Kiss all the time🫦

Kristiina | 28 | Nordic

[harryworldwide]

Harry at Farm Boa Vista in Porto Feliz, Brazil last Sunday - July 19, 2026 (via carasbrasil)

[ijustmissyouraccenths]

Your Bag Will Be Last (Raya Harry)

New York gets smaller in the rearview mirror, London is older and wetter than you expected, and Camille packed something in your suitcase that she absolutely should not have.

word count: 5.3k

authors note: cover photo by @zclhes

You wake up on Wednesday with nowhere to be.

That's the thing. You lie there waiting for the alarm. It doesn't come because you turned it off last night for the first time in six years. The morning just sits there, open and entirely yours. You stare at the ceiling and think: okay.

Okay.

You lie there longer than you normally would. Not because you're tired, just because you can. Nobody needs anything from you this morning. No piece waiting to be filed. No planning committee meeting on Thursday. No opening sentence to rewrite for the fourth time. You let the morning just be a morning.

Eventually you get up.

You make coffee slowly, actually waiting for the water to reach the right temperature, standing in your kitchen in your socks with your hair still doing whatever it wants. You think about how many mornings you've stood in this exact spot rushing. Six years of rushing through this kitchen, coffee in hand before you've even properly woken up, already thinking about the first thing on the list.

You are not thinking about a list this morning.

You take your coffee to the couch, pull the blanket up, turn the television on. Something comfortable, something you've seen before. You sit there and drink your coffee and let the morning happen around you.

It's nice.

It's also a little strange.

Not bad strange. Just the strangeness of a life that has changed shape overnight. You keep waiting for the thing you're supposed to be doing. It keeps not appearing. Which should feel like relief and mostly does, but occasionally feels like standing in a room where the furniture has been moved and your body hasn't learned the new layout yet.

You finish the coffee, make toast, eat it at the counter looking out the window at the street below. People with their bags, their coats, their places to be. Yesterday you were one of those people. Today you're just someone watching them from a window.

You go back to the couch.

You watch the rest of the episode. Then another one. Then you switch to something you haven't seen before, a film you've had on your list for two years, and you get about twenty minutes in before you realize you're not really watching it, just looking at it, your brain drifting when it has too much space and not enough direction.

You switch to something easier. A reality show about people renovating houses, which is not something you would normally watch but which turns out to be exactly the right amount of engaging for a Wednesday when your life has just changed shape and your brain hasn't quite caught up.

You watch three episodes.

You make more coffee.

You think about the about page. The three paragraphs you wrote yesterday in the corner café, the ones that felt true when you wrote them and still feel true when you think about them now. You think about what comes next, where the first proper post comes from, what the first person looks like. You think about Manchester and whether there's a story there, in the market or the pub or the streets he grew up on.

You think about February.

You check the time. Not even noon.

You look at the ceiling.

You are going to need to find a routine. Not today, today is a decompression day, today is for the blanket and the reality show and the toast, but at some point the open unstructured expanse of a life without a desk is going to require some kind of shape or you are going to spend a lot of time lying on this couch watching people argue about kitchen backsplashes.

Which is fine actually. For today.

You reach for your phone to check your work email and get halfway through opening the app before you remember. You close it. You sit there with the phone in your hand and feel the absence of it. The shape of a thing you did every morning that you are not doing anymore. Relief and vertigo at the same time. That's probably just what this is supposed to feel like.

You put the phone face down on the couch cushion.

You watch another episode.

Someone on the television is crying about a kitchen backsplash. You find this oddly comforting.

You get up and make lunch, something simple, eggs again because you are apparently a person who eats a lot of eggs during significant life transitions, and you eat at the kitchen table instead of the couch, which feels like a reasonable concession to not completely dissolving into the furniture. You look at your laptop on the counter. You think about opening it.

You don't open it.

Today is not a laptop day. Today is a blanket day. The laptop can wait until tomorrow when you have had one full day of doing absolutely nothing and feel sufficiently restored to do something again.

You go back to the couch.

You are halfway through another episode, the one where they're arguing about whether to do an open plan kitchen, and you have opinions about this actually, open plan is not always the answer, sometimes you want a wall, sometimes a wall is the whole point, when your phone buzzes on the cushion beside you.

Harry: are you busy? can I call?

You look at the message. You look at the television. The couple is still arguing about the kitchen wall.

You: of course

Your phone rings almost immediately.

You pick up on the first ring.

"Hey," he says. Warm and a little amused already. "How's the free woman life."

You laugh. "Rotting," you say.

A pause. "I'm sorry?"

"On my couch. I've been rotting on my couch all day."

"Rotting," he repeats slowly, like he's trying to work out if this is an American expression he should know about.

"It's a thing," you say. "It means doing nothing. Intentionally. Horizontal."

"Right," he says. "And is the rotting going well."

"Really well actually. I watched four episodes of a show about people renovating houses and I have opinions about open plan kitchens now."

"Do you?"

"Sometimes you want a wall, Harry. A wall is not a failure."

"I'll keep that in mind," he says, and you can hear him trying not to laugh. A pause. "Okay. So. I was thinking."

You pull the blanket up slightly. "About what."

"We said Manchester in February," he says. "Which is the plan. That's still the plan." Another pause, shorter. "But you're free now. You have nothing keeping you there. And I'm in London for the next few weeks and I was thinking." He stops. Starts again. "Why don't you come here. This week. I'll fly you out and we can spend some time together before the whole big move happens. Properly. Just the two of us."

You sit very still on your couch.

"This week," you say.

"If you want to. I know it's fast. But I keep thinking about you sitting in your apartment rotting—"

"It's a good rot—"

"I know it's a good rot," he says patiently. "I just think it might be a better rot in London. With me."

You look around your apartment. At the blanket. At the television, paused now on the couple and their unresolved kitchen wall situation. At the laptop on the counter you didn't open today. At the life that is currently in the process of changing shape and hasn't quite filled in yet.

"This week," you say again.

"Thursday if you can manage it," he says. "Or Friday. Whatever works."

You think about your apartment, fully paid up for the month. You think about Cami, who already knows you're leaving and will be insufferably smug about how fast it's happening. You think about the about page saved on your laptop, the first post that doesn't exist yet, the sofrito woman in all her counterparts in cities you haven't been to.

You think about London.

"Okay," you say.

A beat. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," you say. "Thursday."

"Send me the price of the flight once you book it," you say.

"No."

"Harry."

"Absolutely not."

"I just want to know what it costs so I can—"

"So you can what," he says. "Transfer me money I don't need for a flight I want to buy you?"

"You're crazy," you say.

"You're crazy," he says back, pleasantly. "You just quit your job. Keep your money."

You sigh. Long and pointed.

"I just feel a little bad," you say. "That's all. I just feel a little bit bad about it."

"Stop," he says simply. "You're fine. Literally fine."

"I know I'm fine."

"You know you're fine."

"I just." You pull the blanket tighter. "Part of me feels bad."

"That part of you is wrong," he says. "That part of you can take the week off."

You laugh despite yourself. "Okay."

"Okay," he says. A pause, shorter than the others, the kind that means he's about to say something. "Also. When you're here."

"Yeah."

"I'd like you to meet my mum."

You go very still.

"Oh," you say.

"Obviously," he says, like it's the most natural thing in the world, like he isn't saying something enormous in the most understated way possible, which is of course exactly how he does everything.

"I would love that," you say quietly. And you mean it completely.

"She already knows about you," he says. "She's been asking." A pause. "She's going to love you."

"You don't know that."

"I do actually. I wouldn't bring anyone home to mum that she wouldn't like," he says. Simply. Completely certain.

You sit there on your couch in your blanket, apartment paid up for the month, thinking about meeting his mother in London in three days. Something warm and slightly enormous moving through your chest.

"Okay," you say. "London. Thursday. Your mum."

"Thursday," he confirms. And then something shifts in his voice, lighter now, properly happy. "I'm going to pick you up from the airport."

"You don't have to do that."

"I know I don't have to," he says, and you can hear the smile in it. "I want to. I've been thinking about it actually. You coming through arrivals. Me being there." A beat. "It's my turn."

You think about JFK. About standing near the arrivals exit with your hands in your coat pockets trying to look like someone who was just casually in the neighbourhood. About him stopping when he saw you. About the smile.

"Your turn," you say softly.

"My turn," he says. "I'm going to be there with a sign and everything."

"Do not bring a sign."

"A big one," he says. "Very embarrassing."

"Harry."

"With your name on it in large letters."

"I will turn around and get back on the plane."

He laughs, properly, the full one, and you smile at your blanket. Thursday and London and a man standing in an arrivals hall with a sign he absolutely should not bring and probably will anyway.

"Listen," he says, and his voice shifts slightly when he's about to wrap something up but wants to make sure it lands first. "I have a meeting in a few minutes."

"Go," you say.

"But I love you," he says. "Truly. And I don't want you to feel bad about any of this. Not the flight, not the move, not any of it." A pause. "This is going to be so great. I genuinely think this is going to be so great."

Something in your chest does that thing it does.

"I love you too," you say.

"I love you," he says again. Just once more. Like he wanted to say it twice.

"Go to your meeting," you say.

"I'm going." A beat. "I'll book the flight tonight and send everything over. All the details."

"Okay."

"Okay," he says. "Thursday."

"Thursday," you say.

He hangs up.

You sit there with the phone in your hand, blanket around your shoulders, the television still paused on the couple and their kitchen wall. You think about Thursday. An arrivals hall somewhere in London. A man who wants to be there with a sign.

You pick up the remote.

You unpause the television.

"Open plan is a mistake," you tell the couple on the screen.

They don't listen. They never listen.

You watch anyway.

The text comes through just after nine.

You're back on the couch, different show now, something with a lot of dramatic pauses and people staring meaningfully at each other across rooms, and your phone lights up on the cushion beside you.

Harry: okay. here's everything.

And then the itinerary. All of it. Flight details, times, terminal, the confirmation number. Thursday morning, early, Heathrow arrival just after nine pm London time. One week.

You stare at it for a long moment.

One week.

You read it again. The flight number. The departure time. The seat. Not economy, and it makes something complicated happen in your chest that you choose not to examine too closely right now.

Thursday.

Two days away.

You put the phone down and look at the television, at someone staring meaningfully across a room, and think about the fact that in two days you are getting on a plane to London. Meeting Harry's mother. Seeing the city that is about to become your city. Taking the first real concrete step into the life you decided to have on Camille's floor in free Selena Gomez pyjamas approximately forty eight hours ago.

You pick the phone back up.

You are nervous. Properly nervous, the kind that sits in your sternum and doesn't have a clean explanation. Not about Harry. Not about London specifically. Just a general low hum of something you can't quite pin down, which is almost more unsettling than if it were about something specific.

Maybe it's this, you think. Maybe this is just what the first big step feels like. The difference between deciding something and actually doing it, between Cami's floor and the departure gate, between a plan and a plane ticket with your name on it leaving in forty eight hours.

You've been making decisions for weeks. Quiet internal ones, the kind that happen in the back of your chest while you're doing other things. But this is different. This is a confirmation number. This is real.

You open Cami's thread.

You: he sent the itinerary. I'm going to London Thursday. one week.

You put the phone down.

It buzzes almost immediately.

Cami: OMG

Cami: YOU'RE GOING

Cami: THURSDAY????

Cami: babe

Cami: you're going to love it

Cami: like genuinely you are going to absolutely love it

You smile at your phone.

You: I'm nervous

Cami: of course you are. it's the first big thing

Cami: but like. in the best way nervous right?

You think about it. You look at the itinerary still open in Harry's thread. The flight number. The seat. Thursday morning.

You: yeah. in the best way nervous.

Cami: exactly

Cami: now go pack. you have two days and I know you're going to repack at least three times

You look at your suitcase in the corner of your bedroom, visible through the open door.

She's not wrong.

You: goodnight cami

Cami: goodnight babe 🫶🏼

You put the phone down and look at the television, at the people staring meaningfully at each other, and think about Thursday and London and a man who is going to be standing in arrivals possibly with a sign.

You get up.

You go to the bedroom.

You start to pack. Cami comes a day later to pack all the things you forgot.

Thursday arrives all at once.

You wake up before your alarm. You lie there in the dark and listen to the city outside. A garbage truck somewhere down the block. A cab. Someone's dog. All the ordinary noise of a place that doesn't know today is significant.

You get up.

Your suitcase is by the door where you left it last night after the third repack, which Camille predicted and you will never admit to her. It's not a big suitcase. You thought about that, about how much to bring for a week that is also the beginning of something longer, and you landed on light. You can buy things. You can send things. You don't need to carry your whole life onto a plane.

Not yet anyway.

You make coffee and drink it standing at the kitchen window, looking out at the street below, the light coming up slowly over the buildings. Cold out there. You stand there with your hands around the mug and look at your street. All the mornings you have stood here. Rushing and not rushing. Good mornings and bad ones. The ordinary accumulation of a life in one place.

You think: this is not the last time but it might be one of the last times for a while.

And then, quieter, somewhere underneath that: and that's okay. That's actually okay.

You finish your coffee. Wash the mug. Put it on the drying rack. You do a lap of the apartment, stove off, windows locked, the plant on the sill watered. You stand in the middle of your living room for a second and just look at it. The bookshelf. The desk by the window. The couch with the blanket folded over the arm.

It'll be here when you get back.

Or it won't need to be.

You put your coat on. Pick up your suitcase. Lock the door behind you.

The Uber is already outside when you get downstairs.

You load your suitcase into the back, get in, and the driver pulls out without a word, which you appreciate, because you are not a person who needs conversation at six in the morning on a significant Thursday.

You watch the city go past the window.

It's early enough that the streets are thin, just the people who have to be somewhere before the rest of the world wakes up. The buildings are dark against a sky that hasn't decided what colour it wants to be yet. Everything quieter than you're used to, softer around the edges.

You think about the first time you drove to JFK. Eight years ago, visiting a friend who had moved there and couldn't afford to fly home. You remember looking out the window exactly like this and thinking New York is so much bigger than I thought.

It still is.

You think about how much of it you haven't seen yet, and you haven't even left the country.

Your phone buzzes.

Harry: morning. you awake?

You: in the Uber. heading to the airport now.

Harry: good. text me when you land.

You: it's a nine hour flight

Harry: I know. text me anyway.

You smile at your phone. Outside the city thins out further, the expressway opening up. The skyline appears behind you in the window as you pull away from it, all that light stacked up against the morning sky. You look at it for a long time.

Then you face forward.

The airport is its own world at this hour. Not chaotic yet but building toward it, people moving through the terminal with their bags, their coffee, their various degrees of alertness. You check in. Go through security. Find your gate, sit down, look at the departures board. Your flight. London next to it. The nerves settle somewhere low in your chest.

Not bad nerves. Just the real kind.

You get a coffee from the place nearest the gate. Sit back down. Put your headphones in without putting anything on, just the quiet of them, a small buffer between you and the terminal noise. Coffee in hand. Carry on between your feet.

Your phone buzzes.

Cami: are you at the airport

You: gate 42

Cami: okay good. how are you feeling

You think about it honestly.

You: nervous. good nervous though.

Cami: good nervous is the only nervous worth having

Cami: also I put some things in your suitcase last night when you weren't looking

You stare at your phone.

You: what things

Cami: nice things. you'll find them.

You: Camille.

Cami: you're welcome in advance. go live your life. I love you 🫶🏼

You put your phone in your pocket and look out the gate window at the plane already sitting on the tarmac, waiting.

You drink your coffee.

You think about Harry standing in an arrivals hall in London in nine hours.

You think: okay.

You think: let's go.

The flight is long and uneventful, which is exactly what you want from a flight. Two films. Something that is supposed to be pasta. A few hours of sleep with your head against the window and the dark Atlantic somewhere far below. At some point the cabin lights come up, the seatbelt sign chimes on, and outside the window the sky is doing something grey and British.

There it is.

London.

Customs is long. It's always long from what you've heard. You stand in the queue with your passport and your carry on, moving forward a step at a time, trying to look like a person who is completely calm about this, which you are not, which is fine.

The officer stamps your passport without looking up.

You walk through.

Baggage claim. You find your belt and wait.

You: landed. in baggage claim.

The three dots appear almost immediately.

Harry: I'm here. take your time.

You look at the message for a second.

You: you're actually at the airport.

Harry: told you I would be.

Harry: how was the flight

You: long. good. watched two films and ate something that was supposed to be pasta.

Harry: supposed to be.

You: it was fine. I've had worse.

Harry: your bag will be last. it's always last.

You look up at the belt. Everyone else's bags are coming around. Yours is not.

You: how do you know that.

Harry: it's always last. it's a rule.

You stand there watching the belt and sure enough your suitcase is the last one to appear, coming around the corner long after everyone else has collected theirs and gone.

You: you were right.

Harry: I know. come through. I'll be easy to spot.

You put your phone in your pocket, take a breath, and push your suitcase toward the doors.

Beyond them is arrivals.

Beyond arrivals is Harry.

You push through.

The arrivals hall is busy. Families, drivers, couples finding each other, children who have been sitting still for too long making up for it now. You scan the crowd.

