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!
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fics with mature content will be marked with a star (*)!
One Shots & Blurbs
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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
beach house*
You get caught up in forbidden trysts with your best friend's hot, divorced father. a best friend's dad!harry x reader au story
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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! 💕
Summary: Loving Harry is easy. Wedding planning with ADHD definitely isn't.
Warnings: neurodivergent reader (adhd specifically but fun read for everyone imo), hyperfocus, forgetting to eat, fluffy smut
A/N: you ask and i deliver! many of you wanted me to turn this into a series, and i'm definitely considering it. for now, here's a sequel x
Word Count: 4,742
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You've been curled on the couch for hours, laptop balanced on your thighs, a chaotic constellation of tabs glowing back at you. It's... a lot. Spreadsheets with color-coded columns for guest dietary restrictions, Pinterest boards overflowing with floral arches and vintage chairs, vendor emails that you've read three times and still can't decide on.
The late afternoon sun slants through the tall windows of the living room, catching on the dust motes that dance above the coffee table like tiny stars. The ring on your left hand catches the light every time you type, a small, sparkling reminder of your happily ever after.
It has been just over six weeks since his proposal, and the joy still bubbles up at odd moments: when you brush your teeth and see the ring in the mirror, when you catch him staring at you across the kitchen island with that soft, wondering look, like he can't believe you're real.
But the planning... God, the planning has swallowed you whole. Your brain has latched onto it with the kind of ferocious hyperfocus that makes everything else blur at the edges. Time slips. Hours vanish while you research the perfect calligraphy font or agonize over whether the table numbers should be pressed flowers or tiny framed Polaroids.
You know this pattern. You've always been this way, letting new and exciting projects consume your focus until your stomach growls loud enough to startle you and your eyes have gone dry and gritty.
The front door clicks open, followed by the familiar sound of Harry kicking off his boots in the hallway. You hear the rustle of his jacket, the faint clink of keys being tossed into the bowl by the door. Your heart does its usual happy little flip, but your fingers keep typing, finishing one last note about centerpieces before you lose the thread.
''Love?'' His voice is low, fond, a little amused already. ''You alive in there?''
You hum without looking up, though a smile tugs at your lips. ''Barely. How was your day?''
He stops behind the couch to lean down and press a kiss to the top of your head, his curls brushing your temple. ''Long, but productive. Kept thinking about going home to you, though.'' He straightens, eyes scanning the battlefield around you. Empty mug with cold tea dregs. A half-eaten granola bar balanced precariously on the edge of the coffee table, wrapper crumpled. Your phone face-down on the couch, screen dark, probably dead or on silent. Again.
You feel his gaze more than see it. The small sigh he lets out isn't angry, just... worried in that nervous way he gets sometimes. He comes around the couch and drops onto the cushion beside you, close enough that his thigh presses against yours. One big hand lands on your knee, thumb rubbing slow circles through your soft lounge pants.
''You didn't reply to my texts,'' he points out, voice light but with an undercurrent you recognize. ''I sent three. Including a meme of a raccoon stealing a wedding cake. Thought that'd at least get a reaction.''
Guilt twists low in your stomach. You finally tear your eyes away from the screen, blinking at him like you're surfacing from underwater. His green eyes are soft, but there are faint lines of tiredness at the corners. He's been gone since morning, a full day of meetings and recording, and you haven't even asked how he is beyond the automatic question.
''Shit. I'm sorry. I saw them come in but I was in the middle of comparing two different linen rentals and then I opened another tab for string quartet options and... yeah. It slipped my mind.''
Harry's face softens, mouth quirking. He reaches over and gently closes the laptop, not all the way, just enough to break the spell. ''I know that thousand-yard stare. When's the last time you ate something that wasn't mostly oats and chocolate chips?''
You glance at the sad granola bar and feel your cheeks heat. The truth is that you can't remember. Maybe noon? Earlier? The hunger had been there earlier but then a new idea about the seating arrangements pulled you under and eventually the feeling just... faded.
That's how it happens every time. Your brain prioritizes the shiny, urgent task and lets the rest of your body send increasingly desperate smoke signals that you ignore until they scream.
''I had coffee,'' you offer weakly, knowing it's a terrible answer.
He lets out a soft laugh, the kind that rumbles in his chest and makes you want to crawl into his lap just to feel it. ''Of course you did.'' He squeezes your knee, then stands, tugging you up with him.
His hands settle on your waist, warm and steady, grounding you. Up close you can see the faint freckles across his nose, the way his hair is still slightly flattened on one side from wherever he napped in the studio. ''C'mon. I'm making you a proper sandwich. And you're going to sit at the counter like a normal human while I do it.''
You let him pull you toward the kitchen, your body protesting the movement after hours curled up. But your mind is already drifting back, wondering if the florist has replied yet, mentally rearranging the timeline for when you need to confirm the photographer. ''I will, I promise. Just let me check one more email really quick after—''
''Baby.'' Harry turns, cupping your face with both hands now. His thumbs brush your cheekbones, and the look in his eyes is so patient it almost hurts. He's not mad. There's only that deep, loving concern that always makes you feel seen and a little bit terrified at the same time. ''I'm really happy you're excited about this. I am. Watching you light up over color palettes and playlists makes me stupidly in love with you. But I need you here too, yeah? Not just the wedding-planner version of you who forgets to eat and doesn't answer my texts for twelve hours.''
The words sting a little. You lean into his touch, breathing in the smell of him. ''I know. I'm sorry. I get... I don't know. It's like everything else goes fuzzy and the only thing that feels real is finishing the next thing on the list. I'll eat. I'll take a break after dinner. Promise.''
He searches your face for a moment, then nods, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead. ''Good. Because I'm marrying you, not your spreadsheet.'' He lets you go with one last squeeze and turns toward the fridge, pulling out bread, cheese, avocado, and the leftover roast chicken from last night. You hop onto the counter stool, watching him move around the kitchen with effortless grace.
The guilt ebbs, replaced by a warm rush of love so strong it makes your chest ache. He always does this, calls you back without making you feel broken for drifting in the first place. You open your laptop again, just a crack, telling yourself it's only to minimize the tabs. But your fingers hover over the keys, itching to dive back into the seating chart.
Harry glances over, catching you. He doesn't say anything this time, just raises an eyebrow and slides a plate across the counter a minute later: a thick sandwich, cut in half, with a handful of crisps on the side.
You take a bite and see the tension in his shoulders ease instantly. ''See? Eating. Being present. Model fiancée behavior.''
He chuckles, leaning on the counter opposite you, stealing one of your crisps. ''Mhm. I'll believe it when you close the laptop for the night.''
You grin around another bite, promising yourself you really will step away after dinner. But even as the thought forms, another task is already calling: a new idea for the ceremony music that you know you'll lose if you don't write it down right now.
The light outside has softened into golden hour, painting the kitchen in warm tones, and for a moment everything feels perfectly balanced: the man you love watching you, the ring heavy on your finger, the future stretching out full of beautiful, overwhelming possibility.
You just have to get the details right first.
...
A couple of days slip by in that strange, elastic way time moves when you devote every waking hour to a single mission.
The living room has become a war room of wedding planning: printed mood boards on your lap, sticky notes layered like colorful scales on the coffee table, your laptop screen glowing with at least twenty open tabs ranging from sustainable floral suppliers to sample playlists and seating chart templates that you keep rearranging like a jigsaw puzzle.
The air smells faintly of cold coffee and the candle you lit and forgot about hours ago. Your hair is twisted up, and you're wearing an oversized sweater, sleeves pulled over your hands as you type.
You intended to take breaks. Really. But every time you stood up to stretch or eat, another thought would yank you back: what if we did fairy lights in the trees instead of lanterns? or did I confirm the dietary restrictions with the catering staff? and minutes turned into hours.
The half-eaten granola bar from the other day still sits on the counter, now joined by an apple with one sad bite taken out of it and a condensed glass of water. Your stomach stopped growling sometime in the afternoon, having given up on trying to get your attention.
The front door opens with its familiar soft click, and you register Harry's arrival somewhere in the back of your mind, but your fingers keep moving across the keyboard. Footsteps approach, slower than usual, and you feel the shift in the room before you see him.
''Hi, love,'' he says quietly. There's exhaustion in his voice, the kind that comes after long days of his own. He drops his bag by the couch and crouches down beside you, one hand resting on the arm of the chair. Up close, you can see the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw. He smells like outside air and the faint trace of the mint gum he probably chewed on his way home ''I missed you. How's it going in here?''
You blink at him, surfacing. ''Good. Really good, actually. I think I finally figured out the flow for the ceremony. We can have the string quartet play that one instrumental you like during the processional, and then—'' You gesture vaguely at the screen, itching to show him the new mock-up. Harry's eyes flick from your face to the chaos surrounding you. The empty mugs. The untouched water glass.
''Have you eaten anything today?'
You hesitate. ''I had some coffee. And half an apple earlier.'' The words sound weak even to you. You know how it looks.
He exhales slowly, running a hand through his hair as he stands up. ''Baby... it's almost eight. You've been at this since I left this morning. Again.'' The worry is bleeding into frustration now, coloring his tone. He starts gathering some of the scattered papers, not angrily, but with purpose. ''You can't keep doing this to yourself. I'm serious. When's the last time you stood up? Or ate anything nutritious?''
The defensiveness rises fast and sharp in your chest. You hate that tone, the one that makes you feel like a child who needs managing. Like your brain is a problem he has to solve instead of just... part of who you are. ''I'm fine, Harry. I got caught up, okay? It happens.''
He turns to face you fully, arms crossed over his chest, clearly trying to hold back the full wave of worry that has been building. ''You're not fine. Look around. This isn't healthy. I come home and it's like you haven't even moved. I texted you twice asking if you wanted me to pick up dinner, and nothing. I don't want to make you feel small. I'm just worried because I love you, and watching you run yourself into the ground over centerpieces and playlists makes me feel helpless.''
Your heart is pounding now, shame and irritation twisting together. Part of you knows he's right. The other part, the louder one right now, feels cornered. ''So, what, I'm supposed to just ignore everything that needs to get done? This is our wedding, Harry. I want it to be perfect. For us. And sometimes that means I get focused. You do the same thing when you're in the studio for twelve hours straight.''
''That's different,'' he argues, voice rising just a fraction. ''When I do it, I still remember to eat. I still answer my phone. I don't disappear completely.'' He gestures at the mess, at you. ''Sometimes it feels like the wedding has taken over everything. Like I have to compete with your ADHD just to get you to look at me for five minutes.''
