers, then sat back, scooting down the couch and tucked his hands behind his head like this was some kind of leisurely afternoon charade. There was nothing to say, and when your eyes dropped to his pulsing dick, it jumped slightly, then fell hard and stiff, resting against his lower belly, his fern tattoos on either side pointing like arrows to your final destination.
“If you want it…take it, but I’m going to sit back and watch you do all the work, watch just how badly you needed this cock, darling—but first—” He paused, because it was just fucking like him to add dramatic effect, “ I want to watch you take off that fucking bra and those soaked panties I’m sure you’ve made a mess of.”
And god, the way he said it, you could have sworn it was the only thing you’d ever wanted in your miserable, pathetic, throbbing life—the command, the tension, this fucking performance for an audience of two. And as the flush crawled up your chest and prickled over your skin, you couldn’t look away. Not for a second. Not even as you reached around and undid the clasp, your hands moving with a new assured confidence, as the pop of tension in the band echoed in the silent room.
Delicately, you peeled it off, trying to make a show of it, trying to tease him. You let it drop to the floor, satin forgotten in the beam of sunlight that let him take in every newly revealed inch of your uncovered body. Your breasts spilled into the light, nipples hard as a rock, and you smiled. Teeth and cheeks radiant and on full display with a knowing smile, because you liked this: being wanted, being seen. Because you wanted to be watched and for him to want you just as much as you wanted him.
Harry didn’t meet your gaze, not at first. You watched him admiring your tits, pupils blown black, heart-shaped lips parted slightly. You could see the gears of his brain moving as if he was trying to work out just how long it would take to get them in his mouth. You rolled your shoulders back, arching your chest towards him, feeling the air chill rush over the hard, aching points of your nipples.
When his eyes finally met yours, there was that sharp little flash of humour that had momentarily been forgotten in his awe of your body. His want, that tiny smile that promised that you were about to pay for every teasing second, that you stood there taking your time. Because he was the one in control here, not you, and now you knew that there might be a consequence to be paid later.
Then your panties were coming off.
Fuck, soaked was an understatement, the way they were clinging like a second skin, wet and salacious, almost mocking if you hadn’t already decided that shame couldn’t exist in a space where you were going to get yours–his dick, the orgasm you weren’t leaving here without, only here to get exactly what you came for.
Harry sat sprawled there, hands behind his head, his cock a flushed, angry line across his lower belly. You hooked your thumbs in the sides and slid them down, slowly, drawing them past the curve of your hips, trying to pull that same sick conviction of want from Harry—knowing his eyes were glued to every inch, every second. You stepped out and left them crumpled with your bra, sending an innocent shrug his way, a little showy of course, a little attitude, the smile you both wore now the only equal power on this playing field.
But then, his eyes flashed with a greedy amusement, and you felt it jump through you, rising with a laugh that caught in your chest, because now you were both so fucking gone for this, for each other.
In a few steps, you closed the distance, bare and brazen, and crawled into his lap like it was your throne and he was the seat you owned. And he let you, didn’t even move, just spread his knees a little wider and watched your body move above him, your hands pressing into his knees behind you as you settled in close. Still, Harry kept his hand tucked behind his head, playing nice, fully ready for you to take over. In seconds, your pussy hovered over his cock, the head glossed with a bead of precum, and you let your knees sink into the couch cushion, framing him perfectly, like you had been made for this exact thing.
Teasing him, you took your time, and he waited, breath shallow, as if he wanted to touch and devour you, but this was on you. You were showing him.
You reached for his dick, fisting it tight, the way you knew he liked, and pressed the smooth head right up against your wet folds, letting it glide and catch on the slick mess of your pussy. Your grin widened at the way he groaned, a low guttural sound that filled your chest, the noise feeding that sick satisfaction that was filling your chest with the rising triumph—Harry sitting there composed, yet sounding as if it physically hurt to wait for you.
Then you were nudging him in, letting his thick head pop past your entrance, and fuck, the stretch was already everything. Absolutely everything you needed. Even if it was almost too much, you still pushed, thinking nothing could ever fulfill the pleasure that you were about to take from this man. Because you were about to take everything you could, and you both knew it.
As you continued down, you whimpered—a high, gasping sound that filled your chest like a sob, not even a word yet, just the noise of being split so fully, so early. And god, did it throb all the way into your gut, as you watched your tummy shake in the sunlight. You were watching his hard cock spread you open as you eased yourself lower and lower, somehow sinking onto him even though it felt like your body might snap in half from the fucking pressure.
Your eyes flicked to his lower belly, then up, taking in the labored rise and fall of his chest. When your gaze skimmed to his mouth, you swore you could see him flinch with pleasure, catching just a blink of it at the corner of his mouth as your eyes lifted, but he didn’t move. Didn’t dare move, not with the rules he had set in place, hands still laced behind his head like he was on vacation, elbows wide, muscles carving his silhouette into the couch. Once your eyes met, his green eyes wouldn’t leave yours, not for a single second, and you sensed it between your legs, the way his cock twitched and jerked as you slid down, greedy to get to the hilt.
He was so thick you almost lost your nerve—almost. But then you saw the way he was biting his tongue, fighting every instinct to touch you, to grab your hips, and something about that made you absolutely wild for him. Desperate to show him just how well you could take it, how easily you could fuck him so full and so fucking deep—so deep that you were willing to break yourself for the pleasure of it.
So you pressed down, all the way—not waiting for your body to adjust, not even pausing, just seating yourself flush to his lap with a noisy, helpless moan. Your thighs were trembling, knees weak already, your pussy so wet that the sound was already present, slick and messy, as your mind went blank, and you strained with everything you had to keep it together.
“Jesus fuck, darling…” Harry gasped out, nearly strangled, his head dropping back for a second, throat bobbing as he tried to keep it together. It shouldn’t have made you as proud as it did; shouldn’t have lit up your every nerve, but dammit, you never wanted his hands on you more than when he had them trained behind his head, surrendering to your body like this.
“Yeah, baby. That’s it. Fuck me. Just like that.” He bit, each word brittle and wrecked, like the sharp edge of glass cutting at his throat, and in that moment, it wasn’t even clear which of you was shaking harder, because you could barely breathe, could barely think, not with him filling you up, not with him letting you do whatever you wanted.
That’s when you started to move—a slow, controlled lift, then dropped yourself again, shivering at the angle, feeling desperate as your hands flew to his chest to brace yourself, to find stability with his hands on your hips, or maybe even just to feel the tension, the way his whole body was one lean line of want and breaking composure.
It was wretched, the way your bodies fit together; the way every stroke bottomed you out, as your clit caught on his body, only adding to that growing pressure that hit just right with each tiny bounce, sending electric shudders of pleasure that turned your spine to jelly. Frantic for more, you picked up the pace, trying to ride him as hard and as fast as you could before you came undone. Because already your body was clenching, already the coil inside of you was starting to tighten as you began to slide back down.
The pleasure was already so white-hot, so blinding, you couldn’t stop yourself even if you tried. It was like you were fused together, a single body moving for this exact purpose, your cunt already milking him for everything he had, clinging to the thick stretch with a desperation that bordered on hysteria. Because each movement was bringing you closer to unraveling, and fuck, it felt like he was splitting you open, not just your body but every hidden, messy, hungry part of you. Because there was nothing else —nothing could touch this. Not hunger or thirst or fear or pain had ever pulsed as deep as this need. Because you were fucking living in it—in the throb in your core and the way your knees buckled every time you bottomed out, as the entire world shrunk to the friction between your legs, to the smack of heat as flesh met flesh.
You were so close, so fucking close, and you didn’t even care how obvious it was, the way every breath was just a gasp for mercy, the way your hands scrabbled for purchase on his chest, your body shaking like it was fighting for survival. Part of you wanted to keep up the illusion, wanted to pretend you were in control, but the second you started to lose the rhythm, the second your legs began to give in, Harry’s discipline finally snapped.
And he grabbed you.
It was wild and nothing like you had expected. Maybe for a second, you thought he would force you still, make you wait, keep edging you for his own amusement—but it wasn’t like that at all. It was fast as he wrapped one arm around your lower back, banding you in so tight against his body that your breasts were flat to his chest. His other hand now clutching the back of your neck as if he couldn’t bear to let you move an inch away from him ever again. And then he was fucking up into you, hard, each thrust relentless, searing through you with a blunt force that broke through whatever restraint was left in either one of you.
You cried out, open and choking on it, like he was punching every breath from your lungs with each harsh thrust. There was nothing delicate or soft about it, and yet, somehow, that made it gentler, sweeter, necessary in a way you had never felt before. Because now it was all him, the power and the hurt and the need—his voice hissing your name as he drove into you, the heat of his mouth on your jaw, in your hair, hungry and messy and so fucking real. He was everywhere—the scratch of his chest hair on your nipples, the heat of his hands on your spine, the sweat, the burning ache of his cock pounding into you, as your entire world blurred to the movement, the sound, and the pleasure above it all.
“Fuck—that’s it, baby—that’s it,” He groaned, weaving the words into your flesh, and you were lost, unhinged, hips frantic as you bucked against him. Every muscle cinched in on itself, your body going rigid and wild as the world exploded right there–white light shattering behind your eyelids as you came harder than you had in a long time, a cry breaking in your throat, nails biting into his shoulders as you helplessly spasmed through it, your body owned and new at the same time.
Harry followed automatically, as if the only cue his body knew anymore was yours, like his entire nervous system was enslaved to your cunt, his hands, his mouth, his everything, helpless to do anything but chase and claim you, fill you up like only he could. It was almost comical—the way he buried his face into your neck, just barely failing at self-control, and you almost wanted to laugh, except you were too far gone for anything but the ragged, shuddering breaths caught between you both.
Because he came just as hard, you could feel it in every cell, the heavy pulse of his release, the heat, the way he latched on to you. His grip deep and iron-bound, as if it wasn’t enough to be inside you, he had to consume you completely and utterly. And that he was, because you were seeing stars, every thought going white and floaty, every sense blown clean, nothing left in the universe but the locked fuse of your bodies trembling in the aftershock.
For a second, neither of you could move. You could barely even think, not with your brain still spinning from the high—a weird sort of numbness washing over you, like you had been tumbled by a wave, your entire body emptied and filled at the same time. You could feel yourself squeezing him still, tiny earthquakes pulsing through you, and all you could do was collapse closer, forehead pressed to the sweaty hollow of his shoulder as the two of you stayed pressed together like twigs in a bonfire, still burning.
And Harry… god, Harry was gasping for breath, his chest slick and heaving under your hands, hair stuck to his forehead, his heart pounding so hard you could feel it thudding against the tip of your nipple. For a minute, you just let yourself be held, riding through the dizziness until tiny pricks of laughter started to bubble up, almost awkward, almost hysterical, and you clamped your hand over your face to keep from snorting in his ear.
But he caught the sound of course, and you watched that dumb little smile curve at the corner of his mouth, as he nuzzled at your cheek. Voice utterly shot, rasping, he said, “You’re out of your fucking mind, you know that?”
You tried to blink your vision back into focus, feeling boneless and only vaguely lucid, but it didn’t matter. “Blame biology, not me…” You forced, voice shredded, a little giggly, that whine still lingering at the edges.
Harry laughed, body shuddering through the last of his own aftershocks. “Absolute animal. Might need to put you down next time… put you on a leash, tame the feral little thing you become… surprised you didn’t just bite me…”
That’s when your teeth sank into his shoulder, just to prove the point, to placate his humor, and he yelped, twisting and grabbing at your hips fast, “Oi. See? Fucking rabid little thing you are… that actually hurt.” He muttered. Yet, he was still smiling, pushing tiny kisses everywhere his mouth could reach.
“You know, this feral behavior isn’t going to stop until you’ve tamed the wild…” You joked, pressing a kiss into the bite mark rising on his shoulder.
“Mmm…” He hummed, “What did you say earlier? Biologically, spiritually, sexually? Did I remember that right?”
You let out a breathy laugh into the crook of his shoulder, wrapping your arms around his neck, “Yeah… I mean, it’s a bit dramatic, but I meant it.”
“Well then, we have a lot of work to get done, don’t we?” He mused, slapping a hand over your ass, sparking a quick flash of pain, and you let out a giddy laugh, knowing he was set on keeping his word. “Let’s get you cleaned up, yeah? I’m gonna have to figure out the spiritual part, love. We have no time to waste.”
And with that, you were both moving, and you popped off his half-hard dick with the chilling sensation of regret as soon as the cool air flashed over your body. But you knew he would make it all better, because he always did, and as he lead you to the bathroom, arms wrapped around you from behind, you knew in that moment, it was just a matter of time before his dick would be pressed inside you again, working to curve every aspect of your feral nature, working to curve that feral behavior always ready to cause havoc.
A/N: Put off all my other writing as soon as these pics dropped. Couldn't help myself.
Word Count: 5.2k
Warning: SMUT fucking raw and dirty. No apologies.
You know, the thing about watching a sexy man stretch shirtless in nearly a hundred-degree heat for almost six consecutive hours is that it does something to your brain chemistry. Like, it permanently alters something deep—the fucking sight becomes irreversible in your mind, something you can never unsee. Like staring directly into an eclipse, except the eclipse has a butterfly tattoo and keeps bending over in short shorts that should be fucking forbidden just for the sake of everyone’s mental state around him.
The thing was, you had been totally professional about it, kept your cool, did as you were told… well mostly.
Like the professional you were, you were the one holding the clipboard to your chest like a shield. You had answered emails. You had coordinated craft services and kept the water station stocked, confirmed the car service for his team, and even double-checked the lighting setups with the photographer and done every single tedious task your job required of you—all while Harry Styles ran laps on a desert highway in nothing but five inches of printed fabric and a pair of Nikes.
The running magazine shoot had been booked for months. The standard editorial, you had been told. Fitness-focused; the typical lifestyle angle your team usually offers. What nobody had mentioned—what nobody had “warned” you about—was the creative direction. Which was, apparently, make him look like a fantasy you would have at mile seven of an overheated treadmill run when your brain starts doing weird things from all the oxygen deprivation.
He had been good-natured about all of it. Grinning through the shoe changes, cracking jokes between setups, doing that thing where he would stretch his arms over his head between takes, where every tendon in his torso would shift under the ink, and you would have to physically look at the horizon line and think about anything else but the “v” running into his waistband, anything else but the fucking bulge that filled the front of his shorts.
Over the course of the day, you had maybe exchanged fifteen words with him directly, nothing major, just the “Hi, nice to meet you.” “Water?” “Sunscreen’s on the table.” “Your team’s in the trailer whenever you need them.” Keeping every interaction clipped and efficient because you were a professional, and also because every time he looked at you, you forgot how your mouth was supposed to work.
But here’s the truth and what nobody wants to fucking tell you about a twelve-hour shoot in the desert: When it finally ends. Everyone packs up. The crew disconnects cables and collapses the reflectors—all the while the photographer is shaking hands with their client, saying goodbye, and jets off to their rental because the job is done. Then someone has to do the final check-in. Someone has to knock on the talent’s trailer, confirm the schedule’s wrapped, and ask if they need anything else.
And that someone was you.
Outside his trailer, you knocked twice, listening as the sound echoed. His manager, Jeff, opens the door, already mid-sentence to someone on the phone, and waves you in without breaking stride. The trailer was small and bright, the AC cranked to accommodate the glistening sweat streaking the body of the client. Harry was sitting on the low bench against the wall, still in those ridiculous shorts, a towel draped over his shoulders, his hair damp and pushed back. He was holding one of those yellow Nikes, untied in his lap, and was pulling at the laces absently when you walked in.
“Hey,” he said, glancing up, completely casual, like he hadn’t been posing half-naked in the glow of the golden hour light for the better part of the early evening while you slowly lost your grip on reality.
“Hey. Just doing the final rounds.” You told him, trying to keep your voice steady, eyes on the clipboard. “The crew’s wrapping up, and the cars are confirmed for seven. Is there anything you or your team might need before we close out?”
That’s when you felt the vibration of the hollow ground, Jeff pacing toward the door, phone still pressed to his ear, mouthing “I’ll be right back” to no one in particular. You stepped aside, making room for him to get by, taking a few steps closer toward Harry. Harry’s stylist was already zipping a garment bag, and the hair guy—whose name you had forgotten three times today—was packing his kit into a rolling case.
“I think we’re good,” Harry said, watching his team filter toward the door in a choreographed exit, you guessed they were used to. “Jeff’s sorting out the details on our end… looks like everyone’s heading out.” He answered, eyeing his crew.
“Thanks, guys. See you tomorrow. Great day out there,” He added.
That’s when the stylist squeezed past you with a “great working with you” smile playing at his lips as the hair guy followed, pushing you closer to Harry. Jeff was waiting at the door, opening it as he ducked out with a “back in ten, H,” hand covering the mouth of the phone, but you could tell by the look on his face that it was clearly going to be longer than ten. The door clicked shut behind them, and all at once the trailer went silent in a pressurized way, enveloping you in the type of silence that filled your ears with the beating of your own heartbeat, leaving you both in only the hum of the AC unit and the soft chatter of whatever was cooling down outside with the crew.
And then it was just you. And him. And the lingering visual torture of watching him run in slow motion as the photographer yelled, “Yes, exactly that, don’t stop,” while youinternalized every word, wishing it was you shouting that same line back at Harry while he was inside you.
Harry leaned back against the wall and looked at you for a long moment, maybe for the first time all day, really taking you in. This wasn’t a glance. Not the polite, mid-shoot half-smile you had gotten during the water breaks. This was a real, full, and unhurried look. His eyes moved over your face like he was doing his own version of what you had been doing behind the safety of a clipboard all afternoon, and you swallowed hard, afraid to move a muscle.
“It’s been a long day, yeah? Everyone was very professional, considering I’ve had to be in these short shorts all day,” he joked with a laugh, but you were too caught up in the way he said ‘professional’, the way it drifted with his British drawl, making your stomach flip.
“Yeah, you’d be surprised what we see, but it’s literally my job, no big deal.”
“Mhm.” He hummed, dropping the shoe to the floor, and it thudded softly, making your heart race. “So professional that you barely looked at me.” He mused, sending you a smirk.
You pushed a laugh through your nose, the sound breathy as you shifted your gaze to your feet, feeling shy suddenly, “Trust me…I looked at you plenty. Everyone was looking at you. That was the point of the shoot.” You finished looking back up.
“But not like that though…” he said, his voice dipping lower. “It just kind of felt like you kept looking at me like you were trying not to, or something.”
Out of nowhere, the AC made a loud gasping sound, as if it were struggling to keep up with the heat, causing you to jump. But you didn’t say anything because he was right, and you both knew it. That’s when you realized how small the trailer was and how very close you were, Harry still not wearing a shirt, even though the clothes he was going to change into were sitting right next to him.
“I was being professional,” you said again, forcing the words past your dry throat.
“Yeah.” He sat forward, elbows on his knees, and you watched as the towel slipped off one shoulder, yet his eyes never left yours. “And now the shoot’s over…” He told you with a smile, dimples dipping, sucking you in even further.
That’s when you made your choice, reading the room, and you set the clipboard down on the counter—the feeling almost ceremonial, like putting down a weapon, ready to surrender.
“It is.” You whispered, trying not to lose your fucking mind.
“And everyone’s gone.” He added.
“Well, everyone in here is gone.” You agreed, your pussy clenching on nothing, clit pulsing.
He smiled again, noticing the shift in your posture, probably, “So what did you actually want when you were avoiding my gaze all day?”
Fuck, you were about to lie when the honest answer was obviously him. Immediately. On every fucking surface of this trailer. You knew in your mind that the professional answer should have been “nothing, goodnight, see you never…” But that wasn’t what came out of your mouth:
“One thing,” You answered, confident this time, returning the smile. His eyebrows lifted then, interest piquing his curiosity.
