FIRST - i write mainly smut, but there will definitely be fluffy and angsty fics all the time, so don't worry; there's something for everyone! can't find what you're looking for? request your idea in the 'talk to me' box on my profile and i'll see what i can do! keep in mind this masterlist will be updated as i post more :)
i'll take requests about almost any trope or au, but if i end up getting requests i'm uncomfortable with, i'll let you guys know along the way. even so, know that this is always a safe space no matter what!
if you'd like to be added to a tag list for any series or to my general tag list, you can let me know here.
don't forget to update your settings to see mature content if you'd like to read the smut i write!!! if you've got an age under 18 in your account settings, you're usually not able to read the smut!
FINALLY - every like, comment and reblog helps as a writer and it truly makes my day. all your love is greatly appreciated!
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fics with mature content will be marked with a star (*)!
One Shots & Blurbs
right person, wrong address
When an envelope meant for Harry Styles ends up in your mailbox, what started with misdelivered mail might end up delivering something neither of you expected.
cabin pressure* cruising altitude (pt.2)*
He's your boss. You're his assistant. But 30,000 feet in the air, it's not exactly tour logistics he's asking you to handle.
just a little taste*
You're the angel in his songs, but dancing in his kitchen, you're nothing short of sin.
i can hear sirens* i can hear violins (pt.2)*
The spotlight's on him, but all he sees is you.
daddy's home
When Harry runs out of rope, the smallest hands lead him home.
that's show business, baby
Harry pretends to enjoy acting with another woman, and you pretend you don't enjoy watching him.
off-limits*
You've kept your distance for years, but tonight, all bets are off.
focus on me
Loving Harry comes easy. Focusing on him sometimes doesn't.
'tis the damn season
When Harry's love for Christmas meets resistance, the truth behind your dislike forces both of you to redefine what the holiday can be.
show you how*
When habit compels you to get on top, Harry stops everything to show you what you really deserve.
engine trouble*
After the show in Milan, the crew bus breaks down. Harry says you can ride on his private bus instead, just the two of you and a driver who doesn't need to know what happens in the back.
Series
sugar, baby*
He pays in cash. You pay in obedience. a sugardaddy!harry styles x reader au series
teach me slowly*
Harry doesn't mind waiting, as long as it's you he's waiting for. a harry styles x inexperienced!reader series
velvet & vice*
You move like smoke through the haze of his vices, but he'd gladly burn to breathe you in. a mafia!harry styles x stripper!reader au series
an ardent pursuit* (many parts don't contain smut)
In the glittering ballrooms of 1814 London, you enter your first Season under the watchful eye of Viscount Harry Styles, a notorious rake with a reputation for breaking hearts and a sudden, inexplicable interest in you. a viscount!harry x debutante!reader regency au series
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thank you so much for being here! i appreciate any and all support so remember to like, comment and reblog. requests are open!ย ๐
anon if i could kiss your brain i would. the things that video does to me... i'm gnawing on the bars of my fricking enclosure. this one's for you anon x
warnings: established relationship, age gap (6 years), fingering, rough sex, talk of female masturbation, praise kink, dom!Harry pins your wrists to the mattress, i got carried away so this is just really filthy i don't know what to tell you
The hotel suite in Amsterdam is quiet except for the low buzzing of the air conditioning and the occasional distant sound of city traffic far below. You're sprawled across the enormous king-sized bed in nothing but one of Harry's oversized white button-ups, the sleeves rolled up messily on your forearms. The sheets carry the faint scent of his cologne mixed with the sweat from tonight's show. Your legs are lazily kicked up behind you as you scroll through TikTok while he showers, the blue light of your phone illuminating your face in the dimly lit room.
The show tonight was electric, as always. Harry had been captivating on stage, commanding the entire venue with that effortless magnetism that made thousands of people lose their minds. But nothing could have prepared you for the video that suddenly flooded your For You page.
It was a fan-recorded clip from the show, zoomed in on Harry as he stood near the edge of the stage in that sharp business casual outfit. The tailored black trousers sat perfectly on his hips, the crisp striped shirt unbuttoned just enough to show off the inked swallows on his chest. But what really made the comments explode was the moment he looked down and adjusted his belt with both hands, jaw clenched, completely unaware of how devastatingly handsome he looked.
It was one of those unintentional moments that always seemed to drive his fans wild. Harry was often cocky on stage, fully aware of the effect he had on the world, playing into the rockstar persona with smirks and teasing hip movements. But it's the moments when he isn't trying, when he's just existing, that somehow always manage to go viral. A blurry video of him taking a sip of water. A candid shot of him running his hand through his hair. And now, this simple belt adjustment.
And as usual, the comments are wild.
Thousands of people thirsting openly for your boyfriend, calling him daddy, begging for more. You can't help but smirk, a rush of possessive heat blooming low in your stomach. They can fantasize all they want, you think, biting your lip. But I get to have him. Whenever I want.
The bathroom door clicks open.
Harry steps out with nothing but a white towel slung dangerously low on his hips, droplets of water running down his tattooed torso. His skin is flushed from the hot shower, hair damp and darker than usual. The butterfly tattoo glistens, and the water trails mesmerizingly follow the deep cuts of his hips and the laurels peeking out above the towel. He looks relaxed, surprisingly pleased with his performance tonight.
He catches you staring at your phone and raises an eyebrow, that signature smirk tugging at his lips.
''Something interesting on there, baby?'' His voice is a little raspy from singing all night, and you feel your pussy get wet almost instantly. It's embarrassing, what he can do to you with just his voice.
You turn the phone toward him, showing the paused video of him adjusting his belt. ''Your fans are losing their minds over this. The belt thing. They're calling you daddy in, like, five different languages.''
Harry chuckles lowly, a cocky smile on his face. Water droplets fall from his hair onto the carpet as he walks toward the bed. He stops at the edge of the mattress, looking down at you with dark, hungry eyes.
''And what do you think about it?'' he asks, voice dropping an octave. He reaches down and absent-mindedly adjusts the towel at his hips: the same movement from the fucking video.
The action makes the towel slip just a fraction lower, revealing more of the deep V-line and you catch a glimpse of the base of his cock.
You swallow hard, heat flooding between your thighs with a downright shameful intensity.
Yeah, you're pretty sure you've never been wetter.
''I think...'' you murmur, setting your phone aside, ''that they can look all they want. But I get to touch.''
Harry's smirk widens. In one smooth motion, he climbs onto the bed, crawling over you until he's hovering above you, water from his hair dripping onto your chest.
''Is that right?'' he murmurs, voice authoritative and low. ''You think you get to touch just because you're my girlfriend?''
Before you can answer, he grabs both of your wrists in one large hand and pins them above your head against the mattress. His other hand slowly unbuttons the shirt you're wearing, his shirt, exposing your body to his hungry gaze. His eyes are fixed on your bare skin.
''You look so fucking good in my shirt,'' he whispers, leaning down to bite at your neck. ''But I like it better on the floor.''
He takes his time kissing down your body, sucking marks into your skin, and the way he's claiming you after the entire world just watched him on stage almost makes you emotional. You love knowing that no matter how many women scream his name, he only desires you.
When he finally reaches between your legs and finds you already soaked, he lets out a satisfied hum.
''So wet for me already. God, I fucking love that about you,'' he praises, sliding two thick fingers inside you without warning. ''Been thinking about this cock since I was on stage, haven't you? Did you keep your legs crossed like a good girl? Or were you touching yourself in the bathroom like I caught you doing last time, hm?''
Your eyes widen, cheeks burning with embarrassment. ''Harryโ''
''I almost started panicking,'' he continues, voice rough with arousal and amusement. ''Thought something happened to you. Then I heard it... that breathy little moan coming from the bathroom in my dressing room.'' He chuckles darkly, his palm pressing against your clit with each thrust of his hand. ''Caught you with your hand between your legs, two fingers buried inside this pretty pussy, trying so desperately to be quiet. You were so worked up from watching me perform, huh, baby?''
You groan, half frustrated, half embarrassed. ''Ugh, you're still on that?''
''Oh, I'm never getting over that,'' he murmurs, voice dripping with smug satisfaction. ''You looked so fucking desperate, baby. Face all flushed, legs shaking, trying to act casual...'' He dips his head and presses a hot, open-mouthed kiss against your jaw. ''But your thighs were still fucking trembling and you could hardly look me in the eye.''
He leans down further, back muscles flexing, and bites your neck possessively. ''It was one of the hottest things I've ever seen. So fucking sinful. So fucking naughty, baby. My sweet girl so turned on by me that she couldn't even wait to get back to the hotel. Had to sneak off and fuck herself with her fingers like a needy little thing.''
You moan loudly, hips bucking against his hand. Harry fucks you with his fingers, curling them just right while his thumb circles your clit. He keeps your wrists restrained, his damp body pressed against yours.
When he finally pushes inside you, it's deep and possessive. He fucks you with hard, authoritative thrusts that make the bed frame creak and the headboard bang against the wall. Every snap of his hips is deliberate, like he's reminding you exactly who you belong to.
''Look at me,'' he commands, voice rough.
You don't listen, too lost in the feeling of him stretching out your gummy walls, so he grips your chin, forcing you to look up at him as he slows his thrusts, deep and punishing. Your back arches off the mattress, a needy Harry, don't stop tearing from your throat in protest.
''Hey. Don't talk back to me,'' he chastises, tightening his grip on your chin as a warning. ''Eyes on me while I apparently fuck you dumb.''
You finally obey, quickly losing yourself in the intensity of his gaze as he drives into you again and again, one hand holding your wrists, the other gripping your thigh hard enough to leave bruises. The contrast between the sweet, post-show Harry who carried your bag backstage and this dominant, almost feral version of him is intoxicating.
Harry's eyes darken with satisfaction. The six-year age gap has always been something subtle between you: he's more experienced, more grounded, more in control, but moments like this make it feel deliciously pronounced. He fucking adores this power dynamic. Loves being the older, more experienced one who gets to ruin you.
He fucks you through two orgasms before finally letting himself go, burying himself deep and groaning your name as he comes, hips stuttering against yours.
Afterward, he doesn't pull away immediately. He stays inside you, pressing soft kisses to your neck and jaw while his grip on your wrists finally loosens. ''You're mine,'' he whispers against your skin. ''Doesn't matter how many people want me. Only you get this.''
hi!! in the Sugar, baby series youโve mentioned how harry would smile at other women and kind of let them flirt with him while he was with Y/Nโฆ i would LOVE to see blurb about it (before they started actually dating), like a little bit of angst but then harry comforting Y/N at the end
LOVE YOU WORK BABE!!!!๐๐๐
hi lovely! thanks so much for requesting for sugar, baby; i love hearing things like this that i never would have thought of myself! i need to figure out when in the sugar, baby timeline this blurb would make the most sense, but i'm so down and inspired to write this x
hi so if you're not interested in doing this don't even worry about responding, but i've been a lurker on wattpad an ao3 for a while reading some kind bdsm-y smut fics and i've had an idea in my head for one of those for a while and i really wanna work on it with someone, mostly just do some world building, not gonna lie. anyway, if you're interested uhm maybe respond to this an i can dm you? i'm honestly just kinda nervous cause bdsm is pretty taboo and i'm shy about it lol. also uhm i'm a minor.
hi anon! thank you for trusting me enough to send this.
first off, there is no need to feel ashamed, i promise: being curious is super common, and a lot of people start exactly where you are. that said, i can't work on this with you because you're a minor. even if it's just planning stories, that's a very firm boundary.
you're not in trouble and you didn't do anything wrong by asking. just keep yourself safe online, okay? be mindful of the content you consume and engage with. there are plenty of age-appropriate creative communities where you can work on writing and world-building for now. take care, and you can always message me about other things x
Summary: Opening gifts on your six-month anniversary opens old wounds.
Warnings: sugardaddy arrangement turned relationship, old insecurities, oral (f!receiving), unprotected sex (unspecified so might be on the pill), use of handcuffs, mix of domestic fluff and hot, steamy smut you're welcome
A/N: lovelies!!! i'm so incredibly excited to share this with you after working on it for a month. doing harry and y/n's story justice was really important to me, so i hope i've done right by them as well as you guys. let me know your thoughts, it's my favorite thing in the world x
Word Count: 7,180
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Six months.
It still feels a little unreal sometimes, how drastically everything has shifted since that night on the rooftop. Since Harry stood there under the string lights with his heart in his throat and told you he was in love with you. Since the rules he'd clung to so desperately finally snapped.
The last six months definitely haven't been perfect.
Nothing about the two of you has ever been simple, and love didn't magically erase the sharp edges you started with. But God, they've been good. Messy and beautiful and yours.
You wake up in the morning to the smell of coffee now instead of the cold silence of your old flat, Harry's side of the bed still warm. When you're lucky he's still there, shirtless, hair messy, watching you with that soft, half-lidded look he's grown more comfortable wearing.
You've learned the small things about each other that no contract could ever cover. He hates when you forget to put the cap on the toothpaste or leave used mugs on the counter; your messiness has caused more arguments than you care to admit (Harry's a neat freak, really). You've discovered he sings when he thinks you're not listening, voice rich and raspy in the shower. You fight over the thermostat like an old married couple, and he lets you win more often than he probably should.
Of course, not every day has been filled with laughter.
There was the night he came home from a long meeting and found you stressing over bills you refused to let him touch. His jaw tightened, that familiar authoritative tone creeping back in as he offered to ''handle it''. The argument that followed was ugly. You accused him of still seeing you as someone who needed fixing with money. He got defensive, retreating behind that wall he used to hide behind so easily. You slept on the couch that night. He came to find you at 3 a.m., eyes tired and guilty, pulling you into his chest with a quiet ''I'm sorry, baby.''
Sex has changed, too. The old dynamic hasn't disappeared, and you wouldn't want it to, but it has... evolved. The nights his hand finds your throat and his words become filthier still leave you breathless, but now they end differently, with slow kisses and whispered praises and I love yous instead of tears and early morning departures.
You moved in with him three weeks ago. It was a big step, one that made your chest feel tight with both excitement and nerves. His house is beautiful, of course, with high ceilings and soft lighting and art he doesn't care about, but it's the little changes that you love most. Your books on his shelves. Your favorite mug next to his in the cupboard. The way he clears space in his closet without having to be asked.
He's trying so hard to be a normal boyfriend. He asks about your day. He kisses your temple in the morning. He attends your work events.
You've had ups and downs, but you're happier than you've ever been.
And now, here you are.
The sleek black car pulls up the long gravel driveway of the private villa Harry booked for the six-month anniversary of the night of the rooftop confession, the night you both decided counted as the real beginning. The countryside stretches out around you, golden and peaceful under the late afternoon sun. Rolling hills, lavender fields in the distance, and this stunning stone villa waiting like something out of a dream.
Harry's been buzzing with excitement the entire drive, though he's tried (and failed) to play it cool. His hand hasn't left your thigh for the last twenty minutes, his thumb tracing absent circles against your skin. Every so often he glances over at you, uncharacteristically on edge.