The words land like a slap. It's not particularly cruel, and he isn't shouting, but it's precise enough to hit every insecure corner of your brain. Too much. Always too much. He's already getting tired of it. You're exhausting him. This version of you, the one lost in chaos and hyperfocus, is the one that will finally push him away.
You swallow hard, forcing your face into a neutral expression. The fight drains out of you as quickly as it came, replaced by the familiar instinct to shut down and smooth things over.
''Fine,'' you say, voice carefully even. You reach for your laptop again, minimizing a few tabs. ''You're right. I'll take a break. Sorry.''
Harry watches you for a long moment, the frustration on his face melting into regret. He opens his mouth like he wants to say more, but decides against it. ''Okay,'' he says quietly. ''I'll... give you some space. I'm sorry I came at you like that.'' He leans down, pressing a quick, tentative kiss to your hair before heading toward the kitchen.
You stay on the couch, staring at the screen without really seeing it. This is why it never works. You're too chaotic, too much work. One day he'll decide it's not worth it. Your throat feels tight.
You keep typing anyway, small meaningless adjustments, pretending the knot in your chest isn't there.
The rest of the evening stretches out slowly. You stay on the couch longer than necessary, clicking through tabs without really absorbing anything, while Harry moves around the flat making dinner. The smell of garlic and herbs drifts in from the kitchen, but your appetite is gone, replaced by the heavy knot in your stomach.
When he brings you a plate anyway, a smaller portion, thoughtfully arranged, you thank him quietly and pick at it. He doesn't push. He figures he should give you some space to process your thoughts, the way he's learned works best when your emotions run hot and fast. Usually it does. Tonight it only makes you worry that he's pulling away from you already. You noticed the way he hesitated before kissing your hair, like he wasn't sure he wanted to touch you.
Of course he's tired. Everyone gets tired eventually. The exes who thought your quirks were cute at first, the friends who slowly stopped inviting you when you got too loud or you drifted mid-conversation. He's just the latest one to realize how much work you are.
The thoughts loop viciously, feeding on every small thing: the way he keeps his distance on the couch while you both pretend to watch something mindless on the TV, the quiet ''goodnight'' he offers when you say you're going to take a shower.
You take longer in the bathroom than usual, letting the hot water beat against your shoulders as if it can wash away the shame crawling under your skin. When you finally emerge in an old t-shirt of his and soft shorts, the bedroom light is low, Harry already under the covers on his side, scrolling on his phone with the faintest crease between his brows. He looks up when you walk in, offering a small, tentative smile.
You climb into bed on your side, the sheets cool against your legs, the familiar scent of his laundry detergent wrapping around you.
The silence feels thick. You lie there staring at the ceiling for a few minutes, heart hammering. That one frustrated comment confirmed every fear you carry about being too chaotic, too scattered, too much for someone as steady and grounded as him.
Finally, the words burst out before you can swallow them back.
''Are you tired of me?''
Harry sets his phone down instantly. The lamp on his nightstand casts a warm glow across his face, highlighting the concern that floods his expression. ''What?''
You keep your eyes on the ceiling, afraid that looking at him will make the tears spill over. ''What you said earlier... about the wedding feeling more important than us. About me disappearing into the tabs. I know I've been a lot lately. I know I forget things and get hyperfocused and it's frustrating. I really don't want to be someone who uses ADHD as an excuse for everything, but it is part of how my brain works and I'm terrified you're already starting to resent it. Like maybe you're realizing this is too much long-term. Like everyone else eventually does.''
The words hang in the quiet room. You feel unbearably exposed.
Harry shifts closer immediately, the mattress dipping as he moves. His hand finds yours under the covers, fingers threading through yours.
''Love,'' he says softly, voice thick with regret. ''I'm so sorry. The way I said it came out wrong. I was worried, yeah, but I never meant it like that. I'm not pulling away. I just hate watching you burn yourself out. It scares me. I see how bright you get when something catches your attention, how passionate you are, and I love that about you. But when it means you're not eating or sleeping or even noticing the day go by, I feel helpless. But I shouldn't have taken that out on you.''
He squeezes your hand, thumb brushing slow circles over your knuckles the way he knows helps ground you. You finally turn your head to look at him. His eyes are open and earnest, that familiar soft green that always fills your chest with affection.
''I chose you,'' he continues, quieter now. ''All of you. The parts that go a million miles an hour and the parts that crash hard afterward. The tangents and the forgotten texts and the way you light up over color palettes at two in the morning. I knew it wasn't going to be simple or easy all the time. No one is. But I want this. The messy, the beautiful, the hard days included. I'm not tired of you. I'm worried for you. Because I love you so much it makes me stupid sometimes.''
The knot in your chest loosens, just a little. The vicious spiral doesn't vanish completely, those thoughts never really do, but his words push back against it, steady and full of conviction. You shift closer to him under the covers, needing the solid warmth of his body.
''I don't want to be a burden,'' you whisper. ''I want our wedding to be special, but not at the cost of us.''
''You're not a burden,'' he murmurs, turning fully toward you now. One arm slides around your waist, his hand stroking slowly up and down your back, warm and soothing. ''We're a team. We'll figure out better ways to do this together. Reminders, check-ins, whatever helps. I'm sorry I made you feel like you have to apologize for being you.''
You smile softly, grateful for his reassurance but not entirely convinced.
''You're not a burden,'' Harry repeats, softer this time, like he needs you to feel the words in your bones. His hand slides up to cup the back of your neck, and then he's kissing you.
It starts gentle, the kind of kiss that says I'm here, I've got you. You melt into it immediately, the lingering tension in your body easing as you kiss him back. One of your hands finds his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart beneath your palm. For a moment it's just comfort, the kind of closeness you've come to rely on after hard conversations.
But the longer the kiss goes on, the more it shifts. The hunger that always simmers between you two rises quickly, especially after a fight. Harry tilts his head, deepening the kiss, and a low sound rumbles in his throat when your fingers thread into his curls. You're no strangers to makeup sex; it's become one of your favorite ways to release leftover tension from heated discussions, and it works like a charm each time.
He rolls you gently onto your back, settling between your legs without breaking the kiss. The weight of him is perfect, grounding. His hand slips under the hem of your (his) t-shirt, palm warm against your stomach, then higher, thumb brushing the underside of your breast. You arch into the touch, a small gasp escaping against his mouth.
''Still with me?'' he murmurs, lips trailing along your jaw.
You nod, but your mind, traitorous even now, flickers for a second to the seating chart still open on your laptop in the other room. Harry can tell by the way your eyes lose focus for half a heartbeat.
He doesn't get frustrated. Instead he catches your chin gently, bringing your gaze back to his.
''Hey,'' he says, voice low and rough with want but still so full of affection. ''Focus on us, love. Just us right now.''
The words send a shiver through you. You smile, a little sheepish, and pull him back down into a deeper kiss. The rhythm between you feels easy and familiar, like coming home. Clothes come off slowly: your shirt, then his, then the rest, skin meeting skin in the warm glow of the bedside lamp. His mouth moves down your neck, sucking lightly at the spot that always makes your back arch. You run your hands over his back, tracing the muscles that shift under your touch, feeling the way he presses closer when you scratch lightly at his shoulders.
When he finally slides into you, it's slow and deliberate, both of you letting out shaky breaths at the feeling. The hunger is there, the need to be as close as physically possible after all the emotional vulnerability, but it stays sweet. Harry keeps his forehead pressed to yours, eyes open, watching every flicker of expression on your face. He moves with deep, steady rolls of his hips, one hand braced beside your head while the other strokes your side, your thigh, anywhere he can touch.
Your mind tries to wander again once, but Harry senses it like he always does. He drops his weight a little more, anchoring you, and whispers against your lips, ''There you are. Stay with me, yeah? Feel this.'' His hand slips between you, fingers applying the perfect pressure against your clit, and the distraction dissolves into pleasure.
The sounds in the room are soft: your shared breaths and quiet moans, the faint creak of the bed. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, and he groans your name like a prayer. The emotional openness from earlier makes everything feel heightened, more vulnerable, more loving. When you come, it's with his name on your lips and his eyes locked on yours. He follows right after, burying his face in your neck as he shudders, hips pressing flush against you.
For a long moment afterward you just lie there tangled together, hearts slowing, skin slick with sweat. Harry presses lazy kisses to your jaw, your shoulder, your collarbone. His weight is comforting, and one of his hands continues stroking soothing patterns along your side.
Harry falls asleep quickly after, the way he always does when the day has been long and the emotions ran deep. His breathing evens out within minutes, one arm still draped loosely over your waist, curls messy against the pillow. The room is quiet except for his adorably soft exhales and the sounds of the city outside.
You lie there beside him, skin still warm and tingly, but sleep feels miles away. Your brain is wide awake, spinning like a carousel.
The seating chart. Row seven still feels off, maybe move Sarah closer to the aisle? But then Ben will be next to his ex and that could be awkward. What if we switch the whole back row? The thoughts loop relentlessly, and you know from experience that trying to force sleep now is useless. The hyperfixation has you in its grip, and the only way out is to get it on paper so your brain will finally let go.
Carefully, you slip out from under his arm, tucking the blanket back around him so he doesn't get cold. You pull on his discarded t-shirt and pad quietly to the kitchen, the floor cool under your bare feet.
The laptop screen glows harshly when you open it on the kitchen table, making you squint. You surround yourself with a fresh notebook and a handful of pens, sticky notes filling with tiny diagrams and crossed-out names. The clock on the wall reads 2:17 a.m.
You're deep into rearranging the third row when you hear the bedroom door creak. Footsteps, soft and sleepy. You grimace, shoulders tensing, already preparing for another gentle scolding about rest and balance and not doing this to yourself again.
But Harry doesn't scold.
He stops in the doorway for a moment, taking in the scene before him. His hair is wild, eyes heavy with sleep, and he's wearing only a pair of loose boxers. Instead of sighing or asking what you're doing, he simply rubs a hand over his face and heads for the kettle.
''Want one?'' he asks, voice gravelly from sleep, already scooping coffee grounds into the French press.
You blink at him, surprised. ''You're not... mad?''
He glances over with a small, tired smile. ''Mad? No, baby. Worried you're running on empty, yeah. But I get it. I know how it works by now.'' He shrugs like it's the simplest thing in the world. The kettle clicks on, and the rich, earthy smell of coffee soon fills the kitchen.
You feel something tight in your chest loosen. ''I just knew that if I didn't get this out of my head I'd be up all night anyway.''