Impatient, you didn’t wait for his response, and you crossed the few feet between, closing the distance. His hands flew to your hips before you had fully stopped moving, pulling you down into his lap in one fluid motion, his hand instant like maybe he had been thinking about this since the moment you walked through that trailer door. Your knees hit the bench on either side of him as his fingers dug into the fabric at your waist, and fuck, it was all a rush, his mouth so close, tilted up, his bottom lip parted slightly—
“Been thinking about this since like—hour two,” he pushed against the corner of your mouth, lips hovering. His breath was warm as you breathed in the smell of sunscreen and the dry heat of his clean sweat.
“Minute one for me,” you confessed with a laugh, and then he kissed you, all patience going out the fucking window.
His hand came up to the back of your neck, and he pulled you in with his whole grip, his mouth hot and open, burning with the peppermint gum he had been chewing between setups. You made a sound against his teeth, a sound that slipped with no shame, no fear, and he swallowed it as his other hand slid under the back of your shirt, palm flat and dry against your spine, slowly moving up the damp skin of your back.
He was getting hard beneath you—dick already beginning to press through those tiny shorts; hiding absolutely nothing, no sense of ambiguity left, just the hard bulge of his shorts and your mouths moving. Curious, you shifted your hips, moving just enough to test the waters. His breath caught, fingers tightening on your neck, and he pulled you down hard, lifting his hips just enough to make contact with the heated apex of your thighs.
“That—Fuck—” He breathed into your mouth. “Do that again.”
So you did it again. Slowly rolling your hips forward, dragging across the length pressing through the thin fabric, and he dropped his head back against the wall, exposing the sweaty crook of his throat, all that tan skin and the edges of ink, and you kissed it—mouth opened and messy. His pulse was hammering under your lips, and you jutted out your tongue, greedy for him, and licked a strip just to taste the salt slowly drying there, needy to hear him gasp.
“We should—” He swallowed. “Fuck—the door. Is it locked?”
That’s when you stood, Harry rising with you, hands never leaving your waist as he followed. Then you flipped the latch, the clicking loud in the quiet, and when you turned to face him, his eyes went dark.
“So efficient, love,” He smiled.
“It’s literally my job.” You shot back.
He grinned, then he flipped you, moving one arm around your waist, pivoting so your back hit the bench as he moved over you—and god, up close like this, the scale of him was insane. Shoulders blocking out the overhead light, arms braced on either side of your head, tattoos everywhere, as the chain around his neck swung forward and brushed over your cheek.
“Tell me what you want,” he forced, kissing down your jaw, your neck, to the collar of your shirt, his hand sliding up your thigh. “Be specific, love. I want you to be sure.”
“I don’t think you need directions.” You giggled when his breath hit your neck, and you lifted your hips, trying to meet his body.
You listened as he clicked his tongue, “No…” He answered, thumbs hooking into the waistband of your leggings. “I need to hear you say it.”
Deprived of his mouth, you pulled him down by the chain, pulling with a delicate hand, not wanting to break it. He came easily, grinning against your mouth, and you bit his lower lip, feeling his whole body react; feeling the shudder that ran through his torso as his hips pressed into yours involuntarily, and fuck, you could feel all of him now, his cock thick and insistent through those stupid little shorts.
“I want you,” you finally said, right against his ear, “to stop being polite...”
He didn’t need to be told twice. In one desperate, frantic motion, he shoved his hands into your waistband and peeled your leggings down, taking your underwear with them so fast it burned a friction stripe high up on your thigh. You yelped, the tug burning across your skin as you moved with him in shock, the pain a delicious sting blooming behind your eyes, turning you into something wild. Harry moved his mouth to yours, sealing any other sound behind your lips as he began to kiss you, his hands coasting over your ass, spreading you open, fingers cold and rough.
“Jesus—fuck” he breathed to himself, as you squirmed under his touch, your nerves caught between laughter and hunger. You curled your knees on either side of his hips and lifted your pelvis. With the motion, his hard-on shifted into you, pressing flush through a single layer of that ridiculous runner’s nylon, teasing you. Trying to brace your elbow on the bench to sort your breathing, you thought you had a moment. But before you could regain your equilibrium, he hooked a hand under your knee and bent it even higher, cranking your body open so wide it was almost fucking embarrassing—like you were a plaything under his touch, Harry completely in control.
For a second, you thought He could have just yanked his shorts down, but he didn’t. Instead, he teased you even further, making a show of it. His hand reached between your bodies, palming his length through the shorts, like he wanted you to see, just for a second, though, like he needed to tame the calm that you had ruined when you turned him into an animal. But that didn’t last long, and before you knew it, he was ripping down the front of his shorts, the band snapping off the head of his cock as his thick length thudded against your pussy.
You didn’t realize how huge he was until it was there, flush against you, the skin so silky and perfect it made you bite your lip. “Is that for me?” you said, or tried to, but your brain was stuck on a loading screen, the heat flashing red behind your eyes.
He grinned down at you and kissed your cheek, then your mouth. “You sure?” he whispered, voice rough.
And even though you nodded, he stressed the question again, “No, say it.”
“Yes—” you gasped, the sound desperate between you, like you had been holding your breath since the sun came up.
As you sucked in a breath, he lined himself up and pressed in. It wasn’t gentle, just a slick, hot punch of pressure that made every thought you had ever had dissolve into a saturated form of pain and pleasure. Your nails raked his back, marks scoring along his shoulder blades as he split into you, thick and slow, filling you so tight that your vision splintered as he kissed the side of your face, lips brushing your eyelashes. As if a kiss could make it all better, but your only reaction was to moan out, your pussy clamping around haulting him from pushing any faster.
“You have to keep quiet,” he whispered, letting out a strangled laugh.
Here you were pinned to the trailer’s bench as the outside world went on. It was a crazy concept, the act of staying quiet; you could hear the crunch of boots and a distant clang of metal, the shouts of the crew packing up. But inside the trailer, it was just your ragged breathing and the trim percussion of the AC, as the sound of him fucking into you played out with every steady, deep stroke he pushed, your walls finally loosening enough to let him in.
Harry’s hands clasped around your hips, fingers digging in to keep you from shifting the whole bench every time he bottomed out. He pulled you flush against him, your thighs probably bruising as the tips of his fingers left evidence for later when this was all said and done. His cock was deep now, so deep you could feel it prodding behind your navel, making you clench around him, and he groaned, low and helpless as you sank your teeth into his shoulder to keep from screaming.
Sucking in a hard breath as the pleasure hit, you inhaled him—every inch of sweat and musk, and whatever was left of the desert’s sunlight burning off his skin—the raw sourness of salt caught in his collarbone. The smell of him wiped your fucking thoughts away, like he was rewriting your brain at creature level, past logic, past the veneer of dry professionalism. Your legs trembled around his hips, each breath an almost-whimper you tried to choke back as he rolled in deep, pulling out slow so your slick would catch him and then slamming home so it knocked another moan out of you.
Every time he pressed in, your pussy grew wetter, the wetness audible and filthy, your slick coating his cock and everything under your ass, soaking into the cheap pleather of the bench so the next thrust was a slide, a messy wet slide—the slap of skin on skin growing sharp enough to drown out the noise of the crew outside. If they walked by, if they even paused for a second outside the thin metal shell of the trailer, they would know, instantly, because there was nothing left to the imagination.
It made you hunger for more, that risk, that possibility of exposure. The pressure of him inside you forced a low, ugly ahh out of your mouth, and you made the mistake of glancing up at his face—he was watching your reaction with a bottomless satisfaction, tongue darting out to lick the sweat off his top lip. “Fuck—that pussys getting so wet for me, love,” he huffed, one hand kneading the meat of your thigh, keeping you splayed for him.
His words had you shuddering; every single word from his mouth landed somewhere between a promise and a demand that you knew he was going to keep. He leaned forward, pressing his chest to yours, and you felt a fresh spill of sweat off his shoulder and into the hollow of your throat. You wanted to taste it everywhere, to leave your mouthprint on every stretch of skin.
That’s when his hips snapped harder, like now he wanted to see if it would break you. The friction of your clit against his pelvis was lightning, shrill little bursts that made your sight flash white at the edges. Without even knowing when it happened, you had started to babble, short high gasps and a string of “oh fuck, oh fuck, yes, yes, don’t stop, please—” until Harry’s hand clamped over your mouth. Hard. Not playful, not careful—just his wide palm, fingers spanning across your cheek, nearly covering your whole jaw as he stifled the sound of your shameful surrender.
“Got to be quiet now. You’re so fucking loud it’s going to get us caught,” he hissed against your ear. The hand over your mouth muffled any words you had left, so he used the leverage to angle your head back, exposing your throat so he could bite his way down, marking you with no intention of hiding it later. You bucked into him, and he laughed, the sound low in his throat as he fucked you deeper, grinding his cock in small circles to force every last inch into you.
It was so much at once, like you could feel him everywhere. Feel the force of each hit, the slap of his balls, the stretch of him knocking you even further open every time he bottomed out. You felt the carved edges of his hips grinding into you, the rip of his abs tight and flexed, your own core clenched and spasming around him until every muscle in your body was electric, a bright, stinging stroke of sensation that didn’t let up or let you breathe, it just kept building, and building—
And there was something else—a hard rapping—three sharp knocks on the door, the kind that said the moment was over as every cell in your body tensed, the sound snapping through the inside of the trailer, and you froze, eyes wide, limbs locked, his cock still pressed so far inside your pussy it felt like there was no way you could hide it, not if you tried.
Harry’s hand stayed pressed against your mouth, his body going rigid, his knuckles white-hot, grip tight around your jaw. He didn’t slow, didn’t even pretend to stop, just nudged his face into your neck, lips right at your earlobe.
“Don’t move,” he hissed under his breath. His hips stilled, but the grip on your body was absolute, holding you planted to the spot, your cunt still spasming around him as you tried to recover your mind enough so that you weren’t a shrieking mess.
Another knock, this time softer, like the knocker was trying to be polite but also kind of annoyed. “H?” came the unmistakably familiar voice muffling through the thin metal: it was Jeff, his fucking manager, sounding exasperated and defeated already. “You decent?”
You made a squeak under his palm, humiliation boiling over every inch of your skin, but Harry did not miss a fucking step. Instead of pulling out, he bucked his hips slowly and carefully, just enough to keep you throbbing, to keep you full and desperate. That’s when his eyes met yours, and he smiled, his grin wicked.
“We’re here,” he called, so calm it could have killed you. Like he was just lounging, scrolling his phone, not impaling you to a sticky pleather bench with every inch of his famous, gorgeous cock. “Jeff. Give us a second.”
“We’re?” Jeff echoed, clearly clocking the “we,” but Harry just kept his body locked around yours, daring you to even twitch.
“I’m with…” he trailed off, clearly thinking. “One of the crew. Don’t come in, just wait.” His hand stroked your cheek in a parody of comfort, his thumb tracing your jaw while his cock pulsed relentlessly inside you, refusing to give you back your dignity or composure.
Jeff sighed, and you heard footsteps shuffle away, but not far, just a few paces from the door, and the moment he was gone, Harry let out a soft, hot laugh.
“Didn’t stop, did I?” he teased. His hand shifted, tracing down to your throat, his fingers loose but possessive, as if he could press in and feel himself through you. “Knew you liked the risk. Could feel it—fuck—you were close, weren’t you?”
You exhaled a hard breath through your nose, nodding your head, already teetering toward that edge again, because holy fuck, this man was sick and twisted, but you needed this, needed to finish what you both had started. You sputtered out a laugh under his palm, feeling your own pulse in your fingertips as you reached up and grabbed him by the nape, fingernails digging just enough to make him twitch.
When his hand fell away, you told him, “Keep going,” or tried to—but your voice was a raw whisper, and he heard you. His lips crashed into yours, everything rough and messy as his hips restarted their rhythm with a slow grind that ramped so quickly you couldn’t keep up. Every pressure point in your body was lit, every drag of his dick a reminder that this was actually happening, a fantasy so intoxicating you hardly registered the pain, just the need.
“Don’t hold back,” he said, voice choked. “Come with me. Want you to—fuck—want you to let go.” Then he ground into you, each thrust more urgent, his hand snaking between your bodies to rub your clit as the slick sound filled the space, his fingers drawing tight, ruthless circles, driving you crazy.
You tried to lock it down, tried to stay quiet, knowing any noise now would be fully hearable for whoever was left outside this box, but when the orgasm hit, the noise ripped out of your lungs, a strobing white noise behind your eyes that blurred the world. The muscles of your pussy clamped down hard, fluttering so tight you felt him lose all composure, his body jolting as he shot inside you, every spasm pushing you further into the bench. You felt the second it hit him, the way his whole body arched, his breath falling apart, his voice just a hot, desperate groan as he emptied himself into you, fucking you so deep you almost made him stop just to slow the overwhelming rush sweeping your body.
Between your thighs, a slow warmth spread, leaking as he squirmed and pumped the last of his load into you, leaving you limp, yet completely alive, and you let your head fall back as a hysterical laugh bounced from your chest. But he didn’t stop you, just kept kissing your face, the side of your jaw, and down to the curve of your shoulder.
The trailer went silent again, the only sound both of you gasping and the whooshing of the AC, together in an unreality so intense it felt like an afterimage burned onto your retina. Sweat cooled in the cruxes of your skin; you could feel the sticky collapse of your bodies, his cock softening inside you as your heart hammered.
“Damn,” you forced, not knowing what else was left to say.
Harry leaned back just enough to look at you, the wildness gone from his face, replaced by a tender, dopey smile and the kind of open affection that would make you laugh if you weren’t lying there ruined.
“You good?” he asked, brushing your hair from your forehead with a thumb.
You nodded and laughed, your hands still shaking as you touched his arm, tracing a lazy pattern over the inked-sweat skin of his biceps. “Better now,” you said, “but I think you broke the bench.”
He rasped out a laugh, glancing down at the battered vinyl. “They had it coming.” Then he pressed his forehead to yours and stayed there a long minute, like he couldn’t remember how to move or maybe didn’t want to.
“I think I just nearly lost my mind when Jeff knocked at the door.” You told him, coming up to your elbows.
“Same, I think we both did…” he answered, testing his range of motion with two gentle hitches of his hips, making you wince and then giggle again. “Just means you’ll remember me next time you sit on this broken bench.”
“Like I’ll ever forget this,” you said, closing your eyes and letting the aftershocks fan out over your skin like the mirage of heat still radiating off the desert outside. You could already feel the soreness. The way you would have to clench your thighs at the memory, days from now, weeks from now, every time you caught a whiff of sunscreen, or the phantom echo of his sweat on your palms.
Although you should have rushed, Harry waited a minute, breathing in the same hush with you, then pulled out slow, careful, like he wanted to make sure you could take every last pulse. He fumbled with his shorts, wiping the mess from your thighs with what must have been the red t-shirt slung across the table, and you watched in a weirdly tender awe as he tried to clean you up with more care than you would have expected, considering the fact that this was only just a quick fuck, that nothing would come from it.
You were only half-situated, pulling your leggings up over sticky skin when there was a third, softer knock at the trailer door. This time, Jeff’s voice was all business, barely keeping a lid on his impatience. “We need you in ten, Harry. Car’s here. I’m ready to go.”
The ache between your legs had already sunk into your bones, your body broken open and loose, and you used what was left of your balance to push off the bench as Harry righted his shorts and ran a hand through his hair. For a second, there was an odd anti-climax, like neither of you really knew what to do with yourselves now that the animalistic urge was gone. Maybe, you thought, it was supposed to be awkward. Maybe that was okay.
Then he shrugged your lanyard back over your neck, picked the clipboard up for you, and held it out like a peace offering of some sort, and you blinked, taking it, and for the first time since you clocked in, you realized you had put your own name tag on upside down.
“You need a ride to town?” he asked, like that was something people did, like you had just finished any regular debrief, like your body wasn’t still occupied by the ghost of what he had just done to it.
The crazy thing was, you shook your head no, your mouth dry, and there was a realization that struck you both, reality finally setting in. “I have to stay until the last person is gone,” you told him, “But thank you, and thank you for…
He laughed, shaking his head, “Don’t finish that sentence… I get it…” He answered, pulling a clean shirt over his head.
“We’re both professionals, yeah?” He added.
“Yeah…” you replied, feeling yourself getting drawn back in, “Professionals.”
Then he reached for your hand and brought it to your mouth, “Maybe I’ll see you around…”
Feeling shy at the gesture, you bit your lip, “Maybe the next time you see me, I’ll be the one behind the camera.”
He raised a brow at that, lowering your hand as he held it tight, “Well then, I guess until next time…hoping that’s one day soon.” He breathed, leaning in to kiss your cheek.
“Yeah…Until next time…” You repeated. When he finally let go of your hand, he walked to the door. You watched him unlock it, then take his first step out, peeking over his shoulder one last time before he was out and shutting the door behind him.
And as you stood there, mind reeling over everything that just happened, you realized you were going to make that dream come true no matter what it took, and here was your motivation. Because maybe all you needed was a quick fuck in a trailer to relight that fire within, and as you looked down at your upside-down name tag, you laughed, thinking, “Holy shit… I just fucked Harry Styles.”
Summary: “Harry, the quiet guy in the office, has silently admired you during your time working for the firm. Now that your work there is done, Harry finds that he can’t let you go just yet…”
A/N: SUP Y’ALL!!!! God I have just been waiting to be able to write again! I still have some exams coming up next week, but I spent all evening writing this one shot because I have been dying to get back into it😋 This is my first time writing a more subrry tinted fic, so I hope you enjoy it!
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if you want to support me more than liking or sharing, you can consider buying me a coffee!
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Harry has never been one to talk much.
It is one of the reasons why he chose the career of software developing. Most of it, he could do on his own.
It wasn't so much that Harry hated people, he just preferred his own company. More people tend to complicate things, and Harry is a more logical guy.
That was until he met you.
About three months ago, the company for which Harry worked had started their expansion, and he was to lead the people transferred to that section of the firm. With the expansion also came new employees, and that’s where you came in.
You had been temporarily hired by the company to weed out applicants, and assist the current HR manager to help with the job interviews.
Harry still remembers that first day when you walked into the office, all nervous and fidgety. He had spotted you through the glass walls of his office, and couldn't physically tear his eyes off of you.
It wasn't until your third day helping in the office, that you actually met Harry. You had no idea what to think of him. Well, besides the obvious, of course. He was ridiculously handsome, and from the way he was staring at you, you figured that maybe he was thinking something like that about you too.
But he didn't talk.
Your first time meeting consisted of nothing but a gruff 'nice to meet you' from Harry's side, and no input in the rest of the conversation whatsoever. It was only a couple days later, when you asked the HR manager about it, that you found out that's just how he was, that he didn't really talk to anyone. From that moment on, there had been a surge of motivation to let him make you the one exception.
Harry was just fascinated by you, and he had no idea why. You were a ball of energy, talking so fast you'd think someone had clicked on your 'sped up' button, and you were chaotic, all over the place. The amount of times he watched you bump into people was impossible to keep count of.
Then, one day, you bumped into him. It should have angered him, the spilt coffee on his pants. But he had an extra suit, and you looked so worried, he didn't want to make you feel worse. You still felt bad, though, so you decided to make it up to him, and started getting him coffee every morning.
By the end of the first week, he looked you in the eyes when he thanked you. By the end of the fourth, he'd ask you how you are and recall things you'd told him. By the end of sixth, he told you things about his life, and by the end of the tenth week, you were having longer conversations with him.
It was difficult to keep up the small talk with him in the beginning. You soon found out that his lone wolf attitude may had something to do with his awkwardness. You thought, perhaps people weren't willing to work through that, and eventually he just stopped trying.
Such a prospect made you sad, and it only motivated you more to get to know him better. Of course, the longing glances, and standing unnecessarily close to each other with his knuckles barely touching your arm, those things helped too.
There was an undeniable tension between the two of you that you found incredibly difficult to decipher. The way he'd let you catch him looking at you gave it away quite clearly, but the lack of any real initiative confused you.