As the driver stops and pops the trunk, Harry dips his head, pressing a slow kiss just below your ear.
''Welcome to our little getaway, honey,'' he murmurs, voice warm. ''I wanted to do something special for us.''
He looks almost boyish as he helps you out of the car, one hand on the small of your back, the other reaching for your suitcase before you can beat him to the punch. You can feel the anticipation rolling off him.
You have no idea yet what he has planned inside, but something in your chest flutters, equal parts love and that old, familiar wariness you can never quite shake when he spends money on you.
The villa is even more breathtaking inside: warm stone walls, high wooden beams, and soft golden light pouring through the tall windows. Harry's hand stays at the small of your back as he guides you through the entrance, his touch gentle but undeniably possessive, the way it always is when he's proud of something he's done for you.
''Let me show you around,'' he murmurs, pressing a brief kiss to your temple before steering you toward the master bedroom. The moment he pushes the heavy wooden doors open, your stomach drops.
The closet doors are slid wide open, and inside hangs an entire new wardrobe. Carefully curated, screaming of his taste, and undoubtedly expensive. Silk dresses in soft creams and deep emeralds, cashmere sweaters, delicate lace pieces that make your cheeks burn just looking at them. Every hanger is perfectly spaced. Every piece chosen with the kind of intimate knowledge of your body that only he possesses.
Your breath catches.
Harry watches you closely, green eyes bright with hope and a touch of nerves. When you don't speak right away, he steps forward and opens the top drawer of the built-in island. An oblong velvet box rests inside.
He picks it up, thumb brushing over the soft fabric almost reverently before turning to you.
''I saw this a few weeks ago and couldn't stop thinking about it,'' he murmurs. ''It reminded me of us.''
He opens the box.
A delicate gold necklace lies inside: a thin chain, almost weightless, with a small, elegant pendant shaped like a fountain pen nib. On the back, in the tiniest engraving, are the words: Rules are meant to be broken.
Your throat tightens.
Harry steps behind you, gently sweeping your hair over one shoulder. His fingers are warm as he clasps the necklace around your neck, the metal cool against your skin. His lips brush the shell of your ear as he whispers, ''My world was black and white before I met you, Y/N. I never knew life could be as beautiful as it is every day I'm with you.''
You try to smile. You really do.
His words are unbearably romantic, so unlike the man he was when you first met him, and the gesture is so sweet you want to burst into tears.
But dread settles in your chest at this lavish display of money and expensive gifts, and old insecurities flare up rapidly. To make matters worse, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out one more thing.
A sleek black card. Matte finish. Your name embossed in silver on the front.
He presses it into your palm, closing your fingers around it with both of his hands.
''No limit,'' he says softly, eyes searching yours. ''It's yours. The arrangement is behind us, I know that andโ and I'm glad it is, but you deserve the world, baby, and I want to give it to you.''
The silence that follows is deafening.
You stare down at the card, feeling its weight even though it's featherlight. The familiar panic rises fast and vicious, the same cold wave that used to crash over you in the early days when he'd slide thick envelopes across marble tables. Your chest constricts. The beautiful clothes suddenly feel like costumes. The necklace, while thoughtful, sits heavy against your collarbone, making it harder to breathe.
Is your relationship slipping backwards? Does he miss it? The power? The control? The version of you that didn't argue when he opened his wallet? Has he been pretending this whole time that he's okay with how things have changed? What if he regrets letting the rules go?
You force a smile that doesn't reach your eyes. ''It's... it's beautiful, Harry. Really. Thank you.''
But your voice comes out smaller than you want it to. Quieter. The kind of quiet he knows too well.
Harry's brows pull together the tiniest bit, that little crease appearing between them. He studies you for a long moment, reading the tension in your shoulders, the way your fingers have tightened around the black card like it might burn you. He swallows once.
Then he nods, almost to himself.
''Alright,'' he says gently, stepping back to give you space. His voice is careful now, measured. ''I'll let you freshen up. We've got a dinner reservation in a couple hours.''
He leans in, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead, soft, reassuring, but you can feel the uncertainty behind it. His hand lingers on your waist a second longer than necessary before he pulls away and leaves the room, closing the door quietly behind him.
The second he's gone, your thoughts swallow you whole.
You sink down onto the edge of the massive bed, the black card still clutched in your hand. Your eyes burn.
Is he pulling away because this version of you isn't enough for him anymore? What if tonight isn't a celebration, but one last hurrah before he ditches you for someone more... submissive?
Your fingers rise to touch the delicate pendant at your throat. Rules are meant to be broken. The words mock you now.
You stare at your reflection in the full-length mirror across the room, wearing the necklace he picked, sitting in the beautiful room he booked, holding the card he just gave you, and for the first time in months, you feel painfully, terrifyingly small again.
...
The early evening light has softened the sky into something warmer and golden by the time you stand in front of the floor-length mirror. The dress you chose from the new wardrobe clings to your body, a deep, forest green silk that slips over your curves, the neckline dipping just enough to catch the delicate gold pendant resting against your sternum. It presses into your skin like a brand.
You stare at your reflection longer than you should.
Your fingers trace the cool metal of the necklace, then drop to smooth nonexistent wrinkles at your hips. The girl looking back at you is beautiful. Expensive dress, expensive man, expensive life. But something inside you keeps flinching away from the image, like touching a wound you thought had already healed.
The soft click of his shoes on the hardwood floor announces him before his voice does. Harry appears in the doorway behind you, sleeves of his black button-down rolled to his forearms, the top few buttons undone in that effortlessly devastating way of his.
His eyes find yours in the mirror, dark and searching, before they drag slowly down the length of your body. For a moment, something hungry flickers across his face, that old possessive glint that used to make your knees weak and your thoughts scatter.
Then he frowns.
''You don't like it,'' he says, voice low and a touch rough. He steps into the room, hands sliding into his pockets as if to stop himself from instinctively reaching for you. ''The dress. I chose wrong, didn't I?''
You watch the way his jaw tightens slightly, the twitch of muscle that betrays just how much he wants this night to be perfect.
You shake your head quickly, the movement a little too sharp. ''No, it's not that. The dress is beautiful, Harry. Really. Everything is.''
The corners of your lips twitch in a poor attempt at a convincing smile, but it never quite lands. Instead, your gaze drops back to your own reflection, fingers curling tighter around the silk at your sides.
He doesn't let it go.
Harry moves closer until he's standing just behind you, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating from his chest. He doesn't touch you yet. He simply watches you in the mirror with those intense green eyes that have always seen straight through you.
''Talk to me, honey,'' he murmurs, patient but still firm. There's that gentle insistence in his tone, the one that used to command obedience but now asks for honesty instead. ''You've been quiet since we got here. I know that look. Don't shut me out, baby, I'm begging you.''
The silence stretches between you, thick and trembling.
Your chest feels tight, breath coming shallower as the spiral you'd tried to bury claws its way back up your throat. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes before you can stop them. When you finally speak, your voice is small, shy, but laced with months of quietly carried fear.
''I'm scared,'' you whisper, the confession cracking open something raw inside you. ''It feels like... before. The clothes waiting for me. The black card with my name on it. The way you looked at me when you gave it, like you were trying to pay for my time the way you used to. And I just kept thinking... what if you miss it? The old us. When I just let you give and give because that's what the arrangement was for. What if thisโ'' your hand gestures vaguely between the two of you, voice trembling, ''โwhat if this isn't enough for you anymore? What if you're only doing all of this because you think you have to prove something?''
Harry's expression shifts instantly.
For a second, defensiveness flashes hot across his face, that old wall slamming into place, jaw locking, shoulders squaring like he's preparing for battle. His mouth opens, probably ready to argue that he's trying, that he's changed, that you're being unfair.
But then he stops.
You see the exact moment he catches himself. The way his lashes lower, the subtle exhale through his nose, the way his hands flex at his sides before he forces them to relax. The growth is quiet, but it's there, hard-won and still a little clumsy, but real.
He steps forward until his chest brushes your back. This time, he doesn't hesitate. One arm slides carefully around your waist, the other hand coming up to gently turn your chin so you're looking at him in the mirror. ''Oh, honey,'' he breathes, voice rough with emotion. ''I'm sorry.''
His forehead drops until it rests against the side of your head, eyes closing for a long moment.
''I love spoiling you,'' he admits, the words coming out quieter than usual, almost shy. ''Not because of the old shit. Not because I want to buy your love. But because I look at you and I think... you deserve the entire fucking world, baby. I want to shower you in gifts and worship you at your feet because that's what a woman like you deserves.''
Your heart clenches painfully at the vulnerability in his voice, this intensely brooding man who used to hide behind control and cash, now laying his undying devotion bare for you.
You turn slowly in his arms until you're facing him, your hands coming up to rest against his chest. His heartbeat is fast under your palm.
''I do want your gifts,'' you tell him softly, thumb brushing over the fabric of his shirt. ''But I want them from you. The man who dances with me while I cook dinner and wakes me up at 2 a.m. to tell me that he's dreamt of me. Not the one who gets his way by opening his wallet.''
Harry's eyes search yours for a long, heavy moment. Then something in him seems to settle, the tension bleeding out of his shoulders as he pulls you closer, wrapping both arms fully around you.
''I hear you,'' he whispers against your hair, lips brushing your temple. ''No more overcompensating with money when what you really need is me. I'm still learning, baby. But I'm in this. All of it.''
He pulls back just enough to cup your face with both hands, thumbs gently wiping away the tears you didn't even realize had slipped free. His gaze is dark, intense, and so full of love it almost hurts to look at.
''I love you,'' he says, simple and reverent. ''Not the arrangement. Not the version of you that was mine on paper. Just you. My stubborn, beautiful girl.''
You press your forehead to his. ''I love you too,'' you breathe, the words settling warm between your bodies like a promise renewed.
Now that the heavy weight in your chest is lifted, replaced by something lighter, warmer, you both decide to still go to dinner.
Harry watches you intently as you touch up your makeup, his gaze tracing the delicate line of the necklace against your skin. He doesn't push. He simply waits, pensive in that way only he can be, until you slip your hand into his and murmur, ''Let's go.''
The restaurant is everything you've come to expect from Harry's taste: intimate, luxurious, and just secluded enough to feel like the world outside doesn't exist. Nestled in the heart of the nearby town, the old stone building has been transformed into something almost ethereal. Low golden chandeliers drip soft light over dark wood tables dressed in crisp white linens. Candles flicker inside glass hurricanes, casting dancing shadows across exposed brick walls adorned with climbing ivy.
The air carries the rich scent of truffle oil, aged wine, and something floral from the fresh arrangements at every table. Soft jazz hums in the background, saxophone curling lazily through the space like smoke.
Harry's hand rests possessively at the small of your back as the host leads you to a quiet corner table. His fingers press just enough through the silk of your dress to remind you he's there, grounding and claiming all at once. He pulls your chair out for you like a gentleman, but the way his eyes darken when you sit, the way his tongue briefly wets his lower lip, betrays the hunger simmering just beneath the surface.
You talk easily at first, the kind of conversation that has become more natural over the last six months, even if Harry still arches his eyebrow when you ask him personal questions... before remembering you're his girlfriend now and are allowed to ask him these things.
He tells you about a ridiculous meeting he had last week, voice low and dripping with a hint of irritation as he recounts how one of his executives nearly spilled coffee all over important contracts. You laugh softly, chin resting on your hand, watching the way the candlelight catches the sharp line of his jaw and the subtle curl of his hair at the nape of his neck. He looks devastating tonight, in a black tailored suit, the shirt unbuttoned just enough to tease the ink on his chest.
There's a comfortability between you now. You tease him gently about how he scowls at his phone when emails come in after hours, and he shoots you a smirk, eyes gleaming with something dangerously fond.
''Old habits,'' he murmurs, reaching across the table to brush his thumb over your knuckles. ''Can't have everyone thinking I've gone completely soft just because I'm stupidly in love with you.''
Your cheeks warm at the casual admission. Even after six months, hearing him say it so openly still makes you flushed, an embarrassing giddiness blooming in your chest.
The main courses arrive, Italian pasta for you, a rich steak for him, and the conversation drifts into more playful territory. You're taking a sip of wine when Harry leans back in his chair, watching you with that intense, half-lidded stare that always makes you press your thighs together.
He swirls the deep red liquid in his glass once before speaking, his voice dropping.
''Have you decided if you want to try them? The handcuffs?'' His lips curve into a slow, wicked smile, though his eyes stay serious, searching. ''You got all shy on me and changed the subject. Still thinking about it?''
You nearly choke on your wine, heat flooding your face. You think of his low voice in bed one night, murmuring filthy promises about restraints and complete surrender while his fingers traced lazy patterns on your stomach. You had blushed furiously and buried your face in his neck, too overwhelmed by the idea and too turned on to admit it.
''I wasn't that shy,'' you protest softly, though the way your voice wavers gives you away completely. You bite your lip, glancing around to make sure no one is listening before leaning in a little. ''I was just... surprised. You know I trust you. But the idea of not being able to use my hands, of not being able to... touch you? Are you sure that's what you want?''
Harry's gaze darkens noticeably. He leans closer, elbow on the table, voice a hushed rasp meant only for you.
''Yes. And that's exactly why I want it,'' he murmurs. ''Watching you fall apart when you can't guide where my mouth is going next. Hearing those pretty little sounds you make when you're desperate for me.'' His eyes flick down to your lips for a beat. ''You'd look so fucking good handcuffed to the headboard for me, baby. Trembling... just waiting helplessly for me to make you come so hard you forget your own name.''
You squirm in your seat, heat pooling low in your belly. Nerves clash with the quiet thrill that runs through you at his words. The spark is still there, bright and electric, even after everything you've been through. You love this version of him: still intensely brooding, still carrying that dominant edge, but now it's wrapped in love instead of transaction.
You tilt your head, giving him a cheeky little smile that surprises even you. ''Only if you promise not to be too mean about it. I know how much you like making me beg.''
Harry's low chuckle is dark and pleased. ''Wouldn't dream of it, honey. I like hearing you beg... but I like hearing you scream even more.''
The tension between you simmers, warm and familiar, until it's sharply interrupted.
A few tables away, a well-dressed man, probably in his mid-thirties, charming in that polished, slightly arrogant way, catches your eye as you laugh. He raises his glass toward you with a bold, flirtatious smile, clearly undeterred by the fact that you're sitting across from one of the most intimidatingly beautiful men in the room.
''Beautiful smile,'' he calls over, loud enough to be heard. ''You should let me buy you a drink sometime.''
You feel the shift in Harry instantly, the way his jaw ticks hard, the subtle flare of his nostrils, the dangerous glint that enters his eyes. The old Harry would have been across the room in seconds. The old Harry would have made a scene, voice cold and cutting, marking his territory with sharp words and darker promises for later.
But this Harry... his hand finds your thigh under the heavy tablecloth, sliding up slowly, possessively, fingers digging into the silk-covered flesh with just enough pressure to make your breath hitch. He doesn't even glance at the man. His eyes stay locked on you, dark and burning.