Harry pours two mugs, adds a splash of oat milk to yours the way you like, and carries them over. He simply settles into the chair beside you without a word, close enough that his knee presses against yours under the table. The warmth of his body, the quiet companionship, feels like the best kind of anchor. You lean into his side, resting your head briefly on his shoulder as gratitude washes over you.
The kitchen fills with the soft sounds of typing, the occasional scratch of pen on paper, and Harry's quiet suggestions. He points out a better set-up for one table, teases you when you get overly perfectionistic about the placement of a distant cousin, and keeps refilling your water glass when you forget. The spiral from earlier feels far away now. The work gets done quicker with his calm presence beside you, turning the overwhelming task into something shared and fun.
Eventually the sky outside the window begins to lighten, shifting from deep navy to soft lavender. Harry presses a lingering kiss to your temple, lips warm against your skin, one arm slung around your shoulders as you both stare at the finalized chart.
''Better?'' he asks quietly.
You nod, closing the laptop with a satisfied sigh. ''Much better. Thank you.''
He stands, tugging you up with him, and together you shuffle back toward the bedroom. As you curl into his side again, his arm wrapping securely around you, you feel closer than ever. Not despite the chaos, because of it. Because he adapts. Because he makes you coffee at 2 a.m. and sits in the mess with you instead of trying to fix it for you.
''Love you,'' he mumbles sleepily against your hair as you both drift off.
You smile into his chest. ''Love you more.''
...
thank you so much for reading! i appreciate any and all support so remember to like, comment and reblog. requests are open! 💕
Summary: You get caught up in forbidden trysts with your best friend's hot, divorced father. a best friend's dad!harry x reader au story
Status: Ongoing.
Warnings: best friend's dad, forbidden relationship, smut, please read the warnings for each chapter accordingly
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beach house
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 little tease
Harry gives you the cold shoulder after your passionate encounter in the kitchen, so you decide to torture him until his patience runs out.
Summary: Harry gives you the cold shoulder after your passionate encounter in the kitchen, so you decide to torture him until his patience runs out. 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!), a lot of teasing, oral (f!receiving), rough sex, degradation, some dom!Harry, really filthy
A/N: as requested, i've turned this into a series! i have lots of exciting stories planned for these two, so if you don't want to miss anything, let me know and i'll add you to the series tag list x
Word Count: 4,217
...
The morning light filters through the sheer white curtains of the guest room, warming the rumpled sheets tangled around your legs. You lie there for a long moment, eyes half-closed, letting the memories wash over you. The cool edge of the kitchen counter digging into your hips. Harry's large hands gripping your waist with a possessiveness that still makes your stomach flutter just thinking about it. The broken, gravelly groan he let out against the skin of your neck as he pushed into you. The way your name sounded on his lips, breathless, almost reverent, even as his movements turned frantic and desperate.
You stretch languidly, the ache between your thighs a delicious reminder that it all really happened, that it wasn't just a fever dream sparked by too much wine and the salty ocean air.
You slept with him. Emma's dad, the man you've known for years as the charming, slightly awkward single father who makes dad jokes and grills like a pro. The one who always offered you the guest room with a polite smile, never once looking at you the way he had last night. Until he did. Until the tension that has been simmering since the start of this summer trip, maybe even before that, finally boiled over in that dimly lit kitchen while Emma was out painting the town red.
A soft sigh escapes your lips as you sit up and run a hand through your tangled hair. Part of you expected him to be there when you woke, lingering in the doorway with a conflicted look in his eyes, or even slipping into your bed for a second round before the house stirred.
But the room is empty, quiet except for the distant crash of waves outside and the faint clatter of dishes from the kitchen downstairs. Of course he pulled away. Harry isn't the type to dive headfirst into something this dangerous without immediate regret. He has rules. Boundaries. A daughter sleeping just down the hall who adores him and trusts you both implicitly. You can already picture the distance he'll put between you today, the way he'll avoid your gaze like it burns him.
Still, the thought of it, the restraint in him, sends a thrill through you that inexplicably settles low in your belly. You're not sure if it's rejection or the delicious frustration of the chase that turns you on more. Man, your parents' divorce really fucked you up.
By the time you pad downstairs in an oversized t-shirt and soft sleep shorts, the comforting smell of coffee and something savory fills the airy beach house: bacon and eggs, Emma's favorite. Sunlight pours in through the large sliding doors that open onto the deck, highlighting the scattered remnants of last night's dinner prep. Emma's already at the kitchen island, hair piled messily on top of her head, scrolling through her phone with one hand while nursing a mug of coffee.
''Morning, sleepyhead!'' she chirps, oblivious as ever, waving you over. ''Dad's making breakfast. I asked nicely, I promise.''
Harry sends her a look of fatherly disapproval that says you absolutely did not.
You smile, keeping it light as you slide onto a stool, deliberately choosing the one with a clear view of Harry. Your eyes drift inevitably toward him. He's at the stove, broad shoulders tense beneath a simple white t-shirt that clings to the muscles you dragged your nails down just hours ago. His hair is damp from a shower, curls tousled, and those grey sweatpants sit low on his hips in a way that feels deliberately torturous. He doesn't turn immediately, but you notice the subtle shift in his posture, the way his hand pauses over the pan.
''Smells amazing, Mr. Styles.'' The honorific feels loaded now, after the way he had you screaming his first name last night, and judging by the way his head tilts like he's in fucking agony, he's thinking of it too.
Harry finally glances over his shoulder, his green eyes meeting yours for the briefest second before flicking away.
''Morning,'' he says, voice even and polite, that familiar low timbre sending a shiver down your spine. ''Help yourself. There's plenty.''
There's no meaningfully lingering look. No secret smirk. Only the same courteous tone he's used a hundred times before. He plates the food with focused efficiency, bacon perfectly crisp, eggs scrambled just how Emma likes them, then busies himself wiping counters and tidying, his movements almost mechanical. The avoidance stings more than you want to admit, but it also ignites something hotter.
You watch him closely while pouring coffee, noting the faint flush on the back of his neck, the tight set of his jaw when your fingers nearly brush his reaching for the creamer. He steps back quickly, muttering something about checking the deck furniture outside, and slips through the sliding doors a little too fast.
Emma doesn't seem to notice, chatting away about her plans for the day, how she wants to spend hours out on the sunbeds soaking it up the early afternoon sun, how she and Andy are thinking of driving into town later for some fresh seafood for dinner.
You nod along, humming in agreement, but your mind is elsewhere. On the way Harry's hands felt last night. On the way he's clearly fighting the same pull you are and how badly you want to make it impossible for him to keep pretending nothing had happened.
Harry returns only to eat quickly and clear his plate with minimal small talk about the weather and how the waves are supposed to be good for swimming. You catch his eye once through the glass doors, letting your gaze linger a beat too long. His jaw clenches visibly.
You head upstairs after breakfast with purpose, the wooden stairs creaking softly under your feet. In the guest room, you peel off your oversized t-shirt and sleep shorts, standing in front of the mirror for a moment as you slip into the tiniest bikini you packed for this trip.
The fabric is a deep emerald green that contrasts beautifully against your skin, the top little more than two tiny triangles held together by thin strings that tie behind your neck and back. The bottoms are even more scandalous, high-cut on the hips with minimal coverage in the back, the strings sitting low and delicate, threatening to come undone with the slightest tug. It leaves very little to the imagination.
You adjust the ties carefully, imagining Harry's hands on them later, and a small, satisfied smile curves your lips. Perfect.
Down on the spacious deck, the ocean breeze carries the salty tang of the sea, and the sun beats down warmly on the wide wooden planks. Emma is sprawled on one of the comfortable sunbeds, sunglasses perched on her nose, a book open but ignored in her lap. You join her on the neighboring lounger, settling onto your stomach first, propping yourself up on your elbows so the curve of your ass is prominently on display toward the house and deck area where Harry is working.
The two of you chat idly about university gossip, the latest shows you're both binging, how nice it is to have this whole stretch of summer ahead with no real responsibilities. Laughter comes easily between you, light and carefree on the surface, while you angle your body just so, arching your back a little as you turn the page of your own book.
You can feel the weight of Harry's gaze from where he stands near the railing, pretending to adjust some outdoor cushions or check on the grill setup. He's trying so hard to focus elsewhere, but you catch the stolen glances, the way his eyes drag over the lines of your barely-covered body before he forces them away.
Inside, Harry's mind is a storm of conflicting thoughts. This is wrong. She's your daughter's best friend. But the memories of last night refuse to fade: the way you felt around him, tight and warm and so fucking eager, the soft gasps and whimpers you tried to muffle against your arm. His body reacts against his will, a familiar tightening in his groin that makes him shift uncomfortably and adjust the hem of his shirt.
He knows he should go inside, put more distance between you, but the pull is magnetic. You're doing this on purpose. The little tease. Fuck, the things he wants to do to you right now. He clenches his jaw, knuckles whitening around the cushion he's holding, willing himself to stay away even as his eyes trace the string of your bikini bottoms.
You feel powerful. The rejection from breakfast stings less now, replaced by the thrill of knowing you affect him this much. You sit up after a while, reaching for the bottle of sunscreen, and begin applying it slowly to your legs, your hands sliding up your thighs in a way that feels almost obscene, making the skin there glisten under the sun.
Emma lays beside you, completely unaware, engrossed in her book.
''Mr. Styles, would you mind getting my back?'' you ask casually after a few minutes, glancing toward him with feigned innocence. ''I always miss spots, and the sun's brutal today.''
Harry hesitates visibly, his broad frame tensing as he approaches. Up close, you can see the conflict in his eyes, the restraint warring with desire. His hands are warm and slightly rough as he takes the bottle, squeezing lotion onto his palms. When they make contact with your skin, smoothing over your shoulders and down your back, the touch is electric. His fingers tremble with the effort of keeping it appropriate, but they press firmer than necessary in places, tracing the line of your spine as though he's punishing you for acting out.
''You're playing a dangerous game, sweetheart,'' he whispers low enough that only you can hear, voice rough with barely contained need as one thumb brushes dangerously close to the side of your breast. ''Prancing around in this fucking thing all day, teasing me like a little slut while my daughter sits right there. Keep this up and I'll bend you over the nearest surface and remind you who you're messing with.''
The words send a rush of heat straight between your legs, arousal pooling instantly. You bite your lip to stifle a smile, pressing your thighs together subtly on the sunbed. You like messing with him.
''Is that a promise?'' you whisper over your shoulder.
The tension crackles in the air between you and Harry, thick and undeniable, as his hands linger just a second too long before he pulls away abruptly, clearing his throat and stepping back.