Had you read it all wrong? Did he even think there was something there too?
Unfortunately, there was no way to find out, as your assignment at the company was coming to an end. Today had been your last day, and tonight is a launch party to officially celebrate the expansion of the company.
You were a little sad to leave the company, especially since you really liked the people working there. It is why you are most excited for tonight.
Wearing a long yellow dress—it is your favorite color—you stride into the building. You are mesmerized by all the balloons and how pretty everyone looks. Wearing expensive suits or classy dresses. You immediately realize you might be a bit too happily dressed; everyone is wearing darker colors.
It does make it easy for everyone to spot you, though. By the time you've gotten your drink, five people have already walked up to you. About half an hour into the party, the CEO of the company takes the stage to give a small speech.
"I would like to thank everyone who has participated in making this expansion go as smoothly as it did. Your work does not go unnoticed." He says through the microphone. Everyone claps for a few seconds, and the man waits to go on until it is quiet again.
"Now, I have a special announcement to make. I have wanted to make this expansion happen since I began working for this company in 1988. Now that I finally have, I feel that my job at this firm is done. And so, I have decided to retire from my position as CEO."
Your eyes widen at the speech; you had no idea this was even a thing. By the sound of the gasps and murmurs traveling through the room, you deduce that the news is unexpected for the rest of the company as well.
"It is also with great pride that I present the new CEO of our company, chosen after careful consideration. If mr. Harry Styles could please join me on stage."
Your mouth falls open at the mention of Harry's name, and you are certain you will never be able to close it again when you see him walking onto the stage. He wears a black suit, perfectly tailored to his body, and the sight of him has you concerned that you may be drooling.
The bald man hands the microphone to Harry, who does not look very pleased to be on stage; it almost seems like he is regretting his decisions. Until his eyes meet yours, that is when you see him let out a breath.
"Thank you, Mr. Johnson." He says, breaking eye contact to look at his former boss.
Right, that was his name, Johnson.
"I look forward to leading this company into more successes, and I promise that I will put my heart and soul into it. I have worked at this firm ever since I graduated college and they offered me a job during my internship, and it is safe to say that I have not regretted that decision a day of my life. I have always been loyal to this company, and I will remain loyal to you. Thank you."
You are perplexed. Why did he never tell you about this? You are very happy for him, but you do find it weird. It also makes you doubt again. Did whatever you had been building up the last months not mean as much to Harry as it did to you?
Well, it doesn't really matter, you're gone after tonight anyway.
Once the shock of the news has calmed down a bit, the party resumes as normal. Most people visit Harry one by one to congratulate him on the position, but you steer clear from him. It is no use, after tonight you will probably never see him again anyway.
Time passes, and you think you're ready to go home. There was a file in the office you forgot to sign earlier today, so you head up to do that first. The office is entirely dark when you walk out of the elevator. It's kind of eerie, so you are quick to turn on the lights.
It takes you a few minutes to find the file, since the receptionist placed it on someone else's desk. You find it on your colleague's desk, and walk over to the receptionist desk to sign it. Laying it on the keyboard of her computer, you pray that she won't displace it again, and make your way back to the elevators.
A loud shriek escapes you when Harry suddenly walks around the corner. He covers his ears at the high pitched sound, shocked by how much he scared you. With your hand on your chest you try and steady your breathing.
"Jesus, you scared the crap out of me."
"Sorry, didn't mean to." He says, a bit of worry in his tone. You look up at him.
"What are you even doing up here?"
"I was looking for you." He shrugs.
"Why?" Your eyebrows furrow, that same old tension in your stomach settling like it does every time Harry looks at you for longer than two seconds.
"You've been avoiding me." He answers casually, and you feel your heart drop. You didn't think he'd catch onto it.
"Congratulations by the way, for being the CEO. That was definitely a surprise." There is a bitterness in your tone. It is Harry's turn to frown. He hears the condescension, but his mind can't seem to come to a conclusion. Why are you angry? It's so hard to tell.
This is why he doesn't do people.
"You're mad that I am CEO?" He guesses, and your mouth falls open, much like it did when Harry's new position got announced.
"What?! Of course not! I'm very happy for you." You sputter out. The last thing you'd want him to think is that you don't want him to be happy or satisfied or successful.
"But you're still avoiding me." He repeats slowly. "You know, I didn't tell you about it because no one was supposed to know. I had to sign for it and everything. It's nothing personal."
The painful grip that his potential distrust in you had on your heart releases at the sound of his words. You could have known that it was due to something like that, you work in HR after all. That fact alone makes you realize how invested you unknowingly had become in Harry.
"I...I figured." You give him a weak smile. Harry's eyes search for yours, holding onto your gaze once he has found it. You stay like that, staring at each other for a while until you break the silence.
"I'm heading home. I don't think I'll see you again, so good luck. I'm sure you'll do wonderfully."
With much difficulty, you manage to look away from Harry and walk past him. At least, you try to, because halfway through, Harry's hand grabs your arm. You stop in your tracks, looking back at the man who stopped you. The man who has been sending you mixed signals for the past few months.
"D– do you want to join me in my office?"
You refrain from the shiver that threatens to run down your entire body, and nod. Harry's hand slides down your arm to your hand, and he intertwines his fingers with yours before he leads you to the glass doors that belong to him. On your way there, he flicks off the lights, leaving the two of you in the dark.
The city lights light up the otherwise pitch dark office that belongs to Harry, for now. He will be moved to the CEO's office when he starts his new position.
You don't say anything as Harry closes the door, or as he walks to the closet and pulls out a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. You wait in anticipation of what he's going to do.
But then he sits down. He just sits down on his chair.
You stand there, staring at him, utterly confused about this man and his intentions with you, while he obliviously pours the whiskey into the glasses. In that moment, there is a switch inside of you, one that says: fuck it. This is your last day, you need a way to release this pent up tension, and you probably won't see him ever again after this. What have you got to lose? Nothing.
You walk over to the desk and sit down on it, extremely close to Harry. The split of your dress shows your bare, freshly shaved leg, and he seems to notice. His eyes pull to your legs like magnets, and he has to force himself to look you in the eyes as he hands you the glass of whiskey.
You try your best not to smirk at the effectiveness of your plan, focusing on your next move instead. Straight for the kill.
"So, why am I here, Harry?" You ask nonchalantly, taking a sip of your whiskey. It tastes quite strong, and it takes you a lot of effort not to have an expressive reaction to it.
"What?" He asks, eyes wide like a deer in headlights.
"Why'd you take me here?" You ask again, setting down your glass at the table before moving to stand in front of him. "To admire the view?"
Harry looks out the window, but his head shoots back to you when he notices you're sinking onto your knees in front of him. He thinks he may have forgotten to breathe as he observes the lustful look in your eyes. His eyes travel down to your tits, even more visible from this angle.
"Because I've admired it every day for the past three months." You continue. Harry swallows, frozen by the overload of his brain and the sensitivity of the growing constraint in these pants. "Why don't you take your pants off for me? Just enough to give me your cock. I like you in this suit."
Harry doesn't let another second fly by before he is unbuckling his pants, sliding it down just enough for you to have access to his cock and his balls. Your mouth waters at the size and girth of it, your cunt getting wetter with every passing moment.
You shimmy forward, leaning over his cock and grabbing it with your hand. Harry sighs at the minimal contact, making you feel even more powerful. Looking up at him through your lashes, you ask him one more question.
"You'll hold my hair, won't you?"
With that, you take Harry in your mouth as far as you can, before pulling away from him. A gasp leaves his mouth, and his eyes fall shut as you pump him with your hand while your mouth kisses and sucks on the head of his cock. You begin licking and kissing down his cock, while your hand softly feels up his balls.
Harry feels like he is in heaven already, and he forgets everything around him. It is only when you completely remove yourself from him that he opens his eyes again, and he sees. Catching on quickly, he leans forward and gathers your hair, twisting it around his palm.
Satisfied with Harry's obedience, your mouth attaches itself to his cock again. You take him slowly, teasingly, and move your head up and down. With every movement, you take him an inch deeper.
"Oh, f–fuck!" He groans out when you gag on him because you took yourself too far too fast. You steady your breathing, which is a bit more complicated as you can only breathe out your nose. You resume sucking him off for a bit longer, bobbing your head down a bit faster. The small sounds that leaves Harry's lips, along with his scrunched up face, gives you enough indication that he is approaching his climax.
So you remove your mouth from his cock.
He lets out a whine at the loss of contact. If your panties weren't wet before, they certainly are now. You smile at the state of him; desperate and needy for you. The fact that you've managed to make him fall apart like this makes you incredibly horny.
"I want to take all of you in my mouth, daddy." You tell him, looking up at him with your big eyes. "You'll have to help me."
You went out on a bit of a limb when you decided to call him daddy, but he doesn't seem to mind at all. In fact, Harry's eyes light up and his jaw slacks at the mention of the pet name.
"Shit– anything, sweetheart. Whatever you need." He croaks out.
"I need you to fuck my mouth." You respond sternly, not wasting any time and taking him between your lips again. You push yourself down his cock as far as you can, breathing deeply before moving your hand to Harry's hand, which is holding onto your hair, and pushing your head forward to indicate that he needs to push his cock down your throat.
Again, it doesn't take him long to listen, because Harry's hips thrust forward, his dick gliding into your throat. You moan at the force with which he pushed, and keep your mouth wide open as you let Harry navigate your head.
Once he fully understands that you are allowing him to let him use your mouth, the true fun begins. With the firm grip he has on your head, he pushes you up and down at an ungodly speed. Your jaw is already tiring from its locked position, but you power through it because the sounds that leave Harry's mouth make up for it.
"Fuck baby, such a good mouth. Never had anything like this... Jesus!" He pants out as he begins to thrust up into your mouth, and you feel like you might pass out. Suddenly, he pulls you away from his dick.
You frown, and realize as he is grabbing for a tissue that he is avoiding messing up your face. You don't stand for it, though, and wrap your lips around his cock again just in time for him to come inside your mouth. You take him deeper and feel the way his sperm shoots in the back of your throat.
"Fuck! Shit, shit..." The not so wide arrange of curse words are the only thing Harry is capable of saying as he dumps his load inside your mouth. The fact that you were so adamant about having his sperm in your mouth made his orgasm even more intense.
Your mouth lets go of his cock with an exaggerated plop, and you swallow every last bit of him, grinning at his fucked out face.
"That was... amazing." He sighs, his gaze flicking from your mouth to your eyes. You hum in agreement, and get up from the floor as he pulls up his pants. You are about to walk away, when Harry grabs your wrist.
"Where are you going?"
"Home." You answer with a smile, but Harry's grip on you only tightens. He shakes his head, his lips pouting.
"No, you need to stay. Let me make you feel good too." He protests. You squint your eyes at him.
"I don't need to do anything."
Harry's eyes widen. "You're right. But just let me make you feel good before you go, please? It's the least I can do."
Your mouth slowly forms into a grin, glad to have him where you want. Well, almost.
"Beg me."
Harry scoffs. "Are you serious? I don't really do begging."
You shrug, smiling at him. "That's fine. My vibrator can get me off too."
You take a few steps towards the door, while Harry contemplates his decisions. However, those were all clouded by the sole moment to please you the second you mentioned your vibrator. The image of you getting off like that is too much to bear. He needs to do it for you.
"Stop." He says. You turn around, and walk back to him as he gets out of his chair and gets on his knees. Grabbing your waist, he pulls you closer, his nose digging into your dress. His hands run up and down your legs, and it is making you weak in your knees.
"Please, let me eat you out baby. I'll do anything to make you feel good. I need to taste you so bad, please let me pleasure you."
You swallow, eyelids ready heavy, as you sigh out. "Alright."
Harry grins at your admittance of defeat, and stands up. He leads you to sit on his desk, your dress hiked up. He removes the stuff behind you, so that you can lean back entirely in case you want to, and waltzes over to his chair.
Spreading your legs, he rolls himself closer to you, and assesses your soaking wet panties. Chuckling, he leans to the side and grabs a pair of scissors, before he cuts the skimpy material from your body. You'd say something of it, but the sight of him admiring your pussy like this is too fascinating to interrupt. So, you keep quiet.
When Harry's thumb suddenly presses on your clit and begins to rub it, you can't help but gasp. His touch feels too good, and that blowjob got you really worked up.
"You have no idea how many times I've fantasized about this." Harry says, marveling at how reactive you are being.
"Me too."
His eyebrows rise up. "Yeah? Tell me more, baby."
You bite your lip, too obsessed with the pet name he's given you. It sounds so sexy coming from his mouth. He awaits your response with bright eyes, lazily rubbing your clit.
"Your arms... I'd think about them so much. And your hands, I'd imagine you choking me with them. They're so big..." You begin, and you know that you could go on for hours if you had to tell him about everything you've thought about doing with him, or doing to him.
Harry doesn't say anything, instead responds with two fingers entering your pussy. You moan at the feeling of his large fingers pumping in and out of you. It feels way fuller than your hand already. His two fingers is the equivalent of your three fingers.
"We can definitely make those fantasies come true..." Harry says softly. "But first, let's make you come, hmm?"
You nod, your head falling back and allowing yourself to fully indulge in the pleasure Harry's giving you right now. You let yourself lay on his desk, wrapping your legs around his shoulders.
"Fuck, that feels good– oh fuck!" You shriek out when Harry tongue begins attacking your tongue after he adds a third finger. He speeds up the movements of his hand to match those of his tongue, and holds onto that tempo until your mind can't conjure up any more words to speak to him.
With the control entirely out of your hands, you let Harry guide you to your orgasm, which washes over your body like a tidal wave. You unconsciously push Harry's head further into your pussy with your legs. With an arched back, you moan at the sensitivity of your clit.
Harry lets you take a minute to catch your breath before he pulls on your arms to have you sit up straight. He is smiling sweetly at you, and your heart warms at it.
"You okay?" He asks, kissing your hands. You nod, trying to ignore the flutters in your heart at the way he is being so gentle.
"Thank you for letting me make you feel good, baby." He says, getting up and leaning into your face. His nose brushes against your cheek as he plants his lips on yours. Your arms wrap around Harry's neck as you kiss him deeper, too caught up in how good he feels and how much you want him.
You're never this greedy. You've never felt like you needed a man's cock inside of you. Like it was the only feasible option. You feel it driving you crazy, and you're sure it is the only reason you say— no, ask:
"Please, fuck me."
The grin that forms on Harry's lips makes you feel like you should regret what you said. A grin like that usually belongs on your face in situations like these. But you need him so bad, you don't really care that you are the desperate one this time.
"Oh, you're begging now too, huh?" He says cockily. You glare at him, pissed that he's acknowledging your neediness and mocking you for it too.
"It's alright baby, I'll give it to you. 'M cock's already hard again from watching you come like that. So fucking sexy..." He says. He pulls his pants down and lifts you off the table, turning you around to the glass windows and pushing your hands against them. "Bend over a bit and speak your legs for me, baby."
You do as he says, biting your lip at Harry's hand that pushes away your dress and roams over your ass. He positions his cock at your entrance and pushes himself into you, sighing in pure relief. You shut your eyes tightly at the size of him filling you up.
"Fuck, you feel good baby." He says, slowly beginning to move in and out a bit. You let out a soft 'yes', causing Harry's jaw to clench. He spanks your ass, watching as it bounces from the impact, and his cock twitching at your yelp.
"Perfect fucking ass... perfect fucking girl, aren't you?" He groans, now lazily thrusting into you. He wants to give you time to adjust, but he learns your wishes when you begin to push yourself back into him.
"Ah, I see. Greedy girl wants to speed things up, hmm? Your wish is my command." He mocks, but does speed up his pace. His hands hold your waist as he begins to pound himself into you, your ass shaking at the impact. He spanks your ass again for good measure, obsessed with the way it moves.
You nearly lose yourself in how good it feels, but you know that he can get deeper than this.
"I want to ride you... want to feel you in my tummy." You spit out, hoping he understands what you're saying in your croaky voice.
Harry listens, pulling himself out of you immediately and taking a seat in the chair. You turn around and walk over to him, throwing your legs on both sides of his lap, before grabbing his cock and sinking yourself down on it.
It goes smoother this time, but Harry's really deep now, just like you wanted. The sensation is everything to you, and it isn’t hard to tell how good it feels for him too. Glad to have a bit of the control back, you start to bounce on his cock.
Harry’s eyes travel over your body, fascinated by the way you are moving above him. His hands travel to the straps of your dress and push them down until he can get your tits out of the top part of your dress. He begins to massage them as you keep impaling yourself on his dick over and over again.
"Fuck, daddy, you feel so good... so good for me. Listening to me. Knew this was the best way to fuck you... you love it." You slur happily. Harry nods profusely at your words, jaw clenched and moaning out in pleasure.
"Yes, needed it so bad baby. You're fucking daddy so good..."
You smile at how caught up Harry looks in his pleasure, like he doesn't know what to do with it. You, however, do know what to with it. You grab one of his hands and wrap it around your throat, before you do the same to him. With his hand on your neck and yours on his, you begin to fuck him as fast as you can.
"Ah, fffuck... shit! Holy shit!" He yells out, and automatically thrusts himself up into you, reaching an even further level of deepness you had never thought possible. That along with your hands on each other’s necks, is enough to know that your climaxes are near.
"Come inside me daddy." You pant out, and he does. It is as if your permission set him off. You smile in delight at the feel and knowledge of his cum being so deep inside of you.
You fuck Harry through his orgasm, and even after. He squirms in his seat. "Wait— too sensitive."
"I don't care, I haven't come yet. Don't you want to make me feel good? Have me coming around your thick cock?" You say sensually, and Harry nods. "Words."
"Yes– fuck! I want you to come, please come around my cock. Please, please..." He begins to beg, a tear rolling down his cheek.
Your toes curl at his whiny voice, and soon your juices are gushing all over his cock. Your pussy contracting around him seems to set Harry off even more, as you feel even more sperm spraying out of his dick and into your walls.
You ride out your high until you can't move anymore. You sit there, forehead pressed against Harry's as you both come down from what just happened.
After a minute or two, you decide to pull out. Slowly but surely, you manage to get Harry's dick out of you without hissing too much at the sensitivity of every single body part down there.
You lean against the desk, too wobbly to stand on your own, and you let Harry wipe you clean with the tissues on his desk. After cleaning himself up, he stands up and positions himself in front of you.
"Hey." He says. Your hand cups his jaw and your thumb wipes away the tear that is far down his face now.
"Hi." You tilt your head. The both of you burst out laughing, still surprised by what went down just now.
"That was really good." He says once the laughter has died down. You nod in agreement.
"Good enough for a repeat?"
Harry pretends to think it over, before he responds: "under one condition."
"And what would that be?" You quirk up an eyebrow, intrigued by his vagueness. He smiles at you so wide that you wonder if his mouth might be hurting.
"You let me take you out on a date first."
You roll your eyes, pretending not to be amused as he chuckles at your reaction. But the second you see the look on his face and the sincerity behind it, you realize that he is being quite serious about this request. You bite your lip, wanting to kiss him right then and there.
A/N: i've been meaning to cook up something for the tour and also involve the heatwave so here it is! Some assistant!yn to entertain you in the heatwave!
WORD COUNT: 7k
WARNING: sexual content
SUMMARY: The London heatwave is bringing out the slutty little shorts and some complicated feelings between you and Harry. Then a plumbing disaster happens and you move in with him just until it's solved, however a broken AC forces the two of you to share a bed as well. A pop star, an assistant and lots of unspoken feelings in a bed. What could go wrong?
MASTERLIST | SUPPORT ME!
London is melting. The heatwave has been pushing the temperature to extreme measure for days now and it will most likely carry on for a couple more.
That’s not stopping Harry’s Wembley residency though. Show must go on.
It’s night seven and he is doing his usual pre-show shenanigans. Take a shower. Have a peek at Shania’s set. Get dressed while warming up his vocal chords in his dressing room. It’s always the same.