Leaning in until his lips brush the shell of your ear, he speaks in a low, filthy murmur that sends shivers racing down your spine.
''You're mine, baby,'' he promises, voice thick with restrained need. ''Only I get to see you when you're falling apart on my cock. Only I get to hear the way you whimper my name when I'm buried so deep inside you that you walk funny for days.''
His fingers creep higher, brushing teasingly against the apex of your thighs. Your pulse thunders.
''Take your panties off,'' he whispers, the command quiet but absolute. ''Right now. Hand them to me.''
Your heart stutters. Heat floods your face as you glance around the elegant restaurant, cheeks burning. But the command, paired with the firm grip on your thigh and the dark promise in his voice, makes you dizzy with want. With slightly trembling hands, you manage to slip them off beneath the table, delicate black lace that still carries the warmth of your body. You fold them discreetly and pass them under the table into his waiting palm.
Harry pockets them smoothly, the movement so controlled it looks effortless. A satisfied, predatory glint flashes in his eyes as he leans back just enough to look at you properly.
''Good girl,'' he breathes, so quietly only you can hear it. ''Now be patient for me.''
The rest of dinner becomes unbearable in the most delicious way. Every bite of food tastes like nothing compared to the heavy, aching tension between your legs. Harry keeps his hand on your thigh the entire time, occasionally squeezing, occasionally tracing maddening little circles that make you want to whine. His conversation stays deceptively calm on the surface, but his eyes keep promising ruin.
By the time the waiter asks about dessert, you're both vibrating with need.
Harry declines for both of you, voice perfectly polite even as his thumb strokes dangerously close to where you need him most.
''We'll take the check,'' he says smoothly. ''Something's come up.''
The drive back is thick with silence and anticipation. His hand never leaves your thigh, gripping tighter every time you shift in your seat. By the time the car pulls up the long driveway, you're practically trembling.
The moment the villa door clicks shut behind you, the air shifts, thick, electric, and Harry doesn't give you a second to think.
You stumble backward as he presses you against the nearest wall, his body crowding yours until you feel nothing but heat and the hard lines of his body. His mouth crashes into yours with a hunger that steals the air from your lungs. It's not gentle. It's nothing like the soft, reverent kiss on the rooftop six months ago today.
Your hands fly up, fisting in the front of his black shirt as his tongue sweeps into your mouth, deep and claiming. A low, guttural sound vibrates from his chest when you moan into him.
You knock into a side table on the way down the hallway. Something ceramic clatters dangerously but neither of you cares enough to stop. Harry's hands are everywhere, gripping your waist, sliding down to palm your ass, lifting you just enough that your toes barely brush the floor as he walks you further inside. Your back hits another wall. A framed picture tilts precariously. His mouth never leaves yours for longer than a gasp.
''Fuck, baby,'' he groans against your lips, the sound almost pained, biting the bottom one before soothing it with his tongue. ''Been painfully fucking hard since you handed me those panties under the table. You have no idea what you do to me.''
You can't even form words. All you manage is a broken whimper as he lifts you suddenly, setting you on the edge of the console table in the hallway. The silk of your dress rides up your thighs as he steps between them, grinding his clothed cock against your bare, already soaked center. The friction pulls a sharp cry from your throat.
You can't stop touching him. Your fingers push through his curls, tugging hard enough to make him hiss, then slide down to yank at his shirt buttons. One pops off completely and skitters across the floor. Harry chuckles darkly into your mouth, but the sound is ragged, desperate.
Neither of you can stand to be separated even long enough to walk properly to the bedroom.
By the time you reach the threshold of the master suite, your dress is already halfway unzipped, one strap hanging off your shoulder, and Harry's shirt is completely open, revealing the firm, inked expanse of his chest: the butterfly, the swallows, the delicate ferns that disappear teasingly beneath his waistband... His trousers hang low on his hips, the bulge obvious and straining.
He kicks the bedroom door shut with his foot and finally lifts you properly, your legs wrapping instinctively around his waist as he carries you to the bed. You land on the soft mattress with him following right after, bodies still fused together, mouths hungry and breathless.
For a moment, you just kiss, slow, deep, devouring kisses that taste like red wine and relief and six months of choosing each other every single day. Your hands roam over his bare chest, tracing every ridge of muscle, every line of ink you've come to know by heart. Harry groans when your nails drag down his back, hips rolling into yours with barely contained need.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, green eyes dark and wild, pupils blown wide with lust and something far deeper.
''Want to see all of you,'' he rasps.
His hands are reverent yet urgent as he peels the silk dress from your body, kissing every inch of newly exposed skin: your collarbones, the valley between your breasts, the soft curve of your stomach. You arch into him, shy but burning, the way you've always been with him.
When he stands to finish undressing, you can't look away.
Harry shrugs the black shirt off his broad shoulders, letting it drop to the floor. The low lamplight kisses every defined line of his torso, every tattoo that tells stories you're still learning. His fingers move to his belt, the metallic clink loud in the quiet room. He pushes his trousers and boxers down in one smooth motion, and his cock springs free. Thick, heavy, already leaking at the tip. God. The sight of him fully naked, hard, and wanting you never fails to make your breath catch.
You reach for him, but he's already crawling back over you, caging you in with his arms.
Another heated make-out session consumes you both. Tongues sliding, teeth nipping, breaths mingling until you're dizzy with it. Then Harry begins his descent.
He kisses down your body with devastating patience, sucking marks into your neck, tongue flicking over your nipples until they pebble under his attention, teeth grazing the sensitive skin just below your ribs. When he finally settles between your thighs, he doesn't tease for long.
He spreads you open with strong hands, smirking devilishly up at you before disappearing beneath the sheets completely.
The sight is obscene and intoxicating, the white linen tenting over his broad shoulders and dark curls as his mouth finds your dripping center. The first broad stroke of his tongue pulls a broken moan from your throat. He eats you like a man starved, like he's trying to memorize the taste. His shoulders shift under the fabric as he works you deeper, tongue circling your clit before dipping inside you, over and over.
Your head falls back against the pillows, one hand flying down to grip the sheets while the other searches blindly for him. When his large hand slides up your body from beneath the sheets, warm and possessive, you instinctively thread your fingers through his. He squeezes once, grounding and tender, before palming your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple as his mouth continues its relentless assault.
The sensation of his tongue buried between your legs while his hand gropes and claims your breast, fingers intertwined with yours, sends you spiraling. You can't see his face, only feel the devastating pleasure and the intimate connection of your joined hands. It feels filthy and sacred all at once.
When you're trembling on the edge, whimpering his name like a prayer, Harry finally emerges from under the sheets, lips glossy and eyes feral.
He crawls back up your body, kissing you so you can taste yourself on his tongue. Then his voice drops into that low, raspy register you love.
''Been thinking about this for weeks,'' he murmurs against your mouth, grinding his bare cock against your slick folds. ''Handcuffing you. Keeping you completely at my mercy while I fuck you slow and deep. You trust me, don't you, honey?''
Your heart stutters. The old fear flickers, the memory of refusing this exact thing months ago, when everything between you was still a power play. But this is different. He is different.
You swallow, shy but aching with need, and nod.
''Okay,'' you whisper. ''I want to try.''
Harry's eyes flash with gratitude, hunger and love. He reaches into the bedside drawer (he must have planned this) and pulls out a pair of sleek, padded handcuffs. His movements are careful as he guides your wrists above your head and clicks the cuffs into place around the headboard.
The cool metal against your skin sends a shiver through you. Vulnerability floods your chest, but so does trust. You're completely exposed to him now, arms stretched, body open, heart bare.
Harry groans at the sight, his cock twitching against your thigh.
''Look at you,'' he breathes, voice thick with awe and filth. ''My beautiful girl. All mine. Finally letting me have you like this.''
He doesn't rush.
He kisses you senseless again before sliding into you in one slow, deep thrust. The stretch is exquisite, his thickness filling you completely. Once he bottoms out, he stays there, forehead pressed to yours, breathing hard.
Then he starts moving, with deep, rolling strokes that make the headboard creak softly. One hand wraps loosely around your throat, not squeezing hard, just enough pressure to remind you who's in control while his thumb strokes your pulse point tenderly.
''Such a good girl for me,'' he rasps, hips snapping harder. ''Taking my cock so fucking well even when you're tied up for me. This pussy was made for me, wasn't it? Only me.''
Your moans grow louder, helpless under the onslaught of pleasure and the overwhelming feeling of being completely his. The handcuffs bite into your wrists every time you tug instinctively, heightening every sensation.
Harry fucks you with raw desperation and aching reverence, whispering filthy praises between kisses, telling you how perfect you feel, how much he loves you, how he'll never let you go.
When you come, it crashes over you like a wave, vision whitening out as you cry his name. Harry follows moments later, burying himself deep and moaning your name like a prayer, hips stuttering as he fills you.
Afterwards, the room is quiet except for your ragged breathing.
Harry carefully unlocks the cuffs, rubbing your wrists with gentle thumbs before pulling you into his chest. His lips press softly to your forehead, your temple, your swollen lips.
''You did so good, honey,'' he whispers, voice hoarse but warm. ''Such a good fucking girl.''
Then he collapses beside you with a heavy, satisfied groan, his body slick with sweat and flushed from exertion. For a long moment, the only sounds in the villa are your mingled breathing and the distant chirping of crickets outside the open windows. Then he shifts, curling into you in a way that still makes your heart stutter every single time.
He settles his head on your chest, cheek pressed against your skin, one arm slung across your waist. It had taken him weeks after you first started dating to admit this was his favorite way to fall asleep; this big, brooding man who used to fuck you and leave envelopes on the nightstand, now seeking the steady comfort of your heartbeat like it was the only thing that could quiet the noise in his head.
Your fingers find his curls immediately, carding through them in slow, soothing strokes. Your other hand trails gently down the warm expanse of his back, tracing the raised lines of scratches you'd left there minutes earlier. Harry lets out a contented hum, nuzzling deeper into your chest.
''I love you,'' he mumbles sleepily against your skin, voice rough and low. ''I'm so grateful you decide to put up with me.''
You laugh softly, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. ''I love you, idiot.''
As his breathing evens out and his body grows heavier against yours, your mind drifts over the past six months like pages in a book.
The quiet mornings where he brings you breakfast in bed, still learning exactly how you like it. The way he scowls at his laptop during work calls but softens the second you walk into the room. The ridiculous arguments over whose turn it is to pick the movie, ending with both of you tangled on the couch anyway. The nights you cry over silly things and he holds you for hours, murmuring apologies for every time he used to make you feel small. The spontaneous Sunday market trips where he lets you drag him around by the hand, buying random trinkets and mismatched flowers just because you like the way they smell.
Then there are the times he tries to solve your stress with his wallet, the nights you pull away because the ghost of the arrangement still haunts you... the quiet fear that maybe this kind of love, born from something so transactional, can never be entirely clean.
But you had chosen each other through all of it.
And tonight had felt like another quiet vow. Not perfect. Not without old shadows. But real. Yours.
With that warmth settling deep in your chest, and Harry's soft snores ghosting across your skin, you finally drift off, fingers still tangled in his hair.
...
The next morning, soft golden sunlight filters through the sheer curtains, painting the room in gentle hues. Harry stirs slowly, reaching out with a sleepy groan only to find empty sheets where your body should be. He cracks one eye open, then the other, a small frown tugging at his brows.
The faint sound of music drifts in from the kitchen, something soft and upbeat, the kind of song you always hum when you think no one's listening. A slow smile spreads across his face.
He stretches languidly, muscles deliciously sore in all the right places. When he stands, he catches his reflection in the full-length mirror across the room and turns slightly, glancing over his shoulder. Red scratches decorate his back and shoulders, evidence of last night's passion. His smirk deepens, dark and satisfied.
He wears them proudly: badges of honor from the woman who owns every piece of his body and heart.
Pulling on a pair of black boxers, he pads barefoot toward the kitchen, following both the music and the delicious scent of cooked eggs.
There you are.
Wearing nothing but one of his oversized button-downs, sleeves rolled up to your elbows, hips swaying gently to the rhythm as you flip an egg. Your hair is still messy from sleep, and you're humming under your breath, completely lost in the moment. The sight hits him square in the chest. Warm, domestic, and so beautifully you.
He leans against the doorway for a moment, just watching, that secret, down-bad softness he only ever lets you see blooming across his face.
Then he steps forward.
You startle when his arms suddenly wrap around you from behind, a little gasp escaping as he pulls your back flush against his chest.
''Harry!'' you laugh, nearly dropping the spatula.
''Dance with me,'' he murmurs, voice still rough with sleep but warm with affection. He doesn't wait for an answer, simply spins you in his arms until you're facing him, one hand settling on the small of your back while the other holds yours.
You let out a delighted squeal as he starts swaying you around the spacious kitchen, the music guiding your lazy, playful movements. He dips you dramatically, making you laugh in surprise, then pulls you back up and presses a kiss to your temple, your nose, and finally your lips, slow and sweet.
The moment is perfect.
Until the unmistakable smell of burning hits you both.
''Shit. The eggs!'' you gasp, pulling away.
Harry glances over at the stove where dark smoke is curling up from the pan and lets out a low, amused chuckle. ''Worth it,'' he declares, reaching over to turn off the burner with one hand while keeping the other firmly around your waist.
He looks down at the charred remains with a soft, almost boyish expression. ''I'll order something. That place in town does incredible pastries and they deliverโ''
You cut him off gently, placing your hands on his chest.
''Or...'' you say, smiling up at him shyly but surely, ''we could go into town together? Walk around a bit, find a little cafรฉ. Like normal people.''
Harry pauses. He feels the quick desire to take care of everything, to make it easy and perfect with a single phone call. But he catches it this time. His eyes soften, and that proud, loving smile returns as he brushes a strand of hair behind your ear.
''Yeah,'' he murmurs, thumb stroking your cheek with unbearable tenderness. ''Sounds good, baby.''
He leans down and kisses you again, slow, deep, full of promise and gratitude. When he pulls back, there's a familiar teasing glint in his eyes.
''Though I can't promise I won't buy you something ridiculous while we're out,'' he says, voice low and playful, as his gaze drifts briefly toward the window, toward the direction of the town.
You laugh softly, shaking your head as you loop your arms around his neck. ''As long as it comes from you... I think I can live with that,'' you murmur fondly, completely unaware of the weight behind his words.
But Harry feels it settle deep in his chest as he looks at you, standing here in his shirt, flushed from sleep and last night's... activities, smiling up at him like he's the best thing in your world. The same girl who he once fought with in the rain outside a club now sways barefoot in his kitchen, humming to music and burning pancakes with him.
Last night, on the drive to dinner, he spotted a small jewelry shop tucked between the old stone buildings. The thought had flickered through his mind then, quiet but persistent. And now, holding you in the morning light, it suddenly becomes crystal clear.
Yes.