...
The afternoon sun begins its slow descent, casting a warm golden glow across the spacious deck. Emma's phone buzzes beside her on the sunbed, and her face lights up when she checks it.
''Andy's here! We're going into town for that seafood place we talked about. The one with the outdoor patio overlooking the water, y'know?'' She bounces up excitedly, already gathering her things, completely unaware of the charged atmosphere she's leaving behind.
You wave her off with a bright smile, wishing her a good time, while Harry stands near the railing, offering his daughter a fond smile. ''Have fun, lovebug. Stay safe, and text me if you need anything.''
The moment Emma disappears down the steps, the air between you and Harry shifts. The deck feels suddenly intimate, the ocean breeze doing little to cool the heat simmering between you. You don't waste the opportunity. Still in that tiny emerald bikini, you rise slowly from the sunbed and saunter toward him, hips swaying with deliberate intent.
''All alone now,'' you murmur as you stop just close enough for him to smell the sunscreen on your sun-warmed skin. Your fingers trail lightly down his arm, feather-light but enough to make his breath hitch.
Harry's jaw clenches hard, green eyes darkening as they flick over your barely covered body. You know exactly what you're doing. That bikini should be illegal. He can still smell you from last night, feel how tight you were, and now you're pushing every last one of his buttons. His cock twitches in his shorts despite his best efforts, the restraint he's clung to all day beginning to fray dangerously.
He steps back, busying himself with straightening deck chairs, but you follow, pressing closer, letting your hand accidentally brush his arm as you reach past him for a bottle of water. ''You've been avoiding me all day, Mr. Styles. Afraid you can't keep up?'' you taunt him.
He lets out a low, frustrated groan under his breath, hands flexing at his sides as if fighting the urge to grab you.
''You're going to get us both in trouble,'' he mutters, voice rough with arousal and warning. The struggle is clear in the way his body leans toward you even as his mind screams to pull away. The guilt over his daughter, the age gap, the forbidden nature of it all only makes his desire burn hotter. You push further, whispering filthy recollections of how he bent you over the counter, how full he made you feel, until he's visibly straining against his shorts, breathing heavier, hands hovering like he might finally snap and pin you against the railing.
Just as he reaches for you, fingers barely brushing your waist, the sound of the front door opening shatters the moment. Emma's voice carries through the house. ''The restaurant was closed for a private event! Can Andy have dinner with us, Dad? Please?''
Harry pulls back instantly, composing himself with visible effort, running a hand through his curls. ''Of course, lovebug,'' he calls back, the affectionate nickname warm and fatherly even as his eyes flash with dark promise at you. ''The more the merrier.''
Dinner comes together quickly in the open kitchen area that flows onto the deck. Harry prepares a summery spread, grilled fish with a lemon-herb marinade, a fresh salad with avocado and cherry tomatoes, and roasted vegetables drizzled in olive oil. The smells are incredible.
You try to claim the seat next to Emma, desperate for some buffer, but she leans in with a pleading whisper. ''Please sit on the other side? I really like Andy, and I want him next to me. Pretty please?''
Her eyes are wide and hopeful, the kind of look that always gets her what she wants from you. You sigh and give in, moving around the table so Andy can slide in beside her. This leaves you directly next to Harry.
He plates generous portions for everyone with steady hands, but you notice the tightness in his shoulders as he sits down beside you. The chairs are close, intimate, really, so that your arms brush whenever you reach for your fork or glass. Harry keeps his eyes trained straight ahead, focused on his plate or Emma's animated storytelling about the walk into town, refusing to acknowledge your presence.
The deliberate cold shoulder frustrates you all over again, reigniting that mischievous spark.
Under the table, your bare foot slides slowly up his leg, tracing the inside of his calf, then higher along his thigh. Harry stiffens immediately and subtly kicks your foot away, the movement making the table shift slightly. Emma glances over. ''You okay, Dad?''
''Fine, just stretched my leg,'' he replies smoothly, voice steady despite the storm raging inside him. You're relentless. His daughter is right there. He really should stop this, he knows he has to, but his body betrays him, cock hardening again under the table.
Undeterred, you wait a moment before your hand ventures under the tablecloth. The closeness of the chairs makes it easy, your arm resting casually on your lap as your palm presses against the growing bulge in his shorts, rubbing slowly, firmly, just as he picks up his glass.
Harry chokes on his water and coughs into his fist. Emma looks concerned. ''Dad, are you sure you're alright?''
He nods, jaw clenched so tightly the muscle jumps. ''Yeah, went down the wrong way.'' He shakes his head slightly to himself, trying to stay engaged in Emma's story about a funny encounter at Andy's surf shop, but his breathing is shallower now. You're going to fucking pay for this later. He'll make sure to fuck the attitude right out of you. His hand briefly grips your wrist under the table in warning, but he doesn't pull you away immediately, the pleasure warring with the risk.
When Emma and Andy eventually head into the kitchen to scoop up some dessert from the fridge, laughing together, Harry turns to you with fire in his eyes. ''Cut it out,'' he whisper-yells, though the strain in his voice makes it sound more desperate than he'd hoped. ''Now.''
You just smile sweetly at him, your hand giving one last teasing squeeze before you pull back. The promise of what's coming later hangs heavy in the air as the evening winds down.
Later that night, after everyone has said their goodnights and the house settles, you lie awake in the guest room. The sheets feel too warm, your body still buzzing with unspent arousal and smug satisfaction from the day's games. You listen to the house, heart pounding in anticipation, wondering when Harry will finally snap and sneak in.
The ache between your legs is almost unbearable now, every minute stretching out in delicious, torturous expectation.
The house has gone completely quiet, the kind of heavy silence that only comes late at night by the ocean, broken only by the rhythmic crash of waves against the shore and the occasional creak of wood.
Harry lies in his own bed, staring at the ceiling with his arms crossed tightly over his chest, every muscle in his body taut with unresolved tension. His cock is still half-hard, throbbing insistently against the fabric of his boxers despite the cold shower he forced himself into after dinner. All day you had tormented him: that sinful little bikini, forcing him to apply your sunscreen, your foot sliding up his leg under the table, your hand palming him so brazenly while his daughter sat mere feet away. He knows exactly what you were doing. Pushing him. Testing him. Trying to break his resolve like some childish game.
You're too young for this. Too close to Emma. He's your best friend's father, for fuck's sake. The guilt gnaws at him, sharp and familiar, but it does nothing to dull the lust burning through his veins. He considers taking himself in hand right here, stroking out a quick, unsatisfying release while imagining your mouth or your tight cunt wrapped around him. It would serve you right, leaving you aching and alone in the guest room, wondering why he didn't show. But his pride wars with his need, and lust ultimately wins. With a low curse under his breath, Harry swings his legs out of bed, pulling on a pair of loose shorts.
He walks silently down the hallway, heart hammering as he passes Emma's door. One wrong sound and his life could be in ruins.
The guest room door creaks softly as he eases it open, the sound loud in the stillness. You're lying there in the dim moonlight filtering through the curtains, sheets pushed down to your thighs, wearing nothing but a thin tank top and panties, and he curses under his breath at the sight.
You lift your head, a smug little smile curving your lips. ''I knew it.''
''Shut up,'' Harry groans, closing the door behind him with a quiet click. He crosses the room in two strides, wasting no time. His large hands grab the hem of your tank top and rip it upward, yanking it over your head with impatient force. The panties follow, tugged down your legs roughly until you're completely bare beneath him. ''You've been a fucking tease all day. Thought you would get away with it?''
Before you can respond, his mouth is on yours in a bruising kiss, your tongues sliding desperately. His hands roam greedily over your body, squeezing your breasts, pinching your nipples until you whimper into his mouth. He breaks the kiss only to trail his lips lower, latching onto one nipple with wet, sucking heat. When you moan softly, his hand clamps firmly over your mouth, muffling the sound.
''Quiet,'' he hisses against your skin, biting down on the sensitive peak as punishment. The sharp sting makes your back arch, fresh wetness slicking between your thighs. He switches to the other nipple, sucking hard and biting again each time a sound escapes you, his eyes dark with unconstrained lust and frustration. ''Look at you. Already soaked and I've barely touched you. This what you wanted? Parading around in that tiny bikini, rubbing yourself all over me in front of my daughter like a desperate little slut so I would come fuck you?''
His words are condescending, each one hitting deeper as he works his way down your body. He pushes your thighs apart roughly, settling between them. ''An older man, your best friend's father, no less. So fucking pathetic and greedy.'' He leans in, dragging his tongue through your folds in one long, slow lick, groaning at the taste.
You're dripping, embarrassingly wet, and he makes sure you know it. ''Pathetic. This cunt is weeping for me after one day without my cock.'' His hand stays clamped over your mouth as he devours you, tongue relentlessly fucking into you, sucking on your clit with obscene wet sounds that feel far too loud in the quiet house.
When your hips buck and a muffled cry vibrates against his palm, he bites your inner thigh lightly in warning. ''Emma's right next door. You want her to hear what a whore her best friend is?''
Harry doesn't let up. He adds two thick fingers, curling them perfectly against that spot inside you while his mouth works your clit relentlessly. Your orgasm crashes over you fast and hard, thighs trembling around his head, screams swallowed by his hand. He doesn't give you time to recover. He sheds his shorts, his cock springing free, thick, hard, and leaking. ''On top. Now. Ride me like you've been dying to all day.''
You straddle him eagerly, sinking down onto his length with a shared groan. The stretch is perfect, filling you completely. Harry's hands grip your hips bruisingly as he guides you, thrusting up into you to meet your movements. ''That's it. Good fucking girl. Take every inch. This is what you've been begging for with all your little games, isn't it?''
Sweat slicks your skin as you ride him harder, the bed creaking softly. He pulls you down by the hair for another messy kiss, swallowing your moans. Then he flips you suddenly, putting you on all fours.
''Face in the pillow,'' he orders, pushing your head down. The new angle lets him drive deeper, hips snapping against your ass with wet, filthy sounds. His hand cracks down in a sharp spank, then another, the sting blooming hot across your skin. ''Teasing me while my daughter sat right there, completely clueless. You're lucky I didn't bend you over the table in front of her and her little date.'' His filthy words trigger your orgasm and he fucks you right through it, your cries muffled into the pillow as your best friend sleeps unknowingly just a wall away.
His groans are guttural when you clamp down around him, the sounds soft yet absolutely wrecked. When he finally nears the edge, he pulls out abruptly and strokes himself once, twice, before pushing back in deep and pulsing inside you in thick, warm spurts.