The extreme heat has switched up the planned outfits a little bit, going from pants to shorts at the past couple of shows, but the fans are definitely not complaining and Harry kind of likes flaunting his toned legs as well, so it’s a win-win.
Standing in front of the mirror he is humming Bridge Over Troubled Water while trying to fix his tie when there’s a knock on the door.
“Come in!” he calls out, eyes still fixated on his reflection.
The door opens and he doesn’t even have to turn around to know who it is. It’s like he has a sixth sense when it comes to you.
“Oh, I see the slutty little shorts are coming out to play again,” you tease him instantly upon walking into the room and closing the door behind you. Harry smirks as he turns around, though his smile halters for a second when he sees you.
He hasn’t been the only one the heatwave has been affecting when it comes to outfits. As his shorts got shorter, you, his long-time assistant, started putting on shorter dresses as well. Tonight you chose to put on a pale yellow sundress, one that’s short but flowy, demands his attention in an instant, making his eyes glued to your smooth legs and flirty neckline.
Fuck, he thinks to himself before recovering as quick as humanly possible. Truth is, he’s been crushing on you since… well, probably day one, but only admitted it to himself about a year ago, when the two of you somehow ended up sharing a bed at a mutual friend’s party and he woke up with you curled to his side, your scent filled his nose and as he listened to your quiet snoring, which you absolutely denied you did, he realized just how much in love he was with you.
But he’s been doing everything he could to keep his feelings at bay, not wanting to ruin your friendship and he also happened to be your boss, though your work relationship is quite different than at an office job. However at moments like this, when you completely take his breath away and make it quite hard for him to think of anything else than ripping your dress off and–
“You okay, Styles?” you snap him out of his thoughts.
“Yeah,” he smiles, shaking his head. “Not a fan of shorts?” he asks with a flirty smirk, still fiddling with his tie.
There’s a beat of silence on your end, something crosses your face, but it’s gone before he could catch it.
“Everyone is a fan of the shorts,” you end up saying. “Let me help you with that,” you offer as you step closer and swat his hands away so you can fix his tie.
The AC is working perfectly in the room, but suddenly Harry feels like he is burning up, standing so close to you, your hands brushing against his chest a few times and even though it’s only through the fabric of his shirt, it’s maddening. He can only hope you can’t feel or hear his hammering heartbeat.
“There,” you smile softly stepping back and admiring your work.
“All good?” he asks, squaring his shoulders.
“The best,” you reply, smile widening. “Everything is set, Shania just got off the stage,” you inform him. “Sarah and Mitch are here as well.”
Harry hums with a nod. His drummer and guitarist have been the last ones to arrive at the venue after doing bathtime with their kids and leaving them with the nanny before heading out for their night shift at the stadium.
Harry looks at you and notices a bit of worry etched onto your expression. Tilting his head he narrows his eyes at you.
“Something is wrong,” he says and it’s not a question. He knows you enough to notice these small details.
“Nope,” you shake your head.
“Oh yeah. Tell me, I can handle it, I’m a big boy.”
You chuckle, shaking your head.
“It’s nothing work related.”
“Okay, I still want to know about it.”
You hesitate for a second before giving up, knowing he’ll bug you until eternity if you don’t tell him.
“Just… I had some problems with a pipe in my apartment,” you say dismissingly. “It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine if it’s bothering you. There’s still an issue?”
“Kinda,” you sigh. “I need to change the pain pipe in the bathroom, which means they have to rip the wall out. But they are coming in the weekend, so hopefully it’ll be settled.”
“But can you use the bathroom until then?” Harry asks suspiciously. You don’t answer and avoid looking into his eyes at first before shaking your head no. “So you can’t use your bathroom until the end of the week?”
“It’s fine, I’m gonna stay at my sister’s place until then.”
Harry gives you an amused look.
“Y/N, your sister lives in Southampton. That’s… what, like a three hour commute to London?”
“Two,” you correct him, earning an eye-roll.
“You’re not going to your sister’s.”
“Well, I’m not paying for a hotel either,” you stubbornly say.
“Of course not, because you’re gonna stay at mine.”
He says it out loud before he could even think it through. But as soon as his words land, he knows he might have brought hell on himself. It’s challenging enough to spend so much time with you during the day, but having you in his home might be another level of torture.
You bark out a laugh.
“No I’m not,” you simply say, not even taking him seriously.
“Yes, you are. I live close, I have two guest rooms, this is the best solution,” he argues, pushing his own doubts to the back of his mind, because putting his feelings aside, this is actually the best solution, saving you from the hours spent on a train every day just to get to London.
“Harry, I can’t just move in with you.”
“Just until your apartment is fixed,” he shrugs. “I’ll drive over to your place after the show, you can grab whatever you need.”
You stand there, just blinking at him for a couple of long minutes, like you’re expecting him to say he was just joking, but he stands his ground. As bad of an idea it is regarding his situation, he would never let you down.
“I mean… If you’re sure,” you give in. Harry nods with a satisfied smile.
“I’m sure.”
“Okay, thank you then. Show time in twenty,” you remind him then, switching back to work mode before walking out of the dressing room.
The second the door clicks shut, Harry lets his head fall back with a quiet groan. Brilliant idea, he thinks to himself. Invite the woman you've been secretly in love with into your house, for several days. What an idiot you are, Styles!
A generous, caring idiot, but still an idiot, because he might have just made the worst decision in his life.
The show goes down without a hiccup. He puts on his best performance, as always and the fans love him, as always.
You watch most of the show from backstage, but you love Season 2 Weight Loss way too much not to go out, so you dance in Circle for a little and sneak back before any of the fans could recognize you. Harry however totally saw you and the smile that stretched across his face is the absolute sweetest.
When the show is over Harry quickly showers while you do your usual rounds settling things. When he’s ready the two of you roll out of the garage in his car, passing by the fans leaving the stadium.
You’ve just bought your apartment last year and Harry realizes he hasn’t even been there when he pulls up in front of the building. He follows you up to the third floor and bites back the excitement he feels upon stepping into the apartment.
“I’ll try to be quick. Make yourself at home,” you tell him before disappearing in the bedroom, leaving him alone in the open concept kitchen and living room.
“No need to hurry,” he calls after you, already curiously eyeing up the place.
The apartment is small, not cramped, but very lived-in. The vibe suits his expectations of your home pretty well. The couch is tucked beneath a large window overlooking the street, a knitted blanket carelessly thrown over one arm. Books are stacked on every available surface instead of neatly shelved, plants occupy nearly every windowsill and there are tiny trinkets everywhere, little ceramic animals, candles in mismatched holders, postcards pinned to a corkboard over the faux fireplace.
It looks exactly like you and it makes him smile as he wanders farther inside, hands buried in his pockets as if touching anything would somehow feel too intrusive.
His attention lands on the fridge, it’s covered in magnets, lists, sticky notes and quite some polaroids. He instantly moves closer to look at them. He sees his family, friends, crew members and random moments from the past years, including ones with him as well.
One of them is from Tokyo last year, the two of you squeezed into a photo booth, both pulling ridiculous faces.
Another one is from backstage at Madison Square Garden where you're laughing so hard your head is thrown back while he's clearly saying something dramatic, a moment Anthony caught on camera.
There’s one where he is giving you a piggy back ride in Italy and one taken in his mom’s backyard, the two of you posing like the worst models.
His smile stretches wider with each photo he spots that features him, feeling warm that you cherish these memories just as much as he does.
Then he moves over to the living room and the cushions seem familiar. It takes a moment for him to realize it’s because they have the cases on them the two of you chose out together at a flea market in Berlin two years ago. He teased you, saying you’ll probably never use them, but now you’re proving him wrong.
His eyes continue roaming the room until they snag on the wall opposite him. His smile softens instantly. There’s a painting hanging over the couch, one he gifted you for your birthday three years ago. An abstract piece he found in a gallery and instantly thought the vibrant colors would fit you so well. He was afraid you wouldn’t like it, but here it is, hanging in your home years later.
“Snooping around, I see.” Your voice makes him turn. You're standing in the hallway now, duffel bag slung over your shoulder, another backpack hanging from one arm.
“Nice decor you have,” he nods towards the painting.
“Ah, yeah, right? Some rando just gave it to me,” you tease him, pulling a laugh out of him.
“Dude’s got taste,” he adds. “You’re done?”
“Yes. If I forgot anything I’ll just swing by.”
Harry nods and follows you out of the apartment, glancing back one last time, a smile tugging on his lips knowing he is there, in your home in the tiny details.
Unlike him, you’ve been at Harry’s place a million times, so there’s nothing surprising there. Walking into the spacious townhouse he bought a couple of years ago in Hampstead you already know the way to the guest rooms.
“The one facing the backyard has AC, use that one,” he tells you.
“Ah, I get the fancy room?” you tease him, standing on the stairs.
“You’re VIP,” he grins before he disappears down the hallway leading to the kitchen and you make your way up to the room.
He pours himself a glass of water and stares out the window sipping on it. That’s when he hears you shuffling around upstairs. The faint footsteps, the closet opening and closing, the facet in the bathroom turning on before you shut it off. He’s so used to being alone here, it’s an odd feeling having someone else here, but knowing it’s you warms him.
A couple of minutes later you appear in the kitchen as well.
“Hungry?” he asks, leaning onto the kitchen island and he catches your gaze jumping to his biceps just for the shortest second before shaking your head.
“I inhaled half of the catering at the stadium,” you admit, making him laugh.
“Well, feel free to raid the fridge anytime. And… you know where to find everything,” he chuckles.
“Thanks,” you smile at him bashfully. “And for letting me stay here too.”
“I didn’t let you, practically ordered you to stay,” he corrects you, making you laugh.
“Whatever. I’m gonna shower and then head to bed. Good show tonight.”
“Thanks,” he smiles softly before you nod and then head back upstairs.
Minutes later he hears the shower running in the guest bathroom and his thoughts are quick to wander. Knowing that you’re up there, standing under the shower naked has him going crazy. All evening he tried to convince himself it won’t be any different than staying at the same hotel, but it is. There’s a kind of domesticity in your presence he is not used to and it has him spiraling a bit.
He shakes his head, annoyed at himself.
“Get it together, Styles,” he mutters under his breath, finishing his water and forcing himself to move.
He has spent years being around you. Years of late nights, long drives, hotel rooms, dressing rooms and airports. He knows what your coffee order is, how you like your fries, the exact face you make when you’re trying not to laugh during serious moments.
So why does hearing you move around his house feel so different? Probably because you’re not here because you’re working late or because everyone decided to stay over after a party. You’re here because he asked you to be. Because he wanted to make things easier for you. Because a selfish part of him wanted you here, sharing the same living space, spending even more time together.
By the time he finally gets ready for bed, the house is completely quiet again. He walks past the guest room on his way to his bedroom and stops for a second, staring at the closed door. The ridiculous thought crosses his mind that maybe he should knock and say goodnight, but he is quick to shake it.
Instead, he lies in his bed for hours, staring at the ceiling, thinking of you sleeping just down the hallway until his spiraling thoughts eat him away and he finally falls asleep.
He is gonna have a rough couple of days.
***
The next few days pass in a blur. Somehow, somewhere between rushed mornings, stadium chaos and late-night drives back home, the weirdness of having you in his house disappears. It becomes normal, having you around not just while working but at the end of the day as well, when Harry retreats from being Harry Styles, the pop icon.
It probably helped that he didn’t need to act like a host because you didn’t act like a guest. It was like you belonged there, in his home and he realized he liked it a lot.
Having coffee with you in the morning, running to the grocery store together or grabbing lunch from the nearby Chinese restaurant. He liked finding you on the couch, typing away on your laptop or making calls when he came back from his run and he liked that on show days you left together, did your own things and went home together at the end of the night, had a a glass of wine or two on the patio before going to bed and starting it all over again.
When you got a call three days into your stay at Harry’s that your bathroom works will be postponed to next week Harry tried to focus on easing your stress instead of the absolute happiness he felt for having you at his place even longer. It’s like even fate wanted him to enjoy more of the time spent together.
It’s another show day and Harry is already downstairs, getting ready to leave while you’re still upstairs.
“Have you seen my charger?” he calls up.
“Which one?” comes your answer.
“The black one.”
“It’s in the kitchen!”
He runs into the kitchen and is not surprised to find the item he’s been looking for everywhere lying on the counter. Laughing at himself he walks back to the front door while tucking the cord into his totebag, just when you come down the stairs.
Glancing up he freezes for a second, because you’re wearing jean shorts and an old band tee. His band tee to be precise and you look a lot better in it than he ever did. He doesn’t even care that it's one of his favorite ones, he would be fine if you wore it from now on.
“Is that my shirt?” he asks, recovering.
You look up at him innocently.
“Is it?”
“Yes, it is,” he chuckles.
“Ah, it must have ended up in my pile of laundry.”
“Interesting, because I haven’t worn it in a while, so it was not even near the laundry,” he keeps teasing you with a growing smirk.
“Your memory is shit, Styles,” you wave at him dismissingly. “Let’s go, we’re gonna be late,” you say, changing the subject. Harry just shakes his head chuckling, but follows you out the door.
That stupid t-shirt messes with his head. Or to be more precise, seeing you wearing his clothes is what has his panties in a twist.
Every time you walk past him it’s like electricity buzzes through him. Then he starts picturing you more of his things. His running shorts. His shirt. His boxer briefs… It’s a trap he walked straight into.
When the show starts he manages to shut you out, but then you decide to go into the pit again. No matter how badly he fights the urge to ignore you, he can’t. During Dance No More he stops right in front of you, dancing while looking straight into your eyes. At first you just shake your head at him and try to shoo him away, but when he doesn’t, you end up mirroring his dance moves that makes him laugh.
“Okay, I accept defeat,” he says into the mic before finally moving on, the fans going crazy over what they just witnessed and that’s when you decide to return backstage.
By the time the show ends, Harry is still smiling. Partially because the show felt extra good tonight, but mostly because of the interaction he had with you and the thought that now he gets to go home with you.
“You’re in a good mood,” Mitch comments when they’re backstage, wiping sweat from his face.
Harry looks up from the bottle of water in his hand. “Am I?”
“Yes,” Anthony answers from beside him, his camera is still in his hand. “It’s actually slightly annoying.”
“Sorry my happiness is inconveniencing you,” Harry chuckles.
“Not the happiness,” Mitch says, pointing at him. “The lovesick teenage boy energy.”
Harry almost chokes on his water. “What?”
“Please, I’m kind of hurt you think I wouldn’t notice the change in you,” Mitch scoffs. “Besides, I know this exact feeling,” he adds, his gaze jumping over to Sarah who is talking to a crew member in the corner of the room.
“I… I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Harry shakes his head, but he can’t help the smile that tugs on his lips.
“Yeah, okay. Keep lying to yourself. See you tomorrow,” Mitch pats his shoulder before walking over to his wife.
Harry looks at Anthony who has his camera in front of his face and snaps a picture of him. Then he checks the screen and nods to himself.
“Yep, lovesick teenage boy,” he says before walking away.
Harry just shakes his head in disbelief before heading over to you, throwing his towel at you.
“Ew! Get your sweaty towel off me!” You cry out, throwing the towel right back at him.
“I’m gonna shower and then we can leave.”
“Take your time, you stink!” You call after him teasingly, to which he just flips you off before walking away.
By the time Harry finally finishes showering, you’re already waiting by his dressing room, scrolling through your phone.
“Done?” you ask, looking up from the screen.
“Squeaky clean,” he grins, proud of himself for quoting his own song. You just roll your eyes, but he spots the smile hiding in the corners of your mouth.
The ride home is the same. You’re talking about bits from the show and then sing along to some music, it’s been his favorite after-show ritual lately.
Arriving home you’re already heading into the kitchen to pour the usual glass of wine for the two of you while Harry heads up to his room to drop his stuff off before joining you downstairs. Just outside his bedroom he starts to feel like something is off, but only realizes what it is when he walks in.
It feels like hell in there. It’s hotter than in a sauna.
“What the…” He grabs his phone to check the app that’s connected to the AC system in the house and sees that the one in his bedroom is not working. He taps on it several times, but it just wouldn’t turn on.
Then he digs out the remote, hoping to start it with that, but that doesn’t work either. It’s dead.
“Hey, what’s taking you so long?” You walk in with two glasses of wine, but instantly feel the heat in his room. “Holy shit, did you set your room on fire or something?”
“The AC is not working,” he sighs in defeat.
“Damn, okay, no worries. We can call someone tomorrow,” you say, handing him one of the wines. He takes a big gulp, since it’s pretty cold at least.
“Sure. I’ll just sleep in the other guest room tonight,” he says, but then he quickly realizes. “Fuck, there’s no AC there either,” he groans, his head rolling back in frustration. “Okay, then the couch it is for tonight.”
“What?” your eyes widen. “You’re not sleeping on the couch, you need to rest, you have a show tomorrow.”
“Where else am I gonna sleep then?” he chuckles helplessly.
“In my room. I’ll take the couch,” you say right away.
“Absolutely not,” he shakes his head.
“Harry–”
“No.”
“You need to fucking sleep! In a bed!” you argue, slightly raising your voice from the frustration of how stubborn he is being.
“And you don’t need the rest? You’re working too, Y/N.”
“Yeah, but I’m not performing at Wembley.”
“You’re not sleeping on the couch in my house,” he states, making you roll your eyes.
“Well, you’re not sleeping on the couch in your house either.”
“Y/N, I’m not taking your bed–”
“It’s your bed in your guest room in your house.”
“No, right now it’s your bed.”
“Jesus, you’re so fucking annoying!” you growl. “Then we’re sharing the bed,” you then say, surprising probably the both of you.
“What?” he chuckles awkwardly.
“It’s big enough, we can just share it tonight and then we can have the AC fixed tomorrow. No big deal,” you explain and this time he can’t argue.
Well, he would love to, but he would rather not say out loud his arguments. He can’t just say he doesn’t want to share the bed because it’s too intimate for him and he would very likely spiral, so he chickens out and just nods.
“Okay. I guess… you’re right.”
Satisfaction takes over your expression.
“See? There was no need to be this dramatic about the whole situation,” you say, taking a sip from your wine. Harry’s eyebrows arch.
“I’m literally the least dramatic person you know.”
You look at him and that look speaks for you.
“Okay,” he sighs. “That might be a lie,” he mumbles.
You carry on with the evening as usual. It’s still so hot outside that you don’t sit on the patio too long, just until you both finish your wine and then head back inside. Harry uses his own bathroom and you use the guest one just like every evening since you’ve been here.
But once he is done he feels ridiculous for being nervous at the thought of going over to your room and get in bed beside you.
“Get your shit together,” he mumbles to himself before finally making his way down the hallway.
The door is open and you’re already sitting on the bed, scrolling on your phone when he walks in. When you look up you smile softly at him that already has his stomach sinking.
“Come on in! Make yourself home!” you gesture at the bed. Harry chuckles.
“Well, it is my home.”
“Shut up,” you flip him off as he takes the right side of the bed.
Tentatively he sits on the edge at first, then a little awkwardly lies down.
“Are you going to lie like a board all night?” you tease him.
“What if I am?” he scoffs.
“Okay, do whatever you want. It really is your home,” you say teasingly.
Harry wills himself to relax and get under the covers finally. The bed is big. Big enough that you’ll probably not touch all night, but Harry is still worried.
“I hope you haven’t started snoring since the last time we slept in the same room,” you break the silence. Harry peeks over at you.
“You’re the one who snores.”
You gape at him dramatically.
“I told you I don’t snore!”
“Can you hear yourself while sleeping?” he arches an eyebrow.
“Well, of course not. I’m sleeping!”
“Okay, I have heard you. And you were definitely snoring.”
That’s a lie. It was just loud breathing probably, but he loves teasing you with that, he loves seeing you get all heated up while defending yourself.
“Yeah? Then you fart all night!”
At that, you both stay silent for a second before uncontrollable laughter bursts right out of you both.