This is what he wants. You. This life. Waking up to your humming and your burnt eggs and your shy little smiles for the rest of his life.
Harry presses a kiss to your forehead, letting the decision settle warmly inside him.
While you're distracted in one of the little shops, maybe tasting coffee or admiring the lavender fields in the square, he'll slip away for a few minutes, murmuring something about taking a quick business call.
He doesn't know exactly when he'll drop to one knee; it won't be rushed, not with everything you've both been through. You deserve the kind of proposal that erases every shadow of how you started.
But he knows, with a certainty that feels almost overwhelming, that he's going to buy the ring today.
...
thank you so much for reading! i appreciate any and all support so remember to like, comment and reblog. requests are open!ย ๐
dominion & defiance
(part four of the velvet & vice series)
Summary: One painful confrontation with his past sends Harry running back to Velvet. Some things are worth making a scene for.
Warnings: Harry is a mafia boss (it's a bigger theme in this part), Harry threatens a man, childhood abandonment trauma, brief mentions of a physically abusive parent, strip club, fluffy ending
Based on: this ask!
A/N: netflix call me to turn this into a romcom rn. i've got one more part planned for this series that i think you guys will love x
Word Count: 3,388
Playlist: rubberband- Tate McRae, Losing You- Del Water Gap, Shameless- Camila Cabello, Love Me Harder- Ariana Grande and The Weeknd
...
The back room of The Ivory Room smells of aged whiskey, Cuban cigars, and the faint metallic tang of blood. Low amber lighting casts long shadows across the heavy oak table where four men sit in tailored suits that cost more than most people make in a year.
Harry leans back in the leather chair at the head of the table, one leg crossed over the other, rings glinting as he swirls the untouched glass of scotch in his hand.
The meeting has been dragging for nearly two hours. Three men from the east side families are arguing over territory lines and shipment routes, voices rising and falling in a careful dance of threats, but their eyes keep flicking toward Harry, waiting for the final word.
He has built his empire with intimidating silences and mercurial violence. Men twice his age defer to him now. They know better than to test the quiet man with the practiced smile and the unpredictable temper. His black shirt is unbuttoned at the throat, sleeves rolled to his elbows, ink and silver rings on full display.
To anyone watching, he looks completely at ease. Yet tonight his mind is nowhere near the table. It's been uselessly drifting back to the moment he ruined everything with three careless words.
You should quit.
The memory drags him back further, the way it always does when his control slips. He's five years old again, standing in the doorway of his mother's bedroom while she zips a suitcase shut with efficient detachment. She left him with a man whose love came with bruises and broken promises, and Harry learned the lesson young: people leave when you don't hold on tightly enough. So he learned to own everything.
Businesses. Men. Territory. Loyalty bought with blood or money or fear. Control became his religion, the only altar that never abandoned him.
Until you.
He's been to Velvet twice since that night. Both times you sent word through the floor manager that you were unavailable. The message was clear: stay away. Both times he sat in the VIP booth anyway, watching other girls dance while his jaw clenched so hard it ached. He left larger tips than necessary and went home alone, the silence in his penthouse louder than any gun he'd ever fired.
He hasn't slept properly in days.
One of the men, a thick-necked guy named Rossi, leans forward, tapping the table. ''Styles, you've been quiet. You gonna weigh in or just sit there taking advantage of the free alcohol?''
Harry's gaze slides to him slowly. The room quiets. He lets the silence stretch just long enough to make the man shift in his seat.
''I'm thinking,'' Harry says, voice low and smooth, ''that if you keep pushing into my docks without permission, the next shipment you receive will be the dead bodies of your men.''
The threat lands. Of course it does. Everyone knows Harry won't hesitate to make good on his promise if he's provoked.
Rossi leans back, muttering something petty under his breath.
...
Across town, you sit in a lecture hall with a cup of cheap coffee, pen moving steadily across lined paper as Professor Lang lectures on attachment theory. Secure attachment, anxious attachment, avoidant. The words blur slightly as your mind drifts to the man who embodies every dysfunctional pattern on the board. Harry Styles, the walking case study of fearful-avoidant attachment.
You underline the phrase ''fear of abandonment leading to controlling behaviours'' a little harder than necessary.
You've thrown yourself into your studies these past days. Morning lectures, afternoon library sessions, the evenings you don't have to work spent buried in textbooks on trauma responses and interpersonal dynamics. It feels safer than thinking about the way Harry looked at you when he told you to quit dancing, like you were something he could simply pay to remove from the world that had shaped you.
Because dancing is yours.
The stage, the lights, the power of commanding a room full of hungry eyes while giving them only what you choose. It's the one place you've ever felt completely in control. And Harry, with all his money and influence, wanted to take that away from you.
So you've refused every invitation, every bouquet delivered to the dressing room, every late-night text that simply read ''please''. You tell yourself it's self-preservation. You tell yourself you're angry.
But you miss him.
That night the club is busy. You stand in front of the mirror in the dressing room, adjusting the straps of your black lace set. Your hair falls in soft waves down your back, your lipstick a deep blood red. You look every inch the untouchable fantasy Velvet pays you to be.
Inside, you feel empty.
You've been dodging him on purpose. Every time the floor manager announces ''Mr. Styles is here,'' you find somewhere else to be: another private room, a sudden costume change, anything. Because if you see him, if he looks at you with those green eyes, you're afraid you'll forgive him before he's even properly apologized.
A sharp knock on the door pulls you back.
''Twenty minutes, sweetheart,'' the stage manager calls. ''You're up after Sapphire.''
You take one last look in the mirror, straighten your shoulders, and slip into the persona that pays your tuition and keeps your heart safely locked away.
Out in the main room the bass thrums low and heavy, smoke curling through the coloured lights. You wait at the edge of the stage, heart beating steady despite everything. This is your domain. Your rules.
...
Men shake hands and utter promises that might be broken by morning as the meeting finally wraps. Harry stands, buttons his shirt, and nods once to his second-in-command. ''Handle the rest. I'm done here.''
He's halfway down the marble hallway of The Ivory Room when he sees her.
She's standing near the entrance to the main ballroom, pale and frail in a way that makes something ugly twist in his chest. The designer dress hangs a little loose on her frame, and her hair is thinner now, with streaks of grey. She's hanging off the arm of the man beside her. Another powerful, dangerous man, older, with cold eyes and heavy rings.
He should've known.
Harry stops dead.
She turns, and for a moment their eyes meet across the crowded space. Recognition flickers in her face, followed by something that might be surprise, or maybe it's just discomfort.
She doesn't smile. She never really did.
He walks toward her before he can think better of it.
''Harry,'' she greets him, voice carefully neutral, like they're old acquaintances instead of blood relatives. ''It's been a long time.''
''Not long enough,'' he replies, voice low. The words come out colder than he intended, but he doesn't take them back.
The man beside her shifts, sensing tension and undoubtedly recognizing Harry. Harry doesn't even glance at him.
His mother tilts her head, studying him the way she used to when he was small and inconvenient. ''You look well. Powerful. I always knew you would be.''
He laughs bitterly. ''Yeah? Is that what you told yourself when you left me with him? That I'd turn out fine?''
''I was young. I made mistakes. We all do.''
''You left me with a man who beat the shit out of me every time he had a bad day,'' Harry says quietly, stepping closer. ''And I see you've found yourself another one just like him. Same fucking pattern.''
She doesn't deny it. Just lifts her chin a fraction, the same defiant tilt he sees in the mirror sometimes. ''I survived the only way I knew how.''
''And I survived by making sure no one could ever leave me the way you did.'' His voice cracks on the last word, just slightly. He hates himself for it. ''I did the same thing to someone I loโ to someone who matters to me. Tried to buy her, cage her, control her so she couldn't walk away. Because that's what I learned from you.''
For the first time, something like regret shadows her pale face.
Harry steps back, shaking his head. ''I'm not going to be like you.''
He turns on his heel before she can answer, chest tight, blood roaring in his ears. He pushes through the doors and into the cool night air.
His driver is waiting by the black car.
''Velvet,'' Harry says, voice rough. ''Now.''
The engine rumbles to life. The city lights blur past the tinted windows as the car cuts through the night toward the club. Toward you.
He doesn't know what he's going to say when he gets there. He just knows he can't wait another day.
Harry's out of the car before his driver even pulls over, long strides eating up the distance between the curb and the club's side entrance. The bass from inside pulses through the walls like a second heartbeat. Neon from the Velvet sign bleeds pink and purple across the wet pavement.
He doesn't bother with the VIP line or the bouncers, he just pushes through the staff door with the kind of authority that makes people step aside without asking questions.
Inside, the air is thick with smoke, perfume, and the low throb of music. He scans the floor, heart hammering harder than he's used to.
Then he sees you.
You're standing just off the side of the main stage, bathed in the hazy glow of the lights. The lingerie you're wearing is sinful, black lace and delicate straps that catch the light with every small movement, barely-there bottoms that leave almost nothing to the imagination. Your hair is styled for the stage, makeup sharp and dramatic.
You're calm, untouchable, just moments away from going on.
The current dancer is finishing her set, the crowd already shifting their attention toward the main stage in anticipation.
Harry shoulders his way through the edge of the room, ignoring the hostess who tries to intercept him. He reaches you just as the announcer's voice purrs your name over the speakers.
Your eyes lock on his. For a split second an array of emotion flashes across your face before the mask slams back into place.
''I have a set, Harry,'' you say, voice low and clipped, turning toward the steps. ''I can't talk right now.''
He catches your wrist gently but firmly. ''Please. Just give me five minutes.''
You pull free without looking at him, heels clicking as you ascend the short stairs. ''Not now.''
The music shifts, slow, sultry, heavy on the bass. The lights dim, then there's a spotlight on you as you step onto the stage. The crowd reacts with low cheers and appreciative whistles. Your movements are confident, fluid, every roll of your hips and arch of your back commanding the room. You don't look back at Harry.
Harry stands frozen at the edge of the stage for three full seconds.
''Fuck it,'' he mutters under his breath and steps up onto the stage.
The moment his foot hits the polished surface, the energy in the room shifts. A few gasps ripple through the crowd. You're mid-spin when you catch sight of him walking toward you: tall, broad-shouldered, still in his black button-down from the meeting, rings glinting under the lights.
Your eyes widen in fury, but you don't miss a beat. Professional to your core.
You do the only logical thing you can think of: turn it into part of the performance.
As he gets close, you glide toward him instead of away, a dangerous little smile curving your lips even though your eyes are shooting daggers. The crowd eats it up, fully convinced by your act.
Harry opens his mouth. ''I saw my mother tonightโ'' but your fingers hook into his tie and slowly pull it loose with deliberate, teasing tugs. You let the silk drape around his neck for a moment before tossing it aside, your hands trailing down the front of his chest, nails scraping lightly over the fabric of his shirt.
He sucks in a sharp breath.
''I realized something,'' he continues, voice rough, trying to speak over the music. ''She left me because she couldn't stop repeating the same pattern. Chasing men who would hurt her, then hurting everyone around her to survive. I've been doing the same thing, trying to control everything so it can't leave me. Trying to control you.''
You don't answer with words. Instead you turn, pressing your back to his chest, guiding his hands to your hips as you roll against him in a slow, filthy grind. One of your arms reaches up, hand curling behind his neck to keep him close. Your ass brushes against the front of his trousers and you feel him harden instantly.
He groans, forehead dropping to your shoulder for a second. ''I don'tโ don't want to be like her. I don't want to cage you. I was wrong to tell you to quit. I was terrified of losing you and Iโ''
You spin to face him again, cutting him off by pressing two fingers against his lips, playful and sharp at the same time. Your eyes flash with lingering anger while your hips keep grinding slow, teasing circles against his, one hand sliding down his chest to toy with the buttons of his shirt.
He kisses your fingers, desperate. ''I'm sorry,'' he murmurs against them. ''I'm so fucking sorry. I don't want to own you. I just... I just want you. However you'll have me.''
You pull your fingers away only to trail them down his throat, then lower, hooking into his belt as you drop into a low crouch, dragging your hands down his thighs on the way. When you rise again you're flush against him, lips brushing his ear so only he can hear.
''Shut up,'' you whisper furiously, even as your body continues the performance, ''and play along.''
Harry's hands hover at your waist, not quite touching until you guide them there yourself, making it look like part of the routine. You grind against him again, slower this time, letting the heat between you build until his breathing turns ragged.
''She looked exactly the same,'' he says again, voice breaking slightly. ''Still chasing the same kind of man. Still breaking everything she touches. And I realized I've been doing the same thing to you. Trying to make you smaller so you couldn't leave. I'm done with that.''
You press your finger to his lips once more, eyes blazing even as you roll your hips in a way that makes his grip tighten on your waist. The music throbs around you both, lights hot on your skin.
He keeps talking anyway, raw and desperate between your teasing interruptions.
''I love you,'' he says, the words spilling out like they've been trapped for months. ''I love you so much I can't breatheโ''
You cut him off again with your fingers, but this time your touch lingers, softer. Your eyes meet his, furious, hurt, and almost... touched.
The song is winding toward its peak.
Harry lifts one hand, signalling to the head of security standing near the stage. A second later the music cuts abruptly.
The club falls into shocked silence, the spotlight still blazing down on the two of you in the centre of the stage.
The sudden silence is deafening. The bass that had been vibrating through the floor vanishes, leaving only the whispers of the crowd and the buzzing of the spotlight locking onto the two of you in the centre of the stage. The haze of smoke drifts lazily through the beam of light, catching on Harry's rings and the sheen of sweat on your skin.
You're still pressed against him, one hand fisted in his shirt, the other resting on his chest where you'd been teasing the buttons open. For a heartbeat, pure fury surges through you.
You shove at his chest, not hard enough to actually push him away, but enough to create space. Your voice comes out sharp, trembling with anger and the adrenaline of performing in front of a silent room.
''You don't get to do this,'' you snap, loud enough for the front rows to hear. ''You don't get to storm in here after weeks of silence, step onto my stage, and fuck up my performance. Do you have any idea how humiliating this is?''
Harry doesn't flinch.
His hands stay gentle on your waist, thumb stroking the bare skin just above your lingerie bottoms like he's trying to calm you down.
''I know,'' he says, voice low but carrying in the quiet club. ''I know it's messy and... and public, but I couldn't wait anymore. Seeing my mother tonight broke something in me. I've spent my whole life making sure nobody could ever leave me the way she did. I tried to do it to you. I tried to buy your loyalty, your body, told you to quit like I owned you. I was terrified. I still am. But I don't want to let fear turn me into her.''
You stare at him, chest heaving. The spotlight feels too bright, too exposing. Your revealing lingerie suddenly feels even more vulnerable under all these eyes, but you refuse to shrink.
''If you had just talked to me like an adult,'' you say, voice cracking with frustration, ''instead of demanding I quit, we could have had a real conversation. I would have told you I'm happy to stop sleeping with clients. I've been thinking about it for weeks anyway. Dancing is mine. The power, the money, the stage, that part is still mine. But the rest? The private rooms, the extrasโฆ I was already pulling back because of you. Because I wanted something real with you.''