He stays there for a moment, catching his breath, then pulls out and leans down to whisper in your ear, ''You're gonna sleep with my come dripping out of you all night like the slut you are, got it?''
You hum weakly.
''Stay just like that,'' he says, voice rough as he watches his cum slowly leak from your swollen pussy. ''Don't you dare clean up.'' He tugs his shorts back on, already moving toward the door.
You whine softly, turning your head. ''You're just leaving?''
Harry pauses, then grabs your face firmly with one hand, squeezing your cheeks enough to make your lips pout. His grip is tight, dominant, eyes flashing with an intoxicating mix of anger and lust.
''Are you going to act like a fucking brat after I just gave you what you wanted? Stop pushing me or I'll make sure the next time hurts more than it feels good.'' He notices the way your eyes glaze with submission at the rough handling, the spark of something deeper, and mentally files it away for later. Interesting. He releases you, presses one last hard kiss to your lips, and slips out of the room as quietly as he entered.
You lie there in the afterglow, body spent and trembling, his cum warm and sticky inside you. The house is quiet once more, Emma's room silent next door. Satisfaction settles deep in your bones, mixed with that aching want for more. You drift off like that, marked by him, wondering what he'll do to you the next time his restraint snaps.
...
thank you so much for reading! i appreciate any and all support so remember to like, comment and reblog. requests are open! 💕
fics with mature content will be marked with a star (*)!
One Shots
right person, wrong address (2.4k words)
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* (3.3k words) (assistant!reader)
↪ cruising altitude (pt.2)* (3.9k words)
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* (4k words)
You're the angel in his songs, but dancing in his kitchen, you're nothing short of sin.
i can hear sirens* (6k words) (famous!harry)
↪ i can hear violins (pt.2)* (4.6k words)
The spotlight's on him, but all he sees is you.
daddy's home (1.8k words) (daddry)
When Harry runs out of rope, the smallest hands lead him home.
that's show business, baby (3.4k words) (actor!harry)
Harry pretends to enjoy acting with another woman, and you pretend you don't enjoy watching him.
off-limits* (2.5k words) (brother's best friend)
You've kept your distance for years, but tonight, all bets are off.
focus on me (2.1k words) (neurodivergent!reader)
↪ focus on us (pt.2)* (4.7k words)
Loving Harry comes easy. Focusing on him sometimes doesn't.
'tis the damn season (2.3k words)
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* (3.1k words)
When habit compels you to get on top, Harry stops everything to show you what you really deserve.
engine trouble* (4.3k words)
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.
Studio After Hours* (2.9k words)
He's heard every vulnerable word you've written, but tonight Harry wants to hear the sounds you make when he's buried deep inside you, breaking every professional boundary in the process.
Neighbor From Hell* (2.8k words)
Your new neighbor is a nightmare: loud music, endless parties, zero respect for anyone trying to sleep. After weeks of putting up with it, you finally storm over at 2 a.m. ready to rip him a new one.
The Favor* (3k words) (dad's friend!Harry)
Stranded on the side of the road with a broken-down car and no money to fix it, you swallow your pride and call Harry, who comes to your rescue without hesitation. He's determined to cash in the favor, though. dubcon warning!
Blurbs
soft dom!Harry on tour* (1.5k words)
Request: GIIIIIRLL, we need something with age gap (maybe ur sugar daddy serie or not) BUT DAMN THIS IS SO DADDY KINK AND AGE GAP CODED
make my day-inspired blurb* (900 words)
Request: could you write a oneshot based on ''make my day'' by harry? i'm imagining something with a sensual vibe and a little (very) angst
riding Harry on the couch* (1.9k words)
Request: i keep seeing edits of harry with the caption: congratulations to whoever gets to bounce on that 😝 and thought maybe they could be hanging out like her on his lap and she's ofc scrolling through his fandom twitter and tiktok and she shows him those and she rides him/quite literally bounces on that
Summary: Stranded on the side of the road with a broken-down car and no money to fix it, you swallow your pride and call Harry, who comes to your rescue without hesitation. He's determined to cash in the favor, though. dad's friend!harry styles au
Warnings: dad's friend!Harry, slight age gap (mid twenties and early thirties), light dubcon/coercion theme, brief handjob, oral (m!receiving), fingering, rough sex in a car, cum swallowing
A/N: i've added a dubcon warning because though it is consensual, harry is rather manipulative in this au. if you're on my tag list but don't want to be tagged in future dubcon fics, just message me.
Word Count: 3,046
...
''Fuck!''
The engine sputters twice, then dies completely with a pathetic cough, leaving you stranded in the middle of a quiet, winding road surrounded by nothing but dark trees and the faint glow of distant streetlights.
The silence that follows is almost deafening. You sit there for a long moment, hands still gripping the steering wheel, staring at the dashboard as the warning lights blink mockingly.
Of course this would happen tonight. Of course your ancient, barely-held-together car would choose the absolute worst possible moment to give up on you: on a deserted back road, hours after dark, with your phone battery already dangerously low and your savings even lower. You let out a shaky, frustrated breath.
Your parents would never let you live this down. You've been the black sheep of the family ever since you moved out, the disappointment amongst your siblings, the one who refused to follow the carefully paved path your parents had laid out since birth: the prestigious university, the respectable career, the advantageous marriage. While your older sister married into old money and your brother climbed the corporate ladder with the family name opening every door, you had chosen the messy, uncertain route of trying to make it on your own.
Now, at twenty-six, you were barely scraping by in a tiny apartment, working two jobs just to keep your head above water, and too stubborn to ask your parents for help. They already looked at you with that mixture of pity and disappointment every time you saw them. Calling them now would only confirm what they already believed: that you couldn't handle life without their money and influence.
So you don't call them.
Instead, your thumb hovers over Harry's contact. Harry, your father's friend from the country club, a connection that still feels strange even after two and a half years. Harry is only thirty-four, nearly twenty years younger than your dad, yet the two of them bonded quickly over golf, business talk, and a shared dry sense of humor.
He'd been introduced to you at one of your parents' garden parties when you were twenty-three, fresh out of a bad breakup and feeling painfully out of place among their polished social circle. Harry had been kind to you that night, attentive without being condescending, and over the years he'd become someone you could text casually, someone who always answered. He was successful, charming, and unfairly attractive, with a calm confidence that made every woman look twice.
You'd always harbored a quiet, guilty little crush on him, but you pushed those thoughts away because he was your father's friend.
Tonight, though, pride loses to desperation. You hit call.
Harry answers on the second ring, his voice warm and slightly concerned when he hears the shakiness in yours. He doesn't hesitate. ''Stay in the car with the doors locked. I'm coming to get you.''
Forty minutes later, headlights cut through the darkness. Harry's sleek black car pulls up behind yours. He steps out looking effortlessly put-together despite the late hour: dark sweater, jeans, curls slightly messy. He walks over to your window first, checking that you're okay before inspecting the dead car with a furrowed brow. His presence feels grounding, safe in a way that makes your eyes sting with relief.
''You alright?'' he asks once you're settled in his passenger seat, the heater blasting warm air that slowly thaws your chilled fingers. The scent of his expensive cologne filling the car makes your stomach flutter. He glances over at you as he starts driving, one hand loose on the wheel. ''That car's been on its last legs for a while, huh?''
You nod, sinking deeper into the leather seat, suddenly exhausted. When the city lights grow closer and he pulls up in front of your building, Harry turns off the engine and looks at you properly, worried eyes searching your face in the dim glow of the streetlights.
''Hey, why didn't you call your parents or your sister?'' he asks. ''You know they would've sent someone.''
You hesitate, fingers twisting in your lap.
The weight of the day, the humiliation, the constant feeling of not being enough, it all finally cracks something open. You tell him the truth. About the money troubles. About refusing to lean on your family's name and wealth like your siblings have done your whole life. About how exhausting it is to always be the disappointment, the one who chose independence and is now paying for it in every possible way.
Harry listens without interrupting, his expression unreadable. ''I can help with the car,'' he says softly when you finally fall quiet. ''Cover the repairs. I'd be happy to help out.''
''Are you sure? It might take a while until I'm able to pay you back,'' you say, surprised by his generosity. ''My jobs barely cover the rent.''
''Well,'' he drawls, reaching over and resting his hand gently on your thigh, the touch warm through your jeans. His thumb strokes once, slow and deliberate. ''Maybe you could repay me some other way.''
You sit frozen in the passenger seat, the warm air from the heater suddenly feeling too thick, too heavy against your skin. Harry's hand remains on your thigh, a solid, warm weight that should feel comforting but now carries an entirely different meaning.
Your mind races to catch up, desperately trying to convince yourself that you must have misunderstood him. This is Harry. Your father's friend. He's just offering to help. That's all. Right?
But the way his thumb slowly strokes along the seam of your jeans, the way his green eyes stay fixed on your face with quiet intensity, makes it impossible to deny what he's suggesting.
''I... Harry,'' you start, voice shaky, a nervous laugh bubbling up. ''You can't mean... what I think you mean.''
He doesn't pull his hand away. Instead, he tilts his head slightly, studying you with that calm, measured expression that always makes him seem older and more in control than his thirty-four years. There's quiet hunger in his eyes, though it seems almost gentle, like he's been waiting for the right moment to say this.
''I think you know exactly what I mean,'' he says softly, voice low and smooth. ''You can't tell me you've never thought about it. The way you look at me when you think I'm not paying attention... the way you bend over at those family dinners, wearing those little dresses that ride up your thighs. I notice, sweetheart. I always notice you.''
Heat floods your face. You have thought about it, more times than you'd ever admit. Harry has always been stupidly attractive, with an effortless charm and shoulders that are almost too broad for his shirts. But he's your father's friend. The taboo of it has always kept those thoughts locked away, buried under layers of guilt and denial.
''I give you the money to fix your car,'' he continues, leaning a little closer across the center console, his breath warm against your cheek. ''No strings, no awkward questions from your parents. In return... you give me what I want. Everybody's happy. It'll stay just between us.''
Your heart pounds so hard you can feel it in your throat. Part of you wants to push his hand away and tell him no. But another, much louder part, the one that's been exhausted by money stress, by feeling like a failure, by the quiet, shameful crush you've harbored, stays silent.
Harry seems to sense your internal struggle. He leans in further, lips brushing just below your ear in a feather-light kiss that sends goosebumps racing down your arms. His voice drops to a husky whisper, filthy and coaxing all at once.