“Fart all night? That’s the best you could come up with?” Harry asks, wiping the tears away from his eyes.
“Did you want me to say you pee your pants?” you wheeze out, making him laugh even harder.
It takes long minutes for you to calm down, silence settling over the room. Now Harry feels a lot less awkward about the whole bed sharing situation.
“Goodnight, Harry,” you whisper at last.
“Goodnight, Y/N,” he replies and falls asleep with a smile on his face.
***
Harry wakes up before his alarm, which is unusual. With his eyes still closed he buries his face further into the pillow and at first the scent doesn’t even register, your scent all over the pillow. Then feels the warmth, not excruciating, but definitely warmer than what he feels in the morning. Almost like… A body. Pressed against his.
The memories of the two of you fighting over the bed situation last night creep back into his mind and then he slowly puts the picture together before he even opens his eyes, that it’s you who’s pressed up against him.
he is lying on his side, one arm stretched out forward, right under the pillow on which your head is resting. You’re lying with your back plastered against his front, his other arm thrown over your waist, his palm touching your bare stomach where your top has ridden up in your sleep. Your legs are tangled together and the cherry on top is what’s happening around your midsections.
Spooning you his crotch is perfectly pressed up against your ass and just to make things even more interesting, he is sporting an erection.
It’s all settling in slowly but surely, his pulse picking up and then he completely freezes when you stir in your sleep and rub your ass even more against his cock. A silent groan slips from his lips. He’s still groggy and half asleep, but he can tell this should not be happening.
The rational part of his brain is screaming at him to pull back and get as far from her as possible, but that voice is tuned out as he takes a deep breath and your scent fills his nose, making his cock twitch from the need to touch you. He stays put, slight panic creeping up his spine as he tries to figure out what to do, but that’s when you start moving again. At first he thinks you’re just wriggling in your sleep, but after a few seconds he realizes it’s different.
You’re rubbing against him. Like, fully rubbing.
His muscles flex as he tries to control himself, another groan bubbling from him as he dances on the edge of a very dangerous territory.
You must be still asleep and it’s just an instinct, it’s totally normal to get horny in your dreams, he tells himself, so he shouldn’t take advantage of it, but it’s getting so fucking hard to resist.
But then…
“Harry…” you breathe out, arching even more against him and that’s when he snaps.
His hand that’s been on your stomach grips your hip and he finally lets himself grind against you, creating more friction and making you both moan.
“Fuck,” he grunts as he keeps moving his hips, his cock straining against his briefs.
Your hand finds his on your hips and taking it you tug it towards your core. He is quick to realize what you need and he gladly slips his hand under the elastic of your sleeping shorts, cupping your heated cunt at first, before gliding two fingers between your wet folds.
“Yes, please,” you groan, head falling back and he rests his forehead against your shoulder as he keeps rocking against you, his fingers slipping inside you.
“Fuck, Y/N,” he breathes, feeling like he is losing his mind as you grind against his palm and cock at the same time, chasing your own relief while he is inching closer to his as well.
Your hands find his that’s under the pillow, gripping the sheets and you bring it to your mouth, placing an open-mouthed kiss into his palm at first but then bite the tender skin when his fingers inside you hit the right spot.
“More,” you choke out.
The hand you bit moves to your chest, slipping under your top, palming your breast and you arch into his touch, eager to get more of him. You’re both close to the edge, panting and moaning, Harry is in a state of disbelief and overflowing joy at what’s happening and that’s when the bubble is popped.
His phone starts to ring on the nightstand, loud and sharp, making you both jerk at the interruption. You both move away and sit up, looking at each other like you were just caught doing something you shouldn’t have, the pleasure you were feeling quickly morphing into shock and panic.
The phone is still ringing and Harry snatches it clearing his throat before answering the call. He tries his best to focus on whatever is being said to him, but his mind is still stuck from just moments ago when he was basically dry-humping you and he was very much on the edge of coming.
“Yeah,” he croaks out. “Sure, I’ll head over.”
When he ends the call you’ve moved to the very edge of the bed, an unreadable expression on your face.
“I need to go to the stadium, something is wrong with the sound system, they need to do an emergency sound check,” he tells you and you nod. He hesitates for a second then tries to reach out towards you just when you jump out of the bed.
“Then we need to get ready,” you say, looking everywhere but at him.
“Y/N…”
“I’m gonna take a shower and then… You know what? You’ll have to go alone, I have some errands to run.”
That’s a fat lie, he knows. But he doesn’t call you out as you practically sprint into the bathroom, shutting him out. He stays there, sitting and staring after you for a few more seconds, absolutely no idea what to do. He runs a hand through his hair and lets out a frustrated breath as he stands and walks out of the room. He is dying to go after you and talk to you, ask you what you’re thinking, but the look on your face sent a clear message that talking to him was the last thing you wanted to do. He definitely doesn’t want to push you too far, so he is left with drawing his own conclusions and right now those are pretty clear.
You regretted it and now everything is fucked.
***
You don’t go to the stadium with him and when he returns home you’re gone. He fights the urge to call you and beg you to come back and talk to him, but instead he just texts you that the issue has been solved, to which you just reply with liking his message.
He is on the edge, waiting for you to return until the very last minute he needs to leave for tonight’s show, but you text him you’ll just get a taxi to the stadium, he doesn’t have to wait for you. Harry swallows down the disappointment, but forces himself to carry on.
He has done this a thousand times. Walk into a stadium, leave everything else behind, become the person everyone came to see, except today he is having a hard time shutting his mind off. He keeps looking for you everywhere as he goes through his usual pre-show rituals, but you’re nowhere to be found. But he knows you’re there, because everything gets done, it’s just as if a ghost is doing your job.
When he steps out onto the stage he more or less manages to get his focus straight, but he can tell he is not giving his best performance. He can only hope the fans won’t notice it. When he runs out to his short break after Fine Line and he is on his way back, that’s when he runs into you for the first time.
“Hey, you’re here,” he stops in his tracks.
“Of course, where else would I be?” you ask with a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. He is debating being late for the next set just to talk to you.
“Are we going home together afterwards?” he ends up asking.
“Sure,” you nod shortly, though your expression has him worried. He doesn’t have time to talk more however.
He somehow gets through the second half of the show, even kind of gets more into the flow after the short interaction with you, but once he is off the stage he is eager to get home with you as soon as possible so you can talk.
When he walks out of his dressing room and you’re there relief washes over him. Part of him was afraid you might ditch him and say you’re spending the night at your sister’s place.
“Ready?” he asks, slinging his bag over his shoulder and you nod.
The ride home is suffocating. Silence takes over the car and it’s driving Harry crazy how just hours ago in the morning he had his hands on your body and now you feel miles away even though you’re sitting right beside him.
He is working up the courage to start a conversation when you walk into the house and that’s when realization hits him.
“Fuck,” he breathes out.
“What?” you ask him.
“I forgot… I didn’t get anyone to fix the AC.”
You stare back at him for a second, expression unreadable.
“That’s okay. I’ll just sleep on the couch,” you say at last.
“No, Y/N.”
“Shut up, I’m not arguing about this tonight,” you snap back, but it triggers something in him.
“Oh, okay. Then let’s argue about why you’ve been avoiding me all day.”
“I was not avoiding you.”
“What a fucking lie,” he scoffs in disbelief, his bluntness making your eyes widen.
“I’m not having this conversation, Harry,” you shake your head.
“Why?” he challenges.
“What?” you blink at him.
“Why are you not having this conversation?”
Your jaw tightens as you stare back at him.
“Because I don’t think there’s anything to talk about.” Your voice is low and steady, but he can see the tornado behind your eyes. Harry lets out a humorless laugh, shaking his head.
“Nothing to talk about?”
He takes a step closer, but stops himself before he gets too close. He’s not going to corner you, not when you already look like you’re moments away from running away again.
“Y/N, this morning we were moments away from making each other come.”
“I know,” you hiss.
“And then you just ran away.”
“I did not.”
“You locked yourself in the bathroom and didn’t come out until I was gone.”
“Okay, fine!” you snap. “I’ve been avoiding you. Happy? Can we move on?”
“No, not until we walk about this!”
“There is nothing to talk about!” Your voice is raised, chest heaving as you stare back at him.
“I beg to differ,” he scoffs.
“Then let me rephrase it. I’m not gonna listen to you say it was a mistake and we shouldn’t have done it.”
That hits him hard in the head and chest, his anger quickly morphing into confusion.
“What?” he asks quietly.
“Don’t give me this lost puppy face,” you huff out a dry laugh. “That’s where we would have ended up at. You saying shit like let’s pretend it never happened and just go back to how it was, so I was just cutting it short.” Your voice wavers at the end and it finally clicks for Harry.
You weren’t acting this way because you regretted it, you did it because you thought he would want to forget about it. The realization hits him so hard he almost laughs, except there is nothing funny about it.
“Y/N…” he breathes out.
You look away, suddenly uncomfortable now that you’ve said it out loud.
“Don’t,” you mumble.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t stand there looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you feel bad for me.”
Something in his chest twists as he takes a step closer.
“Y/N, that’s not what this is.”
“Then what is it?” you ask, looking back at him. “Because I know you, Harry. I know you better than almost anyone. You’re going to tell me you didn’t mean it, that you were caught up in the moment, that it’s complicated and we shouldn’t ruin what we have.” A tear rolls down your cheek, but you continue. “And you know what? You’re right, it’s way too complicated and I feel stupid, because there’s no way you–”
He cuts you off with a rough kiss, making you instantly forget what you were talking about as you melt into his arms. It’s desperate, passionate and ignites a fire inside you in an instant. It’s also speaking for him, loud and clear, because as his tongue licks into your mouth you have no doubt he did not regret what happened in the morning, in fact, he is aching for more.
You’re fisting his shirt and his fingers dig into your waist, pulling you even closer, though that’s not possible anymore. His hands then start roaming your body, your back, your ass and then thighs before he grabs the back of them and urges you to jump, legs curling around his waist as he holds you.
He carries you up the stairs without breaking the kiss, but you both start laughing when he almost slips, throwing you both down the stairs.
“Fuck, please don’t kill us now,” you laugh, planting a hand onto the wall next to you.
“That would be pretty unfortunate,” he grins, but then his face turns serious for a second and he even puts you down. Standing on the step above him, you’re about the same height. “This is real, Y/N. I want you, so fucking bad, I’ve wanted you for so long and–”
Now you’re the one cutting him off with a kiss, though it’s a lot less aggressive than his. When you pull back, you just smile at him.
“It’s real. Now would you just keep talking or we could–”
The words turn into a laugh as he picks you up, running into your room so fast, you haven’t seen him move this fast before, not even on stage. He throws you onto the bed and once he is on top of you, the broken AC in his room is long forgotten, along with all the unnecessary tension you put each other through today.
***
The heatwave is still raging, melting London and Wembley Stadium, but the residency continues. The show blows up the place as usual and Harry parades around the stage in his slutty little shorts, as they are now officially called.
It’s the part of the show where everyone is moved out to the runway, bringing the show even closer to the fans in the pit. Harry is dripping from sweat as he dances past Mitch.
“Feeling hot?” the guitarist asks, trying to shout over the music. Harry laughs nodding as he saunters closer, Mitch then leans over to his ear. “Did you get your AC fixed?”
“What AC?” he asks, confused.
“In your fucking bedroom! Have you been sleeping in hell all week?” he asks, but then it clicks for the both of them. “Holy shit!” Mitch laughs as Harry just dances away with a knowing smile. “Holy shit! You and Y/N!” he shouts after him.
But Harry just giggles and grabs his mic and then starts singing.
“Ready, steady, go!”
Thank you for reading, please like and reblog if you enjoyed and buy me a coffee if you want to support me!
you’re used to people thinking you don’t belong in the fancy hotels that harry books for the two of you to sneak around in. when you struggle on your own and he has to come sort out your shit, don’t you think you owe him?
based on this -> this and -> this
CW: eventual smut, current harry, age gap, subby reader, angry/mean harry, !HEAVY DEGRADING! (consensual), kinda tattoo worship, size kink, wealth kink, dom harry, oral sex (m), veryyyyy mean harry if u don’t like that this prob isnt for u!! this is just fucking filthy. 18+
likes/reblogs sooo appreciated!!
WC: 5.8k
You were used to it.
The glares. The corked eyebrows. The subtle tinge of ‘I’m sure that I know what you’re here for and our business does not allow it.’
But you were no prostitute, and you weren’t out of place here. You belonged here and were overly exhausted of stingy employees thinking otherwise.
So when you got the text from Harry, you had already mentally prepared yourself for what would come of your night.
H: Booked us a room at the Ritz on West 28th. Finishing up in the studio and then I’ll meet you there. It’s under your name.
A usual text to receive from your secret lover.
He was older than you, ridiculously older than you to the point where you were sure it would cause some controversy if the public gained any awareness. So, sneaky over-nights at fancy hotels and cryptic stares are what you were used to.
And you liked it—the forbiddenness of it all. You were his cute little thing, a pretty girl to play with and spoil however he pleased.
So when you walked through the big glass door of the luxurious building, you found yourself wet just at the smell.
That was the thing about what you and Harry had going on. He’d opened up new parts of you that you would’ve never known existed if it weren’t for him. You were addicted to the riches of it all. His money. His wealth, more like.
Smooth tile and obscene light fixtures and quiet jazz turned you on, at this point. And it wasn’t because of the fine craftsmanship, it’s because his money brought you here. Allowed you to echo your tiny feet across the slick flooring and take in the thick smell of an expensive room spray.
You pattered confidently over to the front counter, dressed in a cute little outfit that was to Harry’s liking, and placed the tips of your fingers against the tall podium.
“Hello,” you smile politely, “I have a room for tonight under Y/L/N.”
The receptionist peers up from her desk to scan you over, a soft smile on her face as she takes you in silently.
And then, there was that look. The one you were more than used to, at this point.
“Hello,” she finally greets you, “you said you had a room at this hotel?”
A smile smacked on her face so condescending that you nearly screamed.
“I do, yes,” you keep on your smile, remaining composure as you readjust the duffle bag against your side.
She peers down at the movement to take in the bag that was hung over your shoulder, staring at it for a bit longer than you appreciated. It was a soft pink, white stripes down the fabric with your initials embroidered on the side. It was childish, you know. But it’s been yours since you were small and why change something that’s not broken?
“Let me take a look, dear,” she nods, slow and unhurried.
So you wait. Tapping your finger tips against the sleek wood of the counter as she takes her sweet time.
And then, another buzz from your phone.
H: Get to the room okay? I’m wrapping up.
Y: just waiting to be let up
You keep it brief, knowing not enough time has passed to really know if the staff was judging you just yet. You’d like to think the best of them. Maybe your reservation was just dug deep in their files.
H: Are they giving you trouble?
You take a thick swallow, reading over the 5 words like they were here in front of you, low and threatening.
Y: i don’t think so, probably just super busy tonight
He types, stops, types, and then the bubbles go away completely. You just shut off your phone, slipping it back into your purse before peering back up at the front desk.
And when you look up, she’s peering behind you, looking at the nicely dressed man that stood after you in the line of the lobby.
“Hello, sir. How can I assist you?”
Your brows furrow, peering back and forth between the man and the receptionist with innocent confusion.
But then, you think, this is a nice place, right? You’re sure they’ve got you all checked in and probably sending down a concierge to lead you to your room as we speak. Nothing to worry about.
So, you stand off to the side with a sweet smile and toy with the ends of your hair as the two start their conversation.
But then she gave him a room key. And a kind smile, one different from the one you had been given just a couple minutes prior. And ushered him to the elevator with directions that would lead right to his door.
Now, you were stumped.
“Um, excuse me,” you ask so quietly that she doesn’t hear you at all.
You were always like this. Too sweet for your own good and always afraid to rub off the wrong impression.
The receptionist was busy (or so she looked) at her desk, scrabbling through papers and binders that you were only half sure actually had anything written on them. So, you mustered up the courage to speak again.
“Excuse me, ma'am?" A bit louder this time, but still never without your fragile twinge of politeness.
She looks up at you as you stood in front of the tall counter. Glasses hung low on her nose and her red lips glued to a straight and very unamused line.
“Yes?”
“Um, was there a problem with my reservation?” You ask, lacking confidence just a little bit too much. You knew it. The receptionist knew it, too.
She takes her glasses off, glaring up at you from her seat behind the thick counter and takes a deep breath.
“What was the name again, hon?”
You cringed at the nickname.
“Y/L/N. Maybe Y/N.”
She pauses her fingers though the stack of papers and tilts her head at you in a stare of disbelief.
“You’re not sure what your reservation is under?”
Yes, you were used to this. But no, that didn’t mean it got any easier for you. This was always stress for you. An unbelievable amount of anxiety and you almost never handled it well.
“I, um, I’m not totally sure, no. I wasn’t the one who made the reservation,” you say through red cheeks.
She smiles up at you, cold and knowing, like she’s got you all figured out now. Like she’s seen this sort of thing before.
“I see,” she nods, “let me take another look.”
You just nod, backing away slightly and trying to ignore the growing need to nib at your nailbeds and twist around your hair. You didn’t want to seem even more immature.
Another phone vibration from your purse.
H: Assuming you’ve gotten to the room now? Just about to leave.
Y: no not yet, its ok tho they’re looking again now i think
H: Looking for what? You’re still in the lobby?
Y: for our reservation, i think maybe i gave them the wrong name or something. and yes i am
H: I put it under your last name. If that helps.
Y: yeah that’s what i told them, im sure they’re just looking for it
But you weren’t sure. And Harry could smell bullshit right through his phone screen.
H: This is ridiculous. You’ve been there nearly 20 minutes. I’ll be there as soon as I can.
You couldn’t ignore the ping between your thighs at the message, slightly embarrassed to feel so turned on by a string of black letters across your tiny phone screen.
“Here you are,” your texting is interrupted by the shove of a thin black card in your face, sudden and disruptive.
“Oh,” you grab onto it, “ok, thank you. Where is my room?”
She sighs again, acting as if your simple question has seriously disturbed her peace.
“The room number is on the card. There are signs on the walls.”
Your brows turn inward with a small frown, literally having just watched her direct the last young man to his room. You really didn’t want to spend the next couple minutes following plastic signs on the walls like an idiot.
But, you don’t fuss. Don’t put up a fit and don’t mention it. Instead, you just nod, walking away from the counter with really no idea of where to go at all.
You were clearly confused as you walked around the first floor of the luxurious hotel, desperately searching for the signs on the walls and any indication of where an elevator could be.
The staff saw you. They saw how confused you were and they watched as you dawdled around the big tall lobby. Yet, they remained mounted in their place, even looking somewhat amused at your struggle. As if you were a baby deer trapped in the overbearing headlights of an 18 wheeler.
Once you land on the sweet sight of the elevators, you b-line over the large room with your little pink bag clinched tighter against you. You were desperate to get to the safety of your room.
“Can I help you?” A man, tall and dressed formally in a suit, asks as he guards the buttons to the elevator.
“Hi, yes please! I’m in room…” you look at your card, “614. Is that the sixth floor?”
He stares at you. Takes you in, grazes over your cute little outfit that was surely not a fancy dress or a designer brand. Then peers to your bag. Then back up at you—young. Naive. Cute.
“I’m sorry, these elevators are for hotel residents only.”
If you weren’t already confused before, now you are stumped.
Are you not a hotel resident? Are you more of a…hotel guest? Do residents have some sort of special card or something? You were too nervous to ask, so you didn’t.
“Oh,” your brows turn in, “ok.. Can you please tell me how to get up to my room then? I’m sorry, I guess I'm having some trouble finding it.”
“I’m sure,” he chuckles. “You can go speak to the front desk. They will escort you to your room.”
He drew out the word like he was claiming that that’s what you were. Nothing other than a little escort for some rich slob of a man who couldn’t find a woman on his own.