Harry's eyes soften, pain and relief flashing across his face in equal measure.
''I'm sorry,'' he says again, raw and honest. ''I was so scared of losing you that I tried to lock you down before you could choose to walk away. That wasn't fair. You deserve to choose. Every single day.''
The silence in the club is almost reverent now. No one dares to speak.
You hold his gaze for another long second, anger and hurt and love all tangled together. Then you fist your hands in his shirt again and pull him down into a kiss.
It's not soft. It's fierce and claiming, months of tension and weeks of pain pouring out in the press of lips and tongue. You're still in nothing but lace and thin straps, spotlight burning hot on your skin, Harry fully dressed in his black button-down with the sleeves rolled up, rings cool against your bare waist. The contrast is ridiculous and perfect.
When you finally pull back, both of you breathing hard, a loud, obnoxious voice cuts through the noise from the front row.
''Oi! I came here to see tits bounce, not a fucking soap opera!''
A group of frat guys laughs loudly, one of them cupping his hands around his mouth for another crude shout.
Harry's entire body goes still. The softness in his eyes vanishes, replaced by that cold, dangerous calm you've only seen when he's truly angry. He turns his head slowly toward the voice, raising one brow in a single, lethal look.
He doesn't raise his voice. He doesn't need to.
With a small, almost imperceptible tilt of his head, he signals the head of security standing near the stage. Two large men in black move instantly. The frat guy barely has time to grasp his wallet before he's grabbed by the collar and hauled toward the exit, his friends scrambling after him with wide eyes and half-formed protests.
Harry watches them go with zero expression, then turns back to you like the interruption never happened.
You let out a breathless laugh, still flushed and trembling from the kiss. ''You can't have everyone who's rude to me thrown out.''
He cups your face with both hands, thumbs brushing your cheeks with surprising gentleness.
''I'm learning how to let you have your independence,'' he says quietly, only for you. ''But I'm never going to stop protecting you.''
You roll your eyes, but your heart does somersaults in your chest. ''I know. I love you, you idiot.''
''I love you too,'' he whispers before kissing you again.
...
thank you so much for reading! i appreciate any and all support so remember to like, comment and reblog. requests are open!ย ๐
"engine trouble" was really good. but why use a photo of a sleeping harry that was taken without hin consent on plane? urgh.
i did not know it was taken without his consent. i assumed it was taken and uploaded by a friend or whomever he was traveling with. sorry i don't know the story behind every photo that exists of him guys!
Summary: After the show in Milan, the crew bus breaks down. Harry says you can ride on his private bus instead, just the two of you and a driver who doesn't need to know what happens in the back.
Warnings: Harry's your boss, fingering, protected sex, sex on a bus and the driver is unaware, different positions, praise kink, size kink
A/N: wow i need to take a long walk after writing this. enjoy x
Word Count: 4,308
...
The final show in Milan ends in a roar that echoes in your ears even as the house lights come up. The fans' chants are muffled by the black curtains, but the energy clings to everything: the sticky air backstage, the scattered water bottles rolling across the floor, the way the crew moves, running on the same adrenaline for eleven months straight.
You're leaning against a flight case, arms crossed, watching the last of the band trickle out of the green room with towels around their necks and phones already in hand. Someone, probably Pauli, cranks the post-show playlist loud enough that the bass rattles the metal walls.
You're running on fumes, eyes gritty from too many late nights and not enough sleep, but the buzz is still there, electric under your skin. This is the part you live for: the messy, triumphant comedown when you've just made the impossible happen again.
You love this job in a way that surprises you sometimes. Not the glamour; there isn't much of that when you're triple-checking rider lists at 3 a.m. or chasing down a missing guitar pedal five minutes before doors. It's the way no two days are ever the same. One minute you're translating a tech rider into three languages, the next you're standing in a loading dock at dawn watching semis pull away while the city wakes up around you. The chaos is grounding.
The crew trusts you with the big things. The schedule, the crises, the thousand tiny details that keep Harry's world from spinning off its axis, and they like you. That matters more to you than you'd expected.
And you honestly believe your boss is God's gift to mankind. When Harry walks into a production meeting, he listens intently, chin on his fist, eyes flicking between faces. When he thanks you, it's never perfunctory. He says your name, looks you in the eye, and you feel it land somewhere deep. Like he sees the hours you've put in, the small fires you've put out before anyone else noticed. It makes you want to do better, not because it's your job, but because he deserves people who show up for him the way he shows up for everyone else.
There have been moments that you've tried not to read too much into. The late-night coffees on the bus when the rest of the crew is asleep, just the two of you in the lounge area, talking about everything and nothing until the sky starts to lighten. The way he always asks your opinion first, even when there are ten other people in the room who've been doing this way longer than you have. The soft ''thank you'' he says when you hand him his in-ear pack before a show. And once or twice, when you've turned around too fast, you've caught him looking at you longer than necessary. You've told yourself it's nothing. He's tired. You're tired. Touring does strange things to perception.
Tonight, though, the tour is over, and you're already thinking about the flight home, the laundry, the sleep you owe your body.
Then the radios crackle.
''Crew bus is dead. Alternator's gone. We're not going anywhere tonight.''
A collective groan ripples through the hallway. People start pulling out phones, checking train schedules, cursing the rain that's now hammering the arena roof. You're already mentally rerouting, calculating how many Ubers it'll take, who needs to be at the airport first, when Harry appears at the end of the corridor.
He's in a black hoodie, sleeves pushed to his elbows, revealing the tattoos littering his forearms. His hair is still damp from the post-show shower, curls sticking to his forehead. He looks exhausted, yet calm.
He spots you, lifts his chin in that small way he does when he wants your attention without making a scene.
You walk over, dodging a tech carrying a coiled cable.
''Bus is fucked,'' he says simply, voice low under the noise.
''Yeah. I heard.''
He glances toward the loading dock doors where rain is pelting down. Then back at you.
''Come on,'' he says. ''You're riding with me tonight.''
You blink. ''What?''
''My bus is fuelled and ready. There's room.'' He shrugs like it's the most obvious thing in the world. ''I'm not letting you wait for a cab in the rain.''
You open your mouth to argue, something about not wanting to impose, but he's already turned around, hoodie pulled up, heading toward the private exit.
''Grab your bag,'' he calls over his shoulder. ''I'll wait by the door.''
You begrudgingly sling your backpack over one shoulder, heart doing a strange little flip you pretend is just leftover adrenaline. You walk toward Harry's bus, the sleek black one parked at the far end of the dock, engine idling, lights soft behind tinted windows.
Harry's waiting under the overhang, hands in his pockets. When you reach him he doesn't say anything, just opens the door and gestures for you to go first.
You step up into the warmth of the coach, and the door hisses shut behind you, sealing out the rain and the chaos of the loading dock. For a second you just stand there at the top of the steps, backpack still slung over one shoulder, taking it in.
The engine buzzes steadily beneath your feet, a constant rumble that travels up through the floor. The interior is all sleek dark leather, seats the colour of midnight, polished wood accents catching the soft amber glow from recessed lights along the ceiling. There's a small lounge area up front with a curved sofa facing a low table, a flat-screen mounted on the wall, and a mini-fridge beside it.
Beyond that, a narrow hallway leads to the back: a tiny galley kitchenette, a closed door that must be the bathroom, and then the bedroom. Everything feels expensive but lived-in: Harry's black hoodie draped over the arm of the sofa, the faint scent of his cologne mixing with brewed coffee, and, of course, the guitar on the couch.
The driver (Marco, you think his name is) glances back from the cockpit and gives a small nod before sliding the partition door almost all the way closed. It doesn't latch fully; there's still a thin strip of light and the occasional crackle of his radio filtering through.
Harry steps up behind you, close enough that you feel his hoodie brush your arm as he reaches past to flip a switch. The main lights dim to a softer gold, leaving just enough to see by without feeling clinical.
''Make yourself at home,'' he says, settling into the long night ahead. He shrugs off his wet hoodie and hangs it on a hook by the door, revealing a plain black tee underneath, sleeves stretched from wear. ''Bathroom's back there if you want to change. Towels are in the cabinet.''
You nod, suddenly aware of how damp your own clothes are from the dash through the rain. ''Thanks.''
The bathroom is tiny, barely enough room to turn around, but spotless. Marble-look counter, a proper shower stall you've never actually seen him use (he prefers hotel showers, always says the bus shower makes him feel claustrophobic), and a stack of fresh towels.
You dig through your backpack for the change of clothes you keep for nights like this: grey sleep shorts and a black oversized hoodie you stole from wardrobe months ago, with the tour logo faded across the chest. You pull it on, the sleeves hanging past your knuckles.
When you step back out, Harry's already in the bedroom at the far end. The door is open, and you can see him sprawled across the bed on his back, legs stretched out, one arm behind his head, phone glowing against his face. He's changed too: grey sweats, white tee. The bed is bigger than you expected, king-sized, built into the back wall with dark sheets and a couple of mismatched pillows. There's a window above the headboard, rain streaking the glass in small rivers.
He glances up when you appear in the doorway, eyes flicking over you in the tour hoodie, and something softens in his expression.
''Looks good on you,'' he says, casual.
You feel your face warm. ''I'll give it back. Eventually.''
He laughs and pats the space beside him. ''Come on. Couch is too small for a proper sleep, and you've been on your feet since soundcheck.''
You hesitate in the doorway. ''I'm fine on the sofa out there. Really. I don't want toโ''
''Don't be ridiculous.'' He cuts you off gently, but there's that tone underneath, the one he uses when he's made up his mind and isn't arguing, just stating facts. ''Bed's huge. We're friends. It's twelve hours. You need sleep more than I need space.''
You open your mouth to protest again, about professionalism, about boundaries, about the fact that sharing a bed with your boss probably crosses at least three lines, but he's already shifting to make room, pulling back the duvet like it's the most normal thing in the world.
And honestly, you're exhausted. The adrenaline from the show is crashing hard now, leaving your limbs heavy and your eyes burning. The couch out there is leather and narrow and probably cold. This bed looks warm.
You sigh, giving in. ''Fine. But if I snore, don't take a video and send it to the group chat like you did on that red-eye flight to Barcelona.''
He grins crookedly. ''Deal.''
You climb in carefully, keeping to the edge at first. The mattress dips under your weight, the sheets cool against your bare legs. You pull the duvet up to your chin, trying to make yourself small. Harry reaches over and dims the last light with a switch by the headboard until the room is almost dark, just the faint glow from the window and the soft red numbers on the clock radio: 1:47 a.m.
''Goodnight,'' he says quietly, rolling onto his side to face away from you.
''Goodnight,'' you echo, voice barely above a whisper.
The bus hums along the motorway, a steady vibration that travels up through the frame and into your bones. Rain taps the roof in irregular bursts. You lie there, staring at the ceiling, trying to breathe normally. You can hear him breathing, slow, even, but not quite asleep yet. Every time the bus sways around a curve, the mattress shifts and your bodies inch closer. Your shoulder brushes his back once. You both freeze for half a second before pretending it didn't happen.
Minutes stretch. The partition door stays cracked just enough that you can hear the occasional crackle of Marco's radio up front, the swish of tyres on wet asphalt, the occasional whoosh of a passing lorry cutting through the rain. It's intimate in a way that feels dangerous, like the whole world has narrowed to this metal tube hurtling through the night, and the only two people in it are you and him.
Your eyes trace shadows on the ceiling, body hyper-aware of every inch of space between you and him. The mattress is too soft, the sheets too warm, the air too thick with the scent of his cologne.
You shift again, trying to find a comfortable position. Your knee brushes the back of his thigh. He doesn't move away.
Neither do you.
Then he exhales, slow, shaky, and rolls onto his back, one arm bent behind his head, the other resting on his stomach. His chest rises and falls a little faster than it should.
His eyes are open in the dark, green catching the faint light from the window. Close enough that you can see the individual lashes, the small scar above his eyebrow from some old stage mishap.
''Can't sleep?'' he whispers, voice so quiet it barely carries over the engine.
You shake your head against the pillow. ''Too wired. Show high, I guess.''
He doesn't say anything else. Just looks at you like he's been waiting for this exact moment for months and is finally allowing himself to admit it.
You let the silence stretch for a moment, then speak again, softer. ''You were incredible tonight. The way you held the room during the encore... I've never seen a crowd go that quiet and then explode like that.''
He turns his head toward you. ''You were incredible this whole leg,'' he says. ''Not just tonight. Every night. Every crisis, every missed flight, every time someone lost their shit, you were there to pick up the slack. Thank you, truly. I don't think I've said it enough.''
Your throat tightens. ''You say thank you all the time.''
''Not enough.'' He rolls onto his side now, facing you fully. The mattress dips; your bodies are closer, the duvet brushing between you. ''I couldn't have done this without you.''
You feel the words settle somewhere deep in your chest.
''You would've figured it out,'' you murmur. ''You always do.''
''Maybe. But it wouldn't have been the same.'' His voice drops lower. ''Wouldn't have felt the same without you.''
The bus sways around a long curve, and your body slides toward him. You don't correct it. Neither does he.
His hand moves first, slowly, until the backs of his fingers brush the back of yours where it rests on the sheet between you. The contact is light, almost accidental, but neither of you pulls away. Your pinky curls slightly, hooking over his. His breath catches just a fraction.
He doesn't speak right away, just lets his fingers slide between yours until your hands are laced together on the mattress. His palm is warm, calloused from guitar strings and years of holding mics, and when he squeezes once, gentle, testing, you squeeze back.
The air shifts.
He rolls closer, closing the last of the distance until his forehead nearly touches yours. You can feel the heat radiating off him, the barely audible tremor in his exhale.
''Tell me to stop,'' he whispers, voice rough.
You don't.
Your eyes flutter shut. His nose brushes yours, once, twice, then his lips find yours in the dark.
It starts slow. Agonizingly slow. His lips are warm, tentative, learning the shape of you, and you part for him without thinking. His tongue slides against yours in a lazy, exploratory stroke that tears a quiet sound out of contentment, and he swallows it, kissing you deeper, hungrier.
His free hand comes up to cup your jaw, thumb stroking along your cheekbone as he angles your head just right. You arch toward him instinctively, pressing your body along the length of his. The kiss turns messy: teeth grazing lips, tongues sliding, breaths shared in short, desperate pants. Your joined hands tighten, his fingers flexing and releasing like he's trying to anchor himself to you.
He breaks away only long enough to drag his mouth along your jaw, down the side of your neck. His teeth scrape over your pulse point, and you gasp, head tipping back against the pillow. His tongue soothes the spot, then he sucks, marking you in a place only he will see.
''Quiet,'' he murmurs against your skin, voice wrecked. ''Marco's right there.''
The reminder sends a fresh wave of heat through you. The risk, the forbidden edge of it... You have to bite your lip to stifle another sound as his hand slips under the hem of your hoodie, palm flat and warm against your stomach. His fingers splay wide, then slide higher, tracing the underside of your breast through the fabric of your bra.