And then you see him.

No sign. You note this immediately and with some relief. Cap on, dark coat, standing slightly to the side of the main crowd with his hands in his pockets, not on his phone, just watching the doors. Just waiting.

He sees you at almost exactly the same moment you see him.

He smiles. The real one. The quiet one.

He doesn't move toward you, just stands there and lets you come to him, and something tightens in your chest as you cross the hall toward him, your suitcase rattling on the floor, people moving around you in every direction.

You stop in front of him.

"No sign," you say.

"I thought about it," he says.

"And?"

"And I thought you might actually get back on the plane."

You laugh. He pulls you into him properly, both arms around you, your face against his neck. You hold on. Nine hours of travel, nine weeks of distance, one very significant life decision all quietly dissolving into the warmth of him in an arrivals hall in London at nine thirty at night.

He presses his face into your hair and says, quietly, like it's just for you: "You're actually here."

"I'm actually here," you say.

He pulls back just enough to look at you. Takes you in, like he has all the time in the world.

"Welcome to London, love," he says.

You look at him. The cap, the dark coat, the real smile, the arrivals hall buzzing around you both — indifferent, loud, completely irrelevant.

"Thank you for coming," you say.

"I told you I would," he says simply.

He takes your suitcase without asking and puts his other hand at the small of your back and steers you toward the exit, easy and certain.

You walk out into the cold London night together.

He takes your suitcase, leads you through the terminal, out into the cold. You follow him across the drop off lane toward the car, a dark Range Rover, familiar. You go to get in on the left side out of pure muscle memory and reach for a door handle that isn't there.

You stand there for a second.

Harry has already put your suitcase in the back and is watching you from the other side of the car with an expression that is trying very hard to be neutral.

"The other side," he says.

"I know," you say. "I know that."

"Of course."

"I just forgot for a second."

"Nine hour flight," he says generously. "Completely understandable."

You walk around the front of the car. Get in the correct side. Pull the door closed. He gets in beside you, starts the engine. You look straight ahead and say nothing.

He says nothing either for approximately four seconds.

Then you both laugh at the same time, properly, filling the car. You sit there laughing at yourself in a car park at Heathrow and think this is maybe one of your favourite moments in recent memory.

He pulls out of the car park onto the road. London starts going past the windows. Dark and wet and lit up, the roads wider than you expected, the signs different, everything slightly other than what your brain keeps reaching for. You pass a row of houses, all terraced, all exactly the same height, their windows glowing gold. A night bus. A pub on a corner still going at this hour, people spilling out onto the pavement in the cold.

"It's so old," you say, before you've thought about it.

He glances over. "What is."

"All of it." You look out the window. "In New York everything is loud about being new. Here it just." You pause. "It just is what it is."

"I told you," he says. "Honest city."

You look at him.

"Like you," you say.

He looks back at the road. Something in his expression shifts, just slightly. He doesn't say anything. He doesn't need to.

"I'm excited to see your house," you say, after a moment.

"Yeah?"

"And to meet your mum." You pause. "I'm nervous about that part."

"Don't be," he says. Simply. Like that settles it.

"Easy for you to say."

"She's going to love you," he says. "I already told you that."

You look back out the window at London going past, at the streetlights and the wet roads and the dark of a city that isn't your city, not yet, and you think about what he said on the phone. Soon it'll be your house too.

"Hey," you say.

He glances over.

"You said soon it'll be my house too."

"It will be," he says.

You go quiet for a second. Outside a street sign goes past that you can't read fast enough. A bus. A row of houses with their lights on, ordinary and golden and full of people living their lives.

"Yeah," you say quietly. "It will be."

He reaches over and puts his hand over yours on your knee, easy and warm. You turn your hand over and let him. Look out at the city. Feel the whole strange ordinary miracle of being exactly where you're supposed to be.

He pulls onto the driveway, cuts the engine, gets out, and has your suitcase out of the back before you've fully registered that you've stopped moving. You get out, stand there for a second, and look at the house.

A proper house that has been here long enough to mean something. A front garden, small and tidy, a path to the door. Warm light through the downstairs window.

He's already at the door with your suitcase, keys out, and you follow him up the path. He pushes the door open and steps back to let you in first.

You step inside.

Warm. That's the first thing. Warm and quiet, smelling like him, which you weren't prepared for, that specific familiar warmth of a person's home. You take a few steps in and look around. High ceilings. Wooden floors. A hallway that opens into something larger beyond, art on the walls, a lamp casting everything soft and gold and —

He puts his lips on yours.

Your back finds the wall, his hands find your face, and you stop thinking about the house entirely. The ceiling, the floors, the lamp, the art, the nine hour flight, the wrong side of the car, the arrivals hall — all of it. Gone. Just this, just him, just the two of you in the hallway of a house in London at half past ten at night.

He pulls back just enough to look at you.

"I've been waiting," he says. Quiet. Certain. "For this." A beat. "For you."

You look at him in the warm light of the hallway.

"Hi," you say. Properly this time. Like you're only just arriving.

He smiles. Kisses you again, slower this time. Then he pulls back, nods toward the stairs.

"Come on," he says. "I'll show you the room."

You follow him upstairs, your hand in his, the house quiet around you. He pushes open a door. A room with a big window, a bed, everything soft and dim and exactly right.

You set your bag down on the bed and unzip it.

You move a few things aside.

And then you stop.

Sitting right on top, folded neatly and absolutely not packed by you, is a set of lingerie. Black. Very nice. A small note tucked under the strap in Camille's handwriting that says simply: you're welcome.

You stare at it.

Harry appears in the doorway behind you. You hear him stop.

"What's that," he says.

You hold it up without turning around.

A beat of silence.

"Cami," you say.

"Right," he says.

Another beat.

"You should put that on," he says.

You turn around. He's leaning in the doorway with his arms crossed and that expression, the patient one, the one that isn't quite a smile yet but is close.

You look at him.

You look at the lingerie.

You look back at him.

[eileenrry]

TO LOVE TO LET GO pairing: current older boyfriend! Harry Styles x fem! reader summary: At your friend’s wedding, you and Harry come to a conclusion that your relationship maybe can’t work the way you want it to word count: 8.6K contains: age gap (Harry is 32 & reader is 23), angst, sad emotional stuff, fluff, smut → soft dom! Harry, kissing, oral (f!receiving), fingering, unprotected and rough-ish? sex (wrap it before you tap it!!!), size kink if you squint, aftercare, praise, talks about marriage and kids a/n: After binge watching Friends a few months back, I got inspired by the Monica and Richard trope so here is mine ‘adaptation’. A little emotional piece. I wrote it mostly on my daily walks (girl needed to finish her apple fitness circles). Also kinda disclaimer, I’ve never been to a wedding so I was writing this with a google tab ‘how weddings work’ open the whole time hahaha click here for ➵ MASTERPOST ⋆˚ ౨ৎ ⋆.˚ comment here to join ➵ TAG LIST ✮⋆˙: ALL MY LOVE & TPWK, E

When Harry told you about the wedding invitation he got from his childhood friend, you were ecstatic. Handwritten in dark ink on creamy white cardstock with lovely illustrations, it went straight on the fridge in your shared home in London.

You loved Harry’s friends and family. And celebrating their love at such an intimate event together was a beautiful thing you couldn’t wait to be a part of. Especially when they directly invited you too, not just Harry and his plus-one.

He heartily laughed at you when he saw you getting so giddy every time you walked around the fridge. His eyes were full of amusement and love, just as his heart, and he never waited a second to join you in the silly obsessing.

You were it for Harry, that was very much certain. After two years of dating and one year of living together, he knew one day you’d be the woman in a beautiful white gown walking down the aisle to him. He knew that from the moment he laid his eyes on you already.

You planned your outfits, matching, of course, and fitted the dress code perfectly. You embraced a touch of boho and wore the requested light green for ladies, creating a perfect match with Harry’s dark pistachio suit jacket.

“You look beautiful, love. I’m afraid you’re gonna steal the spotlight,” Harry pressed a soft kiss to your shoulder after he zipped up your dress and smoothed his palm over your back. He turned you slowly in his arms, holding you at arm’s length to take in your finished look.

“My prettiest girl,” He whispered and kissed you softly on your lips, careful of your lipstick.

As a wedding registry gift, you bought a coffee machine together. A classic, but with a vintage look, yet many high-tech features, it made the perfect gift for them, especially since your friends drank coffee a lot.

The venue was lively already when you arrived. People were catching up on their lives, hugging, soft music played in the background, and you walked snuggled under Harry’s arm through the crowd full of his old friends and the bride’s and groom’s relatives, sharing your greetings and brief life updates on the way.

There wasn’t a day when you weren’t feeling a little nervous about coming to a place full of strangers by Harry’s side. Your age gap was obvious, and so the judgment was expected. You gushed with young energy, while Harry, on the other hand, looked distinctly mature with the beard he started growing out.

Harry had reassured you so many times that no one minded or cared about this aspect of your relationship a single bit. His family loved you, you had a lot of support from yours and Harry’s friends, his fans envied you, and the rest of the world didn’t matter.

You smiled politely at everyone, shook hands with the people you didn’t know, and blushed when Harry started praising you in front of his friends.

“I swear she’s amazing, the best girl in the whole world! Teaches me something new every day, keeps me on my toes,” Harry grinned when one of his friends teased him about being able to keep up with you, and he tightened his grip around your waist before he pressed a chaste kiss on your cheek.

His friends laughed, and some of them even patted his back with proud smiles. It warmed their hearts that Harry had finally found someone who made him this happy.

You took your place on the chairs, ready to watch the ceremony, and intertwined your fingers, holding your hands in your lap with a soft smile as you witnessed the celebration of love happening.

The bride was beautiful. Dressed in a big white dress with lacy details, she walked down the aisle to a violin adaptation of one song from a romantic movie. You noticed how Harry’s eyes turned glassy, and you couldn’t stop yourself from wiping away a few tears of your own.

“Look at them, they’re so happy,” He murmured in your ear as the bride and groom exchanged wedding rings.

He reluctantly pulled his hand away from yours to stand up and clap with others at the newly married couple walking up the aisle, whistling occasionally in excitement.

“That was beautiful,” You let out a dreamy sigh as you walked side by side to the reception, your arm hung in his.

“Wait for our wedding, baby,” Harry squeezed your hand gently and rubbed his thumb over your ring finger where a golden band symbolising your love could be one day.

“Shut up,” Your cheeks warmed up almost immediately, and you hid your face in his chest, making him wrap his arm around your shoulders to hold you close.

While the couple was taking photos in a beautiful garden with a small pond and many different kinds of flowers you took a glimpse of when you arrived, you and Harry found yourselves in a group of his friends from primary school and listened to the stories from their childhood, making Harry’s cheeks turn warm colours in embarrassment.

“Hey enough! Don’t y’all scare her off!” He wheezed mid-laugh and cradled you even closer in case the horrifying stories from your boyfriend’s childhood did really change your mind about dating him. Your back was pressed against his chest, his hands found their home on your stomach in a protective gesture, and thanks to your quite significant height difference, besides the age one, Harry comfortably rested his chin atop your head.

“When are you two gonna tie the knot, Harry?” One of Harry’s old friends called out teasingly and pointed with his raised glass full of champagne at you.

But to Harry, it wasn’t a joke. He was actively thinking about it. You were the love of his life, his future wife, a mother to his children. If he had the engagement ring on him, it would be on your finger by the end of the night.

“If this one says yes,” Harry said with the widest grin and squeezed your waist for good measure, “then hopefully soon,”

“We’re gonna wait for our invites then,” Everyone collectively laughed at his bubbly excitement.

“Oh, definitely,”

The conversation flowed easily and reached topics from a promotion at work, adoption of an older dog, or Harry’s plans in his music career to happy revelations that one of the bride’s friends recently had a baby.

“Oh my god, I have to send her a message! How’s she and the baby doing?” Harry’s face lit up at the news, and you felt his grip tighten around your waist as if you carried there a baby of your own that he suddenly had to protect.

The idea of someday having a baby with Harry made your stomach flutter with butterflies. Without debate, he would be the most loving father who would have tea parties with his daughter and play footie with his son.

“Peanut, please?” Harry murmured in your ear and nodded towards the small plate with appetisers on the table in front of you.

“I feel like I’m feeding a parrot and not my boyfriend,” You huffed out between giggles and fed him with a few pistachios which he accepted with an incoherent ‘thank you’ and didn’t forget to bite on your finger playfully to get a reaction from you.

As the day went on, you had a delicious chicken with potatoes and salad for late lunch and shared a piece of the wedding cake. Vanilla corpus with strawberry and lemon filling made you moan quietly, and Harry swallowed the sound from your lips with a chaste kiss. The newlyweds had their first dance as well as a dance with their parents right after, and you and Harry joined them with other couples later on to enjoy the dance floor on your own.

“Am I doing alright?” He asked you shyly while his eyes were fixed on his shoes, making sure he didn’t step on your toes.

“Yeah, why shouldn’t you?” You smiled and squeezed his biceps in encouragement.

“Been ages since I danced like that,” He shrugged and looked at you with not so shy grin anymore, “I promise I’m gonna take dance lessons before our wedding, wanna be good for you.”

“You’re silly,” You rolled your eyes at him talking about your future wedding again and rested your head against his shoulder with a happy sigh.

“Uh-huh, I’m serious, baby, there’s a difference,” He kissed your forehead with mock seriousness.

You swayed softly from side to side, wrapped up in each other, Harry’s hands rested on your lower back, keeping you close, and you were mindlessly playing with the growing curls at the nape of his neck.

“Hey, look at them,” Harry whispered in your ear after a moment and nudged his head toward two little kids dancing together. A little girl in a pretty pink dress, probably around the age of three, stood on a much older boy’s shoes while he led her carefully in an attempt to slow dance.

“Aww, they’re adorable,” You pouted at the sight.

“Imagine our little ones dancing like this, big brother leading his little sister.” Harry sighed dreamily, his eyes still focused on the children, before he slid his right hand from your back to the side of your stomach and rested his forehead against yours. If it was possible, he would have big red hearts instead of his eyes like a silly cartoon character. “You’re gonna look perfect, belly all rounded and swollen with our baby. Beautiful future momma for me.

But then he immediately remembered the conversation you had together not so long ago and looked down at your flat stomach with a small frown.

Kids and marriage. It was one of those big topics that needed to be discussed at your point of relationship. You were still young, and the thought of having a kid at that very moment or in the near future didn’t sit right with you. On the other hand, Harry’s biological clock started ticking faster than it used to. He didn’t want to run after his kids with hurting knees and backaches, nor have any problems in conception because of his age.

“Give me more time?” You looked up at him from his chest with a quiet sigh, worry gnawing at your whole body.

You both were sitting snuggled on the couch in your apartment, deep in thought after the hard conversations about would’ves and could’ves.

“Okay, sweetheart,” He gave you a sad smile and pressed a kiss in your hair. He loved you. He thought he could be okay waiting with this for a year or two for the love of his life.

“Harry,” You sigh with a pout when you noticed the disappointment itching on his face. You knew the outcome of the conversation wasn’t one you both were one hundred per cent happy with, but seeing how much it meant to Harry, and what it meant for you, you couldn’t do much but hold him tighter.

Harry leaned down and pressed his lips against yours in a deep, passionate kiss, pouring every single emotion that was blooming in his chest into it. You whimpered, not expecting that, but leaned into him quickly and reciprocated the depth of the kiss in the same measure.

You kissed until the slow love song ended and everything went silent, until the thoughts about pregnancy and babies moved into the very back of your minds.

Every single girl who wasn’t married yet, including you, moved to the end of the dance floor and gathered in a small crowd. The bride, now changed into a shorter and much more comfortable but still white dress, stood a few meters away with her back facing you and swung her arm a few times before she threw her bouquet behind her into the pool of open palms.

You weren’t trying really, reaching after it and fighting your way through the crowd of ladies to get the bouquet, but it found its way to your hands anyway and the smell of lilies slapped you in the nose.

“She got it! My girl caught the bouquet!” Harry started jumping in the most unreal state of joy as if he was watching a football game and England had scored a goal and he threw himself at his friends who caught him with laughter.

For a moment, every single one of your worries left your head, and you basked in the unexpected moment of happiness. Flowers don’t lie.

“That’s my fucking girl,” He ran to you with open arms and the widest grin you’ve ever seen on him, looking like a madman, and hugged you so tight you couldn’t even breathe for a second. He spun around with you, you kicked your feet in the air and squealed in surprise in his ear, and everybody erupted into cheers and laughter.

“We’re getting engaged so soon,” Harry finally set you down and rested his forehead against yours, still smiling like an idiot.

“Please don’t tell me you have a ring here,” Your eyes widened in horror at his words, and you slipped your hand into the pocket of his suit jacket to look for a velvet box, while holding the flowers in your other hand.

“Here? God no! Would lose it,” He laughed and took your hand into both of his, blessing every knuckle with a kiss before he pressed it over his heart.

“Look,” You showed him the bouquet with a shy smile. It was quite a simple arrangement of lilies, dahlias and greenery, held together by a white ribbon.