“Um, she already directed me to the…signs. So, should I try to follow those again? I just feel like maybe I'm supposed to be going up the elevator.”
You were rambling now, soft and unsure and all he could do was stare at you unamused.
“The signs will lead you to where you’d like to go,” is all he says, with a nod.
Defeated, you slump away and now you’re left right back where you just were. Wandering around the lobby, peering at every sign you see, desperately trying to get the hell out of this situation.
It wasn’t ‘where you'd like to go,’ it was where you should go. Where you belonged. You knew it, but you just couldn’t muster up the courage to tell them that you knew it.
After another couple minutes of walking back and forth and desperately trying to find any signs other than roof top or pool or buffet, you give up and tip toe your way back over to the front desk. Back in front of the woman who looked like she was already tired of you before you even opened your mouth.
“Hi, you gave me my room key a bit ago but I just can’t seem to-”
“I remember.”
You blink, not sure what to think of her rude interruption but continuing anyway.
“I, um,” you were even more nervous now, “I guess I’m just not sure how to get to my room and no one really seems to be helping me out.”
“And what exactly would you need help with?”
You blink again. Slower this time.
“Finding my room…” you’re confused, feeling like you literally just explained that not even 4 seconds prior.
“I have already explained this to you, as long as you follow the-”
“Is there an issue here? Does anyone want to explain to me why she got here half an hour ago and is still standing in this lobby?”
There he was, Harry, tall and broad and two creases stuck between his brows that were only there when he got angry. Two creases that had your crease dripping.
“Hi, baby,” he drops his voice softer as he comes behind you, letting his big hand rest on your tiny frame as he presses a kiss to your forehead. Your cheeks fade pink at his gentle greeting as you smile up at him kindly, a contrast from his fury towards the staff.
“Mr. Styles, hello! It’s lovely to see you, we were just getting her set up to the room-”
“But you weren’t,” he cuts her off, “if you were half competent and even somewhat decent at your job she would’ve been resting in the privacy of that room ages ago. So really, does anyone want to tell me what’s been going on here?”
He was… terrifying. Deliciously terrifying and just who you needed to come and save you. You were helpless without him and he knew it. Too trusting for your own good and ever so naive.
“Mr. Styles, really, we were just gathering some documents together and then we were going to send her straight up to your room.”
Other staff members were slipping away while they could, leaving the lonely receptionist to take all of the blame. And, to be totally honest, that was fine with you.
“Up to her room,” he corrected, “a room that was booked under her name and a room that she should have had no issue getting into. So, and I do ask that you be honest this time, are you going to tell me what’s been going on?”
She stares at him, eyes wide and mouth slightly parted as she stutters on her own breath. You just stood there, protected in Harry’s grasp as he stood behind you.
“I apologize on behalf of the hotel for any trouble that this misunderstanding has caused and-”
He’s laughing now, deep and cynical and just truly in disbelief.
“And what exactly was misunderstood? I’m yet to hear the reason and I think I’ve asked quite a couple times now,” he knows what went on. It hadn’t been the first time something like this had happened. But he was stubborn. For you, at least. And if anyone even dared to make life difficult for you, he’d wait til they were fully humiliated before he was done.
“I-I’m sorry, we were under the impression that she may have been here for reasons against our policies as a company and we were mistaken.”
He lets out a deeply intimidating smirk before peering down at you, waiting for your attention before he speaks to you.
“I’m sorry, is she speaking some language that only imbeciles can understand? Or has she still not explained why you weren’t let up to your room?”
You shook your head up at him with your big round doe eyes, basking in his behavior and clenching your thighs together tight.
“We were under the impression that she was here for some sort of explicit work, sir. I’m very sorry for this incredibly wrong misunderstanding.” She corrected herself under a mumbled breath, ashamed and terrified of the man on the other side of the counter.
He nods, slow with a deep breath like that’d been what he was expecting.
“Full refund.” He mutters, closer to the desk now with a diving stare that you were lucky you weren’t on the receiving end of.
“I-I’m sorry?” She’s taken aback at his well justified request, but he doesn’t budge.
You knew how much this room cost…it was the largest and nicest room in the building. It was tens of thousands of dollars a night and to stay there for free would be detrimental to them. Harry knew it. He didn’t care. They were lucky he wasn’t shutting them down.
“Full. Refund.” He enunciated sharper this time, pressing his fingers into the wood of the counter and pressing his body closer.
“Y-yes, of course, sir. Again, we apologize for any-”
He walked away before she could finish, hand in yours as he tugged you over to the elevators. His grip was tight and his long legs moved quickly through the dazzling lobby, steps echoing up and down the tall ceilings until we reached the elevators.
And this time, with Harry at your side, the man at the doors pressed the up button hastily and stood to the side with a shaky smile. The wide gold of the elevator doors crank open, and Harry calls out one more thing to the receptionist before you both step in.
“Breakfast sent to the room by 10:30.”
She nodded quickly, “Of course! What would you like?”
“The menu.”
She swallowed thick and nodded without argument, and her reaction had your panties even more soaked than they already were. You were obsessed watching him dominate everyone around him. Controlling them with every little word and watching as they slip further into their fear. It was erotic.
And as the two of you walked into the private confines of the elevator, you were trembling. Nervous to what he would say and daydreaming about how he’d man handle you after this.
They seemed to shut in slow motion, swallowing all the outside noise with them and leaving you two in deafening silence. You gripped the handle of your bag tighter.
“Jesus, y/n,” he shook his head, “You ever gonna be able to speak for yourself? Or are you gonna need me to come and pick up your scraps every fucking time?”
You rounded your eyes as you peered up at him submissively, just how he liked, to find him already staring down on you. Preying on you. Jaw clenched tight and jutted outwards.
“I’m sorry, sir. I thought I could handle myself without you. I thought I was doing good,” you know you weren’t. But you wanted him to tell you that you weren’t. You wanted him to tell you that you were nothing without him.
“You didn’t do shit,” he spits, “you stood there all pathetic and let them walk over you. Fucking embarassing.”
The elevator dinged open. You were dripping. Cheeks red. Lashes fluttering up at him. Legs wobbly and mind fuzzy.
He waited for you to leave the elevator before following suit, staying close behind until you reached your room.
And once you heard that click of the door unlock and the handle twist open, you were quivering in excitement for what would come next behind this closed door.
The room was ridiculously ginormous. Big for a group of fifteen, let alone two people who were constantly attached at the hip. They might as well have counted as one guest.
It was shimmering and spacious and gloriously luxurious. The curtains were pulled open to reveal the most beautiful view of the city you had ever seen, dazzling and high and something you knew was a treasure to get to lay your eyes on.
He followed you into his wealth, barely even acknowledging the space as he was used to it. This was an everyday encounter for him.
But he was watching you. He liked to watch your pretty little face as you took in what he gives you. How he spoils you. It was his favorite thing. He’d even felt himself growing hard just from your reaction to the hotel room.
“All this shit I do for you,” he tossed the key onto the entryway table, “fixing your problems. Treating you to expensive hotels. Buying you whatever you want. Don’t you think you owe me some gratitude? To give me something in return for once instead of swimming in my money like a brat?”
You knew he wasn’t serious. You knew it was play. He’d never expect anything from you in return. And, besides, you did well enough for him already. More than he could ever beg for.
“You’re right, sir, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be so greedy,” you say, walking closer towards him as he stands in front of the big window.
His eyes turn into themselves as he locks them on you, resting low and staring into your own with a straight face. So monotone that you nearly faint.
“Get to your knees,” he waves his head forward in demand, signaling for you to drop.
And you do, slow, teasing. Staring up at him with those big glossy eyes during your whole way down.
“Want you to choke on my cum,” he spits, “think you can piece together in your dumb little head how to do that right? Or do you need my help with that too?”
You were dizzy, drunk off of the man in front of you as you bruised your knees for him. You were embarrassingly wet and thought you might even cum while you sucked him off.
“I don’t know, sir,” you played, “Maybe just some help to get started…and then I’ll do it all by myself.”
You weren’t stupid. And he knew you weren’t. In fact, you were smart enough that you knew exactly what he wanted. Exactly how he wanted you to speak to him and exactly the kind of fuck toy he’d been dreaming of.
But, now, with you below him as he peered down to you, he wanted to imagine that you were that fucking dumb. That you were so ridiculously helpless that you couldn’t even shove a cock down your throat without stumbling.
“Fucking useless,” he mutters, taking off his belt for you like you weren’t smart enough to figure out how to do it on your own.
You watched in a daze, teeth sinking into your bottom lip in concentration. He undid his button after too, pulling the zipper down and even shoving all of his clothes off. So helpful to you.
You instinctively hummed at the sight of his rock hard cock in front of you, so big and rigged and swelling for you. His tip was a pretty bright red, aching for relief and glistening in the glory of his precum. It swung heavy against his thigh at the release, steadying now as it adjusts to the world outside of his boxers.
His balls hung low beneath his thick shaft, framing it perfectly and resting against the dark hairs of his thighs.
That was another thing that had you shaking—his thighs. Bare and exposed and paler than any part of his body. A piece that only you see. So raw and meaty and inviting. You lulled on what it feels like to have your wet folds dragging up them, running over his roaring tiger until you hissed just like it.
You lick your lips to keep in your drool, staring at the treat in front of you and not even noticing when your jaw goes slack. It was pure reflex—to open wide for his cock. You hadn’t even known you’d done it until you heard the dark scornful laughter above you.
“You’re a joke,” he taunts at the sight, and it does something sick to you.
Your thighs pressed even harder together than they already were as you kneeled, begging for some sort of friction.
You looked pathetic like this. Squirming on your knees and mouth spread open mindlessly. You even let your tongue fall out flat without thinking too, a silent beg for what was in front of you.
He grabs the base of himself, pulling his hips forward until his salty tip is laid against your tongue. He taps his crown three teasing times against the muscle, watching as your lips flinched in rejection of their reflex to close around you.
He pushed forward, holding your head still with his hand. His hand covered your entire scalp, the heel of his hand at the line of your forehead and the tips of his fingers curved to the back.
He fucked himself into your mouth slowly, pushing deeper than he should. But you didn’t care. You gagged and gurgled around his thick head and even sucked around the length as he did it.
“There we go,” he breathes low, “good for something.”
You moan around him, vibrating up him until it tingles at his balls. His hips stutter and quiver just barely against you, but it’s enough for you to notice and feel satisfied with yourself. You were making him feel good.
You were completely stuffed with his cock, dripping in bubbling saliva and throat aching. It throbbed back into you and slipped around and between your swelling lips, so pink and pretty wrapped around him.
He pushed into you again and again as your hands stayed resting on your lap. You hadn’t been given any instruction to touch him, yet. He was happy you behaved without being asked.
And you looked so pretty. Your rounded eyes were welling in tears and your cheeks were flushed in a deep mauve. You were taking him down your throat so good and you would never dare to complain of the pain he was inflicting onto you. It felt like heaven. In fact, you craved it. You were worried if you showed how much it stung that he would stop.
“Gonna fuck my fist to the thought of this later,” he groans, “letting me treat you like shit just like you let everyone else.”
You were crying around his cock at how turned on you were, how badly you wanted him to fuck you until you passed out. But you wanted this more, this was more fulfilling to you than any orgasm of your own.
He pulls his dick out of you and pinches your chin between his thumb and index finger, lifting your head further upwards to look at him. He examined your fucked face. The way you panted and the way you were swallowing to try and ease the pain in the back of your throat. The way you were looking back up at him, pleading and ready for more.
“Now do it by yourself,” he nudged, “like you said.”
You nodded and grasped the girth of him into your small hand, stroking softly around the skin covered in your saliva.
He exhaled long and deep at the feeling of your sweet hands around him, where they belonged. Hands grasping the hem of his shirt before tugging up and over his head, revealing his ink and the valleys of his abs.
You whimpered at the sight, darting your eyes around his bare chest in defeat. He just smirked at the little sound you made, pushing your hair out of your face as he took in your stare.
You grazed around every inch of him, going stupid at the distracting sight of his dark tattoos and the way they shrunk and stretched with every breath. You watched as they flinched with every sudden flex of his muscles, specifically when you squeezed his cock a little harder or stroked up a little closer to his tip.
“You see that?” He gestures to the butterfly on his stomach. You gasped soft as it moved, deep and slow with every breath he took. Staggered through the pleasure of your hand tugging on him.
“Yes, sir,” you nod, batting up at him as your strokes quickened absentmindedly. You were getting quite worked up, after all.
“Suck me off and watch it flap, baby,” he whispers low and gravelly as he watches you whine.
You obey instantly, locking your lips around his tip again and keeping your eyes up at his stomach. He looked incredible like this, the curve of his pecs so firm from this angle and covered in dark hairs.
You sucked and swirled and gagged around him. Taking him so good and you could tell by the way his face twitched that he liked it.
But you weren’t all that focused on his face. You were doing what was told of you, watching his pretty inked butterfly flutter and flap above you with every breath he took. Sometimes you could make the creature fly quicker, if you licked a certain spot or tugged a bit harder. It was an addicting game and even more addicting sight, one that you were sure you’d masturbate to for weeks on end.
And when you released the suction of your mouth with a pop and instead sucked around his balls, that butterfly flew.
He groaned at the dirty act and you hummed at the taste of them, sucking and rolling them around in your mouth like a filthy whore. Your hand continued to pump at his shaft as you did so, sometimes even massaging his frenulum at the same time which you noticed he liked the most.
His deep ink shuttered and flinched and shape shifted so many times that you felt dizzy, drooling around his heavy balls at the sight of his work melding over you.
“Fuck, y/n,” his hand found your head again, “just like that.”
It was the best thing you’d ever heard. You were so proud and so hungry for him still, even after all that you’ve been fed. He was squirming and twitching and falling undone right before you.
You pull off from his balls to reattach to his cock, replacing your mouth with a hand down there instead which he was relieved about. You peered up at him, exhausted but desperate as his stomach heaved.
“Am I doing good for you? Making you feel good?” You ask, hand still stroking his cock.
“You are, baby. Making up for all your other shit,” he nods, twitching into your hold as he tries to contain himself.
You smile to yourself as you wrap your lips around him again, sucking him hard and watching as his face corrupts into itself. You lapped your tongue around his throbbing head and shoved him down into you over and over and over again, suffocating yourself.
His thick cock pulsated a quick couple of times, and you knew he was about to cum. Your pace quickened and your hands worked overtime on his balls and up his shaft, desperately trying to get him there and have him satisfied.
“Fuck,” he groaned, “that’s right, tire yourself out. Sweat for me.”
You did. You pumped your arm and bobbed your head, working your tongue simultaneously and even humming around his tip to send the waves through to him. You were humiliatingly desperate for his cum and he was fucking obsessed.
He came into the back of your throat sudden and hot, spurting into you with a long and drawn out groan.
“Fuck, swallow it all. Don’t be selfish,” he demands and you quickly follow.
You swallowed up his thick salty insides and let it soothe down your throat, so yummy and addictive. You were obsessed with his cum. You were so fucking greedy for it, constantly craving it in your tummy and on your tongue. You were even wishing he could’ve come in your pussy instead of your mouth, because that’s where it belonged. You wanted his cum constantly swarming up inside of you and dripping out through your creases.
“Mmm,” you hum against him as it swirls in your belly and warms you up, milking him dry until his body relaxed his breathing steadied.
You pop him out of your mouth, kissing the tip before shimmying his underwear and pants pack up while he watches you. You were sweet—zipping them up and buttoning them too. Eyes squinted in concentration.
And when you stood up to face him, wiping your mouth dry with the back of your hand, he realized he had forgotten to kiss you.
So he wasted no time, pressing his lips against yours softly and falling into it in bliss. He tasted the remains of himself in your mouth as you kissed him back, face hot and hair ruffled.
Your hands fall against the back of his neck as the two of you kiss gently, a silent hello to one another as you sort of skipped over your initial greeting. Not that either of you were really complaining.
“How was work?” You ask softly as you pull away from his lips for a moment.
He chuckled, low and barely audible into your mouth. The casualness of your question after such a filthy act messing with his mind. You always did.
“It was good,” he nodded into you, “wrote about you.”
You pull away, hands on his cheeks as you look him deep in the eyes. You weren’t sure if he was toying with you—trying to see if you’d be gullible enough to believe it. But he wasn’t. You knew the second you looked at him.
“Really?”
He breathes out a laugh again, “yeah.”
And you just looked at him, a smile growing up your cheeks and chest swelling full.
“Can I hear it?” You ask, carefully. You weren’t really sure what the proper protocol is for when someone tells you they’re written a song about you. Especially when that someone is a world famous celebrity.
“Mhm,” he kisses your forehead, “why don’t you get into your PJs and wait for me on the bed. Okay?”
You nod with a shy smile, skipping away to your bag as you go to change for the night. The night that you’d be spending here, in this ridiculously expensive hotel room, with a hunk of a man sleeping next to you.
It really couldn’t get better than this.
Or maybe it could.
You’d have to hear the song first.
whew. anyway!
check out my recent work on wattpad -> here.
masterlist
ask anything! i keep all requests unanswered in my inbox until i have written them. that way i keep organized!!
⬆️I have a lot to get through, I will get to yours eventually if you submit!!!🩷🩷
ps i need some non-smutty one shots for my masterlist (i lit have none) so if u have ideas request!!
he can take u to the first, second, third floor!…harry takes u to his massive private estate in italy…and…read the request !
based on -> this request and this
CW: italy harry, mustache-rry, age gap, major wealth kink oops, brief mentions of smut, not my usual detail! mostly all plot! and lots of peacefully perfect scenarios for u to dream ab tn. 18+
likes and reblogs sooo appreciated!
WC: 7k
“So, are we close? It’s so hot in here,” you tried not to complain, as it was hard to do so when this was your life.
But it was the middle of July. And it was Italy. And the hunk of metal you were sitting passenger in had no AC. So you considered yourself justified.
“Almost,” he chuckled softly as his hand pressed to your thigh. “What’s got you so antsy?”
You could be honest.
You could tell him that his biceps have been shining in sweat the whole drive and that his whitened knuckles against the steering wheel had you choked up. That his mustache was kissing the top of his pink lips perfectly and that his hair was swaying in the breeze a little too seductively.
But you don’t. Not yet, anyway.
“Just so hot,” you press your head back, “aren’t you hot?”
He turns his attention away from the empty road to face you, squinting at your squirming body in the leather next to him. You were hot and damp with sweet sweat, hair tied back to a loose bun and collarbones shadowing your skin.
Your nipples were perky through your white thin tank top, despite the extreme heat, which gave him just the subtlest hint of what’s really going on. Jaw jutted out and cheek resting against your hand, peering out the open window and blending into the beautiful scene behind you.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he rubbed higher up your thigh, “we’ll be there soon.”
You really weren’t there soon. At least it didn’t feel soon. It felt like five eternities before you pulled into the gravelled driveway, tires crunching against the surface and sun hiding behind the structure in front of you.
Perched high above the coastline, the estate looked less like a house and more like something that had simply grown out of the cliffs themselves.
There was sun warmed stone and deep greenery that spread across the siding like it was built into the blue print. The view stretched endlessly, scattered mountains and a trickling stream that looked ever so refreshing in the unbearable heat.
The car continued slowly up the long, winding drive lined with cypress trees, each one tall and perfectly still.
The air smelled faintly of salt and citrus, lemon groves tucked in behind hills, their branches heavy with fruit. Their soft yellow was classic against dark green leaves, contrasting against each other and brightening in the beaming sun.
You basked in the sound of trickled water pouring from a carved stone fountain, splashing into a fresh water pool coated in soft moss and smoother stone.
It was the most inviting thing you’ve ever seen, glistening against the shine of the sun and rippling in cooling waves.
The estate itself was vast and indescribable. Arched doorways, stained windows thrown open to let the breeze swim freely inside. Sheer white curtains drifted with the breeze lazily, catching the light in a luminous glow.
You could only assume those polished floors have stayed cool even in the heat of the afternoon, dreaming of the shock that would shift up your limbs at the initial step inside.