You arch into his touch. He groans low in his throat and pushes the hoodie up, exposing your skin to the cool air. His mouth follows his hand, kissing along your collarbone, then lower, closing over your nipple through lace. The wet heat of his tongue makes you tremble, and you thread your fingers into his hair, holding him there.
He switches sides, sucking harder now, teeth grazing just enough to pull a muffled whimper from you. His hand roams down your side, over your hip, slipping under the waistband of your shorts. He pauses there, thumb stroking the sensitive skin just above your pubic bone.
''Tell me if it's too much,'' he breathes against your chest.
''It's not,'' you whisper back. ''Don't stop.''
His fingers dip lower, finding you already wet. He groans again, quiet, strangled, and circles your clit with slow, deliberate pressure. Your hips buck, but he presses you down gently with his forearm across your stomach, keeping you still while he works you open.
The bus sways. The engine vibrates. Every small sound feels amplified: the wet slide of his fingers, your ragged breathing, the faint creak of the mattress. You turn your face into his neck, muffling your moans against his skin as he slips one finger inside you, then two, curling them just right.
He kisses you again, deep, claiming, while his thumb draws steady circles on your clit. Pleasure coils tight and fast, your thighs trembling around his hand. He pulls back just enough to watch your face.
''Come for me,'' he whispers. ''Quietly.''
You do, hard and sudden, back arching off the bed, his name caught in your throat. He works you through it until you're trembling and boneless against him, his fingers gradually slowing.
He kisses your forehead, your temple, your mouth, soft, almost reverent. His fingers stay inside you for a long moment, curling in a way that draws out the aftershocks until your thighs are trembling. When he finally slips them free you feel the cool air against your slick skin and bite your lip to keep from whimpering at the loss.
He brings his hand to his mouth, tasting you with a low, satisfied hum that vibrates against your temple.
''Fuck,'' he breathes, barely audible. ''You taste so good.''
Your face burns. You turn it into his neck, hiding, but he just chuckles and rolls you both so your back is to his chest. The bed is just wide enough for this. The mattress is twin-sized, built into the wall with dark sheets and enough space that you're not crammed together, but he still pulls you flush against him, like he needs every inch of contact.
His arm snakes around your waist, hand splaying wide over your stomach under the hoodie. His cock is hard against the small of your back, separated only by the thin fabric of his sweats. You can feel every pulse of him, every twitch when you shift.
He presses his mouth to the nape of your neck. ''Gonna fuck you now,'' he whispers, voice gravel-rough. ''But you have to stay quiet for me. Driver's right up front, remember? One sound too loud and he'll know exactly what I'm doing to you.''
The words send a fresh rush of heat between your legs. You nod frantically, already reaching back to tug at his waistband.
He helps, shoving his sweats down just enough, then reaching for the nightstand drawer. The crinkle of the condom wrapper is loud in the quiet, and you both freeze for half a second, listening. Nothing from the front. Just the droning of the engine and rain tapping the roof.
He rolls it on with quick, practiced movements, then presses himself behind you again. One hand slides between your thighs, guiding himself to your entrance. The head nudges you and he pauses.
''Tell me if it's too much,'' he murmurs against your ear.
You shake your head. ''Please.''
He pushes in slowly so you feel every inch stretching you open. The angle is perfect in this position: deep, intimate, pressing against places that make your eyes roll back. When he's fully seated he stills, letting you adjust, his chest heaving against your back.
''Fuck,'' he groans into your hair, so quiet it's barely audible. ''So tight. So perfect.''
The bus vibrations travel up through the mattress, adding a new sensation to every long, rolling thrust that drags against every sensitive spot inside you. His hand comes up to cover your mouth, gentle but firm, palm warm over your lips, fingers splayed across your cheek. When a moan tries to escape he tightens his grip just enough to muffle it.
''Shh,'' he whispers, breath hot on your neck. ''Be a good girl and take it.''
You whimper desperately against his palm, and he rewards you with a harder thrust, grinding deep. His other arm stays locked around your waist, holding you exactly where he wants you. The rhythm builds: slow and filthy at first, then deeper, more insistent. Every time the bus hits a bump or sways, his cock jolts inside you, making stars burst behind your eyelids.
His rings are cold against your skin, cool metal pressing into your hip where his hand grips you, anchoring you while he fucks you steady and relentless. His mouth moves to your ear, teeth grazing the lobe.
''You feel that?'' he breathes. ''How deep I am? That's all for you. Been thinking about this for months. About bending you over a flight case, fucking you in a green room, making you come so hard you forget your own name. But this... this is better.''
You clench around him at the words, and he curses under his breath, hips stuttering once before he regains control.
''Fuck, do that again,'' he whispers. ''Squeeze me like that. Good girl. Just like that.''
You do, over and over, until the pleasure coils so tight you're shaking. He feels it, slows his thrusts to long, grinding rolls that drag against your g-spot and press his pelvis to your ass on every inward stroke.
''Come again for me,'' he murmurs, hand still over your mouth. ''Quiet. Come on my cock. Let me feel it.''
You shatter harder than the first time, back arching against his chest, thighs trembling, a muffled cry vibrating against his palm. Your walls pulse around him in rhythmic waves; he groans low in his throat, the sound rumbling through you, and keeps moving, slow, deep, working you through every aftershock until you're boneless and gasping.
He doesn't stop.
He pulls out gently, rolls you onto your back, then turns you so you're facing him, sideways, legs tangled, chests pressed together. The position is intimate, almost too close, noses brushing, breaths mingling. He hooks your top leg over his hip, lines himself up again, and slides back in with one smooth thrust.
This time it's slower, deeper, his eyes locked on yours in the dark. His hand finds yours between your bodies, fingers lacing tight on your hip. The other cups your face, thumb stroking your cheek.
''Look at me,'' he whispers. ''Want to see you when you come again.''
You're already close, too sensitive, too full. He feels it, adjusts the angle slightly until he's brushing against your clit with every thrust.
The bus sways, and his cock rams into you, making you gasp his name against his lips.
''That's it,'' he breathes. ''Come for me one more time. Be my good girl. Let go.''
You do, quiet this time, just a broken whimper swallowed by his mouth as he kisses you through it. Your walls flutter around him, and he follows seconds later, hips stuttering, letting out a choked groan against your neck as he spills into the condom. He works you through it, milking every last pulse until you're both trembling and spent.
For a long moment neither of you moves. His forehead is pressed to yours, hands still laced together, bodies slick with sweat.
He kisses you softly, then carefully pulls out, ties off the condom, and disposes of it in the small bin by the bed. His fingers thread into your hair, stroking slow and soothing. You tuck your face into the crook of his neck, listening to his heartbeat steady.
''We can't tell anyone,'' you whisper eventually.
''I know.'' Harry's arm tightens around you. ''But I don't regret it. Not even a little.''
You lift your head enough to look at him. ''How long have you...?''
He exhales a soft laugh. ''Months. Since that night in Berlin when you stayed up with me until dawn changing up the setlist. I wanted to kiss you right then. Been fighting it ever since.''
Your chest aches, sweet and sharp. ''Me too.''
He kisses your forehead, lingering. ''We'll figure it out, y'know.''
You nod, curling closer. His hand resumes its slow strokes through your hair.
The bus keeps moving, steady, endless, until the sky outside the small window starts to lighten and the rain has stopped.
Marco's voice crackles faintly through the overhead speaker: ''We arrive at the airport in ten, Mr. Styles.''
Harry sighs and presses one last kiss to your temple. ''Time to pretend nothing happened.''
You laugh, quiet and breathless. ''Think we can pull it off?''
He grins against your skin. ''We've been pretending for months. One more morning won't kill us.''
The bus slows and pulls off the motorway. You both dress in the dim light with quick, quiet movements. He steals one more kiss before you leave the bedroom. It's deep, claiming, promising.
When the door opens to the parking lot, the crew is already spilling out of replacement vans and Ubers. Jeff waves, bleary-eyed. Pauli calls your name, asking if you survived the night.
You flash a tired smile. ''Barely.''
Harry steps out behind you, hoodie up, sunglasses on even though it's barely dawn. He nods at the group like nothing's changed, but when he passes you to grab his bag from the undercarriage, his hand brushes yours, deliberate, hidden, and his eyes meet yours for half a second.
He smiles softly, just for you.
The crew piles toward the airport shuttle. You fall into step beside him, shoulders almost touching.
No one notices, but it's safe to say that everything has changed.
...
thank you so much for reading! i appreciate any and all support so remember to like, comment and reblog. requests are open!ย ๐
Summary: Not in the mood to go out with your best friend, you stay behind to help her father with the grill and end up bent over the kitchen counter instead. What happens at the beach house, stays at the beach house, right? a best friend's dad!harry x reader au story
Warnings: Harry's the divorced single dad of your best friend, forbidden ''relationship'', age gap (he's only known you as an adult!), protected sex
A/N: listened to ''shameless'' by camila cabello, ''eyes don't lie'' by isabel larosa and ''cool for the summer'' by demi lovato a lot while writing, so i recommend giving those a listen! tag list for this series is open x
Word Count: 3,309
...
Emma Styles has been your best friend since your first week of university, when the two of you were assigned the same cramped dorm room and she walked in carrying a suitcase that looked like it had been dragged through three continents and a war. She was twenty, like you, loud, bright, and immediately decided you were going to be her best friend whether you liked it or not. You did like it. Within a month you were inseparable: late-night study sessions turned into gossip marathons, shared wardrobes, and inside jokes that everyone girls roll their eyes.
The first time you met her dad was Christmas break that year. Emma had begged you to come home with her instead of spending the holidays in the near-empty dorms, and you'd said yes just to shut her up.
The Styles' house was a modern two-story in a quiet coastal suburb, the faint smell of sea salt always in the air even though the beach was miles away. Harry opened the door wearing a soft grey jumper and jeans, hair a little messy, and offered you a small, polite smile.
''Emma's told me a lot about you,'' he said, voice measured, shaking your hand like you were an acquaintance from the country club instead of his daughter's best friend. His palm was warm, calloused from whatever project he'd been working on in the garage. ''Welcome.''
His wife, Claire, was the polar opposite. She swept you into a hug, smelled like expensive perfume and immediately declared you part of the family. ''Emma's been raving about you for months. I already feel like I have another daughter.'' She said it with a bright laugh, but you caught the way Harry's jaw tightened just slightly behind her.
That weekend set the tone for the next three years.
Claire invited you to everything: summers at the beach house, weekend trips up the coast, even the annual family ski week in the mountains. She bought you Christmas presents, stocked up on your favorite snacks before you visited, and told anyone who would listen that you were ''the daughter she'd always wished she had.'' You smiled and thanked her because it felt good to be wanted, but you noticed the way Emma's smile faltered every time her mother said it.
You also noticed the way Harry stayed a little more distant. He was polite, protective if need be, but never quite warm. He'd drive you both back to campus after breaks, hands steady on the wheel, asking questions about your classes while Emma chattered in the passenger seat. He never lingered too long. He was just... around.
Emma once confided in you during a whispered conversation on the beach house deck at 2 a.m., wine bottle between you. ''Dad's the one who actually shows up for me, you know? Mum just... picks a favorite and runs with it for a while.'' Her voice had gone flat. ''She can be cruel when she doesn't get what she wants.''
A year ago everything cracked open. The divorce was quiet on the outside, no screaming matches, at least, but Emma told you later that her mum had been chipping away at Harry for years. Cold comments, affairs she didn't even bother hiding, the way she'd pit Emma against him like it was some kind of game. When the papers were signed Emma didn't cry the way most daughters would. She looked relieved. ''I don't have to watch her hurt him anymore,'' she'd said, hugging you tight in the empty hallway of their old house. ''Or me.''
Harry kept the beach house in the settlement. It became the one place that still felt like home for both of them. And you kept getting invited, because Claire might be gone, but the habit of you being part of the family had stuck. Harry never objected. He just nodded when Emma asked if you could come for the summer again, eyes flicking to you for a beat longer than necessary before he looked away.
Which brings you to today.
Another summer, the same beach house with its wide wooden decks and floor-to-ceiling windows that lets the ocean breeze roll straight through the living room. You've been here three days, but Emma's already dragged you to more parties than you care to count.
She's been gushing about a guy she met on the beach yesterday morning, some surf instructor named Andy who's throwing a party at his parents' place further down the coast. She's spent the last hour in front of the mirror in her room, curling her hair and asking you for the third time if her top comes across as ''too eager''.
''You're sure you don't want to come?'' she asks, slipping on her shoes. ''Andy said there's going to be a bonfire and everything.''
You're sprawled on her bed in your bikini top and a pair of denim shorts, lazily scrolling on your phone. The thought of loud music and drunk strangers holds zero appeal tonight. ''I'm good. I've got a book and the pool chairs have my name on them. Go have fun.''
Emma grins, leaning down to kiss your cheek. ''You're the best. Text me if you get bored and I'll come rescue you.'' She pauses at the door. ''Dad's out on the deck if you need anything. He's real broody today, though.''
You nod, waving her off. The front door clicks shut behind her a minute later, and the house settles into that particular kind of quiet that only happens when Emma has left, taking all her chaotic energy with her.
You wander into the kitchen to grab a glass of water. Harry's there, standing at the island in black swim shorts and a faded T-shirt that clings to his shoulders and does absolutely nothing to conceal the way the fabric stretches across his chest. You've caught glimpses of the body he hides underneath, one morning last summer when he came back from a run shirtless, and the memory still makes your stomach flip. He's over forty now, silver threading through the curls at his temples, but the years have only sharpened him: stronger, stubbled jaw, rough hands, a quiet confidence that makes the air feel thicker when he's in a room.
He looks up when you enter, green eyes softening. ''Emma head out?''
''Yeah. She said something about a bonfire.''
He nods, wiping his hands on a dish towel. ''There's a new grill I picked up this morning. The old one finally gave up last week. I was going to set it up on the deck but the instructions are in about twelve languages and none of them make sense. You speak a couple, right? Any chance I can bribe you with a cold drink to help me figure it out?''
You smile before you can stop yourself. ''Only if the bribe includes one of those fancy lemonades you make.''
''Deal.''
The two of you carry the big cardboard box out to the deck together, though Harry does most of the heavy lifting, the late afternoon sun warm on your skin. He's careful to keep a respectable distance, the way he always has, but when you crouch down beside him on the wooden planks, your hands brush once by accident, and you shiver.
You spend the next twenty minutes sorting metal parts and reading badly translated instructions while he tries to keep up. Conversation flows easy at first: your final year of uni, the internship you're hoping to land, how Emma's thinking about taking a year off to travel.
He's quiet for a long moment, turning a bolt between his fingers. ''She seems happy tonight,'' he says, not looking at you. ''That Andy guy... you met him?''
''Briefly. Seems nice.''
Harry hums, unconvinced. ''She's been different since the divorce. Lighter. But I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. I can't help it.'' He glances sideways at you. ''You've been good for her, though.''