''Oh, I'd fuck you so good, baby,'' he murmurs, mouth grazing the sensitive spot just beneath your earlobe. ''I'd take my time with you. Stretch this tight little pussy open with my big cock until you're shaking and full and begging for more. I'd make you feel so good you forget every shitty thing your family says about you. Wouldn't that be nice? Letting someone take care of you for once?''
His hand slides higher up your thigh, dangerously close to where you're already growing shamefully wet. His touch is slow, giving you every chance to pull away. But he doesn't stop talking, painting vivid, tempting pictures with that low, raspy voice.
''You don't have to decide right now,'' he adds gently, pulling back just enough to look into your eyes again. There's real warmth there beneath the desire. ''But think about it. I like you. I've always liked you. This could be... mutually beneficial. And very, very pleasurable.''
Your heart hammers against your ribs as you sit there in the passenger seat of his car, Harry's words heavy in the warm, confined space of the car. His hand remains on your thigh, thumb still tracing those slow, maddening circles that make it impossible to think straight.
Every rational part of your brain screams that this is wrong: he's your father's friend, a little older than you, and this entire situation is steeped in a power imbalance you shouldn't ignore. But the exhaustion of the night, the constant financial stress, and the quiet, shameful attraction you've felt toward him for years all tangle together into a dangerous pull towards him. Your mouth feels dry. Your pulse is everywhere.
Finally, on a shaky exhale, you whisper, ''Okay... What do you want me to do?''
The moment the words leave your lips, something shifts in Harry's expression, a flash of dark satisfaction and genuine heat crossing his face. He doesn't rush. He takes your hand gently in his, almost tenderly, and guides it across the center console until your palm presses against the hard, unmistakable bulge straining in his jeans. The heat of him radiates through the denim, thick and intimidating, and your breath catches sharply at the sheer size of what you're feeling.
''Start here,'' he murmurs, voice low and coaxing as he presses your hand firmer against him, encouraging you to rub slowly up and down the length. ''Just like that, sweetheart. Such a quick learner. Feel how hard I already am for you? That's what you do to me every time I see you.''
Your fingers tremble slightly as you obey, palming him through the fabric, feeling him twitch and thicken under your touch. Harry lets out a quiet groan, letting his head tip back against the seat for a moment, eyes half-lidded. The sight of him like this, usually so composed and in control, sends a forbidden thrill through you despite everything. He's attractive. Dangerously so. And some deep, hidden part of you has wondered what this would feel like for longer than you'd ever admit.
After a few moments, he reaches down with his free hand and unzips his jeans, pulling himself out. His cock is heavy and flushed, curving slightly upward, the tip already glistening. He wraps your fingers around him again, guiding your hand in slow, firm strokes exactly the way he likes it, showing you the rhythm, the pressure, teaching you without words. His breathing grows shallower, and you can't help the way your own thighs press together at the feeling of him hot in your palm.
But Harry wants more.
His hand slides to the back of your head, fingers threading gently but insistently into your hair. He applies steady pressure, guiding your face down toward his lap. You hesitate for half a second, the reality of what's happening hitting you again, but your mouth waters at the thought. You lean over the center console, body bending awkwardly across the gear stick, and take the tip of his cock into your mouth.
Harry groans deeply, the sound vibrating through his chest. ''Fuck, that's good,'' he rasps, pushing your head down a little further, sliding more of his thick length into your mouth. Oh yeah, just like that, sweetheart. Take a little more for me.''
The position is uncomfortable: your body twisted awkwardly over the console, neck strained, the gear stick digging into your ribs. But Harry's grunts compel you to keep going. You shift on your own, crawling carefully over the console despite the cramped space, maneuvering your body into the footwell in front of the driver's seat until you're kneeling between his spread thighs. Your muscles already ache from the awkward angle, knees pressed against the floor mat, but the new position gives you better access.
Harry's eyes darken with lust as he watches you settle there. Both of his hands come to cradle your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks almost tenderly even as he starts thrusting shallowly into your mouth.
''Look at you,'' he groans, voice wrecked and filthy. ''On your knees in my car, sucking my cock like a good little slut. Been thinking about this mouth for so fucking long. That's it, relax your throat, baby. Let me fuck it. You can take it. I know you can.''
He starts thrusting deeper, careful but relentless, the head of his cock bumping the back of your throat with every push. Broken moans fall from his lips as he uses your mouth, hips rolling up to meet you.
''Fuck, your throat feels so tight... such a perfect little cocksucker. You like this, don't you? Letting Daddy's friend use your mouth after he bails you out. So fucking dirty... but you're dripping for it, aren't you?''
His grip on your face tightens slightly as his thrusts grow a little faster, a little more desperate. You can feel him throbbing against your tongue, getting closer, his breathing ragged.
He pulls you off his cock, strings of saliva connecting your swollen lips to the flushed head as you suck in desperate lungfuls of air. Your jaw aches, your eyes are watery, and your chest heaves with the effort of trying to catch your breath. Harry watches you with dark, satisfied eyes, his thumb gently wiping the corner of your mouth before he grips your waist and helps maneuver you into his lap.
The position is cramped in the driver's seat, your knees pressing into the leather on either side of his thighs, but the closeness makes everything feel more intense. You're almost shy suddenly, hands resting tentatively on his shoulders as you straddle him, cheeks burning under his heavy gaze. Harry doesn't rush you. He slides his hands up your sides, slow and soothing, before unzipping your jeans and slipping one hand inside. His fingers rub over the soaked fabric of your underwear, pressing the material against your swollen clit in lazy circles.
''Look at you,'' he murmurs, voice condescendingly sweet as he watches your face. ''Already so wet for me, sweetheart. Been thinking about this tight little pussy for longer than I should admit. You're going to take my cock so well, aren't you?''
You whimper, hips twitching against his hand despite the embarrassment flooding through you. Harry keeps his eyes locked on yours the entire time, intense and unwavering, as he pushes your underwear aside and slides two thick fingers inside you. He curls them perfectly, stroking that sensitive spot while his thumb continues rubbing your clit. The wet sounds of his fingers moving in and out of you fill the car, obscene and loud in the confined space.
''That's it, baby,'' he coos, filthy but tender. ''Ride my fingers like a good girl. You're so fucking tight... going to feel incredible wrapped around my cock. Been dreaming about stretching this pretty pussy open.''
Your head falls forward against his shoulder as the pleasure builds, but Harry catches your chin and tilts your face back up, forcing you to maintain eye contact. ''Don't hide from me,'' he whispers. ''I want to see how desperate you look when I make you come on my fingers first.''
He works you expertly until you're shaking, thighs trembling around his hips. You come with a broken moan, clenching hard around his fingers as pleasure crashes through you. Harry groans at the feeling, kissing you deeply while he rides you through it.
He pulls his fingers out, quickly shoving your jeans and underwear down your thighs as far as the cramped space allows. Then he lines himself up and slams into you in one brutal thrust. You cry out sharply at the sudden stretch, nails digging hard into his shoulders as your walls struggle to accommodate his thick length.
Harry barely gives you any time to adjust. He grips your hips tightly and starts rutting up into you with raw, animalistic need, his thrusts jolting your entire body. Each snap of his hips makes your breasts bounce, and he takes full advantage, yanking your top and bra down roughly to free them. His large hands squeeze and knead your breasts possessively, for his own pleasure more than yours, thumbs brushing roughly over your nipples before he leans in and takes one into his mouth.
He sucks hard, teeth grazing and biting down just enough to make you hiss, the sharp tug intensified by every powerful thrust of his cock. The car rocks slightly with the force of his movements, windows fogging up as your moans and his grunts fill the small space.
Harry reaches between you and rubs your clit again, fast and firm. ''Come on my cock, baby,'' he growls against your breast. ''Want to feel this tight pussy milking me when you fall apart.''
You come hard for the second time, crying out as your walls clamp down around him. Harry follows moments later with a broken moan, burying himself as deep as possible while thick ropes of cum spill inside you. The warmth of it makes you whimper, oversensitive and spent.
He stays inside you for a long moment, panting against your neck. Then he slowly pulls out, watching with dark fascination as his cum starts to dribble from your used pussy. He gathers some on two fingers and brings them to your lips, pushing them inside without warning.
You taste the mix of both of you, dazed and breathless.
Harry smiles, almost gently, as he zips himself back up.
''Okay,'' he says casually, voice still a little rough. ''You go on your way now. I'll wire you the money for the car tomorrow.''
...
thank you so much for reading! i appreciate any and all support so remember to like, comment and reblog. requests are open! 💕
Summary: Your new neighbor is a nightmare: loud music, endless parties, zero respect for anyone trying to sleep. After weeks of putting up with it, you finally storm over at 2 a.m. ready to rip him a new one.
Warnings: cursing, hate fuck, dirty talk, very mild choking
Word Count: 2,281
...
A dreadful bass thumps through your bedroom wall. Again.
It's 2:17 a.m. on a Wednesday, and the party next door shows no signs of slowing down. Laughter, clinking bottles, and some obnoxious indie-rock song with a heavy bassline vibrate through the thin plaster that separates your apartment from his. You've only been in this building six months, and the last three have been pure hell ever since he moved in.
You still haven't even seen the guy.
Just the constant evidence of his existence: empty beer cans in the hallway, cigarette smoke drifting onto your balcony, and these relentless late-night raves that shake your furniture.
Your apartment is usually your sanctuary. Soft lighting from the warm floor lamp in the corner, a cream-colored couch piled with thrifted throw pillows, the faint scent of vanilla from the candle you lit hours ago still lingering in the air. Your laptop sits open on the coffee table with half-finished work you've been too exhausted to finish. The walls are a soft sage green, your bed dressed in fresh white linen.
Tonight the noise crawls under your skin like ants. You've tried earplugs. White noise. Pillows over your head.
Nothing works when the bass feels like it's inside your ribcage.
You lie there staring at the ceiling, jaw clenched so tight it aches. Frustration simmers, hot and vicious, mixing with the bone-deep exhaustion that's been building for weeks. You're not confrontational. You never have been. You smile at neighbors, keep your music low, and mind your business. But something inside you finally snaps.
''Fuck this,'' you mutter, throwing the covers off.
You don't bother changing out of your pajamas, an old shirt and grey cotton shorts, just grab your keys and slam the door shut behind you.
Your socked feet thump against the cool hardwood as you storm out of your apartment, heart pounding with rage. The hallway lights buzz overhead, casting everything in a sickly yellow glow. His door is only ten steps away, but every step fuels the fire higher. The music grows louder the closer you get. You can hear muffled voices, someone laughing too loud. Your fist slams against his door before your brain catches up with your body, three sharp, angry knocks that make your knuckles sting.