It didn’t just feel luxurious.
It felt private. Untouchable. Like a world that existed entirely on its own.
A world that your ridiculously wealthy boyfriend was happy to spoil you with. His baby, the only thing he cared about and the only thing that could possibly be more beautiful than the view in front of you.
As the car came to a stop, you tore your gaze away from the mansion and flicked towards Harry with a gaping smile.
“Harry.”
“What?” He asked through a smile, knowing what you would say but wanting to hear you say it.
“This can’t be real. Is this real?” You point out the open window to the home next to you, so large that you could really only see a small portion of it from the driveway.
“It’s nice, right?” He’s smiling, soft and proud of himself for that grin he’s put on your face. More rewarding than anything else could be.
“Nice?” You hold his face between your hands. “Thank you, baby. Thank you so much for bringing me here. It’s beautiful.”
His cheeks smush into each other through your hold, eyes glistening up at you as he basks in your gratitude.
You were always grateful for what he brought to your life. More than you needed to be, and it always had him falling shy.
“Do you want a house tour?” He asks softly, kissing the palm of your hand as it rests against his cheek bone.
You were quick to accept, of course.
After a quick kiss and a little hop out of the vintage car, the two of you decided to leave your luggage in the trunk and deal with it later. You wanted to soak into your arrival first, focus on what’s in front of you and organize all your shit later.
You pressed the thick wooden door open, which drowned in the growing emerald carpet of soft bloomed moss. And once you laid your eyes on what lived inside, your legs were clenching tight together.
The air shifted immediately once you stepped inside. It was cooler, quieter. The subtle trace of polished wood flooding to your nose.
The entry stretched high above you, tall and wide and soaked in the amber natural light of the roasting sun.
The room felt grand and effortless, like the house had nothing to prove and was just naturally this captivating. The sheer white curtains painted slow shifting patterns onto the chilled tile beneath you, brushing in cold air and soothing the sweat on your skin.
To one side, an open archway exposed the rest of the mindnumbingly gorgeous home, where light and space seemed to float endlessly.
To the other, a sweeping staircase curved upward in beautiful craftsmanship, the kind of railing you’d instinctively draw your fingers along as you walked without having to think about it.
“This is the foyer,” he calls from behind you, his hands resting on your hips, “one of my favorite rooms in the house.
“Harry,” you shake your head and walk further in, “this is so beautiful. Wow.”
He smiles behind you, kissing down on the back of your scalp as he pulls you into the room. You slipped your foot-flops off and let your bare feet pad against the cold tiles, melting into the relief of some heat lessening after all this time.
And as you took in the gently detailed wood and the crackled texture of the tall beige walls, you felt yourself biting down on your bottom lip in habit.
It was his money that you brought you here. His talent that spoiled you in wealth and let you reside in an Italian paradise.
Then there was him.
Standing in the center of his riches and pulling a hand through the thick locks on his head. The cotton of his t-shirt was stuck to his skin in a sweaty mess, dampening the stripes to a faded sheer as he stepped closer to you.
You scanned over his body, the rugged curve of his muscles pressing against the thread of his sleeves and the gentle flex of his quads with every step.
He looked beautiful this peaceful. Completely rid of the stress that usually laid upon him and instead fully immersed in the haven that held him and his cute little lover.
The moment his eyes laid on yours, they fell low. Lazy and calm and looking almost drunk in bliss.
And then they fell.
Lower.
Locked to your perky chest and even drifting to the small sliver of your exposed waist. You looked unreal in the warm glow of his entryway, sweating and tired and staring at him in the way you do when you’re hungry for one specific thing.
So, when you noticed his lingering gaze and the way it soared back and forth over your glistening chest, you decided you just couldn’t take the heat anymore.
You pulled the white cotton up and over your head, allowing your tits to spring out and solidify at the sudden breeze.
It was absurdly relieving, finally soothing the unbearable heat and letting your skin soak into the air around you.
You were so focused on your relief that you barely noticed the way Harry’s eyes stuttered and his chest jolted.
“Mm, much better,” you grin, “I was just so hot. Aren’t you hot?”
You knew how fucked up this was. How it was messing with his pretty head and tingling in his tummy.
“Yeah,” he nods slowly, eyes locked on your bare nipples. “Really, really hot.”
“Sooo,” you continue to walk through the room, only in your little denim shorts, “aren’t you gonna show me around?”
He clears his throat, returning his gaze to yours with a shaky nod and quipped smile.
He was genuinely intimidated by you, like he always was.
You were young and perky and everything was so smooth and tasted so sweet. You were so fragile in his mind, and he would be sure to keep you satisfied so you’d never leave him.
He was sure he could never be fulfilled by the touch of another woman again after you. He didn’t even want to think about it.
He came back behind you to let his hands fall back to your hips, pressing you slowly into the home until you were brought into his luxuriously wide kitchen.
It was warm and inviting in the way that felt lived in yet calmly organized. It smelled faintly of lemon zest and a sweet citrus—like there was a leftover bowl of the fruit baking in the sun and working as a natural freshener.
At the center of the room stood a massive wooden island, the top working as an absurdly large cutting board and the base bezeled in quirky details and a mash of stone.
It was the sort of space that made you want to linger, the sort of space that had your blood pressure dropping just from being in its presence.
You were soaking in every aspect about the room, gawking at the high ceilings and the way the sun reflected off of the shining oven. It was almost sexy how gorgeous it was.
Harry wasn’t looking at the space the way you were.
He was looking at you that same way instead.
The way your back curved into the low line of your little shorts, the way your ass hung out the ends and creased into your thigh with every step. How your full tits hung high on your chest and glistened in a thin layer of Italian heat.
“Harry, this is—”
“You look beautiful,” he cuts into your line, walking towards you until you fumble back into the island.
You couldn’t suppress your grin as his hands fell to your hips, holding you firm against the slab of wood and mindlessly rubbing circles into the skin. He was towered over you, lost in you as he searched for a spot to land.
“Thank you,” you say, cheeks fading to a cute pink.
His fingers come to brush a loose strand from your bun back in place, grazing over your scalp softly before resting on your jaw. Everything he did was slow, calculated. Like he knew exactly what his next move was and just how to execute it.
You were nervous now, shy under his hold and batting your bare lashes up at him. The cool flow of the AC seemed to have coincidentally disappeared as you two grew closer, faces inches apart and bodies slowly melding.
“What do you wanna show me next?” You whisper out, unsure of how to proceed and just deciding to stick with the innocent continuation of the house tour.
He smiled at this. At you.
At your cute attempt to keep things light even when you were half naked and pressed against his counter.
“What do you wanna see?” He asks low, shifting his head closer to yours until your eyes have to turn in a bit to see him.
“Um,” you fumble, “all of it, so, it’s up to you.”
You don’t know why you always got as nervous as you did.
You’d been with him for some time now and he’s never made you feel anything other than safe and loved. But when he stood over you like this, looking at you the way he was, you felt yourself sinking.
He just deepens his smirk and nods at his fragile little thing. Always so worked up and putty for him.
He let his eyes fall off from your face and down to your exposed chest again, taking a nice and long deep breath once he met his target.
It was fucked up—what this did to him. What you did to him.
He couldn’t help himself when he let his hands slide up to what he was staring at, aching for a feel and the taste of your honeyed sweat. Your eyes fluttered into themselves at the feeling of his hands cupped around your breasts, keeping his hold gentle but firm all the same.
His lips came to press against your cheek and around your jaw as he massaged the tissue, sighing into your skin in bliss.
“Think you're funny walking around half naked?” His lips move lower to your neck as he pinches your nipples between his finger tips.
“I was hot, I promise,” you say, not knowing why you felt like you had to defend yourself but you did. Even when you knew what you were doing. You weren’t stupid.
“I’m sure, baby,” he chuckles into your collarbone now, hunching over until he’s just above your goosebumped breasts.
It was sickeningly pleasing, his sloppy wet kisses swashed around with his playing fingers.
And he kept you pinned up against there for a while. Toying with your exposed chest and kissing the tanned skin haphazardly.
It was a quick pit stop on your tour—a little lap around his favorite place and a little something to get his tip dripping into itself.
Once he felt satisfied at the sounds of your airy moans and gentle exhales, he pulled away. Kissing your lips just once before grabbing your hand and tugging you through the kitchen. Leaving you fucking aching for him with a boiling heat between your thighs.
It was sick. He was sick in the head. Truly.
But, you obliged. You didn’t put up a fit. You just skipped along with him to the next room of his luxurious estate, hand in his with rosy cheeks.
“This is, like, the main space,” he starts, “I actually wanted to buy this place just because of this room, for hosting and such. But I’ve only ever had 3 people here so it’s kind of just…for me. I guess.”
It was absolutely beautiful.
It was clear it was the heart of the home, and it was also quite clear why it was the driving force in Harry’s purchase. It was impossibly large but somehow still warm, fading into a place that was meant to be sunk into. That was meant to be resting in.
The first thing you noticed was the gap in the walls, large and overbearing, that lead right into the mystic backyard of the estate.
There was nothing blocking the meet of the inside and outside world, and it all sort of faded into one thing. Like the house didn’t stop at the walls. Like it continued into the countryside and curved up the mountains that showed miles away.
“3 people?” you ask and he turns to face you to meet your bright smile, beaming up at him as your feet dance over one another nervously.
“Yeah,” his lips curve upward too now, “just you and some family.”
Your face blushed at the admission and you stepped further into the space, taking in the architecture around you and really breathing into the moment.
You, here, your boyfriend, a beautifully lux home to reside in.
You thought you might as well be dreaming.
Your bare feet pattered against the cool tile softly as you crossed over onto the open terrace, immediately swept back into the heat and suddenly even more grateful for your lack of clothes.
Harry came to stand beside you, hair shifting a bit through a subtle breeze and his eyes lightening just a tinge in the natural rays. He looked angelic, basking in the amber glow of the hot sun and surrounded by an undeniably breathtaking yard.
And then, his shirt came off.
So quick that you nearly missed it, but how could you when it was the sight that it was?
His swollen pecs, cinched waist with the fluttering breaths of his abs. If he looked angelic before, now he was completely celestial.
You stare at his chest, shimmering in the sun as you swallow your drool. Your eyes are back up to his after a few seconds of lingering, hungry and full all at the same time.
“You’re right. It’s too hot for clothes,” he mutters out, a sly smirk on his face due to your stares.
“Mhm,” you were dizzy, “too hot. Really, really hot.”
You were stuck in a daze.
It genuinely felt like the sight of his bare skin had you slapped stupid, falling under a spell the moment you zeroed in on his tanned chest.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” He coos, stepping further onto the balcony and resting his forearms against the thick stone railing. He was peering out onto the land in front of you two, sighing in contempt and arching his back inwards just slightly.
You move to join him, resting your arms against the same thick slab of stone.
“It is,” you nod, “thank you so much for bringing me here. It’s unreal, really.”
He turns to look at you, to thank you, to kiss you for how sweet you are to him and push your forehead against his in an innocent gesture.
But, your tits are hanging off your chest as you lean over the balcony.
So that all goes out the window pretty quick.
“Um,” he clears his throat, trying to avoid staring at your chest for too long, “of course. I’ve wanted to bring you here for a while.”
He was red. Breaths unsteady and tugging at the insides of his cheek in a busy tic.
You shift closer to him, shoulders touching now as you let out an overly dramatic sigh.
Maybe because you felt like it.
Also maybe because you wanted his attention to stay on you.
“Y’okay?” He asks, purposely avoiding your gaze. He can’t. It’d go right down south again and he had a respectable reputation to maintain.
“Mhm, just a little uncomfortable. Been awhile since I’ve been in this type of heat. It has to be, what, like 98 degrees?”
You turn to face him now, standing up straighter as you're not leaning against the railing anymore. A relief to Harry as it was easier to avoid your bare chest when your breasts weren’t dangling off his expensive terrace.
“It’s 102,” he nods, facing you now, “figured we could go for a swim soon.”
“Thank god,” you groan, bringing your hands to pop open the button of your little shorts before running the zipper down.
Harry’s eyes jolt down to your quick fingers, taking a thick swallow and shutting his eyes tight for just a moment.
And when you shrug your little denim shorts down your thighs and pull your feet out of them, you’re left in nothing but your sweet cotton thong and a smile on your face.
“Y/n.” he warns, breathing in slowly as he scratches the back of his head.
“What? I thought we were going for a swim?” You say as if it’s obvious, as if you of course had to be practically naked on his terrace.
He turns to face you, nudging his neck to the side in a desperate call for some sort of tension relief. You tilt your head as he closes the distance between you two, hands resting on the small of your waist and shifting around mindlessly.
“You’re lucky you’re cute,” he scolds, face serious and playful all at once.
“I’m lucky you think I’m cute.”
He just smiles.
Deeper this time, like he really thinks you mean that.
The two of you sat in this sort of comfortable silence for just a bit, inhaling each other's exhales and bathing in the gentle touch of one another’s skin.
His hands came to slip behind your thighs, lifting you up gently and placing you on the thick top of the stone railing. The grain of the ledge pressed into your smooth skin, imprinting itself onto you and gritting against you like sand paper.
“Harry,” you giggle, “what if I fall?”
His hands were placed on your lower back in a secure hold, keeping you upright from the small drop to the ground beneath you.
“You won’t,” he shook his head, pressing his face closer to yours. Your legs had wrapped around his waist instinctively, further anchoring yourself from the risk of your seat on the railing.
Somehow, those two vague words were enough for you to believe him.
He wouldn’t let you fall. He’d hold you tight, guarding you with his life and letting the gentle breeze spread across your bare skin from high on the terrace.
It didn’t take long for him to press his lips to yours once more, delicately spreading your mouth open with his warm tongue and lapping you up soulfully. He was savoring you, meshing himself slowly into you and letting his hands roam free.
The adrenaline of your place on the stone railing and the feeling of being here, in Harry’s private estate, lodged in a secret corner of Italy, had your head spinning. He was melting into you and nagging at every inch of skin he could access, desperate for more of you even when he had everything in front of him.
And then, after a bit of kissing and heavy panting against each other, you couldn’t act too surprised when his fingers snipped your panties to the side.
He was more than pleased to feel your heavy arousal soaking into his fingers, sweet and thick and pooling in your thong.
He figured he’d give you a quick orgasm right then, because what’s more euphoric than hitting that release perched atop an Italian day dream?
So he did. His fingers worked miracles between your thighs until you were gasping and squirming against him, desperately trying to continue kissing him but failing miserably through your moans.
It was a heavenly sight—his precious baby coming on his fingers with the contrast of an indescribable landscape behind her. You were glowing in a sheen of sweat, pouring all your trust in him as he held you up safely on the ledge.
Once you finally came down from your quick excursion, he was right back to regularly scheduled programming.
Back to the tour and showing you around the dream house, half naked.
As it should be, of course.
You lose track after a while. One room melting into the next. A sunlit sitting room with linen couches and wide open windows, a quiet study lined with dark wood and books you don’t stop to read, an extra bedroom washed in soft beige and pops of deep emerald where the curtains move lazily in the heat.
Each space is beautiful in its own way, carefully designed, effortlessly rich.
But it all blurs.
Because he’s always there.
Just behind you as you step through another doorway, just beside you as you pause to take something in. His hand finds your waist like they belong there, like they might just perish if they stay lonesome for too long. Brushing past you in narrow hallways, lingering long enough to make your breath hitch and your limbs freeze.
By the time you reach the end of the hall, you’re not paying attention to the house anymore. How could you?
“This,” he pushes a wide wooden door open, “is our bedroom.”
Our bedroom.
A little sanctuary for you and him and all things private.
And it wasn’t actually little, either. The space was massive. Wide and open and beautifully crafted in a way that echoed with him.
It was a room that couldn’t possibly belong to anyone but Harry, the details defined perfectly and wrapped into one another in one big cohesive mosaic.
“Our bedroom, hm?” You spin to face him with a tiny grin, taking slow steps into the space and breathing it in.
“S’nice, isn’t it? Here, come to the washroom,” he picked up his pace a bit, to a slow jog, and pressed into the door that lined against the room. You follow quickly behind him, peeking your head over and around his tall figure until you’ve made contact with the most amazing sight you have ever seen.
The bathroom is enormous, and even that’s an understatement.
Easily bigger than most apartments, and every inch of it makes it painfully obvious just how rich he really is. Just how spoiled you are and how lucky you’ve found yourself to be.
Smooth stone stretches from floor to ceiling, veined with soft whites, a freestanding tub positioned perfectly in front of towering glass doors that open straight out to a view of the yard like it’s nothing. Like the vallied mountains and yellowed trees are an average sight.
The shower alone looks bigger than an entire bedroom, all glass and polished colorful tile, clearly picked out by him.
Even the smallest details feel expensive—thick, perfectly folded towels, the faint scent of citrus in the air, everything untouched and pristine.
It’s not just beautiful, it’s the kind of space that makes you realize he has more money than you can even comprehend.
“Literally what the hell,” you gawk, “this is insane, Harry. Do you know that? It’s really important to me that you’re aware how insane this is.”
A low laugh echoes behind you as he sneaks his arms around your bare stomach, resting his head between your neck and shoulder like it belonged there.
“Definitely a bit insane,” he nods, “but I like insane. And I think you like insane too.”
You spin around in his hold, your bare chests now pressed up against one another as you squint up at him in a sly smile.
“And that’s supposed to mean…?”
“It means you’re addicted to this. This house. Just for us. My money. Just for you,” he shrugs through the words with his nose against yours, a coy smirk smacked onto his cocky face.
You bite your cheek through your smile as you keep your eyes locked to his, faces so close that you can barely hear yourself think let alone figure out the right words to say.
“Is that so bad?” You ask, finger trailing down between his swollen pecs in a slow tease.
“Mm-mm,” he shakes his head, “wouldn’t say that.”
His lips brush against yours, barely there but a whisper of what could be. A whisper of you needed to happen.
And when his lips finally pressed against yours for the millionth time today, you let your mind wander as he spread your mouth apart.
You thought about him fucking you up against the grand vanity behind you. About him pounding into you as held you tight against the shower walls. You even thought about his dick resting still inside of you while you took a hot bath together, falling limp but keeping you with the company you needed.
“Baby,” you pull back from his lips, barely getting away as he pulls closer to yours in a desperate heat.
“Hm?”
“Think I want you to fuck me for a little,” you coo in a sensual exhale, wrapping your fingers behind his neck to keep him close to you.
“You think so?”
“Mhm,” you hum into him, the heat between your thighs growing as he presses the teeth of his smile against you.
So he did.
Everywhere.
He had you bent over the sink, thrusting into you relentlessly until you soaked his thick cock in your arousal.
Then he took you to the open window, fucking you good and long as you peered out at the daunting view.
At some point you were held up in the air as you wrapped your legs around his waist, bouncing into the high ceilinged room with long moans singing around the space.
He even had you sitting pretty, legs spread, on the wooden bureau of the bedroom. Fucking himself deep into you until his face twisted and he filled you up with his salty cum.
And after a couple minutes of soft recovery and just a little bit of much-needed clean up, you two were trotting back outside like nothing ever happened.
Like he didnt just fuck you around his dazzling villa until your head spun clean off your neck.
“We never made it to the pool,” you point out, hand in his as you walk across the terrace once again.
You even giggled a bit when you locked eyes on the stone railing, raveling in the memory of his fingers curled deep inside of you as you hung off the edge.
“We have all day,” he kisses your forehead, “we can swim a bit.”
You smile into his side, skipping down the steps with him until your feet were planted on the soil. You were both essentially naked, only dressed in underwear and nothing else. It was better that way. Regardless of you two’s undying sex drive, it was far too hot for any sort of clothing and you both knew it.
The grass is impossibly green beneath their feet as they walk, fertile and lively with every step. Just a few feet ahead lies the sunken in fresh water that they’d both been dreaming of, the surface a still glass inside of the stone frame.