The compliment lands warm in your chest. You shrug, suddenly shy. ''She's been good for me too.''
He sets the wrench down, sitting back on his heels. His T-shirt rides up just enough to show a strip of tanned skin above his shorts. You look away fast.
''You know,'' he says, voice lower, ''Claire used to say you were the daughter she wished she had.'' He sounds bitter. ''Emma hated it. I hated it. Not because it's not trueโ you're greatโ but she made everything a competition. Truth be told, I think Emma feels like she was never enough for her mother.''
You swallow. ''I know. Emma's told me.''
He nods, eyes on the half-assembled grill. ''Guts me, y'know? To think I let my little girl feel that way for so long. I should've left sooner.''
You reach out without thinking, resting your hand lightly on his forearm. His skin is warm from the sun. ''You shouldn't beat yourself up over that, Harry. She's okay. She's happier. And she's got you.''
He looks up at you then, green eyes searching your face like he's trying to decide whether to believe you. The late afternoon light catches the silver at his temples and the faint lines around his eyes. For a moment the air feels heavier, the ocean sounds dampened.
''I just didn't want her to come from a broken home,'' he admits. He flinches almost immediately, realizing what he's said. Emma's told him that your parents had a messy, ugly divorce when you were twelve, and that you still don't talk about much.
''Shit,'' he mutters, rubbing a hand over his jaw. ''That was insensitive. I'm sorry.''
You shake your head, offering a small smile. ''It's okay. Really. I understand. And I really do think Emma's better off. She doesn't have to walk on eggshells anymore. Neither do you.''
He holds your gaze a second longer, then nods once, slow. Something in his shoulders loosens. The two of you go back to the grill in companionable silence for a while, passing tools, reading instructions, occasionally brushing fingers when you hand him a bolt. Every small touch feels bigger than it should. By the time the last piece clicks into place, the sun has lowered, painting the deck in warm gold.
Harry steps back, wiping his hands on his shorts, and surveys the finished grill with a satisfied nod. ''Not bad.''
You laugh softly. ''We make a decent team.''
His eyes flick to you, something unreadable flickering across his face before he clears his throat. ''I owe you that lemonade.''
Inside the kitchen the air is cooler. You perch on one of the tall barstools at the island counter, stretching your sore back.
Harry moves around the space with easy familiarity, pulling lemons from the bowl, slicing them with quick, precise strokes. You watch the way his arms flex under the thin white T-shirt, the way the fabric shifts across his shoulders when he reaches for the sugar.
He catches you staring.
For a beat his hands still on the cutting board. His eyes meet yours across the counter, dark and knowing. He doesn't say anything. Just holds the look for a second too long before going back to squeezing lemons into the pitcher. The silence stretches, thick and charged.
When he finally slides the glass toward you, condensation beading on the sides, you just take it with a quiet ''thank you.'' Your fingers brush.
You lift the glass. ''To... beach houses and finished grills.''
He clinks his own glass against yours, the sound bright in the quiet kitchen. ''To finished grills,'' he huffs, a reluctant smile pulling at his lips.
You both sip. The lemonade is perfect, tart, sweet, ice-cold. But the air between you feels anything but refreshing. Harry leans against the opposite counter, watching you over the rim of his glass. The space between you feels smaller than it ever has.
''Your birthday's soon, isn't it?'' he asks eventually, voice low.
Your heart stutters. ''Yeah. I usually celebrate with Emma at the beach, but she might be too preoccupied with Andy this year.''
Harry hums, reaching past you for the pitcher of lemonade he'd set on the counter earlier. His arm brushes your shoulder as he does it, innocent, accidental, but for a second you're trapped in that small pocket of space between his body and the island, the scent of sunscreen and salt and him filling your lungs.
You're close enough to see the way his throat works when he swallows, the way his eyes flick down to your mouth subconciously.
The silence stretches, thick and heavy.
You lean in imperceptibly closer. ''Harry...''
He exhales sharply, like the sound of his name on your lips hurts him.
But he doesn't move away.
So you rise up on your toes and kiss him.
For one terrible second he stays completely still. Then a low, broken sound escapes him and he kisses you back, hungry, desperate, like he's been holding it in for years. His hands finally leave the counter to grip your waist, pulling you flush against him. The kiss turns messy fast: tongues sliding, teeth grazing, breaths shared in short, ragged gasps.
He pulls away as if your lips burned him, and steps back until his hips hit the opposite counter, hands coming up between you like he's trying to physically hold the distance. ''You're a beautiful woman,'' he says, voice rough and strained. ''God, you are. But I can't do this. You're Emma's best friend. My daughter's best friend. I can'tโ''
''I know,'' you whisper, stepping into the space he just tried to create. ''I didn't even know you felt... You've been avoiding me for years.''
He laughs once, short, almost frustrated. ''Because I feel it. This is exactly why I've always steered clear of you. Every time you walked into the house, every summer, every time you visited... I had to keep my distance. Because if I let myself look at you the way I wanted toโ''
The confession hangs between you, raw and desperate. His chest rises and falls faster now, restraint visibly fraying.
You reach up slowly, fingers brushing his jaw. ''Would it really be so terrible?''
He catches your wrist, but doesn't pull your hand away. ''We can't. This is wrong. Emma trusts me. She trusts you. I'm her father, for fuck's sake.''
''I know it's wrong,'' you breathe, leaning in until your lips are inches from his. ''But I can't pretend anymore. And neither can you.''
He makes a low, pained sound, and then his restraint finally snaps.
He kisses you like he's starving.
It's not soft. It's hungry, aggressive, years of carefully buried want crashing out all at once. His mouth claims yours, tongue sliding deep, teeth nipping at your bottom lip hard enough to make you gasp. His hands drop to your waist, gripping hard as he walks you backward until your back hits the island counter. You moan into his mouth and he swallows it greedily, one hand sliding up to cup the back of your neck, the other yanking your denim shorts down your legs in one rough motion.
''Fuck,'' he groans against your lips, barely pulling back enough to speak. ''We shouldn't be doing this. Not here. Not like this.''
But he doesn't stop.
You shove his T-shirt up and he rips it off in one impatient movement, tossing it somewhere behind him. Your hands roam over his chest, nails dragging down his stomach as he yanks your bikini top loose. The moment your breasts are bare he groans, mouth descending to suck one nipple into his mouth, teeth grazing, tongue flicking until you're arching against him with a broken whimper.
''Harry, please.''
He curses again, pained and wrecked, but his hands are already desperately pushing your bikini bottoms down your legs. The fabric pools on the floor. He lifts you onto the counter in one smooth motion, stepping between your spread thighs, then reaches between you to shove his own shorts down just enough.
He's hard, thick, flushed dark at the tip. You reach for him but he catches your wrist, breathing ragged.
''Condom,'' he rasps. ''In my wallet.''
His wallet is on the counter barely two feet away from you, and you fish a condom out of it with shaking fingers. He rolls it on quickly, jaw tight, eyes never leaving your face. When he lines himself up at your entrance he pauses, forehead pressed to yours.
''Last chance,'' he rasps, voice wrecked. ''Tell me to stop. Tell me this is a mistake.''
You wrap your legs around his waist and pull him closer. ''It's a big fucking mistake. But don't you dare stop.''
''Fuck it,'' he breathes out and thrusts into you in one hard, deep stroke.
The stretch is intense, bordering on too much, but the burn feels perfect. He buries his face in your neck with a guttural groan, hips already snapping forward in rough, desperate thrusts that rock the barstool. One hand grips the counter behind you for leverage, the other digs into your hip, holding you exactly where he needs you.
''God, you're so fucking wet,'' he pants against your skin. ''My daughter's best friend and you're dripping down my cock. What the hell are we doing?''
You moan loudly; he slaps a hand over your mouth, eyes flashing with panic and lust.
''Quiet,'' he hisses, rutting into you. ''Do you want the entire beach to know you're getting fucked by your best friend's father?''
The words only make you clench harder around him. He fucks you faster, deeper, the wet slap of skin on skin loud in the quiet kitchen. The barstool you'd been sitting on earlier gets kicked over in the frenzy, clattering to the floor, but he doesn't even slow down.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes wild. ''This is so wrong. Emma will never forgive us if she finds out.''
''I know,'' you gasp against his palm, tears of overwhelming pleasure pricking your eyes. ''But it feels so good. Don't fucking stop.''
He curses viciously, hips slamming into you harder, the force making the counter creak. He fucks you like he's punishing both of you for wanting this, for finally giving in.
You come first, hard and sudden, walls fluttering around him as pleasure crashes through you in waves. You cry out against his hand, and he follows right after with a choked, broken groan, burying himself deep as he spills into the condom, hips jerking through every pulse.
For several long seconds you stay locked together, panting, foreheads pressed together, his cock still twitching inside you.
''We can't ever do that again,'' he whispers.
Neither of you believes it, but you nod anyway, even as your fingers stay curled in his hair.
Then headlights sweep across the front windows.
A car pulls into the driveway.
''Shit. Emma,'' you whisper, panic slicing through the haze.
Harry pulls out quickly, both of you moving in frantic, uncoordinated bursts. He yanks his shorts up, disposes of the condom in the bin under the sink, and grabs his T-shirt from the floor. You slide off the counter on shaky legs, pulling your bikini top back into place and scrambling for your shorts and bottoms. You both smooth your hair, wipe sweat from your skin, and try to look normal.
Harry puts some distance between you just as the front door opens.
Emma bursts in, cheeks flushed, eyes bright with excitement, completely oblivious.
''Oh my god, you guys missed the best party!'' she exclaims, kicking off her shoes. ''Andy's so funny. You should've heard his stories tonight!'' She pauses, tilting her head. ''Why is there a barstool on the ground?''
You and Harry share a look, the reality of what just happened settling over both of you like cold water, and you subtly shake your head.
Never again.
...
thank you so much for reading! i appreciate any and all support so remember to like, comment and reblog. requests are open!ย ๐
Iโve been looking for a bridgerton inspired fic im so excited to read more ๐ญ and the writing is so amazing too
i'm so happy to hear that! it's incredibly niche but i'm enjoying writing it so much, and i'm glad it has found its way to people who love that world as well. hope you enjoy what's coming next lovely x
Summary: The Somerset Conservatory Ball marks the true commencement of the Season, but you are more difficult to pursue than Viscount Styles had expected.
Warnings: Bridgerton-inspired, a Lady Whistledown-type gossip sheet, gentleman callers
A/N: i'm having way too much fun writing the lady blackthorne columns. thank you all for reading, i hope you like this next part x
The Somerset Conservatory stands apart from the usual Mayfair ballrooms, its vast glass walls and soaring iron framework allowing moonlight to pour in like mercury.
Tonight the Duke has outdone even himself. Exotic orchids and night-blooming jasmine climb the columns, their petals glowing faintly with an ethereal luminescence cultivated in secret hothouses. (Some whisper the Duke employs chemists from the Continent for such wonders; others simply sigh and call it magic.)
Crystal chandeliers hang like constellations, their prisms scattering rainbows across marble floors veined with gold. The air carries the heady perfume of flowers and the faintest trace of champagne.
You enter on your father's arm, the weight of every eye upon you immediate and palpable. Your gown, chosen by your mother with more care than she has ever shown before, is of the finest white silk, its bodice fitted and embroidered with delicate silver vines that climb toward your shoulders like living tendrils. A narrow sash of emerald silk cinches your underbust, echoing the rare green of the small emeralds that wink at your ears, right below your Grecian-style hair.
Whispers follow in your wake.
You keep your chin level, your smile polite but distant. You have spent the days since your presentation rehearsing composure, reminding yourself that this crown is borrowed, not owned.
Your sisters Arabella and Cecilia glide nearby in jewel-toned satins, sapphire and ruby, on the arms of their secured matches. Your mother beams at them, then glances at you with something like astonishment, as though still unable to believe the Queen's decree.
The orchestra strikes up a lively cotillion. Couples form sets, laughter and conversation rising like bubbles in champagne. You accept dances from a parade of gentlemen, Lord This, Baron That, each one courteous, each one appraising. Their questions are predictable: the weather, your family's estate in the country, your fondness for the pianoforte. You answer with grace, never revealing more than necessary.
A murmur ripples through the room, and you cast your eyes around, bemused.
Viscount Harry Styles approaches you.
He wears a tailcoat of superfine wool, cut to perfection, an emerald waistcoat that matches the family crest and, tonight, the sash at your waist, his crisp white cravat tied in an intricate Mathematical. His curls refuse to lie flat, catching the chandelier light like burnished bronze. His vivid green eyes fix upon you with purpose as he moves through the room with the authority of a man accustomed to compliance.
Your breath catches, though you school your features into calm.
He stops before you, inclining his head with precision.
''Miss (Y/N),'' he says, voice low and measured, carrying that distinctive drawl that makes the vowels linger. ''Might I have the honor of your next dance? The waltz, if it pleases you.''
The waltz. The most intimate of dances, newly permitted since Season last, where bodies draw close and eyes cannot easily escape.
You hesitate only a heartbeat, long enough for propriety, not long enough for incivility.
''I would be delighted, my lord.''
He offers his hand. You place yours within it.
The orchestra begins the opening strains of a Viennese waltz. The crowd parts as though by royal decree. Harry leads you to the center of the floor, his touch firm yet careful through the thin silk of your glove.
You face one another. He places his right hand at the small of your back, you rest your left upon his shoulder. Your right hand is held by his left. The music swells, and you begin.
His steps are sure, guiding without force. You match him effortlessly; years of lessons in country assembly rooms and London drawing rooms have made the patterns second nature, yet this feels different. The heat of his palm seeps through your glove, and the scent of him, clean linen and a hint of champagne, reaches you.
Around you, the conservatory blurs into a kaleidoscope of color and light, gowns swirling, chandeliers spinning overhead, the soft glow of bioluminescent blooms casting an otherworldly sheen across faces.
He speaks first, for your ears alone.
''You dance beautifully, Miss (Y/N).''
A safe compliment. You incline your head.
''Thank you, my lord. You are equally accomplished.''
A faint smile touches his lips.
''The Queen's choice of Diamond is... well-founded, I now perceive.''
You meet his gaze steadily. ''Her Majesty is kind. I am merely grateful to have been noticed at all.''
He turns you gently beneath his arm and your skirts bell out, brushing his legs.
''You underestimate yourself,'' he replies. ''The Ton speaks of little else.''
You allow a small, enigmatic smile.
''The Ton speaks of many things, my lord. Not all of them true.''
The music lifts, carrying you closer for a moment. His hand tightens fractionally at your waist.
''Tell me,'' he says, ''do you enjoy the Season? The balls, the promenades, the endless parade of callers?''
You consider the question. He is fishing, you realize, trying to gauge your temperament, your suitability. A convenient bride, after all, should be amiable, uncomplicated.
''I find it... diverting,'' you answer vaguely. ''There is much to observe.''