“It’s beautiful. And you look perfect with it, my wife to be,” He smiled at you and pulled you back into his chest for another hug, still not over what happened.

You spent the rest of the night dancing, eating, talking to Harry’s friends and the newlyweds, and admiring your new flowers too. You noticed how Harry’s eyes found the couple of kids more than once, stopping mid-sip, while eating or even during dance to take in what they were doing. How the boy was reassuring his little sister when she was crying, or how they were sharing a chocolate cupcake and their mouths were covered in icing.

“Goodnight! And congratulations again, it was so nice seeing you!” Harry hugged the groom and the bride goodbye when you were standing by the door of the venue, ready to call it a night.

“Thanks, man. Can’t wait for your wedding guys, hope you’ll invite us!” Harry’s friend patted his back in a friendly man hug.

Driving home never felt longer even though you lived just 20 minutes away from the wedding venue. Both you and Harry were quiet. You usually talked his ears off or sang along with whatever was playing on the radio but this time it was turned off.

You toed off your heels as soon as you passed the threshold of your apartment and leaned down to rub the tension away from your feet. You weren’t used to wearing heels and after hours of dancing and standing around, you were more than happy to put your feet up.

“Hurting?” Harry frowned at the idea of you being in pain and immediately knelt down, inspecting the reddening skin.

“It’s not that bad,” You shook your head, trying to lighten up the situation, but your quiet wince when Harry put light pressure on growing bruises on your instep let him know otherwise.

“Gonna fetch you some cream for it, go sit on the couch” He straightened up and with a kiss on your cheek left quickly in the bathroom.

Soon you heard the sound of his sock-cladded feet thudding softly against the hardwood floor and he reappeared from around the corner in your open space living room. He took off his suit jacket on the way, undid a few buttons on his shirt and rolled up his sleeves. With his tousled hair, he looked exactly like from your wet dreams.

“This should make it better,” He showed you the small tube of soothing cream he found in the bathroom cabinet. He took a place next to you in the soft cushion of your sofa and pulled your feet in his lap without a warning, making you whimper in surprise at the unexpected movement.

You fell back into pillows but didn’t move your legs an inch, letting Harry take care of you just as he promised he would do.

“Does it hurt a lot?” He asked you as he started rubbing the cream softly into your skin with focused precision.

“No just- just like a regular bruise, it’s not that bad,” You hummed with closed eyes, enjoying the pampering through it wasn’t something unusual, Harry loved to spoil and take care of you anytime he could.

“Okay,” He nodded and continued massaging your foot, adding pressure when it felt right and dragging his fingers around the bruised spots lightly.

“Harry?” You whispered after he moved his focus to your other foot, and you finally blinked your eyes open to look at him.

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“Do- do you really want to have kids uh soon?” You asked softly, not sure how to approach the topic that’s been weighing on your minds ever since the wedding.

Harry’s fingers stopped mid rub and he let out a long breath before he dared to look up at you. “I would love to. Ideally in about a year,”

You felt your heart drop in your stomach. In a year? That was too soon. That felt almost like tomorrow, and the current tomorrow was just a few hours away.

“That soon?” You whimpered.

“Yeah, I’m not the youngest anymore,” He let out a bitter laugh. “I still wanna be in good shape when we have kids.”

“Do you think I will be ready in a year?” Your voice wobbled as you spoke but you swallowed your tears and anxiety quickly.

“You’re gonna be an amazing mom, love,” Harry slid his hand up on your thigh with a small smile, the fabric of your dress bunching in your lap. He was completely sure about this.

“I don’t know,” You leaned back against the pillows and closed your eyes. You tried to take a few deep breaths to calm yourself down, your heart was beating wildly and you could feel your anxiety laughing at you. And before you could even notice it, a tear fell down your cheek.

“Hey, hey, what’s up with the tears? Why are you crying, baby?” Harry stopped massaging your feet completely, abandoning the task at hand, because an aching heart was worse than bruised feet.

“I don’t think I’m ready yet, Harry,” You hiccuped.

“Baby, don’t say that,” Harry was sure his heart stopped beating for a second. He knew this. He knew you were very hesitant about having a baby at this age, but he hoped you would change your mind.

He leaned over and gently cupped your cheek in his big palm. The coldness of the rest of the soothing cream on his fingers hit your skin and you could smell the herbs from it.

“I’m sorry,” You shook your head in protest and covered your face in your hands, not wanting Harry to see you like this. A crying mess because of the so stable future that suddenly started falling apart. He saw you crying a million times before, during a sad movie, from stress, happy tears of joy at the wedding, but nothing could beat this moment. You both were breaking. Harry just in a much quieter way.

“Shhh, come here, baby love,” Ever so gently Harry pulled your fragile limbs into his arms until your body curled in his lap and you broke down.

“I’m so sorry,” You repeated, your words muffled against his chest.

“Shhhhh, you don’t have to be sorry,” Harry tightened his hold on you and buried his face in your hair, he could feel tears of his own threatening to fall down.

“How can you love me?” You sobbed uncontrollably until your voice lost its sound and all your strength turned into quiet broken whimpers.

“I love you, baby. I love you so much. Could never stop loving you, not even because of… this.” He murmured in your ear while one of his hands petted your hair gently and the other rubbed your back, hoping it would soothe you even just a little bit. “Can you look at me, please? I need to see your eyes. Can you do that for me? Just a tiny peek?”

Slowly, you turned your head from the safety of his chest and spared your boyfriend a sad look. Your eyes were full of tears and every time you blinked a new one fell.

“I love you so fucking much, remember that. I’ll never stop loving you. No matter what happens, you will always be my forever.”

“I love you so much, Harry.”

You didn’t say anything more after. You didn’t even know what to say. Everything suddenly felt so right but so wrong at the same time. And nothing could save your hearts from breaking. You just held each other tightly and wiped every single tear that fell.

“You know,” Harry’s hoarse voice broke the silence after what felt like forever. “I already have the engagement ring. Got it made last time when we were in Italy. Remember that little jewellery store down the street where my house is?”

You nodded. You remembered that time vividly.

Harry took you on a surprise trip to his newly bought house in a small village near Rome. His love for Italy wasn't unknown and he wanted a beautiful place there, a summer house if you will, for the times when London would start being too full of rain and dark clouds.

The first night you “christened” every single place where sex could’ve been held in the house. The day after you walked funny and Harry was extra nice to you after the workout he put you through, but you survived the walk around the neighbourhood in the evening just fine and the memory of the nice old jeweller stayed in your mind.

“When you were napping, I went to Antonio and he made me the ring. Golden, with our birthstones,… Also, the great wine we had was from him.”

“Why are you telling me this?” You sniffled at the newly found information and snuggled back into him, hiding your face again. You wore a pout on your lips and your heart was beating fast again, but this time fear wasn't the reason.

“I- I don’t know.” Harry sighed and nuzzled his face in your hair once again. “I want to marry you, I so want to marry you,”

“What does this all mean for us, Harry?” You hiccuped and tightened your grip on his white button-up until your knuckles turned white and the fabric started wrinkling.

“I wish I knew, sweetheart, I wish I knew,”

“Can we still be together?” Your eyes turned glassy when you asked the question. “I- I don’t think I’m ready, I don’t think I will be anytime soon and- you want the baby now. How can you still want to be with me?”

“Because I love you,” Harry’s voice cracked at the last words and before he could change his mind he pressed his lips against yours.

Your hiccups were soothed by his harsh kisses, they swallowed every sound you made and cries that left your mouth until your lips started lazily moving against his.

“I don’t know what to do, love. And I hate it so much,” Harry cried in the kiss and tightened his grip on your hair to hold you as close as was humanly possible.

“Do we have to… break up?”

“I don’t want to, but- sweetheart, please, don’t do this to me,” Harry was on the verge of begging.

“I can’t lose you, Harry. I will change my mind, I will, I promise, I’m gonna do anything for you, please just give me more time,”

“Love, no,” Harry shook his head abruptly, stopping the empty promises he so wanted to believe.

“Please, Harry,” You fell into a fit of uncontrollable sobs and gently tug at his shirt once more. You couldn’t see through tears and your breathing was laboured to the point when you couldn't take a new one.

“Shhh baby, deep breaths, don’t need you to have a panic attack. Calm down for me,” Harry swallowed his own tears and took a few deep breaths for you to follow and regulate your system. “That’s a good girl. You’re doing good, just breathe,”

He cupped your face gently in his palms and started kissing your wet cheeks, nose, eyelids, anywhere he could reach to soothe your distress until his lips found yours in a lingering kiss. He kissed you slowly, showed his love for you through the simple act of love until you kissed him back. The kisses turned passionate in no time, your tongues danced a passionate tango and your moans overpowered your sobbing.

Harry gripped your hips and pulled you closer, rearranging you on his lap to his liking until your thighs were on each side of his. You sighed when his fingers slipped under the hem of your dress and bunched it around your waist, cupping your backside in his hands to push you into him and rub your core against his growing bulge.

“Harry,” You moaned loudly when you felt Harry harden in his pants and you buckled your hips into his to chase the friction that made you curl your toes. The zipper of his pants as well as his hard length pressed deliciously against your clit hidden under the thin barrier of your panties and you craved more.

“Shhhh baby,” He tutted quietly at your whines.

“Please Harry,” You tried again but the words died on your tongue when Harry pressed you with all his strength against his crotch and you tilted your head back in pleasure with more moans falling out of your lips.

Before you could register what was happening, Harry slid one arm under your thighs and the other around your waist, making you wrap your legs around his own, and stood up from his place on the couch. He held you in a tight hug against his sturdy chest as he walked into your bedroom all while kissing you deeply before he carefully sat you down on the edge of the bed.

He walked around the dark room blindly until he found a light switch and turned on a small lamp on your bedside table, covering the whole room in a soft yellow light. “Can I take this off?” He ran his hands over your sides gently.

“Yeah,” You nodded quickly, itching to get out of it, and stood up in front of him.

He unzipped the dress carefully, the expensive fabric slipping under his fingers from how much they trembled, before it pooled around your feet on the ground. Because of the style of the dress, you weren’t wearing any bra and Harry smiled softly when the sight of your bare back met his eyes.

He pulled you into his chest immediately when you were free of excessive clothing and buried his face in your neck. You felt him squeeze your hips tightly and his thumbs dip under the waistband of your thong, wanting it gone too.

In no time you were spread underneath his body on your king-sized bed, the white sheets that could’ve been your wedding dress were icy cold but at the same time burning your bare skin, your panties already forgotten somewhere on the floor as cold.

Harry kissed your neck, sucked at the tender skin until it bloomed with bruises in every shade of red and purple, something you usually hated but now you didn’t mind him marking you. This way he would stay with you longer.

Love bites were scattered all over your neck and collarbones and trailed down to your breasts where Harry buried his face for a moment before he took one of your nipples in his mouth and worshipped it with care and needy sucks.

“Oh,” You whimpered when he moved to your other breast to pay it a little bit of attention too and bit on the sensitive red bud lightly. He soothed the spot with his tongue immediately after and licked around the sensitive skin to get more moans out of your lungs.

“I love you so much,” He cried when his lips found your stomach. He rested his head there, body completely limp between your spread legs and his own stuck out of the bed, not that he cared.

There was silence. Neither of you spoke, nor moved. And then Harry completely broke down on top of you. His arms were holding you so close until he was barely hanging on his last breath while his body heaved with sobs.

“Harry,” You ran your fingers through his hair in an act of reassurance but you needed it just as much. Even your tears were unstoppable.

“I need you,” He mumbled against the skin of your stomach in a hoarse voice and when he looked up you saw how bloodshot his eyes were.

Harry tugged his shirt over his head quickly, not bothering to unbutton it fully or taking better care of the expensive kind of clothing than discarding it on the floor next to your underwear, and launched himself back at you like a caveman.

Grabbing at the back of your thighs, he spread your legs so wide your knees were almost at the level of your shoulders. Your pussy was on full display and Harry didn’t waste a second before he buried his face deep in your dripping core.

He wasn’t nice about it. He was rough. Starving. Craving everything you could’ve given him from soft whimpers and moans to your sweet juices dripping down his chin. He was savouring this moment, savouring you, as if you were his last meal, which in some sense you were.

“Harry please,” You writhed under his mercilessly moving tongue and buckled your hips up from the mattress, chasing after the delightful feeling of an orgasm. He alternated between teasing your clit with occasional sucks and bites and fucking deep into you with his tongue, but no matter what he did, you felt like you were seeing stars.

“Shhhh, don’t writhe baby,” He groaned, the buzz of his voice running through your whole body like a lighting. He added more pressure on the back of your thigh with his forearm to hold you open and spread your labia with his other hand so he could tickle spots with his tongue that he didn’t reach before, making your left leg fall limply on his shoulder.

“Such a pretty pussy, and all mine,” He cooed at the sight and slid his pointer and middle finger in your entrance, just past the first knuckle to tease before he filled you up completely.

“Fuck Harry!” You whimpered in shock and clenched around his long fingers as he moved them in and out in a slow yet steady rhythm to stretch you open and get you ready for himself.

When it came to sex, foreplay and preparation were something Harry took very seriously in any situation. No matter if you were having angry sex after an argument or slow lovemaking by the end of a night, he spent a good amount of time between your legs. You were much smaller in comparison to him and he always tried his best to get you wet and stretched enough before pushing his dick into you. A part of him that he couldn't really be humble about.

“Are you close? I can feel it baby, clenching so hard around my fingers,”

“Close- so close!” You cried out loudly in the open space of your bedroom.

“Come on, baby, be a good girl and come on my tongue,” Harry praised you in that deep baritone until you were a crying mess in his arms. Your legs shook so hard he had to weigh them with his body to keep you still while he kept sucking on the small bundle of nerves to prolong your orgasm until you were pushing his head away from between your legs weakly.

“Good girl, my best girl,… Taste so sweet, god I love you so much,” Slowly he withdrew his finger back and stuck them in his mouth instead to clean them from your arousal, moaning quietly when your juices hit his tastebuds.

It took you a moment to come down from the orgasmic high. Slowly, your legs stopped shaking that much and your breath evened out. You watched Harry with wide eyes and blissful expressions. How he undid and pulled out his leather belt from the loops on his pants and slid them down his legs all at once with his boxers without a second thought or how he tried to take off his socks and almost tripped over his feet in the process.

His dick was hard, standing upright and hitting his belly button, twitching in need of release. “Shit,” He groaned when he tugged at his dick a few times to get himself even harder and watched how his angrily red tip made an appearance from beneath the foreskin, pre-cum leaked heavily from his slit given how turned on he was and he smeared it all over his length.

“Please, Harry, please I need you inside me!” You weakly reached after his free hand to pull him back at you and preferably also inside your aching pussy.

“I’m here, baby, shhhh, I’m right here with you,” He crawled over your tired body and gently cupped your cheek to wipe away another stray tear.

“I love you,” You hiccuped.

“I love you too baby, so much,” He whispered in your lips, sealing his words with a lingering kiss before he looked down between your bodies. Pulling your leg up around his hip, he reached down to grab his dick and ran it a few times between your pussy lips to lube it properly before he put just the tip in your opening.

“Harry,” You huffed out impatiently, you weren’t in the mood for teasing.

“Uhuh baby, I have to go slow, you know how it is with you, I don’t wanna hurt you,” He shook his head, the love for you only grew stronger in his heart and you could catch glimpses in his eyes too when you didn’t have your own closed.

Slower than he ever went in the history of your shenanigans, he pushed inside an inch by inch, not moving more than was necessary, you were overwhelmed enough.

You whimpered at the initial stretch, that feeling was always there. You felt so full and he was just a few inches in.

“Doing good, love?” He murmured in your ear when he was halfway in and slid his hand from his dick up to your clit to relax your muscles even more.

“So good, always with you,” You sniffled and wrapped your arms tightly around his neck.

“That’s what I want to hear,” Harry groaned and pushed the rest of his dick inside you until you were filled up to the brim.

“Fuck,” You cried out loudly.

“Shhhhh it’s okay. My dick’s so big for your little pussy, I know,… But you’re doing okay, taking me so good,” He whispered soft praises in your ear until your cries turned into hiccups and hiccups into quiet whimpers. He brushed the wet hair away from your forehead, sticky from sweat, and stuck the strands behind your ear.

“You’re so deep,” You whimpered and took a peek down between your snuggled bodies. Harry started moving slowly and you watched as if it was the most mesmerising thing ever. His dick brushed against your inner walls deliciously and the tip hit your cervix with every thrust.

“I know, baby,” He pressed his palm against your lower tummy and groaned when he felt the tip of his dick poking at your insides. It felt like the closest he would ever get to your stomach in a different shape. “Look at that,”

You covered his hand with yours and intertwined your fingers, with every thrust you felt your stomach bulge ever so slightly and his dick nudging your palms from beneath your skin.

“Harry please!” You begged quietly but weren’t even sure for what. Your mind was empty, the only thought existing there was how good and deep was Harry fucking you.