The seconds stretch. You're breathing hard, chest rising and falling rapidly, fists still balled at your sides. Part of you hopes he doesn't answer so you can just scream into the void and go back to bed. Another, angrier part wants blood.
Then the door swings open.
And every furious word you prepared dies on your tongue.
Your neighbor is incredibly attractive.
And shirtless.
Sweat glistens on tan skin stretched over lean, toned muscle. Ink covers his chest and arms, tattooed ferns curling around his hipbones that disappear into the waistband of low-slung black sweatpants. His curls are messy, pushed back like he's been running his hands through them. A silver cross necklace rests against his collarbones.
His lips curve in a lazy smirk, his green eyes dragging slowly down your body before flicking back up to your face.
He looks like the poster boy for bad decisions.
The apartment behind him is chaos. Dim lighting, empty bottles and red solo cups scattered across every surface, clothes tossed over the back of a worn-out leather couch, tequila spilled on the kitchen island. The air that wafts out is thick with beer, cigarettes and cologne.
''Well,'' he drawls, voice low and raspy, clearly amused. One tattooed arm braces against the doorframe, making the muscles in his shoulder and bicep flex. ''Can I help you, neighbor?''
The smirk on his face is infuriating. Arrogant. Like he already knows exactly why you're here and finds it cute.
All the rage that carried you across the hallway surges back hotter than before. Your eyes narrow, fists tightening as you glare up at him.
You don't waste another second.
''Are you fucking kidding me?'' you snap, voice sharp enough to cut glass. ''It's two in the morning on a Wednesday. Some of us have actual jobs and need to sleep. Your shitty music has been shaking my walls for weeks. I can feel my bed vibrating. I've had enough.''
Harry leans against the doorframe like he has all the time in the world, the movement making the muscles in his chest and abdomen flex under the ink. His eyes drag over your bare legs again, slow and deliberate, before returning to your face. That lazy, dopey smile stays firmly in place, half-lidded and far too amused.
''Hi to you too, neighbor,'' he quips. ''I get the feeling I'm doing you a favor by making your bed vibrate. Seems like you need it, baby.''
Heat floods your face, and you're so frustrated with this handsome stranger you're pretty sure there's steam coming out of your ears.
''Don't call me baby, you ass. And don't look at me like that,'' you hiss, stepping closer and jabbing a finger into his bare chest. God, his skin is warm. ''I've been polite. I've dealt with the cigarette smoke on my balcony, the random girls giggling in the hallway at 4 a.m., the bass that feels like it's drilling into my skull. Turn. It. Down.''
He glances down at your finger still pressed against his sternum, then back up at you with an even wider smirk.
''Feisty,'' he murmurs, almost impressed. ''I like that. Most people just leave passive aggressive notes. You've got fire. It's cute.''
''Cute?'' You laugh bitterly, but your pulse is hammering. ''I'm trying to sleep. You throw these parties like you own the fucking building. Newsflash: you don't, dipshit. So don't use it as a nightclub.''
Harry bites his lower lip, clearly fighting a grin as he looks down at you. The scent of him, warm skin, cheap cologne, and most of all, alcohol, wraps around you in the small space between your bodies.
''You're really worked up, huh?'' His voice drops lower, teasing. ''You sure you came all the way over here just to complain?''
Your mouth falls open. The audacity makes your blood boil even hotter.
''I can help with that, y'know. That tension.'' He smiles smugly.
''You are unbelievable,'' you spit back, stepping even closer until you're nearly chest to chest and you have to look up at him. ''I want you to shut the fuck up and let me sleep, not fuck me.''
Harry's smile doesn't falter. If anything, it turns filthier. He tilts his head, a stray curl falling messily over his forehead as he studies you like you're the most entertaining thing he's seen all night.
''Who said anything about fucking?'' he points out, pleased with himself. ''I meant that I've got some... herbs you might wanna try. But I'm down for that hook-up as well, since you're clearly thinking about it and I'm feeling charitable tonight. Seems like it's been a while for you.''
You want to punch his smug yet beautiful face.
''God, you're disgusting,'' you shoot back, but your voice wavers just slightly. ''Move your parties somewhere else. I don't care how hot you think you are, I want peace and quiet.''
He pushes off the doorframe, closing the last bit of distance until you have to tilt your head back to keep glaring at him. The hard lines of his bare chest brush against the front of your thin shirt.
You hate that the contact sends electricity racing across your skin. Hate even more that he notices.
''You keep saying that,'' he murmurs, eyes dark, ''but you're standing here yelling at me in your pajamas instead of calling the cops. Makes me think you like coming over here and looking at me half-naked.''
Your breath catches. The hallway feels too small. Too hot. His stupid, perfect mouth is right there, still curved in that condescending little smirk, and the worst part is, you can't stop staring at it.
''Fuck you,'' you whisper venomously.
Harry's gaze drops to your lips.
''Oh yeah?'' he breathes, voice barely above a whisper. ''Well, I'm down if you are.''
The tension snaps.
You grab the silver cross around his neck and yank him down at the same moment he surges forward. Your mouths crash together in a bruising, angry kiss. His large hands immediately grip your waist, fingers digging into your bare skin under the hem of your tank top as he walks you backward until your back hits the wall beside his door.
The kiss is filthy from the start. Hungry. Hateful in the best way.
Your fingers stay fisted around his silver cross, tugging him down harder while his mouth devours yours. Tongues clash. Teeth nip. He tastes like beer and mint, and you hate how addictive it is.
Harry groans into your mouth, low and filthy, and you hate the way your pussy slickens at the sound. His hands slide down to grip your ass, lifting you effortlessly. It's angry, desperate, and messy as hell. Your legs wrap around his waist on instinct as he spins you, slamming the door shut with his foot and pressing your back against it with a dull thud.
''Fuck, you're annoying,'' you gasp between kisses, biting his bottom lip hard enough to make him hiss.
''Uh-huh. Then why are you soaking through these tiny fucking shorts?'' he shoots back, grinding his obvious hard-on right against your core. The friction makes your head spin.
You reach between your bodies and shove his sweatpants down just enough to free his cock. He's rock hard, thick, and flushed dark at the tip. The sight makes your mouth water even as you glare at him.
Harry chuckles darkly, the sound vibrating against your throat. ''Look at you. Stomping over here and yelling at me about my music and now you can't wait to get my cock inside you. Pathetic.''
''Shut up,'' you groan.
He doesn't shut up.
Instead, one of his big hands comes up to wrap lightly around your throat, not squeezing hard, just putting enough pressure on it to make your pulse jump under his fingers. His thumb strokes along your jaw as he yanks your shorts and panties to the side with his other hand.
''No panties under these little things? You really did come over here to get fucked, didn't you?'' he taunts, rubbing the head of his cock through your slick folds. ''Bet you've been touching yourself listening to my music through the wall. Such a desperate little thing.''
You moan despite yourself, hips twitching. ''You're such a fucking asshole.''
''And you're dripping for me,'' he whispers, then pulls out a condom from his back pocket. He rips it open with his teeth, slides it on, and pushes inside you in one rough thrust.
The stretch is intense. He's long, thick, and the position has you gasping, nails digging into his shoulders. Harry doesn't give you time to adjust; he starts fucking you hard and fast against the wall, hips snapping up into you with wet, obscene sounds.
''You're so fucking tight,'' he groans, forehead pressed against yours. His hand stays around your throat, grip tightening just enough to make your head feel blessedly quiet. ''This what you wanted when you came banging on my door? My cock ruining this pretty pussy?''
''Yes, fuck, harder,'' you demand, even as you insult him. ''God, your apartment is disgusting. You're such a pig.''
He laughs breathlessly, the sound breaking into a moan as you clench around him. ''Yeah? Keep talking shit while I'm balls deep in you.''
The door rattles with every brutal thrust. Your shirt is shoved up, his mouth latching onto one of your nipples, sucking hard while he pounds into you. Sweat slicks both your bodies. The cross necklace bounces between your breasts with every movement.
Harry shifts slightly, and the new angle makes you cry out. His hand leaves your throat to hitch your thigh higher, opening you up more as he drives deeper.
''Look at you taking it so well,'' he pants against your ear, voice rough. ''Screaming at me five minutes ago and now you're creaming all over my cock. Say it. Tell me how much you hate me while you cum.''
''I hate you,'' you moan, the words breaking apart as pleasure coils tighter and tighter. ''I fucking hate you, shit—''
''That's it, baby. Louder. Let the whole building hear how much you hate my dick.''
The filthy words push you over the edge. You come hard, clenching around him, thighs shaking as pleasure crashes through you in hot waves. Harry follows right after with a deep, guttural groan, burying himself to the hilt and spilling inside the condom. His hips stutter through it, face buried in your neck as he rides it out.
For a moment, the only sounds are your ragged breathing and the distant bass still playing from the speakers inside.
You stay pressed against the wall, his cock still buried in you, both of you slick with sweat. Slowly, Harry pulls back just enough to look at you, that infuriating smirk already creeping back onto his flushed face.
You narrow your eyes, still catching your breath. ''Are you going to turn the music down now?''
He chuckles, the sound low and raspy, and presses a little kiss to the corner of your mouth.
''I'm not sure yet,'' he murmurs, eyes sparkling with pure trouble. ''Might need to fuck you again just to make sure it's worth it. What do you say, neighbor? Round two, or are you still pretending you hate me?''
You hate how your body clenches around him at the suggestion, hate the shit-eating grin on his infuriatingly handsome face.
''Yes to both.''
...
thank you so much for reading! i appreciate any and all support so remember to like, comment and reblog. requests are open! 💕
hiii do you take request? if yes then i‘d love to request a smutshot hehe. so i keep seeing edits of harry with the caption: congratulations to whoever gets to bounce on that 😝 and thought maybe they could be hanging out like her on his lap and she’s ofc scrolling through his fandom twitter and tiktok and she likes his edits and comments and stuff and she shows him those and well one thing leads to another and they fuck and she rides him/ quite literally bounces on that hehehehe
i hope u take request, it’s actually my birthday on wednesday so this would be perfecttt
hi lovely! this is more of a long blurb but i wanted to get it done in time for your birthday. i hope you had/are having the best day ever!!! this one's for you, i hope you like it x
warnings: thirst comments, fingering, one mention of oral (f!receiving), sex on the couch, dirty talk, possessiveness, filthy and a little fluffy
The only sounds in Harry's living room are the television and the occasional soft laugh track drifting from the reruns of Friends he'd put on earlier. The two of you are freshly showered, skin warm and slightly dewy from the steam, utterly relaxed on your full day off together.