''Observe?'' He arches a brow, the first crack in his composure. ''Most young ladies speak of enjoyment, of hopes for matrimony.''
''Most young ladies have not spent their lives in the shadows,'' you reply softly, but with an edge. ''Observation becomes a habit.''
His eyes narrow slightly, not in anger, but in surprise. Interest flickers there, genuine and unguarded for the first time.
The music builds toward its crescendo. He draws you nearer still, the proper distance maintained, yet the space between you feels charged.
''And what do you observe tonight?'' he asks.
You tilt your head, letting your gaze sweep the room before returning to his face.
''I observe that many gentlemen seek a bride as one might select a horse: sound pedigree, pleasing conformation, no troublesome habits.''
A muscle ticks in his jaw.
''And you believe I seek the same?''
You do not flinch.
''I believe duty is a powerful motivator, my lord. And convenience a close companion.''
The final notes linger. He brings you to a graceful stop, holding you a heartbeat longer than strictly necessary before releasing you.
The room erupts in polite applause.
Harry bows. You curtsy.
''Thank you for the dance, Miss (Y/N),'' he says, voice quieter now.
You nod, stepping back.
Before you can turn away, he speaks again.
''Might I claim the supper dance as well? Or perhaps call upon you tomorrow at Beaumont House?''
The room seems to tilt. To refuse would be rude, and your mother would certainly never forgive it. You meet his eyes once more.
''You may call tomorrow, my lord,'' you say, the words measured.
He inclines his head, a flicker of triumph crossing his features.
''I shall look forward to it.''
You accept Mr. Percival Ashford's invitation next, a tall, earnest second son whose conversation revolves entirely around his stables and the superiority of his new bay mare. He speaks of her with such fervor that you worry he might produce a likeness from his waistcoat pocket. You nod at appropriate intervals, your smile fixed, while inwardly you count the minutes until the set concludes.
Then comes Lord Reginald Harrington, arrogant in his crimson velvet, who compliments your eyes with the air of a man bestowing a favor. ''Such rare beauty, my lady,'' he drawls.
You reply with courtesy, turning the subject to the weather, and he soon loses interest when you refuse to blush or simper.
A third partner, Baron Langley, young and overly eager, treads upon your hem twice and apologizes profusely each time, his face scarlet. His questions are innocuous, yet his enthusiasm borders on smothering; he speaks of his hopes for a quiet country life as though reciting a catechism. By the time the music fades, you feel a certain weariness settle upon you, not from the dancing, but from the endless performance of being admired without being seen.
The remainder of the evening passes in a whirl. You sip lemonade in the conservatory's shadowed alcoves, watching the bioluminescent orchids pulse like distant stars. Your mother beams from across the room and your sisters laugh superciliously with their admirers.
And Viscount Styles, you catch glimpses of him standing with his siblings, Theo's easy charm drawing laughter, Sebastian quietly observing, Genevieve rolling her eyes at some passing fop. Harry's expression remains composed, yet once or twice his gaze finds yours across the crowded floor, steady and unreadable.
You retire before the final quadrille, pleading the slightest headache. In truth, it is the ache of expectation that weighs upon you.
...
Sunlight filters through the curtains of your bedchamber, soft and golden. Maisie, your lady's maid since girlhood, stands behind you at the dressing table, deft fingers weaving your hair into an elegant chignon.
''You look a vision, miss,'' Maisie says, meeting your eyes in the mirror. Her voice holds the warm familiarity of long acquaintance. ''Though if I may speak freely, you've the look of someone facing a firing squad rather than callers.''
You smile despite yourself. ''Is it so plain to see?''
''Only to me, miss.''' She pins a pearl comb into place. ''The rest of the world sees only the Diamond, but I know you'd sooner be reading in the library than simpering over tea.''
''That is true,'' you confess. ''But I mustn't give up.''
Maisie adjusts the neckline of your morning gown, a simple yet elegant confection of pale primrose muslin, trimmed with narrow lace at the sleeves and hem. The color brings warmth to your skin, and a thin ribbon of ivory satin ties beneath the bust. Modest, yet becoming. You rise, smoothing your skirts.
''Whatever happens,'' Maisie murmurs as she follows you to the door, ''remember you are more than a title.''
You squeeze her hand gratefully before descending.
The drawing room has been transformed for calling hours. Fresh flowers, hothouse roses and lilacs, stand in crystal vases, and a low table bears plates of seed cakes, biscuits, and thinly sliced lemon. Your mother flutters about like a contented hen, directing the footman to arrange extra chairs. Arabella and Cecilia are absent, occupied with their own engagements, surely, which means you alone are on display.
The callers arrive in waves, fashionably prompt.
First, Mr. Ashford, bearing a posy of violets and launching immediately into a monologue on crop rotation. You nod politely while he devours three biscuits in quick succession, crumbs scattering across his waistcoat like fallen snow.
Then Lord Harrington, who seats himself far too close and remarks with what he doubtless considers wit, that ''a diamond must be carefully cut, lest it lose its luster.'' His eyes linger too long on your dรฉcolletage. You reply that you prefer diamonds left in their natural state, rough edges and all. He laughs as though you jest.
Baron Langley follows, bearing a volume of poetry he insists on reading aloud. His voice cracks on the romantic passages, and you glance at the mantel clock, willing the time to pass.
By the time the mantel clock strikes three, your smile feels painted on. The room has emptied momentarily, and your mother sighs with satisfaction.
''Such promising prospects, (Y/N). Viscount Styles has not yet called, butโ''
A knock at the door interrupts her importunate chitchat. The footman clears his throat. ''Viscount Harry Styles, calling upon Miss (Y/N) Beaumont.''
Your mother's eyes light. You feel a flutter of annoyance stir in your chest.
Harry enters, tall and composed in a dark blue coat that makes his eyes appear even greener. He carries no bouquet, only his calling card, and bows to your mother first, then to you.
''Lady Beaumont, Miss (Y/N). I hope I do not intrude.''
Your mother beams. ''Not at all, my lord! We are delighted.''
You rise. ''My lord. I'm afraid calling hours have concluded.''
Harry's brow lifts fractionally. Before he can reply, your mother interjects smoothly.
''Nonsense, child. For so distinguished a guest, we shall make an exception. Come, sit, sit.''
You bite back a sigh and gesture to the chaise opposite. Harry sits, posture impeccable, gaze fixed upon you.
The silence stretches a moment too long.
Your mother pours tea with unnecessary ceremony, then excuses herself to ''see to the arrangements for dinner,'' leaving you alone, chaperoned only by your disinterested father reading the paper.
Harry leans forward slightly, voice low.
''You turned down the supper dance last night.''
''I did.''
''Why?''
You meet his eyes. ''Because I did not wish to dance it.''
A muscle flickers in his jaw. ''Yet you accepted my first request.''
''Courtesy compelled me.''
He studies you. ''You believe I seek only a convenient match. A Diamond to grace Styles House and secure the line.''
''Do you deny it, my lord?''
His voice drops, almost a murmur. ''I do not deny that duty weighs upon me. The estate, my siblings, they depend upon a stable union. But convenience alone does not explain why I'm here, when half a dozen other gentlemen would gladly take my place.'' A ghost of a smile touches his lips, brief. ''I find your candor... refreshing.''
The air between you crackles, charged with unspoken challenge. His gaze holds yours, searching.
''I wish to know you better, Miss (Y/N).''
Your heart stutters. For the first time, you sense something beneath the duty-bound exterior. Curiosity, perhaps even genuine interest.
Yet caution reins you in.
''Then prove it is not merely the title you pursue,'' you reply softly. ''For I have no wish to be won as a prize.''
He inclines his head, something like respect flickering in his eyes.
''Of course.''
Your mother returns then, effusive, and the moment breaks. Harry rises and takes his leave, promising to call again soon.
As the door closes behind him, you exhale.
Being the Season's Diamond is more difficult than you anticipated.
Summary: In the glittering ballrooms of 1814 London, you enter your first Season under the watchful eye of Viscount Harry Styles, a notorious rake with a reputation for breaking hearts and a sudden, inexplicable interest in you. a viscount!harry x debutante!reader regency au series
Warnings: Bridgerton-inspired, a Lady Whistledown-type gossip sheet, mentions of rakish behavior, this is just the prologue
A/N: the italic font is only used for the gossip sheet columns. i highly recommend listening to the bridgerton covers while reading this and any upcoming parts :) series tag list is open x
The antechamber beyond the grand doors of St. James's Palace looms before you, gilded and unyielding. You stand among the other debutantes, gloved hands clasped before you, the heavy silk of your gown rustling with every slight shift of weight: pristine, obligatory ivory silk muslin, embroidered with delicate silver thread that catches the candlelight like frost on a windowpane. A single strand of pearls rests at your throat, modest compared to the cascades adorning your sisters earlier in the week. Your hair has been pinned with three white ostrich feathers that tremble faintly when you breathe in too deeply.
Behind you, your mother fusses briskly with the ostrich plume in Arabella's coiffure like a gardener tending prized blooms. Not once does her gaze settle upon you with the same fervent attention.
''Chin up, Arabella. Her Majesty will see at once that you are the jewel of this family. Remember the tilt the dancing master taught you. Smile, but not too widely; we mustn't appear eager. Cecilia, do not slouch. And (Y/N)โ'' She spares you the briefest glance, lips pursing. ''Do try not to embarrass us. Do not speak unless spoken to. The Queen has little patience for unnecessary chatter, as do I.''
You draw a steadying breath, the familiar sting of invisibility settling over you like a well-worn cloak. You're the youngest Beaumont daughter, pretty enough, clever enough, yet never quite enough to command the family's full attention. Your parents had secured advantageous matches for your sisters; now they expected you to follow suit, preferably without drawing undue notice or costing them further expense.
You're accustomed to it, the way affection flows around you rather than toward you, like a river parting for stones.
Inside your chest, your hearts beats frantically against the delicate boning of your corset, each pulse loud enough that you fear the footmen might hear it. You had spent the night before rereading The Mysteries of Udolpho by candlelight, hidden beneath the counterpane, and the heroine's courage lingered in your veins. You would not tremble. You would not simper. You would curtsy with the grace drilled into you since childhood and let whatever came, come.
''Stand straight, (Y/N),'' your mother admonishes you, voice clipped.
You nod, throat tight. ''Yes, Mama.''
The doors swing open.
The herald's voice rings out. ''Miss Arabella Beaumont, Miss Cecilia Beaumont, and Miss (Y/N) Beaumont.''
You step forward in unison with your sisters, heart racing as though it might escape your chest entirely.
Sunlight streams through the stained glass windows of the long chamber that stretches before you, polished marble floors reflecting the light, and gilded mirrors multiply the assembled courtiers.
At the far end, upon her dais, sits Queen Adelaide, formidable in magenta silk embroidered with gold thread, her towering powdered wig adorned with plumes and glittering jewels. Her eyes, dark as obsidian, survey each debutante as though weighing their very souls.
You advance with your sisters, skirts dragging across the floor as you walk the length of the carpet with measured steps, chin level, gaze forward. The room seems to hush, the silence thick and expectant, though perhaps that is only the sudden roaring in your ears.
When you reach the dais you sink into your deepest curtsy, knees bended, eyes modestly lowered, one hand lifting the edge of your skirts. The feathers in your hair tremble once, then still.
For a long moment, there is utter silence.
The Queen's gaze passes over Arabella and Cecilia first, cool, appraising, before settling upon you. You dare to lift your eyes just enough to meet hers, and you can tell that your boldness brings her to a stand.
When she speaks, her voice carries across the chamber like the toll of a bell.
''Rise, child.''
You rise slowly, meeting her gaze.
Queen Adelaide leans forward ever so slightly, her eyes narrowing. You feel the weight of it, as though she sees the fire banked beneath you.
''A third daughter,'' she muses aloud. ''Often the overlooked bloom in the garden... yet see how this one holds her ground.''
A ripple of murmurs spreads through the room.
The Queen's lips curve, barely. ''A diamond, indeed.''
It's as if time freezes once the word 'diamond' is uttered.
Arabella's smile freezes in place, and Cecilia's fingers tighten upon her fan until the ivory sticks creak. Your mother's face, somewhere behind you, must be a study in astonishment. You feel heat rise in your cheeks, not from embarrassment, but from something fiercer: vindication.
You curtsy once more, lower this time. ''I am... most honoured, Your Majesty.''
The Queen nods, her thoughtful, almost conspiratorial gaze following you as you retreat with your sisters, and whispers follow like a rising tide.
On the far side of the chamber, hidden among the pillars and the crush of titled gentlemen, Viscount Harry Styles stands with his siblings.
He had attended the ceremony at his mother's behest, duty, she had insisted, demanded he at least survey the new crop of debutantes. He had expected tedium. He had not expected this.
Harry's arms are crossed, his expression carefully neutral. He had watched the elder Beaumont sisters with the detached interest of a man appraising horseflesh, but the youngest, she had not simpered. She had not fluttered her lashes or cast coy glances.
A Diamond is the safest choice for him: admired, unblemished, unlikely to cause scandal. She would bring no complications, demand no grand passion he has long sworn off. Perfectly suitable.
His brothers flank him: Theodore on his right, flashing that easy, roguish smile at every passing lady, Sebastian on his left, quiet, observant, a book tucked surreptitiously beneath his arm.
His youngest brother, Edward, nudges his arm. ''She is rather pretty.''
''She is the Diamond,'' Harry replies, voice low.
His sister Genevieve, who debuted only last Season, leans closer. ''You did say you would marry this year. She is precisely the sort of match Mama would approve of. Title, beauty, and now the Queen's favour.''
Harry's jaw tightens. He had sworn to himself, and to his late father's memory, that he would secure the succession this Season. No more mistresses, no more reckless nights, no more delaying the inevitable.
A wife. An heir.
Yet watching Miss Beaumont rise from her curtsy, cheeks flushed but chin high, something stirred within him that felt perilously close to want rather than mere obligation.
''I am not concerned with Mother's approval,'' he says obstinately. ''But, yes, the Diamond will do.''
Genevieve raises an eyebrow. ''High praise indeed from the Ton's most elusive viscount.''
Harry does not reply. He simply watches as the Beaumont sisters withdraw from the chamber, the youngest lingering for the briefest moment in the doorway, glancing back once, as though she can feel the weight of his gaze upon her.
Summary: In the glittering ballrooms of 1814 London, you enter your first Season under the watchful eye of Viscount Harry Styles, a notorious rake with a reputation for breaking hearts and a sudden, inexplicable interest in you. a viscount!harry styles x debutante!reader regency au series
Status: Ongoing.
Warnings: Bridgerton-inspired, smut, please read the warnings for each chapter accordingly
...
diamonds are forever
In the glittering ballrooms of 1814 London, you enter your first Season under the watchful eye of Viscount Harry Styles, a notorious rake with a reputation for breaking hearts and a sudden, inexplicable interest in you.
the rake's resolve
The Somerset Conservatory Ball marks the true commencement of the Season, but you are more difficult to pursue than Viscount Styles had expected.