The slow and careful lovemaking turned quickly into faster thrusts that shook with your whole body. Harry finally picked up a pace that wasn’t agonisingly slow but not fast either, and started fucking you with long deep thrusts, each of them making you clench around his big dick and dug your nails in his shoulders so deep you were sure the new manicure left painful marks and scratches behind.

You let out a gasp when he grabbed both of your legs and pulled them over his shoulders to get even better angle before he put his weight fully on your body to stay close to you.

“I love you so fucking much. You were made for me. Cum for me, baby, come on,” One word equalled one thrust. Harry started pounding into you so harshly that you were sure your backside would be bruised by the morning.

You opened your mouth to say something, to let your boyfriend know you were seconds away from falling apart in his arms but nothing came out, not even a sound. With rhythmic thrusts, he was hitting that exact spot that made your eyes roll back in your skull and you closer and closer to your orgasm.

Harry fucked so hard into your pussy until your moans hit a higher octave and your body shook against your will and completely at his mercy. He held you tightly in his arms, his chest against yours until your heartbeat turned into one and he came undone deep inside you with the wishful thinking of new life.

“Fuck,” He cursed between heavy breaths and pulled your limp legs down from his shoulders, you didnt even notice them cramping from how long they’ve been upright, and fell down at your body still buried inside you. He was barely holding himself up on his forearms so he wouldn’t crush you but after a moment he lowered himself down on you anyway, wanting to be as close as possible.

“I love you,” You whispered in his chest, your voice barely above a whisper.

“I love you too, baby. Are you okay? Does anything hurt?” He switched into the caring and protective mode quickly and pulled away just enough to see your face. Your eyes were closed, cheeks flushed and forehead covered in a light sheen of sweat but there was also a blissful smile that had been absent since you got home.

“I don’t feel my legs… and my pussy,” You pouted and looked up at him from underneath your eyelashes, eyes barely open.

Harry smiled at you. You had this way with words after sex that was utterly adorable to him and he couldn’t help himself but press a soft kiss on your lips.

“I’m sorry,” He apologised, but you could hear the smugness in his voice, signalling he wasn’t that sorry, but you didn’t mind. You were enjoying the post sex bliss, happy to be held and kissed on.

You closed your eyes again, too tired to use all your remaining energy for that and blindly reached for his hand. Harry intertwined your fingers immediately, not missing out on kissing your knuckles, before he rested your hands beside your head on the mattress.

You looked like an angel. A sweet creature that was deep down beneath her muscles and ribs hurting. There was the ache that couldn’t even a million I love you’s and orgasms make disappear. It didn’t matter that you were smiling now, Harry knew you’d be crying again later.

“We have to clean you up,”

“Five more minutes,” You pouted.

“Baby, you’re all sweaty and sticky. Just a quick pee and a shower? For me?” He tried to bribe you with more kisses on your cheeks and lips, anything to get you to agree. He knew how sniffly you could get when you were emotional and uncomfortable.

“Will you carry me? And wash me? Please?” You pouted as much as you could, knowing the puppy eyes always worked on him.

“Anything for you, sweetheart. Lemme just-“ Harry sat up on his knees and ever so slowly pulled his softening dick out of you, rubbing your inner thigh in the process to calm you down because your facial expression spoke for itself, it wasn't the most comfortable feeling. “Here you go, baby. Oh look at that, still dripping,”

Your mixed cum dripped out of your opening down your ass and on the bedsheets, making it cling to your skin. Harry was right, you were starting to feel uncomfortable.

Harry cradled your spent body carefully in his arms and walked with you in the ensuite bathroom. He set you down on the toilet and moved to turn on the water in the walk-in shower to get it warmed up.

He tried to make the shower as quick as possible, knowing how tired you were and that your legs would give up quickly after standing for too long. He shampooed your hair with care, washed all the suds of soap from your skin, massaged the lingering tension away from your muscles, all while kissing you softly to make the after-sex soreness better.

Wrapped in a warmed-up fuzzy towel like an adorable burrito, Harry took you back to the bedroom and set you down in an armchair in the corner. He didn’t bother much about putting clothes on, he was content with just a towel wrapped around his waist as he moved around the softly lit room with ease. He tugged the sweat-soaked sheets down and threw them in the hamper before he fished new ones from the bottom drawer in the closet, soft grey sheets with little flowers scattered all over.

You watched Harry quietly, how his muscles flexed when he spread the white bedsheets over the mattress, and how his calloused fingers carefully buttoned up the duvet cover and smoothed wrinkles away from the cotton fabric.

You wished it could be like this till your last days, maybe it was, the hot showers full of care and quiet bedding changes after midnight, but the more you thought about it, the more you were sure it was slipping through your fingers.

“All done,” Harry smiled proudly at his work and turned to you. You looked smaller than usual, maybe it was the position, maybe the feelings acting up on themselves, but you looked so fragile it was breaking his heart.

You stretched your arms up high in the air with a quiet groan, your muscles a little stiff again, making the towel slip from around your chest and pool around your waist, but you didn’t bother fixing it. Harry saw you already like this anyway.

“Come here,” Harry reached out to take your hands in his and helped you gently to your feet. Your movements were still a little slow and tired, but Harry was patient, he wasn't rushing anywhere. “There we go, and right under the sheets,”

You slipped under the duvet, and Harry followed the pattern closely after he threw his towel on the place where you were sitting a minute ago and wrapped himself around you like a vice. One arm under your head, the other thrown over your waist, his thigh snugged between yours, bare bodies pressed together. Sometimes you preferred sleeping naked when you were craving the closeness of the other, and tonight was one of those nights.

“Remember the first night you spent here?” Harry whispered with a small smile, going back in his memories to the start of your relationship.

“Yeah, we watched The Notebook, and you had to calm me down because I was crying so much.” You chuckled, a real smile spreading on your lips at the memory, “Still to this day, I don’t understand how you didn’t break up with me after that.”

The words echoed in both of your minds, but neither of you had the strength to address it. Yet.

“It was sweet,” Harry moved his face closer until you were sharing just one pillow and nuzzled his nose against yours.

“Embarrassing. I’ve never cried this much during a movie,” You shook your head but only gave Harry a good old eskimo kiss he used to give you before the real makeouts came on the scene in the first weeks of dating, and smiled widely.

“I loved coming home to you before you even moved in. It was the best idea I ever had, to give you a key,” He reminisced more. After you started being serious, you happened to be at his place a lot. Working in his study on your essays, enjoying his shower with all the special settings you’ve never really learned how to use till this day, sunbathing in his garden, lounging in his living room when you were feeling lonely because that space made you feel safe.

“I love this house,” You shrugged. “Been my home since the start.”

“And you are my home.” Harry whispered, “This heart?” He moved his hand from your back up to your chest to make his point, “This head?” He trailed his pointer finger over your collarbones, up to your neck and cheeks until he brushed your nose, “You whole are my home,”

The corners of your mouth twitched until they fell and your smile turned upside down and your bottom lip trembled. You closed your eyes, not sure what to say. Your chest felt heavy again.

“I’m gonna love you forever. You know that, right?” He rubbed your cheek gently, hoping he would pry your eyes open again, but he didn’t want to push. You both were going through a turmoil of emotions.

“Yeah,” You breathed out, “I know,”

“Good,” Harry swallowed the tears and pressed his lips against your forehead, pulling you in him again, trying to erase every free space between your bodies. “No matter what happens, wherever and who- whoever we end up with, you will always be the only one for me.”

“Harry, please,” You sniffled and reached up to wipe your nose with the back of your nose.

“Shhh, baby, don’t make it even harder for me,”

“I can’t lose you,”

“You won’t lose me,”

“Then why are you saying all of this?” You blinked your eyes at him. full of him and hurt.

“Because this- it’s for the better. At least for now. I- I need some time too, we both do,… alone.” Harry whispered, his own tears now falling down his cheeks and on the newly changed pillowcase. He didn’t want to cry. He wanted to be strong for you, but he also felt too much to hold it together like the tough guy he thought he was.

You both cried quietly, held each other tightly, exchanged open-mouthed kisses because your sobs were inexorable and too hard to hold behind your teeth. You both were hurting and loving each other with bared hearts and heads full of wishful thoughts and the unthinkable would’ves and could’ves.

“This isn’t the end. I won’t let it happen,” Harry whimpered, his voice hoarse from all the crying, and pressed another kiss to your parted lips. You were so close to falling asleep, tired, emotionally ruined, with a body like a ragdoll, but you were grasping onto everything that would keep your eyes open for a moment longer. “We can stay in touch, just- maybe not for a while… It will be better like that,”

“I love you, Harry,” You whispered before your breathing evened out and your body turned limp in Harry’s arms.

But Harry stayed awake. Still with tears in his eyes and heart beating too fast, he watched your chest rise and fall, your eyelashes flutter, ran his fingers over your back lightly just to memorise the pattern of your birthmarks. He tried to remember you one last time. He didn’t want to fall asleep, because falling asleep would mean leaving you after he would open his eyes again in the morning and that was the last thing on earth he wanted, though deep down it was the only thing that was right in the moment, no matter how many little pieces it broke his heart into.

The morning came way faster than he would have wanted it to. Harry wasn’t sure if he slept or watched you for the whole night, but whatever he did, his body was hurting from heartache and both emotional and physical exhaustion. With a tight throat and trembling fingers, maybe from the lack of sleep, maybe from hurting, he untangled himself from you and tucked the blanket over your body, not wanting you to feel cold. He picked up his phone to check the time, but the sight of your face, all bright and smiley on his lock screen, your bubbly self he shattered with his differently timed wants and needs, it brought him back to tears again. It was four in the morning.

He moved around the space quietly and dressed himself up quickly in a pair of grey pants and a well-worn sweater, something he had worn the other day and brought him just enough comfort for the hard start of a day. He started putting whatever came under his hand in his two duffel bags - favourite pieces of clothing, all the underwear he could find, hygiene products, and all the essentials that he could think of with his fogged-up mind.

“Harry?” You mumbled sleepily. The sound of his socked feet moving around the bedroom and the opening and closing of the drawers in the closet woke you up.

“Baby, shhhh, go back to sleep,” He crouched by your side of the bed immediately when he heard your voice and rubbed your cheek in an attempt to lull you back to sleep. He cursed himself in his head for not being more careful.

“What are you doing?” You asked quietly but snuggled back into your pillow at his touch.

“Packing my bag, love, nothing for you to worry about, rest your eyes for a bit more,” He ran his fingers through your messy hair a few times and watched you quietly.

“I’m gonna be in my house in Italy, yeah? Just for a bit. I- It is better like this, it’s gonna be, baby. I- I love you so much. So fucking much,” Harry cried softly and leaned in to kiss your forehead for the last time.

“I love you, Harry.” You covered his hand in your hair weakly before he pulled it away. Before he could change his mind and crawl back under the sheets beside you. You were stuck somewhere between dreamland and reality, but you felt everything.

Harry grabbed his two duffel bags from the carpeted floor and stuck his phone in his pocket, your smiley face still there, and watched you from the doorway, sleeping so peacefully despite the situation. But before he walked out of the bedroom and out of your life, even if it was just for a month, he went back in the closet and opened a drawer with his shirts. He reached under the high pile of button-ups and pulled out a velvet box with the engagement ring he told you about.

Harry squeezed the box tightly in his fist until his knuckles turned white, at least something different hurt that time, and set it on your bedside table. Not as something he was leaving behind, but as a promise.

TAG LIST ✮⋆˙ @escapismatbest @run-for-the-hills @avensgreenvans @angeldavis777 @fkingstyles @kemier1989 @starrylupine @trixilove257 @starstruckcrusadeblaze @osorto @withoutluv @unicornswag2016 @am1kissco

[harryworldwide]

Harry Styles - Together, Together Tour - São Paulo Night 1 - July 17, 2026 (via thehsbrasil)

[harryworldwide]

Harry on his way to night one of Together, Together São Paulo - July 17, 2026 (via quem)

[djoispunkrry]

BABYYYYYYY

[bellaimagination]

Golden Was The Coast - Series

Part I — The Girl Who Stayed 

Warnings: slow burn, emotional exhaustion, fame, summer romance, soft angst, strangers-to-something-more.  Mini summary: Y/N never planned to stay in San Fiora after her Erasmus ended, but the little Italian coastal town gave her something she had not known she was looking for. Then, one hot July morning, a man in sunglasses walks into Caffè Lucia asking for coffee, water, and a quiet corner. She recognises him immediately. She just chooses not to say it. 

Y/N had not planned to stay. 

That was the first thing everyone asked her when they found out she was still in San Fiora sul Mare after her Erasmus had ended. Why stay? Why there? Why that tiny town on the Italian coast, with its steep streets, old stone houses, blue shutters, lemon trees leaning over garden walls, and a marina so small everyone knew which boat belonged to whom before they even saw the name painted on the side? 

The truth was simple. 

And, somehow, impossible to explain. 

She had stayed because leaving had felt wrong. 

Not dramatic. Not tragic. Not like some cinematic moment where she had stood at the train station with a suitcase in her hand and tears in her eyes. It had been quieter than that. More ordinary. More dangerous. One day, she had looked at the sea from the top of the hill above town, felt the warm wind push her hair back from her face, listened to the bells from the little church ring somewhere behind her, and realised that the thought of going back to a life that already knew who she was made her chest feel too tight. 

San Fiora did not know her. 

That was what made it easy to breathe there. 

No one in town expected her to be anything polished or finished. No one asked if she had figured out her future yet, as if the future was something she could fold neatly and place inside a drawer. No one looked at her like they already had a version of her in their mind and were only waiting to see if she matched it. 

In San Fiora, she was simply the girl who stayed. 

Lucia called her that first. 

Lucia, who owned Caffè Lucia in the main square and had a voice that could cut through church bells, tourists, and the sound of scooters climbing the hill. Lucia, who wore red lipstick even at seven in the morning and treated everyone like family unless they ordered a cappuccino after lunch, in which case she treated them like a personal disappointment. 

“You stayed,” Lucia had said on Y/N’s last official day in town, watching her stand in the middle of the café with her suitcase beside her chair and no real plan in her head. 

Y/N had looked up from her cold espresso. 

“I missed the bus.” 

Lucia had stared at her. 

“There is another one tomorrow.” 

“I know.” 

“And after that.” 

“I know.” 

“And the day after that.” 

Y/N had pressed her lips together. 

Lucia had looked at her for a long moment, then picked up the cup from the table. 

“You can wash glasses.” 

Y/N blinked. 

“What?” 

“If you are going to sit here every morning looking like a tragic painting, you can wash glasses.” 

“I don’t know how.” 

Lucia had rolled her eyes. 

“It is water and hands. You will survive.” 

That was how it started. 

A few hours a week became a few mornings. A few mornings became most days. Most days became a routine. By July, Y/N had a tiny room above a guesthouse near the square, a set of keys Lucia insisted she not lose, and a blue bicycle Matteo had lent her because, according to him, “walking everywhere is romantic only until your legs hate you.” 

Matteo was Lucia’s son. He was twenty-eight, loud, sun-browned, and constantly pretending not to care about things he cared about deeply. He worked at the marina, fixed boats, carried crates, flirted badly with tourists, and treated his little white boat, Stella, as if she were a dramatic old aunt who needed patience, praise, and occasional threats. 

“She is old,” he had told Y/N the first time he took her out on the water, patting the side of the boat. “But loyal.” 

“Like Lucia?” 

Matteo had gasped. 

“Never say that where she can hear you.” 

Y/N had laughed so hard the boat rocked. 

By midsummer, she knew the rhythm of San Fiora better than she knew how to explain her own life. She knew which bakery sold out of warm cornetti first. She knew which cats belonged to no one and still managed to be fed by everyone. She knew that Rosa, the old woman who lived three houses down from the café, gave lemons to people as if citrus could heal grief, fever, heartbreak, bad luck, and poor decisions. 

She knew that the sea looked different depending on the hour. Silver in the early morning. Bright blue by noon. Soft and golden by evening, when the sun lowered itself slowly toward the water and made the whole coast look like it had been forgiven for something. 

She knew that tourists came and went, dragging suitcases over cobblestones, asking where the beach was, taking photos of doorways, mispronouncing Lucia’s name, and leaving after three days convinced they had discovered something secret. 

Y/N stayed. 

She stayed through the heat, through the crowds, through the days when the café smelled of coffee, lemon tart, warm sugar, and sea salt carried in on people’s clothes. She stayed long enough that the locals stopped asking when she was leaving and started asking whether she had eaten. 

She was not happy all the time. 

That would have been too simple. 

There were evenings when she missed home in strange, sharp ways. Not enough to go back immediately, but enough to feel the distance. She missed familiar voices. She missed knowing exactly how to say what she meant. She missed walking into a room and understanding every joke, every tone, every reference without translating half of it in her head. 

But there were other evenings when she sat on the low stone wall above the marina with gelato melting faster than she could eat it, watching the sun break itself across the water, and thought maybe there were versions of her she had not met yet. 

Maybe San Fiora was one of them. 

The morning Harry arrived was painfully hot. 

The kind of heat that made the town move slowly, as if everyone had agreed to perform life at half speed until the sun calmed down. The air above the square shimmered. The stone steps were already warm by nine. The lemon trees near the church gave off a bright, sharp smell every time the breeze moved through them, and Lucia had been complaining about tourists since before the first table was seated. 