It was heavenly. Gently rippling in the breeze and glimmering against the beaming sun.
You let your feet patter against the rock that held the water first, tip toeing against the gritted texture as you peered down into the pool beneath you. It was deliciously inviting, and somehow, even with its natural dig into the soil, stayed perfectly clear.
You dipped your toes into the water as Harry stood behind you, waiting patiently for you to step in before he did himself.
You know, at the slight chance that you change your mind.
The water was cool against the dripping heat of the day, hidden in a small cast of shade and coated in the spring fed greenery.
“Can we play a game?” you peer back at him, the cutest twinge of desperation on your face.
“Sure,” he nods through a soft chuckle, “anything you want.”
He’s said that same phrase so many times today that you lost count, completely swimming in the euphoria of being with him. Of being with a man. Someone who’s provided you with such a glorious life and treats you like you deserve clouds to walk on.
You two spent the rest of the afternoon in the little pool, eventually stripping completely and letting your slick bodies float in the fresh water.
He was never too far from you in the little enclosure, whether it was a hand on your back or a finger through your straggled hair.
He even fucked you another time, a little too worked up after an intense hand stand competition.
Everytime you dove under the water and your ass flipped up and into the water, he could barely keep his composure at the sight of your little slit between your legs. After a couple of your tries and some half-assed tries of his own, he was fucking himself into you beneath the water until you came undone around him once again.
And then of course, the competition resumed.
You won. By a mile.
~
The rest of your time in Italy settled into something that didn’t feel like days so much as long stretches of time. Warm, unhurried, and peacefully endless. Like there was nothing else on the planet you two walked on other than the haven you’d curated.
The jaw dropping estate became your new normal without ever trying too hard. It was your home base. A place you’d never even dream of leaving.
Mornings always began the same way—sunlight pouring through tall windows, spilling across tiled floors and linen sheets, the air still soft with sleep.
You’d usually find him first in the kitchen before you, already halfway awake, leaning against the wide island like he’d been there for hours even when he hadn’t.
He was almost always without a shirt, only adorned in a loose little pair of linen shorts that were too short for his own good.
“You’re up early,” you’d say, pattering on the tile with soft bare feet.
He would always just glance over, hair messy, voice low and calm. Calm in the way that can only be achieved through a much-needed getaway with a lover.
“Didnt want to miss you waking up.”
And somehow, he always knew what to say.
Just like that. Like he was a walking breathing boyfriend-bot who was molded through your deepest imagination.
Breakfast was never rushed.
Coffee in oversized mugs, sometimes tea if his stomach felt fuzzy. He told you it tended to do so when he was out of the country. Fresh fruit got left out on random surfaces, conversations drifted without needing direction. Sometimes even silence, if that was what felt right. There was never too much pressure to fill it.
You both spent a good amount of time in the local village, where everything felt smaller and always kinder than the world you’d left behind.
Each day that went on was a new piece of your escape, slowly fading all the stress and terror of your real life back at home.
Narrow streets sat between sun faded colorful buildings. Endless balconies spilling flowers over iron railings, shop doors left open to the breeze. The air always smelled fresh and full of the serenity you’d longed for.
He never walked past anything you looked at twice without noticing.
“You like that one,” he’d say once, stopping beside you outside a small shop, nodding toward something in the window.
Something you accidentally stared a little too hard at. A long flowing dress in a beautifully pale yellow.
“It’s just a dress,” you’d reply, trying not to smile. He always saw through it.
He even thought it was a bit silly that you felt the need to hide your desire for things. Things you both knew he would get you.
“Well c’mon, you can wear it to dinner tonight,” he’d say simply, like it was a plain task and never a burden. Always already stepping inside before you could stop him.
“Harry, you don’t have to–”
“I know,” he’d cut you off gently, glancing back at you with a look that made it clear he didn’t see it as a question at all, “I want to.”
And just like that, it was done.
A small moment that kept happening, in different ways, all day long. All week long, really.
A ring you glanced at too long. A book you picked up and put back down. A scarf you touched once before walking away. Every time, his hand would find your waist, or your fingers, or the small of your back and guide you over to the register.
Forget a price tag, he didn't even attempt to look for one.
Afternoons were slower. You were never really in a rush to go anywhere. It was better that way.
Sometimes you stayed in together, moving between rooms in the estate without any real purpose, doors open so the soft breeze could drift through. Other times, you’d end up back in town, exploring the area and sinking into the peace of the culture.
The pool became one of those places you always drifted back to. Fresh water, cool against the sun, framed by stone that stayed warm under bare feet. You’d always step in first, letting out quiet breaths at the initial shock of it. Such a contrast from the heat of the days.
“Too cold?” he’d ask, watching you with a small smile. A small that never truly left throughout your time away.
“It’s perfect,” you’d say back, even if you had to adjust for a second.
He’d follow you in moments later, and suddenly the distance between you would disappear again.
Evenings were always more than fun. Maybe even what you looked forward to the most. Getting ready became slow and effortless.
He would never rush you.
Just open wardrobes, soft music, no real urgency. Quick pecks to your lips as he filtered in and out of your bedroom.
He was always ready long before you. He didn't mind. He enjoyed watching as you curled your lashes and pressed shining powders to your cheekbones.
He was even mesmerized when you used your air wrap to curl your hair, captivated by the sight of you skillfully blowing out your locks.
You nearly peed yourself when he tried to use it on you. He was so confident that he’d get it right, especially after all the time he had spent watching you. It didnt take long for him to discover it was a talent that took some practice.
Dinner was almost always somewhere small, tables set outside where the night air stayed warm and everything felt alive.
You would end up at the same places more than once. The kind of restaurants where the chairs didn’t match each other, the wine came in slightly different glasses every time, and the owner always remembered them. Even after just one visit.
“Ah, you’re back,” the man would say with a grin when you walked in again one night.
“We liked it,” he’d reply easily, like it was obvious. Always keeping a hand curved to your back and a soft smile to the staff.
You were sure they were happy to see his face. Especially with the size of the bills you two had been racking up.
You always ordered an array of choices. Pastas, pizzas, seafoods, salads, different breads.
Wine always started as just one glass and somehow never stayed that way. Not even close, really. And as the buzz from the drinks reached your temple, he somehow looked even more delicious than the pastina on your chipped plate.
“You’re staring again,” he’d say eventually, catching you looking at you instead of your plate.
You’d just blink like you hadn’t realized, “am I?”
“Think it’s safe to say you are.”
A small pause.
Gentle looks of playful flirting.
Then, quieter, “can’t help it.”
He always agreed. If anything, he was worse than you were.
By the time you would leave, the streets were darker and quieter. Soft yellow lamps and open windows glowing from inside.
You’d always walk slowly, not because you had to, but because there was nowhere else to be. It was a unique sort of freedom that neither of you have really experienced before. His hand would find yours without thinking, fingers slipping together like muscle memory.
“You’re walking too fast again,” he’d say when you tripped slightly on uneven stone.
He knew the wine was half to blame.
“I’m not,” you’d insist, almost offended as you laughed under your breath.
“You are,” he’d squeeze your hand once, “Slow down. Just walk with me.”
And you wouldn’t argue after that.
Back at the estate, everything softened again. The world outside stopped mattering once the wide wooden door closed behind them. Most times, you’d end up on the terrace with a final glass of wine.
Maybe two final glasses. Three if you started to feel addicted to the laughter.
Your feet were bare against warm stone, the hills stretching endlessly in the distance. Even the silence felt full there.
He set up a wine tasting for you one evening, too. Bottles opened across the long island, glasses lined up carefully as he spoke in an adorably formal way. He poured slowly, watching your reaction more than his own. That’s what really mattered, anyway.
“This one’s better,” he said after a sip, nodding slightly with pursed lips.
“You said that about the last one.”
“Because it was true,” he replied, shrugging with a casual smile.
You wanted to pour the wine right into that dimple and slurp it up that way. A real classy experience.
You laughed softly, “You’re impossible.”
“And yet,” he said, setting his glass down and looking at you with a soft grin, “you’re still here.”
The night didn’t rush toward an ending. It never did. It lingered instead. Music playing low from somewhere inside the house, windows open to the warm air, the two of you moving through the space like it belonged to you now as much as it belonged to him.
And it did, in his eyes.
After this, this would never be his place again. He would never see it again without you in it.
And every day ended the same way it had started. Not planned, not structured, just lived.
Together.
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Summary: Your new neighbor is a nightmare: loud music, endless parties, zero respect for anyone trying to sleep. After weeks of putting up with it, you finally storm over at 2 a.m. ready to rip him a new one.
Warnings: cursing, hate fuck, dirty talk, very mild choking
Word Count: 2,281
...
A dreadful bass thumps through your bedroom wall. Again.
It's 2:17 a.m. on a Wednesday, and the party next door shows no signs of slowing down. Laughter, clinking bottles, and some obnoxious indie-rock song with a heavy bassline vibrate through the thin plaster that separates your apartment from his. You've only been in this building six months, and the last three have been pure hell ever since he moved in.
You still haven't even seen the guy.
Just the constant evidence of his existence: empty beer cans in the hallway, cigarette smoke drifting onto your balcony, and these relentless late-night raves that shake your furniture.
Your apartment is usually your sanctuary. Soft lighting from the warm floor lamp in the corner, a cream-colored couch piled with thrifted throw pillows, the faint scent of vanilla from the candle you lit hours ago still lingering in the air. Your laptop sits open on the coffee table with half-finished work you've been too exhausted to finish. The walls are a soft sage green, your bed dressed in fresh white linen.
Tonight the noise crawls under your skin like ants. You've tried earplugs. White noise. Pillows over your head.
Nothing works when the bass feels like it's inside your ribcage.
You lie there staring at the ceiling, jaw clenched so tight it aches. Frustration simmers, hot and vicious, mixing with the bone-deep exhaustion that's been building for weeks. You're not confrontational. You never have been. You smile at neighbors, keep your music low, and mind your business. But something inside you finally snaps.
''Fuck this,'' you mutter, throwing the covers off.
You don't bother changing out of your pajamas, an old shirt and grey cotton shorts, just grab your keys and slam the door shut behind you.
Your socked feet thump against the cool hardwood as you storm out of your apartment, heart pounding with rage. The hallway lights buzz overhead, casting everything in a sickly yellow glow. His door is only ten steps away, but every step fuels the fire higher. The music grows louder the closer you get. You can hear muffled voices, someone laughing too loud. Your fist slams against his door before your brain catches up with your body, three sharp, angry knocks that make your knuckles sting.
The seconds stretch. You're breathing hard, chest rising and falling rapidly, fists still balled at your sides. Part of you hopes he doesn't answer so you can just scream into the void and go back to bed. Another, angrier part wants blood.
Then the door swings open.
And every furious word you prepared dies on your tongue.
Your neighbor is incredibly attractive.
And shirtless.
Sweat glistens on tan skin stretched over lean, toned muscle. Ink covers his chest and arms, tattooed ferns curling around his hipbones that disappear into the waistband of low-slung black sweatpants. His curls are messy, pushed back like he's been running his hands through them. A silver cross necklace rests against his collarbones.
His lips curve in a lazy smirk, his green eyes dragging slowly down your body before flicking back up to your face.
He looks like the poster boy for bad decisions.
The apartment behind him is chaos. Dim lighting, empty bottles and red solo cups scattered across every surface, clothes tossed over the back of a worn-out leather couch, tequila spilled on the kitchen island. The air that wafts out is thick with beer, cigarettes and cologne.
''Well,'' he drawls, voice low and raspy, clearly amused. One tattooed arm braces against the doorframe, making the muscles in his shoulder and bicep flex. ''Can I help you, neighbor?''
The smirk on his face is infuriating. Arrogant. Like he already knows exactly why you're here and finds it cute.
All the rage that carried you across the hallway surges back hotter than before. Your eyes narrow, fists tightening as you glare up at him.
You don't waste another second.
''Are you fucking kidding me?'' you snap, voice sharp enough to cut glass. ''It's two in the morning on a Wednesday. Some of us have actual jobs and need to sleep. Your shitty music has been shaking my walls for weeks. I can feel my bed vibrating. I've had enough.''
Harry leans against the doorframe like he has all the time in the world, the movement making the muscles in his chest and abdomen flex under the ink. His eyes drag over your bare legs again, slow and deliberate, before returning to your face. That lazy, dopey smile stays firmly in place, half-lidded and far too amused.
''Hi to you too, neighbor,'' he quips. ''I get the feeling I'm doing you a favor by making your bed vibrate. Seems like you need it, baby.''
Heat floods your face, and you're so frustrated with this handsome stranger you're pretty sure there's steam coming out of your ears.
''Don't call me baby, you ass. And don't look at me like that,'' you hiss, stepping closer and jabbing a finger into his bare chest. God, his skin is warm. ''I've been polite. I've dealt with the cigarette smoke on my balcony, the random girls giggling in the hallway at 4 a.m., the bass that feels like it's drilling into my skull. Turn. It. Down.''
He glances down at your finger still pressed against his sternum, then back up at you with an even wider smirk.
''Feisty,'' he murmurs, almost impressed. ''I like that. Most people just leave passive aggressive notes. You've got fire. It's cute.''
''Cute?'' You laugh bitterly, but your pulse is hammering. ''I'm trying to sleep. You throw these parties like you own the fucking building. Newsflash: you don't, dipshit. So don't use it as a nightclub.''
Harry bites his lower lip, clearly fighting a grin as he looks down at you. The scent of him, warm skin, cheap cologne, and most of all, alcohol, wraps around you in the small space between your bodies.
''You're really worked up, huh?'' His voice drops lower, teasing. ''You sure you came all the way over here just to complain?''
Your mouth falls open. The audacity makes your blood boil even hotter.
''I can help with that, y'know. That tension.'' He smiles smugly.
''You are unbelievable,'' you spit back, stepping even closer until you're nearly chest to chest and you have to look up at him. ''I want you to shut the fuck up and let me sleep, not fuck me.''
Harry's smile doesn't falter. If anything, it turns filthier. He tilts his head, a stray curl falling messily over his forehead as he studies you like you're the most entertaining thing he's seen all night.
''Who said anything about fucking?'' he points out, pleased with himself. ''I meant that I've got some... herbs you might wanna try. But I'm down for that hook-up as well, since you're clearly thinking about it and I'm feeling charitable tonight. Seems like it's been a while for you.''
You want to punch his smug yet beautiful face.
''God, you're disgusting,'' you shoot back, but your voice wavers just slightly. ''Move your parties somewhere else. I don't care how hot you think you are, I want peace and quiet.''
He pushes off the doorframe, closing the last bit of distance until you have to tilt your head back to keep glaring at him. The hard lines of his bare chest brush against the front of your thin shirt.
You hate that the contact sends electricity racing across your skin. Hate even more that he notices.
''You keep saying that,'' he murmurs, eyes dark, ''but you're standing here yelling at me in your pajamas instead of calling the cops. Makes me think you like coming over here and looking at me half-naked.''
Your breath catches. The hallway feels too small. Too hot. His stupid, perfect mouth is right there, still curved in that condescending little smirk, and the worst part is, you can't stop staring at it.
''Fuck you,'' you whisper venomously.
Harry's gaze drops to your lips.
''Oh yeah?'' he breathes, voice barely above a whisper. ''Well, I'm down if you are.''
The tension snaps.
You grab the silver cross around his neck and yank him down at the same moment he surges forward. Your mouths crash together in a bruising, angry kiss. His large hands immediately grip your waist, fingers digging into your bare skin under the hem of your tank top as he walks you backward until your back hits the wall beside his door.
The kiss is filthy from the start. Hungry. Hateful in the best way.
Your fingers stay fisted around his silver cross, tugging him down harder while his mouth devours yours. Tongues clash. Teeth nip. He tastes like beer and mint, and you hate how addictive it is.
Harry groans into your mouth, low and filthy, and you hate the way your pussy slickens at the sound. His hands slide down to grip your ass, lifting you effortlessly. It's angry, desperate, and messy as hell. Your legs wrap around his waist on instinct as he spins you, slamming the door shut with his foot and pressing your back against it with a dull thud.
''Fuck, you're annoying,'' you gasp between kisses, biting his bottom lip hard enough to make him hiss.
''Uh-huh. Then why are you soaking through these tiny fucking shorts?'' he shoots back, grinding his obvious hard-on right against your core. The friction makes your head spin.
You reach between your bodies and shove his sweatpants down just enough to free his cock. He's rock hard, thick, and flushed dark at the tip. The sight makes your mouth water even as you glare at him.
Harry chuckles darkly, the sound vibrating against your throat. ''Look at you. Stomping over here and yelling at me about my music and now you can't wait to get my cock inside you. Pathetic.''
''Shut up,'' you groan.
He doesn't shut up.
Instead, one of his big hands comes up to wrap lightly around your throat, not squeezing hard, just putting enough pressure on it to make your pulse jump under his fingers. His thumb strokes along your jaw as he yanks your shorts and panties to the side with his other hand.
''No panties under these little things? You really did come over here to get fucked, didn't you?'' he taunts, rubbing the head of his cock through your slick folds. ''Bet you've been touching yourself listening to my music through the wall. Such a desperate little thing.''
You moan despite yourself, hips twitching. ''You're such a fucking asshole.''
''And you're dripping for me,'' he whispers, then pulls out a condom from his back pocket. He rips it open with his teeth, slides it on, and pushes inside you in one rough thrust.
The stretch is intense. He's long, thick, and the position has you gasping, nails digging into his shoulders. Harry doesn't give you time to adjust; he starts fucking you hard and fast against the wall, hips snapping up into you with wet, obscene sounds.
''You're so fucking tight,'' he groans, forehead pressed against yours. His hand stays around your throat, grip tightening just enough to make your head feel blessedly quiet. ''This what you wanted when you came banging on my door? My cock ruining this pretty pussy?''
''Yes, fuck, harder,'' you demand, even as you insult him. ''God, your apartment is disgusting. You're such a pig.''
He laughs breathlessly, the sound breaking into a moan as you clench around him. ''Yeah? Keep talking shit while I'm balls deep in you.''
The door rattles with every brutal thrust. Your shirt is shoved up, his mouth latching onto one of your nipples, sucking hard while he pounds into you. Sweat slicks both your bodies. The cross necklace bounces between your breasts with every movement.
Harry shifts slightly, and the new angle makes you cry out. His hand leaves your throat to hitch your thigh higher, opening you up more as he drives deeper.
''Look at you taking it so well,'' he pants against your ear, voice rough. ''Screaming at me five minutes ago and now you're creaming all over my cock. Say it. Tell me how much you hate me while you cum.''
''I hate you,'' you moan, the words breaking apart as pleasure coils tighter and tighter. ''I fucking hate you, shit—''
''That's it, baby. Louder. Let the whole building hear how much you hate my dick.''
The filthy words push you over the edge. You come hard, clenching around him, thighs shaking as pleasure crashes through you in hot waves. Harry follows right after with a deep, guttural groan, burying himself to the hilt and spilling inside the condom. His hips stutter through it, face buried in your neck as he rides it out.
For a moment, the only sounds are your ragged breathing and the distant bass still playing from the speakers inside.
You stay pressed against the wall, his cock still buried in you, both of you slick with sweat. Slowly, Harry pulls back just enough to look at you, that infuriating smirk already creeping back onto his flushed face.
You narrow your eyes, still catching your breath. ''Are you going to turn the music down now?''
He chuckles, the sound low and raspy, and presses a little kiss to the corner of your mouth.
''I'm not sure yet,'' he murmurs, eyes sparkling with pure trouble. ''Might need to fuck you again just to make sure it's worth it. What do you say, neighbor? Round two, or are you still pretending you hate me?''
You hate how your body clenches around him at the suggestion, hate the shit-eating grin on his infuriatingly handsome face.
''Yes to both.''
...
thank you so much for reading! i appreciate any and all support so remember to like, comment and reblog. requests are open! 💕
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