“They come to Italy,” Lucia said, slamming a stack of cups onto the counter, “and then ask if we have iced caramel coffee with oat milk and sadness.” 

Y/N laughed as she tied her apron. 

“I don’t think they asked for sadness.” 

“They did with their faces.” 

“You’re in a good mood today.” 

Lucia pointed a spoon at her. 

“I am always in a good mood.” 

“You threatened a German man with a napkin ten minutes ago.” 

“He called my espresso cute.” 

Y/N pressed her lips together to stop herself from laughing again. 

“That was brave of him.” 

“That was stupid of him.” 

The bell above the door rang. 

Lucia looked toward it with the expression of a woman preparing for battle. 

“See?” she said. “Another one.” 

Y/N turned. 

And for a second, everything in the café seemed to shift. 

Not dramatically. 

Not enough for anyone else to notice. 

But enough for her. 

A man had stepped inside, pausing just beyond the doorway as if the sudden change from sunlight to shade had caught him off guard. He was tall, though not in a way that tried to take up space. If anything, he seemed to be doing the opposite. His shoulders curved slightly inward, his head tipped down beneath a faded baseball cap, sunglasses hiding most of his face. He wore a white linen shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, loose trousers, and carried a brown leather bag that looked too expensive for someone trying to appear invisible. 

Y/N recognised him immediately. 

Of course she did. 

There were faces some people knew without ever meeting them. Faces that belonged to posters, magazines, playlists, interviews watched too late at night, stages lit brighter than the sun. Faces that became familiar in a way that felt impossible and unfair, because the person wearing them had never once been given the same chance to know yours. 

Harry Styles stood in the doorway of Caffè Lucia, looking like a man who had crossed an ocean just to be left alone. 

For one second, Y/N forgot to move. 

Only one. 

Then Lucia nudged her with an elbow. 

“Table,” she muttered. “Unless you plan to stare him into ordering.” 

Y/N blinked. 

Right. 

Table. 

She picked up a menu and walked toward him, forcing her face into the same polite expression she used for every tourist who looked lost, overheated, or emotionally wounded by cobblestones. 

“Hi,” she said in English. “Just one?” 

His head lifted slightly. 

Behind the sunglasses, she could not see his eyes. But she felt the pause. The brief calculation. The moment where he waited for recognition to become announcement. 

It did not. 

Y/N simply stood there, holding the menu. 

After a beat, he nodded. 

“Yeah. Just one.” 

His voice was lower than she expected. 

Or maybe she had only ever heard it through speakers, flattened by interviews, polished by distance. 

“Inside or outside?” 

He glanced toward the square, where sunlight bounced off the pale stones with almost violent brightness. A group of tourists stood near the fountain, laughing too loudly over a map. 

“Inside, please.” 

“Somewhere cooler?” 

“If possible.” 

Y/N turned slightly, looking across the café. There were several empty tables, but she already knew which one he needed. The small table in the back corner, near the old bookshelf and the narrow window that looked out toward the side alley instead of the square. Not hidden exactly, but quiet. Shaded. Away from the door. 

“This way.” 

He followed her without a word. 

Y/N placed the menu on the table. 

“This one is usually the quietest,” she said. “Less sun. Less people staring at maps like maps personally betrayed them.” 

A breath of amusement left him. 

Not quite a laugh. 

But close. 

“Sounds perfect.” 

She stepped back. 

“I’ll give you a minute.” 

“Thanks.” 

Y/N returned to the counter with her heart beating far too loudly for someone who had done absolutely nothing except seat a customer. 

Lucia was watching her. 

Y/N picked up a cloth and began wiping an already clean spot on the counter. 

“What?” 

Lucia narrowed her eyes. 

“You know him.” 

Y/N nearly dropped the cloth. 

“I don’t know him.” 

“But you know of him.” 

Y/N looked toward the corner table before she could stop herself. 

Harry had taken off his cap, but not his sunglasses. His head was bowed, one hand rubbing slowly at the bridge of his nose as if the simple act of being indoors had not been enough to make him feel safe. 

Y/N looked away. 

“Everyone knows of him.” 

Lucia followed her gaze, then hummed. 

“Famous?” 

Y/N hesitated. 

“Yes.” 

“How famous?” 

Y/N gave her a look. 

Lucia’s eyebrows rose. 

“Oh. That famous.” 

“Please don’t make it obvious.” 

Lucia looked offended. 

“I am a professional.” 

“You once told a couple they were going to break up before dessert.” 

“They did break up before dessert.” 

“That’s not the point.” 

Lucia leaned closer, lowering her voice. 

“He looks tired.” 

Y/N looked at him again. 

He did. 

Not sleepy. Not simply travel-worn. Tired in a deeper, quieter way. Like he had been carrying too many versions of himself and had finally put them down only to realise he had forgotten what his hands felt like empty. 

“Yes,” Y/N said softly. “He does.” 

Lucia nodded once, as if deciding something. 

“Then give him the good table and do not look at him like he is a painting.” 

Y/N sighed. 

“I wasn’t.” 

“You were a little.” 

“I was surprised.” 

“Be surprised quietly.” 

That, at least, she could do. 

When Y/N returned to the table, Harry had removed his sunglasses. They were folded beside his hand, one arm tucked neatly beneath the other. Without them, his face seemed both more familiar and more human. His eyes were tired, yes, but attentive. Green. Careful. He looked up when she approached, and again she felt that tiny pause, that waiting. 

She kept her voice even. 

“What can I get you?” 

He glanced at the menu, though she doubted he had read much of it. 

“An espresso, please. Still water. And…” He looked toward the glass display near the counter. “Is that lemon tart?” 

“It is.” 

“Good?” 

Y/N tilted her head. 

“You’re asking in Lucia’s café, so there is only one safe answer.” 

His mouth twitched. 

“Good, then.” 

“Very good.” 

“Then I’ll have that too.” 

“Espresso, still water, lemon tart.” 

“Please.” 

She nodded and turned to leave. 

“Actually,” he said. 

Y/N stopped. 

Harry’s fingers moved lightly over the edge of the menu. 

“Do people usually sit here long?” 

“In that table?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Depends.” 

“On what?” 

“On whether they’re hiding from the sun or from themselves.” 

His gaze lifted fully to hers. 

For half a second, Y/N regretted saying it. 

Then something in his face changed, just slightly. A small crack in the careful neutrality. Not amusement exactly. More like recognition. 

“And if it’s both?” he asked. 

“Then Lucia charges extra.” 

This time, he did laugh. 

Quietly. 

Briefly. 

But it was real enough that Y/N felt it like sunlight moving across the room. 

“I’ll keep that in mind.” 

She went back to the counter before she could do something ridiculous, like smile too much. 

Lucia was already cutting the tart. 

“You made him laugh,” she said. 

Y/N reached for a tray. 

“He laughed at the table.” 

“No one laughs at furniture.” 

“He laughed at the threat of being overcharged.” 

“Good. Then he understands Italian hospitality.” 

Y/N carried the order back carefully. 

Harry looked up when she placed the water down first, then the espresso, then the slice of lemon tart on a small white plate. The tart was glossy on top, pale yellow and dusted lightly with sugar. Lucia’s best, though she would never admit she had chosen the prettiest slice. 

“Thank you,” Harry said. 

“You’re welcome.” 

Y/N stepped away, but his voice stopped her again. 

“Sorry,” he said. “What’s your name?” 

She looked back at him. 

He asked it like a normal question. 

That, for some reason, made it harder. 

“Y/N.” 

He repeated it softly, not quite under his breath, as if testing how it felt. 

“Y/N.” 

There was nothing strange about it. 

People said her name every day. 

Lucia shouted it from the kitchen. Matteo yelled it across the marina. Tourists read it from her name tag and pronounced it badly. 

But the way Harry said it made it feel briefly unfamiliar. 

“And you?” she asked, because there was no way not to. 

His eyes flickered. 

The corner of his mouth lifted, but the smile did not fully arrive. 

“Harry.” 

Y/N held his gaze. 

She did not say I know. 

She did not say anything else. 

Only nodded once. 

“Nice to meet you, Harry.” 

For a second, he looked almost relieved. 

“Nice to meet you too.” 

She left him alone after that. 

Mostly. 

She served three tables outside, refilled water for a family with two children, argued gently with an elderly man who insisted he had ordered tea even though he came in every morning and ordered espresso, and pretended not to notice that Harry remained at the corner table for nearly two hours. 

He did not touch his phone much. 

That surprised her. 

He took it out once, looked at the screen, sighed, and placed it face down on the table. After that, he drank his espresso slowly, even though espresso was not built for patience, and ate the lemon tart in small bites as if he was trying to make time stretch around it. 

Once, a group of young women came into the café laughing, their hair still wet from the beach, sunglasses pushed onto their heads. Y/N saw Harry’s body tense before they had even noticed him. 

They did not. 

Lucia seated them outside. 

Harry exhaled so quietly Y/N only noticed because she had been looking. 

She should not have been looking. 

She knew that. 

But there was something deeply strange about seeing someone the world had turned into an event sitting alone in a corner, trying to be ordinary. Stranger still was the fact that ordinary seemed to suit him. The way his hand curled around the tiny espresso cup. The way he leaned back when he thought no one was watching. The way he looked out through the narrow window at the alley, where laundry moved between buildings and a cat slept on a windowsill with the arrogance of something worshipped in a past life. 

At some point, Lucia passed by Y/N and whispered, “You are looking again.” 

Y/N nearly dropped the tray. 

“I’m checking if he needs anything.” 

“He needs sleep.” 

“That is not on the menu.” 

“Then improvise.” 

Y/N rolled her eyes, but ten minutes later, she found herself walking back to the corner table with a small plate. 

Harry looked up. 

“I didn’t order anything else.” 

“I know.” 

She placed the plate down. 

On it sat two small almond biscuits Lucia usually kept for regulars, friends, or people she had silently decided were underfed. 

“From Lucia,” Y/N said. “She thinks you look tired.” 

Harry looked toward the counter. 

Lucia was aggressively polishing glasses and pretending not to care. 

His mouth softened. 

“That obvious?” 

Y/N considered lying. 

Then decided against it. 

“A little.” 

He looked down at the biscuits, then back at her. 

“Do I look rude if I ask whether she gives these to everyone who looks tired?” 

“Yes.” 

“Does she?” 

“No.” 

His smile was small, almost private. 

“Then tell her thank you.” 

“You can tell her yourself if you’re brave enough.” 

His eyebrows lifted. 

“Should I be scared?” 

“Of Lucia?” 

“Yes.” 

“Absolutely.” 

He laughed again, and Y/N found herself liking the sound more than she should. 

For the next few minutes, the café settled into one of those rare quiet pockets that happened between rushes. Outside, the square shimmered. Inside, the fan turned lazily above the counter, moving warm air around without improving it much. 

Harry broke one biscuit in half. 

“Have you lived here long?” 

Y/N looked around, as if the café itself might answer for her. 

“Not long. Long enough.” 

“That sounds like an answer people give when they don’t want to explain.” 

“It is.” 

He nodded, accepting that. 

“Fair.” 

She could have walked away. 

She probably should have. 

Instead, she rested one hand lightly on the back of the chair across from him. 

“I came here for Erasmus,” she said. “I was supposed to leave when it ended.” 

“But you didn’t.” 

“No.” 

“Why?” 

There it was again. 

The question everyone asked. 

But he asked it differently. 

Not as if he needed a practical answer. Not as if he wanted her to justify herself. More like he understood the shape of staying somewhere by accident and wanted to know what had made her stop moving. 

Y/N looked toward the narrow window. A line of sunlight cut across the floor near Harry’s shoes. 

“I don’t know,” she said honestly. “I think I liked who I was here.” 

Harry was quiet. 

Then he said, “That’s a good reason.” 

She looked back at him. 

“You think so?” 

“I think it might be one of the only good reasons.” 

Something passed between them then. 

Not flirtation. 

Not yet. 

Something quieter. 

Recognition, maybe. 

The kind that happened when two strangers accidentally touched the same bruise in different bodies. 

Y/N cleared her throat and straightened. 

“I should work.” 

Harry glanced around the half-empty café. 

“Looks very demanding.” 

“Emotionally, yes.” 

“Lucia?” 

“Mostly.” 

He smiled. 

“Good luck.” 

“Thank you.” 

She took two steps before he spoke again. 

“Y/N?” 

She turned. 

Harry looked at the biscuits, then at her. 

“Thank you.” 

“For what?” 

He hesitated. 

“For not making it a thing.” 

Y/N did not pretend not to understand. 

The café noise seemed to soften around them. Cups, voices, the distant sound of someone dragging a chair outside. Lucia muttering in Italian at the coffee machine. 

Y/N met his eyes. 

“You looked like you needed coffee more than a thing.” 

The corner of his mouth lifted, but his eyes stayed serious. 

“I did.” 

“Then you came to the right place.” 

He held her gaze a second longer. 

“I think so.” 

Y/N felt warmth rise to her face and turned away before he could see too much of it. 

The rest of the morning passed slowly, then all at once. 

By the time Harry finally stood, the lunch crowd had begun drifting in. The square outside was louder now, full of heat and bodies and the clatter of cutlery from nearby restaurants. He placed money on the table, more than enough, and slid his sunglasses back on. 

Y/N was clearing a table near the door when he approached. 

“Leaving?” she asked, then immediately hated herself for how it sounded. 

Harry’s mouth tilted. 

“For now.” 

“For now?” 

He shrugged lightly. 

“I haven’t tried everything on the menu.” 

“That could take a while.” 

“I’m patient.” 

Y/N glanced toward his empty table. 

“Are you?” 

He followed her gaze. 

For a moment, the smile faded. 

“No,” he said softly. “Not usually.” 

There was something in the honesty of it that made her pause. 

Then he seemed to catch himself and reached for the door. 

“Tell Lucia thank you for the biscuits.” 

“I will.” 

“And the tart.” 

“She already knows the tart is good.” 

“I’m sure she does.” 

Y/N smiled. 

“She does.” 

Harry stepped outside, then stopped beneath the awning, turning back slightly. 

“See you, Y/N.” 

It should not have mattered. 

It was only her name. 

But it did. 

“See you, Harry.” 

Then he walked into the heat of the square and disappeared among tourists, sun, and the lazy movement of a town that did not yet know what it had just let in. 

Y/N watched for half a second too long. 

Lucia appeared beside her. 

“Interesting,” she said. 

Y/N startled. 

“Please stop doing that.” 

“No.” 

Y/N began wiping the table nearest the door with unnecessary focus. 

“He’s just a customer.” 

Lucia hummed. 

“Of course.” 

“He wanted coffee.” 

“Many people want coffee.” 

“And a quiet table.” 

“Many people want quiet.” 

Y/N looked at her. 

Lucia looked back, completely unimpressed. 

“What?” 

“Nothing,” Lucia said. “I said nothing.” 

“You said interesting.” 

“That is almost nothing.” 

Y/N sighed and carried the cloth back to the counter. 

The corner table was empty now. 

Except it was not. 

Not completely. 

There was the cup, the plate with a few crumbs of almond biscuit, the folded napkin, and the money tucked neatly beneath the edge of the saucer. Y/N walked over to clear it, expecting nothing more than the ordinary evidence of someone having been there. 

Then she saw the small piece of paper. 

It had been torn from the corner of something, maybe a notebook, maybe a receipt. Folded once. Left beneath the water glass. 

Y/N glanced toward Lucia, who was busy arguing with a man about whether sparkling water counted as water. Then she unfolded it. 

The handwriting was messy but deliberate. 

Thank you for not saying it. 

Y/N read the sentence once. 

Then again. 

Her chest did something strange. 

Not a flutter. 

Not exactly. 

More like the quiet click of a door she had not realised was closed. 

She looked toward the square, though Harry was long gone. 

The sunlight outside was almost white with heat. A scooter passed. Someone laughed near the fountain. Rosa shouted down at a cat from her window. San Fiora continued being San Fiora, unaware that the day had shifted slightly on its axis. 

Y/N folded the note carefully and slipped it into the pocket of her apron. 

Lucia appeared behind her. 

“What is that?” 

Y/N nearly jumped. 

“Nothing.” 

Lucia’s eyes narrowed. 

“You are a terrible liar.” 

“I learned from Matteo.” 

“That explains nothing good.” 

Y/N picked up the empty espresso cup and plate. 

“He left a note.” 

Lucia tried and failed not to look interested. 

“What did it say?” 

Y/N hesitated. 

Then smiled down at the table. 

“Thank you.” 

Lucia studied her for a moment. 

Then, surprisingly, she did not ask more. 

She only picked up the saucer and looked toward the door. 

“He will come back,” she said. 

Y/N forced a laugh. 

“You don’t know that.” 

Lucia gave her a look that suggested she knew many things and tolerated very few doubts. 

“He sat at the corner table for two hours. He ate my lemon tart. He laughed twice. He left a note.” 

“So?” 

“So,” Lucia said, walking back toward the counter, “men who want to disappear do not leave notes unless some part of them wants to be found.” 

Y/N stood there with the empty cup in her hand, the paper warm in her apron pocket, and did not answer. 

Outside, the bells began to ring noon. 

The sound moved through the square, over the fountain, past the lemons and the shuttered windows, down toward the marina where boats knocked softly against the dock. 

Harry had come to San Fiora to disappear. 

And, without meaning to, he had just been seen. 

Hope you like my second series! Leave a comment to what you think of it!

[watermelonlovershigh]

Breastfeeding in Public Gone Wrong (Angst/Fluff)

AN: this is partly inspired by that lady who made the tiktok video saying she was told to breastfeed in an airport bathroom but refused. i just put my own spin to the story. i don't write a lot of angst but for this blurb i decided it needed a little to make it complete. hope you enjoy and remember to leave feedback. xoxo (ps, this has been in my drafts since last september and i'm just now proof reading it to post.)

This story contains: breastfeeding in public, sexualization of breastfeeding, perverted man, comfort, angst

{ dadrry - husband!harry - softrry - au!harry }

word count- 950

You begin breastfeeding your hungry newborn baby at the airport while Harry is on the hunt for you some breakfast, when all of the sudden an older man decides to butt into your business and share his negative thoughts on you breastfeeding in public.

This marked your first travel experience since welcoming your two-month-old daughter into the world, Penny, and it'd be an understatement to say you were a nervous wreck. You were unsure if Penny would sleep soundly for the duration of the flight, or if she'd cry and bother the other passengers. The unknowing of how she'll act on the plane gave you major anxiety.

You and Harry made sure to get to the airport two hours in advance of your flight's departure time, which gave you time to have some breakfast and soothe your nerves before the journey. After going through the security checks and having your bags examined, you sat in a small seating area near your gate while Harry looked for breakfast for the two of you.

While he's on the hunt for breakfast, Penny, who's strapped to your chest, begins to fuss, and you know precisely what her problem is. She's hungry as well. She hasn't eaten since just before you left your house, which was nearly two hours ago. You unclip her from your chest and take off the baby carrier, then gently lift your shirt just enough for her to have access to your breast.

In the first few weeks of having Penny, you often felt anxious about breastfeeding in public spaces; however, Harry quickly snapped you out of that anxiety. He emphasized that you are simply feeding your daughter, and if anyone has a negative remark about it, they can take their opinions elsewhere and fuck the right off.

Approximately a minute after you begin feeding Penny, an elderly gentleman takes a seat in the same waiting area as you. You initially pay him no mind until you observe his gaze fixated on your chest while you're feeding your daughter. You choose to ignore him and focus your attention out the large glass windows in front of you. This continues until the older man chooses to speak.

"Should be ashamed to have your breast hanging out like that in public. Very indecent for a pretty women like you."

You abruptly turn your head towards him, a scowl present on your face. How dare this stranger have the audacity to comment on the act of you feeding your child? It's not as if you're sitting here exposing yourself without cause. You clearly have a baby attached to your chest. Just as you're about to address the older man, Harry comes back with two breakfast sandwiches and two cups of coffee, completely unaware of the dispute that unfolded during his absence.

As Harry sits down beside you, the older man opts to speak to him, presuming that Harry is your partner. "Hey, could you tell your wife to feed your baby in the toilets or somewhere else less public? No one wants to see your wife's tits this early before a flight. It could lead to an uncomfortable situation for us men during our flights. If you know what I mean."

You nervously decide to glance over at Harry and realize you've never witnessed him this angry before. It was as if you could actually see invisible smoke billowing from his ears, and his face is a bright shade of red. "Uhmm, sorry, I must've heard you wrong. Because there is no way in hell you just implied that my WIFE feeding our CHILD would make men hard? If a man gets hard at the sight of a women feeding their baby, the man needs to be locked up and far away from society. You dirty bastard."

For a brief moment, you're anxious that Harry might go up to the man and provoke a fight, but once Harry finishes his angry speech, the intercom activates and announces that the older man's flight is ready for boarding. Thankfully, he is not on your flight. As he walks away, Harry turns to you with a concerned look and asks, "Are you okay? Did he say anythin' to you while I was out getting us breakfast?"

Sadly smiling, you respond, "I'm okay. Just a little bit shook up. He just said I should be ashamed to have my breast out like this and then said it was very indecent for a pretty women like me."

Harry sets the breakfast down on the empty seat to his left and leans in to kiss your lips softly. "M' so sorry. I shouldn't have left you alone. Ignore what that fuckin' pervert said to you. You did nothin' wrong. Feeding our baby isn't wrong. And any man who ever tells you they get hard at the sight of you feeding a baby, run as far away as you can from them. There is nothin' sexual about you feeding a baby."

"Okay. Thank you for taking up for me and Penny. We appreciate it."

Harry just stares at you for a moment with a warm smile before glancing down at your baby who's still sucking your breast from just beneath your shirt, unfazed by all the recent commotion. He leans down to peck a soft kiss to the crown of Penny's head and mutters, "'Course, I'll always protect you two. You're both my world. Love you more than anythin'."

For the remainder of your time in the airport before your flight, you sit and glance out the big glass windows while your baby feeds. Harry takes turns feeding himself and than helping you eat by positioning your breakfast sandwich to your lips since your hands are full. You couldn't be more grateful to have such an amazing husband. He's the sweetest and most caring man you know, and he repeatedly makes you fall in love with him over and over again, every single day.

(PLEASE REBLOG BECAUSE WRITING IS NOT EASY AND IT'S FREE SO JUST DO IT)

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My Masterlist Masterpost

[harryworldwide]

Harry in London yesterday - July 9, 2026

[djoispunkrry]

MY SWEET ANGEL BABY 😭❤️‍🩹

[grapejuicerryyy]

he’s so🤏🏼🤏🏼🤏🏼🥲🥲

[ijustmissyouraccenths]

No Desk, No Plan, No Problem (Raya Harry)

<- Part Ten | Masterlist

You quit your job, told Priya to suck it, ate eggs alone for the first time in six years, and somewhere between the second coffee and the third one you probably didn’t need, you started a travel blog 

word count: 4k

authors note: cover photo by @zclhes

You sit there for a second after you hang up and just look at Cami.

She looks back at you.

“So,” you say.

“So,” she says.

“What do I actually do now.”

She refills both glasses with the other good wine, settles back against the couch, and looks at you with the expression of someone who has already thought this through and is about to present it like it’s obvious.

“Here’s the plan,” she says. “You go in tomorrow and you quit.”

You laugh. It comes out a little high. “Yeah. Sure. I also have rent.”

“Live here.”

You look at her.

“I’m serious,” she says. “Quit. Stay here. However long it takes you to get to Harry, you’re here. I’m never home anyway.”

You look around her apartment. The candle burning low. The good art on the walls. The little dish by the door. It’s a genuinely nice apartment. It has always been a genuinely nice apartment.

“Cami,” you say.

“What.”

“I can’t move in with you.”

“Why not.”

“Because.” You search for it. “Because I’m not moving backwards. I’m not going from my apartment to yours and then to Harry like I’m just bouncing between other people’s lives. I need to—” You stop. “I need it to feel like I’m going toward something. Not retreating.”

Camille looks at you for a long moment.

“That’s not what this is,” she says quietly.

Camille sets her wine glass down and looks at you properly.

“I want to see you happy,” she says. “That’s it. That’s the whole thing.” She pauses. “You’re happy when you’re with me. You’re happy when you’re with him. This is just both of those things at once for a little while.” She tilts her head slightly. “That’s not a handout. That’s just me loving you.”

You look at your wine glass.

“I know,” you say quietly.

“And I think this is going to be so good for you,” she says. “Like genuinely, really, so good. I’ve watched you sit at that desk and come home flat for months and I’ve watched you light up every single time he calls and I’ve watched you stare at your phone after LA like someone rearranged all the furniture in your brain.” She pulls her knees up. “You deserve the furniture arrangement.”

You laugh despite yourself.

“Stay here,” she says again. Softer this time. “While you figure it out.”

You sit with it for a moment. The candle. The music. The second bottle open between you.

“Okay,” you say finally. “But I’m paying you something.”

She opens her mouth.

“Non negotiable,” you say.

She closes it. “Fine. Something small.”

“Something reasonable.”

“We’ll argue about it later,” she says, which means she’s already won but is letting you think you haven’t, which is very Camille. She picks her glass back up. “Now. Start thinking.”

“About what.”

“About what you actually want to do.” She looks at you. “Not the job. Not Harry. You. What do you want to write. Where do you want to go. Make a plan.”

You look at the ceiling. At the particular dark of a December night pressing against the windows. At the candle burning almost all the way down.

“I keep thinking about the sofrito woman,” you say.

“I know you do.”

“There are a thousand of her everywhere. In every city. And I’ve only ever found the ones within ten blocks of my office.” You pause. “I want to find the rest of them.”

Camille is quiet for a second. Then she says: “So do that.”

“It’s not a job.”

“It could be.” She reaches over and tops up your glass. “Start a newsletter. Pitch it somewhere. Build it yourself. It doesn’t have to be a job on day one, it just has to be a thing you’re doing.” She looks at you. “It’s kind of like working.”

“It’s kind of like working,” you repeat.

“You’d be writing,” she says. “You’d be travelling. You’d be with him. You’d be building something that’s actually yours.” She shrugs. “Sounds like working to me.”

You sit there in the soft pyjamas on Camille’s floor with the second bottle of good wine and the nearly dead candle and the whole improbable shape of the next chapter of your life sitting somewhere in the middle distance, not fully formed yet but present, and you think about a blog post with broken photo links that you’ve read twice without absorbing.

You’re going to absorb it now.

You take the subway home just after midnight, the car mostly empty, the city outside the windows doing its late night thing. You sit with your hands in your coat pockets and your head against the glass and you think about how strange life is.

Not bad strange. Just strange. The ordinary specific strangeness of a Tuesday that started with a housing board piece you couldn’t finish and ended with you quitting your job on your best friend’s floor in free pyjamas while your boyfriend listened from London. You think about the version of yourself that walked into that office six years ago with a notebook and a very strong opinion about local journalism and a very small apartment and a very clear idea of what the next ten years were supposed to look like.

She wouldn’t recognize this Tuesday.

You think about the job. About what it cost to get it, the years of pitching and interning and writing things for almost nothing and finally getting the call, how you sat on your kitchen floor afterward and cried because you’d wanted it so badly for so long. You think about the first piece you filed, a small thing about a community garden in the Bronx that was being threatened by a development proposal, and how you refreshed the page seventeen times after it went live.

It’s okay for things to change, you think. That’s just what things do.

You think about Cami saying the furniture got rearranged. You think about Harry saying you just have to start. You think about Mei pressing her thumb into your left shoulder and finding six weeks of something you’d been carrying around without admitting it.

You get home and change and get into bed and lie there in the dark looking at the ceiling and think about how you just paid rent a few days ago, which means you have the whole month. A full month in this apartment. Time to do it properly. Time to figure out the next part without rushing it.

That feels like something.

You fall asleep still thinking about it and sleep better than you have in weeks.

In the morning you wake up and lie there waiting for the anxiety to arrive.

It doesn’t.

You wait a little longer, just to be sure. You run through the facts of the situation the way you do when you’re trying to locate something you’ve misplaced. You are going to walk into your office today and tell your editor you’re quitting. You are going to give notice on the job you worked for years to get. You are going to move in with your best friend on a temporary basis and figure out how to build something new from scratch in a city you’re about to leave.

Nothing.

Just a quiet that feels less like emptiness and more like clarity, which are not the same thing and you know the difference.

You get up and make coffee and stand in your kitchen in the early morning light and look at your apartment, at all the familiar things of your life arranged exactly as you arranged them, and you think about the bathroom cabinet you reorganized at eleven pm and the bookshelf alphabetized by color and the spices in order and all the small ways you’ve been trying to manage something that couldn’t be managed by tidying.

You drink your coffee.

You get ready.

You’re surprisingly ready.

Your manager’s name is Dana.

You’ve always liked Dana. She’s direct without being cold, the kind of editor who gives notes that actually make your work better rather than just different, who remembers the details of your stories between conversations, who once stayed on the phone with you for forty minutes when a source pulled out an hour before deadline and helped you rebuild the whole thing from scratch.

You knock on her door and she looks up from her screen and waves you in and you sit down across from her desk and she reads your face immediately because Dana always reads faces immediately, it’s one of the things that makes her good at her job.

“What’s going on,” she says.

You take a breath.

“I’m moving,” you say. “I’m going to have to give notice.”

Dana is quiet for a moment. She folds her hands on her desk and looks at you with the particular steadiness of someone who has had this conversation before and knows how to hold it.

“Where,” she says.

“England,” you say. “It’s not a work thing. It’s personal.” You pause. “It’s not this place. It’s not you. I want to be really clear about that. This job has been everything I wanted it to be.” You stop. “I just want something different now.”

She nods slowly.

“How long have you been thinking about it,” she says.

“Honestly?” You look at your hands. “A while.”

She’s quiet again. Outside her office the floor hums along at its usual morning pace, phones and keyboards and someone’s very loud coffee order from the kitchen, and you sit there in the chair you’ve sat in for six years worth of pitch meetings and performance reviews and one very memorable conversation about the zoning amendment series and you feel something in your chest that is sad and right at the same time.

“Okay,” Dana says finally. “Let’s talk about the transition.”

You stay in her office for twenty minutes. You work out the notice period, who picks up your current pieces, how to hand off the sources you’ve built relationships with over the years. Dana is professional and warm and at one point puts her hand briefly on yours across the desk and says she thinks you’re going to be fine, and you believe her.

You walk out of her office and close the door quietly behind you.

Priya is at her desk.

She looks up the second she sees your face. Her eyes go wide. She looks at Dana’s closed door. Then back at you.

“I knew it,” she says. “I knew you weren’t going to last.”

You stop. You look at her. You think about three weeks of her watching you stare at a second tab and delete four hundred words and come in carrying something you couldn’t put down.

“Suck it, Priya,” you say.

She laughs, loud and genuine. “Go live your life,” she says.

You point at her. She points back. You walk out.

You push through the front doors and the December air hits you and you just stand there for a second on the pavement outside the building you have walked into five days a week for six years.

You quit your job.

You actually did it.

A woman walks around you with her coffee and her headphones and her very purposeful Tuesday morning energy and you step to the side and just breathe for a second. The city keeps going. A cab. A delivery bike. Someone’s dog pulling very hard toward a lamppost. All of it completely indifferent to the fact that you just walked out of your career.

You start walking.

You don’t have a destination, not really, just the general direction of away, and you walk through the December morning with your hands in your coat pockets and the cold air on your face and something in your chest that feels like a window being opened in a room that’s been closed up for a long time.

You think about Harry.

You check the time. Just past ten. Which means it’s just past three in London. He’ll be in something, a meeting or a session or one of the things he mentions in passing without explaining, but there’s a version of right now where he’s between things, where his phone is in his hand.

You stop at the corner and look at his name in your contacts.

You think about calling. You think about hearing his voice, the warm tired end of his afternoon, telling him it’s done. You think about how he’d say it simply, the way he says most true things, and how that would be exactly what you need right now.

You press call.

He picks up on the last ring, slightly breathless, like he stepped away from something to answer it.

“Hey,” he says. “Everything okay?”

“I quit my job,” you say.

Silence.

Then: “You quit your job.”

“This morning. I went in and I told Dana I was moving and I gave notice and then I told Priya to suck it and I walked out.” You pause. “I’m standing on a street corner.”

“Which street corner.”

“Does it matter.”

“No,” he says, and you can hear the smile in it. “Are you okay?”

“I think so.” You start walking again, slowly, no direction. “I don’t know. Maybe it wasn’t the best move. Maybe I should have thought about it longer. Maybe I should have had something lined up or a proper plan or at least waited until—”

“Why,” he says.

You stop. “What?”

“Why should you have waited.”

“I don’t know,” you say. “What if it’s too quick? What if I wake up next week and realise I’ve just blown everything up on a feeling?”

He’s quiet for a second. Not a worried quiet. Just the listening kind.

“Are you happy?” he says.

You think about standing on the pavement outside the office with the December air on your face and the window opening feeling in your chest.

“Yes,” you say.

“Are you excited?”

You think about Manchester in February. The market. The pub. The park where he used to sit and think. The sofrito woman in a hundred different cities.

“Yes,” you say.

“Then it wasn’t a mistake,” he says simply. “I’m happy and I’m excited too. That’s enough.”

You walk another half block and let that settle.

“I was thinking,” you say, carefully, “about maybe finding a flat in London. While I figure everything out. Just somewhere small, somewhere that’s mine, so I’m not just—”

He sighs.

Not an annoyed sigh. Just the particular sigh of someone who is about to tell you something obvious and is being patient about it.

“Why,” he says.

“Because I don’t want to be a bother.”

A beat.

“Now you’re just being silly,” he says.

“Harry—”

“Stay with me,” he says. “I mean it. Even if you want your own room, fine, you can have a room, but you’re not getting a flat in London by yourself when I have a house with rooms in it that nobody is using.” A pause. “You’re not a bother. You could never be a bother. I want you there.”

You stand at a crossing and wait for the light and think about a house with rooms nobody is using and a man on the other end of a phone who sighs like that when you suggest inconveniencing him.

“Okay,” you say.

“Okay?”

“Okay,” you say again. “Your house. A room.”

“Our house,” he says. Quietly. Like he’s trying it out.

The light changes. You cross.

“You’re not a stranger,” he says. “You’re not some guest I have to be polite to.” A pause. “And honestly I’d be sick if you moved all the way over there and I didn’t get to steal all your time.”

You laugh, properly, standing on a street corner in December with no job and nowhere to be.

“All of it?” you say.

“As much as I can get,” he says. “You can write from the house. You can have your space. I’m not going to hover.” Another pause. “I’ll try not to hover.”

“You’re going to hover.”

“A little,” he admits. “But nicely.”

You smile at the pavement. At the city moving around you, completely unbothered, all its usual Tuesday noise. You think about six years of walking into the same building and sitting at the same desk and writing about the same ten blocks, and you think about a house somewhere in England with a room that could be yours and a man who will hover nicely and steal your time whenever he can.

“Okay,” you say. “Our house.”

“Our house,” he says again. Like he likes the sound of it. Like he could say it a few more times and not get tired of it.

You stand there on the corner for a second, phone warm against your ear, December cold on your face, the whole improbable rest of your life sitting just ahead of you.

“I should let you get back,” you say.

“Probably,” he says. “Are you okay? Actually okay.”

“Yeah,” you say. “Actually okay.”

“Good.” A beat. “Go celebrate.”

“I’m going to go eat breakfast,” you say. “I haven’t eaten anything.”

He laughs. “Go eat breakfast then. Text me.”

“I will.”

“Lovey,” he says.

“Yeah.”

“I’m really glad you called.”

“I’m glad too,” you say. “I love you. I miss you.”

“I love you too,” he says. “Go eat.”

You hang up.

You stand there for a second with the phone in your hand and the city going on around you and the cold December air on your face and you think about everything that has happened in the last twenty four hours. The conference room. The pyjamas. Camille’s floor. Dana’s office. Priya’s face. The phone call just now.

You put your phone in your pocket.

You start walking.

No destination, no desk to get to, no piece to file, no planning committee meeting on Thursday. Just the city and the morning and your own two feet taking you somewhere new, which is, you think, a pretty good place to start.

You find a coffee shop two blocks down, the small kind, the kind that knows what it is and doesn’t try to be anything else, and you push through the door and the warmth hits you and you order a coffee and the eggs and you sit by the window and watch New York go past and feel, for the first time in longer than you can remember, completely unhurried.

You have nowhere to be.

You are a free woman.

You pay and leave a good tip and push back out into the cold.

You walk.

Not with anywhere to be, not with a route in mind, just the way you used to walk when you first moved here and the city was still something you were learning. You let the blocks go past. The coffee shop gives way to a stretch of boutiques and then a park and then a neighbourhood you don’t come to often enough, the streets quieter here, older feeling, the kind of block that has been itself for a long time and isn’t planning to change.

You think about the sofrito woman.

You think about the man and the cat outside the laundromat.

You think about all the people you’ve walked past in six years of living in this city and never stopped for, all the small extraordinary ordinary lives happening in every direction all the time, and you think about how you are about to spend however long it takes finding them, in Manchester and London and wherever comes after that, and writing about them for anyone who wants to read it.

Strangers I Loved Briefly.

You say it quietly to yourself on the street and a woman walking past glances at you and you smile at her and she smiles back, a little uncertain, and keeps walking.

You find a place to sit eventually, a small café a few blocks from the park, quieter than the first one, a corner table with good light coming through the window. You order another coffee you probably don’t need and open your laptop and stare at the blank document.

You type: Strangers I Loved Briefly.

You look at it.

You type: A travel blog about the people worth stopping for.

You delete: A travel blog about.

You type: About the people.

You delete that too.

You sit back and look out the window. A man walks past with a very small dog in a very large coat. An older woman stops outside and checks something in her bag, finds it, looks relieved, keeps going. A kid on a bike takes the corner faster than he probably should.

You look back at the screen.

You type: This is a blog about strangers.

You stare at it for a long time.

You delete it.

You type: I have been a local journalist for six years. I have written about city council meetings and zoning amendments and planning committees and I have loved it, mostly, until recently, when I stopped being able to make myself care about any of it and started caring very much about a woman I interviewed who had been making the same sofrito recipe for fifty years because her mother taught her and her mother taught her and somewhere in that kitchen in the Bronx was a whole history of people loving each other.

You stop.

You read it back.

You delete everything after recently.

You try again.

I have been a local journalist for six years. I have written about the city I live in and the people in it and I have loved that work. But I kept finding that the stories I couldn’t stop thinking about were never the ones I was assigned. They were the ones I stumbled into. A woman and her sofrito recipe. A man and a stray cat outside a laundromat. Small things. Quiet things. The kind of thing that doesn’t make the news but makes a life.

You read it back.

You keep it.

You type: I’m about to leave New York and go somewhere new. And then somewhere after that. And I want to find those people everywhere. The ones worth stopping for. The ones you’d walk past if you weren’t paying attention.

You read it back.

You keep that too.

You type: This is for them. And for anyone who wants to come along.

You sit there with your hands in your lap and look at what you’ve written and feel something very quiet and very certain settle in your chest.

It’s not perfect. It will need work. But it’s true, which is the only thing that matters, which is the thing you have always believed about writing and somehow forgot for a little while sitting at a desk on the wrong side of the glass.

You save the document.

You close your laptop.

You order a third coffee you definitely don’t need and sit by the window and watch the street and think about Manchester.

[hscherrywine]

Takin' It All In

summary: To an outside harry is sweet. He’s actually quite perfect. Who is he really when the clothes come off? Is he still that sweet?

wc: 1.4k

warnings: 18+, smut , dirty talk, oral (f receiving)

——

To everyone, Harry was sweet. As a friend, brother, and neighbor, he was a kind young man. He was a polite actor, singer, and songwriter.

It doesn’t matter what aspect of his life it was; there was nothing but praise for Harry Styles. He gets the best reviews from critics for his music, and fans always rave about his concerts, and his co-stars have nothing but nice things to say about him on set.

To an outsider, it would be sickening to hear of all the great things he does and how naturally he does them. It seems like everyone has a story about how sweet Styles is. He even helped a fan parallel park their car once. It sounds insane. 

He had manners, which is becoming increasingly uncommon in men. He was naturally funny and could compliment just about anyone with complete sincerity. He was everything anyone wanted in a man.

If you could “build a boy”, it is highly likely that the perfect product would be Harry. It’s too bad that this is the side that everyone gets from him. No one else would ever guess the dirty things he whispers in your ear while making love or the downright mean things he wants to do to you.

The two personas were so contradictory. He was as mean as he was sweet, but that part was only for you. 

Bystanders would have never guessed that he had this side to him. Behind his smile lies a cruel man.

None of them would guess that he demands you come at least once before he can get off. They don’t know how many times he has come home angry from work and bent you over the kitchen table and restrained you with his belt - not even bothering to get to the bedroom.

There was one time in particular that you remember being fooled by his charm. It was one of the first times the two of you were intimate together. You knew he was rough, and it only excited you. It was something you would have never guessed when the sultry words dripped from his tongue: “I’d take you right here in front of all these people, but I don’t like to share” he whispered at the party you met.

That night you went home with him, so interested in the man he revealed himself to be rather than the man you had heard about prior.

The two of you had just met, but he was all over you in the back of the cab. When you made it inside, your clothes were strewn across the floor in minutes. He wasted no time getting what he wanted - and what he wanted was you. 

The guy who had been singing about treating people with kindness on stage the night before was plotting the dirtiest things to do to you. When he met eyes with you across the bar the sweetness seeped off of him and was replaced by the man that stood before you.

He was in a hurry to explore every inch of you. The words he spoke sent shivers down your spine, “You gonna be a good girl and let me get you off? Gonna have you squirming round my head.” he hummed into your kisses. They were rough and needy.

The two of you somehow made it to the bedroom that night, and he pushed you down against the mattress and placed his warm thick fingers around your throat. “You gonna be good? I know you want it rough,” he spoke. No words came out of your mouth.

“ ‘m gonna need an answer, little doe, or I can’t fuck you, dumb.” 

His vulgar words struck a chord. “I need it so bad, please.” He pushed down harder on your windpipe “Good.”

He hovered over you just taking you all in. He kissed deeply in the area round your neck where his hand recently had occupancy. Then he moved down to your breasts which he toyed with like no other man you met.

Usually, the men you slept with were less experienced and only cared about their own pleasure, but the man who was undressed before you knew how to take care of you. He pinched and flicked your nipples until the pain and pleasure just came out as a mix of sounds from your gut.

You knew the moans fed his ego the way he would speed up the lapping of his tongue in your breasts when he gave the que.

Everything about it was filthy. He was eager and desperate to get you off, so he ventured down to your thighs where he peppered tiny bites and kisses. He knew you were dripping for him, but didn’t want to dive in just yet. 

He was in it for the love of the game. He knew he could make you come, but he was just having fun with it. 

“Can’t wait to get a taste.” He mouthed into your thighs. The he pulled back to get a better look at you spread out before him. It was a gorgeous sight, one he hoped to see again even after tonight was over. 

Right after he teased it, he brought one finger slowly down from the top of your clit, to your enterance and right back up again. The motion made you eager for more. Then he took that same finger and pushed it deep inside your hole. 

When he pulled it out, it was glistening with your juice and he brought it up to his mouth that allegedly was as sweet as candy and swirled his tongue desperately around the digit.

He made himself moan the way the action turned him on. It was so simple, but the thought of you coming undone had swarmed his brain. 

He repeated the action a few times, sliding his figer in and out of you. He liked to see your tight hole swallow his large finger. The look of it made his pants tighten. 

He imagines his cock next at your entrace and the way it would look taking something that big.

He then leaned back in to get another taste of your clit, this time directly with his mouth. 

It latched on and sucked you like he was on one mission - to make you come. He kind of was. His wet lips and tongue gilded all over your clit and folds. There was no space left untouvhed or unsatisfied. 

The act was making your stomach swell with fire. No one had ever made you feel this way from head and you wondered if this is what you were missing out on the whole time.

Your head tilted back with pleasure as he continued to devour your cunt. He was so dedicated that you wondered if he even took a second to breath. 

He did eventually come up for air and whisper words of encouragement to you. Words you couldn’t process fully because your core was on fire.

He went back down to finish you off. His hands digging into your thighs like leverage to get deeper into your warmth. And it worked his tongue was working overtime inside of you and his fingers grazed your clit making your legs shake. 

“Shit, Harry, I’m gonna -” you warn him. He doesn’t let up at your words. 

“I’m gonna cum, Oh my..--” you try and get out, but he is too fast and too aggressive taking you.

He is absolutely ravenous groaning into your pussy. When your back arched up, you caught him grinding himself into the mattress. Eating you out had an adverse affect on his cock. 

He mutters something into you that could have sounded like “Come for me.” but you couldnt’ make it out from the ringing in your ears and the sounds of your own panting.

The next thing you know, your orgaasm crashed into you and down your body, the warmth heating you. It knocked the wind out of your chest first. Then it made your core tighten and legs wrap around Harry’s head. 

He relentlessly lapped up everything he could before you tried to physically push him away. 

“Too much. Too sensitive” You whined and he just grinned.

He grinned the same grin that the fans claim comes from the sweetest man alive. If only they knew what he had just done to you. If only they knew that oicture perfect face was covered in your come. 

If only they knew that sweet perfect man was asking, “You still think you can take me inside you?”

[fkingstyles]

🩶 Show You Off

Summary: “Kissing and I hope they caught us, whether they like or not.” // As Harry’s girlfriend steps into the spotlight, Harry is cautious but unapologetic about his love for her.

CW: slight angst (negative fan reaction, implied hate, rumors/backlash) strong language used, nicknames (sweet girl, baby, babe, pretty girl, no y/n), fluff, kissing

Word Count: 3.5k

Pairing: Famous!Harry x girlfriend!fem reader

Location: UK / USA

POV: readers, third person

Harry pic from here!

💌 A/N: Hellooo gorgeous! This idea came to me while listening to Doja Cat’s “Agora Hill’s”! Fun fact — agora hill is hinted at the word ‘agoraphilia’—a psychological term and fetish for sexual arousal in public places or wide-open spaces. Hence the ‘show you off’ type of thing but this fanfic doesn’t dive into exclusively sexual content— Harry indeed wants to navigate his private relationship in the public eye! Even though it has to do with famous Harry/Harries, it’s all just fiction! Hope you like it! 💛

Relationships were never easy. Regular relationships were tough, full of ups and downs, sacrifices, complicated compromises, outside opinions and loads of effort. Even the best relationship had their problems and required quality time and care to sustain them.

Now, try multiplying that on a massive, global, public scale. Under the spotlight, opinions were made before they could even correct them. Harry gave her the rundown, explained how difficult and overwhelming the attention could be. Still, Harry’s girlfriend didn’t stray. She understood that his brand and the attention he got would always be a part of him but certainly not the only part. She began to date Harry late into his break and when he finished his fourth album, the conversation of whether they were serious or not came rather quickly.

“So, you’re 100% in?” Harry asked, giddy. “Because once we’re out there, it can get a bit mad.”

“I want you and this is a part of you. A very important part of you that I’m very excited to see and witness.” she explained gently. “I love you, all of you Harry.”

“I love you, sweet girl. So much.”

Being Harry’s partner came with perks — endless travel, so much love & care, an abundance of gifts — big and small, tons of yummy food from places they could only dream of. The thought of, “what the fans might think”, never occurred to her. Harry did his best to distance her from the spotlight for as long as he could. He created a bubble of security that he was able to maintain during his break. He would fill their time with private rose filled, bubble baths situated in a luxurious flat in Paris. With the warm evening sun decorated the walls, casting a perfect shadow of the Eiffel Tower against the limestone — it was protected.

He filled her days with so much positive energy, genuine amusement and joy that she was unaware of the quiet storm that followed.

No, she didn’t think about the endless scrutiny or backlash she faced after pictured with him. Never that, Harry maintained the bubble of protection well. And it worked for a while. He had one strict rule, not to have a look at Twitter or scroll through his comments on Instagram. He always said — “if something happens baby, I’ll be the first to tell you. Other than that, it’s just noise.”

That was at the beginning of their relationship after they were first spotted hand in hand. She still could remember the lecture Harry gave her a day before.

“When you’re out with me, strangers or fans might come up to us. No matter what, I’ll always protect you.” Harry explained, “most of the time, it’s harmless… a small interaction, a few minutes.”

As famous as he was, she wasn’t expecting anything less. Harry adored his fans and would make time for them whenever he could. It didn’t matter if he was running late to a meeting or stopped multiple times, he knew how important it was to them. Plus, it was equally as important to him, asking for their name, giving out a hug, it never bothered him. He handed his fanbase with so much love and care, it made sense why so many people adored him.

The first time they officially went out, a fan stopped Harry politely to talk. Harry’s girlfriend stepped to the side, watching the sweet interaction. The fan smiled and waved her hand, and she returned the gesture with a big smile. Just like anything else, Harry grabbed her hand before crossing the busy pavement — not much came of the three minute interaction, or so she had thought.

“You okay?” Harry checked in as they walked.

“Yeah, that was really sweet actually.” She grinned, “they just adore you.”

Later the same day Harry’s publicist, Hilary called. Harry excused himself but she could still hear the conversation faintly.

“Yeah, it’s personal. I mean, she’s my girlfriend but they don’t need all the nitty gritty details,” Harry explained into the phone. “Just keep it limited please,” Harry asked, politely.

Harry was desperate to keep his personal life private but he also made it clear — “I’ll never hide you baby, if you want to go out then we can go out. Whatever you're comfortable with,” he promised. What was tricky was the fine line between being seen with him and protecting their private moments.

Once Harry’s relationship news broke, everyone had a camera and was eager to get a shot of Harry, especially the paparazzi. Harry explained that they got paid extra for exclusive photos of him coupled up. Suddenly, it didn’t matter if it was a fan, the general public or paparazzi — if they were visible, they would be photographed. The bubble that Harry created for protection popped and the new dynamic created some unresolved tension.

The media conversation happened, then happened again once more photos were leaked. Public opinions on every little thing sparked like a wild fire on Harry’s social media — Twitter, TikTok and every other platform known to man.

“Just promise me you won’t look at it. They make up shit without even half about you or our relationship,” Harry firmly said one night in Berlin. The hotel was starting to feel suffocating, aware of all the watchful eyes as Harry geared up to promote his album. Their usual private, low profile dates were starting to feel like a public chastising, always found and photographed.

His girlfriend made sure to keep a straight face, not overly happily but not stone cold — just normal. Apparently that encouraged a great amount of backlash too.

“What are they saying now?” She dared to ask one night after Harry got news that more photos were leaked.

“Nothing,” Harry sniffled, tucking his phone away. “Nothing newsworthy,” he promised but curiosity sparked inside her again. ‘Don’t look at it, it’s best you don’t know’, the little voice in her head told her. She fought the urge by deleting most of her social media apps on her phone, a trick Harry taught her when the noise got too much.

When Harry’s tour started, Harry allowed her to choose her attendance level. He made it clear that he’d love to see her at his shows but understood if she needed a break. After the first show, it was like a drug — the thrill of watching him on stage was an addiction. It became easy to support Harry. She’d bond with his family and friends, invite her own, sing along to all of his lyrics and dance happily inside the private box far from the stage.

She thoroughly supported Harry, going to show after show. Away from the internet, she was curious about what fans were thinking or saying. It was only human nature but she didn’t dwell on it. For her, it wasn’t out of boredom or clinginess. She knew how grateful she was to be able to watch him perform each night.

“I’ll send a big wave up to you baby,” Harry promised, his sound assistant connecting his inner ears box to the back of his pants.

“Oh, actually Brad and I talked about going down to the pit after a few songs,” her voice came out confident as ever. Her eyes softened as Harry’s hard gaze landed on her. She could feel the protectiveness radiating off of him.

“The pit?” He questioned, a small concerned look flashed his features before he excused the sound assistant. He stepped closer, his hands reached out towards her, interlocking their fingers. “That might be a bit…” he was searching for words, not wanting to police her but give her a quiet warning. “Loud,” he said, figuratively and literally. When she offered him a small nod and reassuring smile, all he could say was — “have fun, stay hydrated and dance if you want,” before pecking her lips.

The pit was loud, louder than she ever expected. Fans screamed as Harry walked by and screamed again when he went away. Everyone shared a collective longing for her boyfriend, something that she admired deeply and never wanted to take away from him. She knew how hard he worked and deeply respected his talent. She deeply respected his fans and appreciated their dedication. They deserved to have so much fun, scream, cry, laugh and dance all together, if they wanted too. They made the experience enjoyable and entirely theirs.

For the first few songs, nobody really paid any mind. She danced alongside fans with Brad, having a great time. She sang all the lyrics to Harry’s songs and enjoyed watching him come alive on stage. It wasn’t until Harry took a small break, Brad was dragging her to a new spot when they got stopped.

“You’re Harry’s girlfriend!” A girl from a group of fans beamed excitedly with an outstretched finger.

“Yes, I am.” She smiled back, “Are you having fun?” She asked, wanting the conversation to stay light and directed away from her.

“So much fun!” The fans beamed together, “can we have a picture?” Another asked.

She thought about it for a second, looking at the small group of girls with their attention turned towards her. The outcome of a simple ‘yes’ versus a polite ‘no’ crossed her mind as she made her decision. “Oh, sure!” She settled, a smile spread across her face as someone snapped a quick photo of them with the stage shining bright in the background. “Have so much fun and enjoy the show!” She told them happily before Brad ushered her away.

“That’s went well,” was all Brad whispered in her ear before they started to dance again. The simple, pleasant interaction was forgotten as she watched her boyfriend perform.

Late that night Harry was fresh out of the shower, toweling his hair. The question came out light, curious and unaccusing at first.

“So, when you were in the pit did any fans interact with you?” He asked, a thoughtful look on his face.

“Oh, yeah. I forgot to tell you a group of girls asked for a photo,” she replied quickly, taking another bite of the fruity candy that sat on her lap.

Harry didn’t say much at first, just nodded.

“And they were nice?” He questioned, a cautious tone carried through the air.

“Yeah, baby. They didn’t say anything mean,” she thought back to the interaction, replaying it in her mind. “Why?” She drew out, giving him a look.

“Were you… polite?” Harry sounded like he didn’t want to ask but needed to confirm.

“When am I never not polite, Harry?” She frowned, sitting up against the fluffed pillows more. “Why would you ask that?” She deadpanned, a warmth rising through her.

Harry rounded their shared bed, a sigh escaping his mouth before he could stop it. He no longer seemed curious, just dreadful like some news was coming that he didn’t want to share.

“I ask because my publicist left me a voicemail while I was in the shower followed by some urgent texts.”

She frowned, her eyebrows closing in as her face grew worrisome. “About what?”

“Some fans said you were… unsavory, to put it lightly.”

“What do you mean? I was nothing but nice,” she frowned, shaking her head as the interaction rolled through her mind again. “I was polite, Harry. I took the photo and told them to enjoy the show, it all lasted a literal minute,” she defended.

“Was there anything else? Any point during the show that maybe you were looking… unhappy?” Harry questioned, carefully. “Or maybe you said something a bit too loud that was supposed to be private?”

“What? No, never!” Her heart began to race, feeling utterly confused and equally tense. “I enjoyed it like anything else,” she crossed her arms. “What are they saying?” She asked, pointed.

Harry let out a sigh, his hand running over his face as he sat quietly.

“Harry?” She questioned, “you promised to tell me if something happened.” She reminded him, not wanting to pick a fight but hold him accountable.

“You’re right baby, I just —,” he sighed again. “Some fans just said some things on twitter that kinda made you look bad,” he said carefully.

“Like what?”

“Like jus’…petty stuff, probably out of jealousy or envy.” His lips formed a thin line as if he was thinking about how much to say.

“Okay, but like… what? Give me an example.”

“They said, “she didn’t even want to take the photo,” and how you seemed a bit upset that the person asked.”

“That wasn’t the case at all, I was just going through the whole situation. You know how it goes, I didn’t know if I should say yes or not.”

“I know baby, I’m sorry. I just — ,” he let his head fall, looking into his lap as he played with the hem of the damp towel. “There’s a lot of unkind things going around right now about you, about us and I can’t always be there to protect you.”

“You don’t have to be, Harry. I can handle it,” she breathed out, “I know what this was when I agreed to be your partner.”

“I know baby but still, it’s… it’s overbearing at times and I don’t want it to overwhelm you. That’s exactly why ‘m so strict about social media.”

“I won’t look at it,” she half promised, feeling a tinge in her chest. “The comments, the tweets.”

“No baby, I mean… think no social media at all for a few days, okay? Please, for me?”

“It’s that bad?” She frowned, “I can’t even go on my personals?”

“No, I’ll tell you when you can go back on.” Harry offered as if it was some type of compromise.

She scoffed, she couldn’t help it. A part of her knew he was only protecting her but it felt restrictive and she hated that feeling. Harry hated that feeling so, it felt extra apprehensive when he demanded it.

“I’m sorry,” Harry extended, placing his hand on her head gently. His lips came down to press a reassuring kiss on her head.

“No, it’s… it was bound to happen, right?” Her eyes dropped to the mattress, feeling even more exhausted than ever. “Think I’m just gonna go to sleep,” she instantly wanted to close off, forget the situation for a few hours.

“You sure? We can talk about it,” Harry offered.

She simply shook her head, not knowing how to tell him that it was overwhelming her.

“Ok,” Harry didn’t press, he allowed her to place her head against her pillows — back turned towards him. “I love you,” he whispered into the air as his hand stroked her hair, a calm gesture to help her sleep.

“I love you.”

The morning came unforgiving and insistent. The bright light shined through the curtains, waking her from her sleep. Harry’s side of the bed was cold, left empty with the memory of their argument last night.

“Harry?” She called out, wondering where he went too.

Like clockwork, he rounded the corridor. His pointer finger signaled in the air as he held his yellow phone case to his ear, “just a second,” he mouthed. She was used to this but Harry's expression told her everything she needed to know, the conversation wasn’t a normal schedule change or rehearsal suggestion but something more pointed.

She waited in bed, letting her head run through the possibility as Harry spoke into the phone, pacing the corridor.

“Yeah, yeah.” He said, “yeah, I got it.” He mumbled into the phone speaker. “Yeah, no worries.” He listened for a few more seconds before saying, “yeah, I think that’s good.” He nodded in agreement. “Alright, take care,” he replied before ending the call. His expression softened as he walked towards her.

“Good morning, how’d you sleep?” He asked, towering over her. His palm caressed her back in a soothing motion.

“Like I needed it,” she sighed, “who was that on the phone?”

“Hilary,” he started, his publicist. “She just wanted to go over everything, see if we can shift the narrative or simply… ignore it.”

“Ignore it?” She asked. Harry nodded, shrugging. He was too calm but she forced herself to remember that this wasn’t his first go around. He had a whole team for situations as such and he trusted the professionals, so she had to too.

“You know how you acted and other people probably witnessed it too. A few fans that want to stir something up just for the sake of it, don’t deserve the attention,” he explained, firmly. “You just keep being you and we just keep being us, unapologetic.” He added.

“And what’s the alternative?” She questioned. Harry sat on the edge of the bed, close to her legs.

“The alternative? Well, we could just showcase how adorably nice you are to the point where it’s sickening but that wouldn’t really be as authentic or fair. We don’t have to prove anything since you didn’t do anything wrong.”

“But they believe I did,” she reminded, playing devil's advocate.

“Only a few,” his fingers laced between hers. “Enough to rock the boat but we’re strong,” he shrugged. “I’ll just do something incredibly distracting like go for a run in some horrendously short, little shorts and the rumors will dissipate.”

“Harry, you shouldn’t have to do that.” She fronted, shaking her head. She hated how self aware and selfless he was, willing to do anything to direct the negative attention away from her.

“No, I shouldn’t but I will,” he smiled, “the world will continue to go on, darling and we can’t just stop for every minor misunderstanding or rumor.”

The icky feeling in her stomach started to settle, reassured by his gentle words and multiple kisses. The days flowed together, Harry was busy with rehearsal, sound check then custom fittings and a bunch of other things she was still working to understand. Still, she did her best to be the most supportive girlfriend as they traveled from city to city.

When they arrived in New York for his group of shows, Harry did what he usually did — went out without security, ran across Manhattan, bought her flowers in the upper east side and met with fans when he was stopped. When he returned to their rented home, he handed her the bouquet of sunflowers and mentioned plans of a late dinner for their quality time, weekly date.

Dinner went and gone, their bellies full of rich spices and sweet desserts. Harry tugged her along, set on walking through the city. “Midnight stroll through Central Park?”

“Will it be okay?”

“Of course,” Harry shrugged. “Remember be in th—,” he started his gentle reminder that he whispered to her more times than he could count.

“‘Be in the moment and stay present with me’, I know.” She was still adjusting to being Harry Styles' girlfriend versus just Harry’s.

They walked slowly, there was no sense of rushing. The city was awake but quiet. The park was still lit up by lights and the city that surrounded it. Harry's thumb steadily rubbed against her hand, pulling her gently along. The quiet spoke for the both of them, comfortable in each other's presence.

“How you keeping up with everything?” Harry checked in.

“It’s been… an adjustment, the time difference, crowds, culture is much different from London,” she explained. “Feels more lively, I can tell fans are so excited that you’re back in America.”

Harry nodded, “seems like it, huh?” He wasn’t boasting, his fans were truly dedicated and delighted that he was in the city. He was so publicly embraced.

“How about you?” She asked, looking up towards his side profile as they continued to walk along the path.

“I’m pleasantly surprised by how well you are taking it all,” he said, giving her hand a squeeze.

“That doesn’t answer my questions!” His girlfriend rolled her eyes cheekily, shaking her head.

“I’m okay if you’re okay,” he replied simply, a private dimpled smile across his face. Harry suddenly stopped, closing the distance between them. His hands cupped her face, admiring her features. “my pretty girl,” he whispered in adoration. “You handle it all so well.” The little statement of praise made her belly flutter with butterflies. “You promise to tell me if it gets too much?”

“Promise,” and she did.

Before she could say anything else — they were kissing. Harry's eyes fluttered shut as he pressed his lips softly to her mouth. His kiss was tentative at first but deepened as she kissed him back, gripping onto the sides of his jacket. Harry opened his mouth, his tongue darting against hers as her skin flushed with desire. His palm ushered her closer, fitting her snug against his frame. She felt his face twist, deepening the angle as he moaned into her mouth. The sound brought her back to reality, worried their full blow makeout session in Central Park would end up on Deux Moi by the morning. Her brain was a bit more cautious now but Harry did his best to reassure her.

“Harry,” she pulled back, “wonder if someone sees?” She whispered quietly.

“Shhh,” he teased, his lips finding hers again. “I hope they caught us,” he muttered. His hand wrapped around the back of her neck as he whispered in her ear, his voice dropping an octave deeper.

“Whether they like it or not, I’ll show you off,” he smirked before sobering himself. “Come on, let’s get you home.”

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[fkingstyles]

Thank you so much for sharing friend!! 🩷

[merrybloomwrites]

Too Many Things For You to Analyze

Summary: Your body doesn’t bounce back after your fourth pregnancy, and Harry is there to remind you how amazing you are.

Word Count: ~900

CW/tags: postpartum, negative self image, judging own postpartum body, mentions of breastfeeding, angst, hurt/comfort, fluff

AN: based on this request that has been hiding on my page for years apparently and suddenly resurfaced

Title from “Season 2 Weight Loss”

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You’ve had kids before. Three of them in fact. You know the routine. You know the way it changes your body.

But for some reason, you’re struggling this time.

It’s been three months since you’d given birth to your fourth baby. Your third little girl after your eldest boy. And she was tiny. The smallest baby you’d had, and the only one without a greater than 90% percentile head (Harry’s fault, obviously).

The smallest baby you’ve ever had, but the one that seems to have changed your body the most.

There’s a voice in the back of your head that’s telling you this is normal. Your body grew in order to create life. It needed extra space to be a home for your little girl. You know that.

And yet you hate the fact that that extra space seems to be sticking around this time.

Not only did your belly grow, but so did your arms, your hips, your legs. It’s like every part of your body decided it needed extra weight to accommodate the baby.

And then there’s your breasts. Sure, they’re feeding a fourth child, creating all the sustenance she needs to be healthy and strong. It’s a beautiful way to connect with her, and you’re grateful every day that you’re able to produce enough milk to keep your baby fed.

But did feeding your baby really have to change your breasts so much? They used to be so full, and perky, and your nipples were a normal size. Now they feel like partially deflated balloons half the time, and your nipples are huge. Genuinely you had no idea they could get so long.

And yet, that’s what feeding four humans does to a body.

You’re stepping out of the shower, the first shower you’ve had in three days, and you’ve caught sight of yourself in the full length mirror.

The first thing you notice is the sagging. Then the stretch marks. Then your hair, so thin and scraggly, clearly suffering from postpartum hair loss.

You can't help the tears that spring to your eyes, burning as they threaten to fall in hot steaks down your face.

It’s as your hands move to your side to feel the skin there that Harry walks in the room. Quickly you grab your robe, throwing it around your body to hide it from him.

He notices this. Of course he notices. He notices everything.

Which means he’s definitely noticed the changes to your body. This realization has the tears finally falling, and without hesitation Harry steps in to hold you.

But you don’t want him touching you. Not right now. Now when you feel this way.

His face clearly shows his concern as you step away from him. You never deny his affection, so he’s worried by this reaction.

“You okay?” He asks.

“I’m fine,” you lie.

“Honey, you can tell me what’s wrong.”

“I feel gross,” you confess.

“Oh, sweetheart, you’re not gross. You could never be gross.”

“But look at me! I’m nothing like I used to be! This isn’t the body you fell in love with.”

“Okay, first of all, I didn’t fall in love with a body, I fell in love with you. All of you. And second of all, this is the body that brought our four perfect children into the world. It’s the body that fed and nourished them when they were little. I don’t know what it is you see when you look at yourself, but I see a miracle. I see strength. I see beauty. I see my perfect wife, the woman I’ve loved for over a decade, who I’m so incredibly lucky to have by my side.”

His sweet words bring another wave of tears to your eyes, and this time when he opens his arms you go willingly.

“You really think that?” You ask, still feeling a bit unsure.

“I do. I truly think you are the most perfect woman in the world.”

He wipes the last of the tears from your face before he leans in for a kiss. It starts sweet, but he quickly deepens it, his tongue sliding languidly against yours.

“I can think of a few more words to describe you,” he murmurs.

“Oh yea? What would those be?”

“Hot. Stunning. Sexy.”

“You’re such a flirt,” you joke, leaning back in to kiss him some more.

But unsurprisingly when in a house with 4 children under 10, you get interrupted.

“Mama! Something's beeping in the kitchen!”

“Coming!” You call out, but you try to have just another minute with Harry.

Only to be cut off by crying coming from the baby monitor.

“I’ll see what she needs,” Harry replies. The two of you share one last peck then go off to tend to your children.

But once everything is settled and you finally have a moment to change from your robe back into regular clothes, you take a minute to look in the mirror to see yourself the way Harry does. And now all of those little imperfections don’t bother you quite so much. Because yes, your body has changed. But it also brought you your children, and you wouldn’t change that for the world.

Especially not when Harry continues to look at you like you’re the prettiest person on the planet, making you feel loved and desired every single day.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

AN: All bodies are beautiful btw

Thanks for reading!

[watchmegetobsessed]

HEATWAVE

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!

[cherryskies-harry]

on a lighter note, WAS HIS FLY OPEN THE ENTIRE TIME???? 😭😭😭