You're sitting on his lap on the massive sectional couch, your bare thighs pressed against the fabric of his grey sweats, wearing nothing but a pair of tiny black shorts and his oversized cream hoodie. It smells like him: a mix of laundry detergent, his passion fruit-scented shampoo, and that unmistakable scent of his cologne that always makes you feel safe.
The t-shirt Harry is wearing is thin and well-worn, stretched across his broad chest, and one of his tattooed arms is wrapped loosely around your waist, palm resting possessively on your hip beneath the hoodie. His chin rests comfortably on your shoulder, warm breath tickling your neck every time he exhales, while his other hand loosely holds the remote as he watches the screen with half-lidded, tired eyes.
Every so often his lips brush against the side of your neck or your shoulder in absentminded kisses, soft and gentle, like he doesn't even realize he's doing it. His fingers occasionally trace small circles on your hip, squeezing softly whenever you shift in his lap.
The house is peaceful around you, the city lights twinkling faintly through the large windows, and for once there's nowhere else either of you need to be. You're mindlessly scrolling through TikTok on your phone, the bright screen casting a soft glow over both of you as you tilt it slightly so he can see whenever something funny or cute pops up. You show him a couple of dog videos that make him chuckle against your skin, his chest vibrating under you, and a silly edit of one of his old interviews that has you both grinning. He murmurs little comments in your ear, ''That's ridiculous,'' or ''God, I look tired there,'' his voice low and raspy, lips brushing your earlobe with every word.
You keep scrolling, laughing softly at the endless stream of edits and fan content that somehow always finds its way onto your feed. One particular video catches your eye immediately. The familiar chorus of Father Figure by George Michael starts playing as the clip loads: slow-motion footage of Harry on stage, his body moving under the lights, curls bouncing, that cocky little smirk on his face.
And right there in bold white text across the middle of the screen it reads: congratulations to whoever gets to bounce on that
You can't help the bright, surprised laugh that bubbles out of you. Heat rushes to your cheeks as you tilt the phone more fully toward Harry so he can see it properly. ''Oh my god, Harry. Look at this one,'' you say, voice full of amusement as you press play again and let the slow-motion clip replay, the thirsty caption impossible to miss.
Harry lets out a shy little laugh against your shoulder when the video plays, the sound warm and slightly embarrassed as he watches his own hips rolling seductively on the screen. ''Jesus,'' he mutters, his arm tightening around your waist. But you're already scrolling down to the comments, reading them out loud with a growing smirk on your face.
''His girlfriend is so fucking lucky, can't believe she gets to bounce on that every night,'' you read from the screen, grinning.
A few even tag your username directly, calling you the luckiest girl alive. You feel a possessive little thrill run through you, and Harry must sense it because his shy laugh turns into a cocky smirk that pulls at his lips as he presses another kiss to the side of your neck.
''Well,'' he murmurs, voice dropping to a soft drawl. His chin stays on your shoulder, breath hot against your ear as he reads a few more comments for himself. ''They're not wrong, are they, baby?'' You turn your head slightly, catching the arrogant glint in his green eyes.
The possessiveness flares hotter in your chest and you can't help yourself. ''Exactly. You're mine,'' you whisper, turning your head slightly to press a hot, open-mouthed kiss against his jaw.
The words barely leave your mouth before Harry's grip on your waist turns firmer, pulling you tighter against his chest. A low, approving hum vibrates through his body and into your back.
''That's my girl,'' he whispers, lips brushing the shell of your ear. One of his hands slides down your stomach and slips under the waistband of your tiny shorts, fingers finding you already warm and slick. ''Fuck, you're soaked just from reading thirsty comments about my dick?''
You gasp softly as his long fingers glide through your folds, teasing your entrance before circling your clit with slow, deliberate strokes. His other arm stays wrapped around you, holding you securely against his chest while he starts rocking your hips gently against his growing hardness. The friction is delicious, the soft fabric of his sweats doing nothing to hide how quickly he's getting hard beneath you.
''All those girls wishing they could have me,'' he continues, voice rough and possessive in your ear, ''and here you are, sitting pretty on my lap with my hand in your shorts. And you fucking love it, don't you? You love that this cock is yours whenever you want it.''
His fingers dip lower, sliding one thick digit inside you slowly, then another, curling just right as he pumps them lazily. You moan quietly, head falling back against his shoulder, and Harry takes full advantage, attaching his mouth to your neck and sucking a mark there while his hips roll up to meet your movements. ''That's it, baby. Ride my fingers like you're gonna ride me later,” he murmurs, nipping at your earlobe. ''Bet all those fans would lose their minds if they knew how filthy you get for me. How wet you are right now just thinking about bouncing on my cock. God, I fucking love you. Your pussy feels like heaven.''
The dirty words combined with the steady rhythm of his fingers have you whimpering, rolling your hips harder against his hand. Harry chuckles darkly, the sound sending shivers down your spine. His free hand slips under your hoodie, palming your breast and pinching your nipple as his fingers stroke that spot inside of you. ''So fucking tight around my fingers, baby. Can't wait to feel you stretching around me.''
You turn around in his lap, maneuvering quickly so you're facing him properly, knees on either side of his thighs. It's a little clumsy, your legs tangling briefly in the process, but neither of you cares. The second you're turned around Harry's mouth crashes into yours, kissing you hard and deep, tongue sliding against yours with urgent hunger.
His hands grab fistfuls of your ass, pulling you down against his hard cock as you make out messily, hot breaths mingling together. You grind down on him, hands buried in his curls, moaning into his mouth while he groans against yours, the kiss turning wet and filthy.
The kiss breaks only long enough for Harry to trail his mouth down the side of your neck and across your shoulder, open-mouthed and hungry, sucking lightly at your skin while his hands grip your ass firmly. He tugs your tiny shorts down your thighs with impatient fingers, groaning deeply when he feels just how soaked you are.
''Fuck, baby, you're dripping for me,'' he rasps, eyes dark as he pushes against your hips so you sit up on your knees, and dips his head like he wants to taste you right there on the couch.
His breath is hot against your abdomen, but you thread your fingers through his curls and gently tug him back up.
''Not yet,'' you whisper, voice breathy but determined. ''I need you inside me right now, H. Please.''
Harry's eyes flash with heat and he nods, kissing your ear softly. ''Yeah? Greedy tonight, aren't you?'' He nips at your earlobe. ''That's okay, love. I'll eat this pretty pussy so fucking good later tonight. Gonna have you sitting on my face for as long as you can take it, I promise.''
You reach down between you, tugging at the waistband of his grey sweats and his boxers until his cock springs free, thick and hard and flushed. Harry groans as you wrap your hand around him, pumping him slowly a few times, feeling him throb in your palm.
He helps you shift, lining himself up at your entrance. The head of his cock slides through your slick folds, teasing your clit before he finally pushes in slowly, inch by inch, stretching you open so perfectly that you both moan loudly into the quiet living room.
''Shit, so tight,'' he breathes, forehead pressed to yours as you sink down onto him. Once he's fully seated inside you, you don't waste any time. You start moving, bouncing on his cock with steady, needy rolls of your hips, the wet sounds of your bodies meeting filling the space between you. Harry's hands stay on your hips, guiding you, helping you keep your balance while you ride him. ''That's it, baby. Bounce on it.''
You're still wearing his oversized hoodie, the hem falling around your thighs and occasionally blocking his view, so he gathers the fabric in one fist and holds it up against your stomach, eyes locked on the sight of his cock disappearing inside you again and again.
''Look at that,'' he murmurs, voice wrecked. ''So fucking pretty stretching around my cock. All mine.'' One of his hands slips under the hoodie, palming your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple as you ride him harder, grinding down deep on every bounce.
You squeeze around him deliberately on the next downstroke and Harry chokes out a broken moan, hips stuttering up into you. ''Do that again,'' he begs, voice hoarse. ''Fuck, squeeze me, baby. Just like that.''
''Yeah?'' you ask, a cocky little smile tugging at your lips even as pleasure makes your voice shake. You clench around him again, watching his eyes flutter and his head tip back against the couch. ''You like that? Knowing I'm the only one who makes you feel this good?''
Harry's grip on your hip tightens as he whimpers a desperate little yes, baby, thrusting up to meet your bounces. ''I'm all yours,'' he promises. ''No one else. Just you, riding me so fucking perfect. My good girl. I'm gonna make you my wife one day, you know that?''
When you start trembling, thighs burning and pleasure coiling tight in your belly, Harry brings his thumb to your clit, rubbing tight, slick circles. ''Come on, baby. Come for me. Want to feel you falling apart.''
You shatter with a loud cry of his name, clenching hard around him as your orgasm crashes through you. Harry follows right behind, groaning deeply as he spills inside you, hips jerking up with every pulse. He keeps you on him through the aftershocks, arms wrapped tight around your waist, face buried in your neck as you both catch your breath.
Then Harry pulls back just enough to look at you, a lazy, satisfied smirk on his flushed face. He brushes a damp strand of hair from your cheek.
''Congratulations, baby'' he murmurs, voice warm and teasing, eyes sparkling with that familiar mischief. ''Looks like you won the lottery.''
...
thank you so much for reading! i appreciate any and all support so remember to like, comment and reblog. requests are open! 💕
i found this request from a couple of months ago and suddenly felt inspired. this isn't exactly a one-shot but i hope you like it anyway!
warnings: on-and-off relationship, one mention of alcohol and drugs, brief oral (f!receiving), sex that's both angsty and fluffy
The knock on your door at 2:17 a.m. doesn't surprise you anymore.
You already know it's him before you open it. Only Harry knocks like that: three rapid, impatient taps, like he's trying to be polite but can't quite manage it. When you pull the door open, he's leaning against the frame, hair messy, black button-up half undone, the smell of cigarette smoke and his signature cologne clinging to his collar.
His eyes find yours immediately, tired but hungry.
''Didn't enjoy the parties?'' you ask quietly, already stepping aside to let him in.
Harry doesn't answer with words.
He just walks straight into your space, hands sliding around your waist as he kicks the door shut behind him. His mouth finds your neck like it's magnetic, pressing slow, wet kisses up to your jaw.
''Fucking hated them,'' he mumbles against your skin. ''All of it.''
You know better, but you still tilt your head, letting him have more of you. Your fingers slip into his curls, tugging gently the way he likes. He groans low, the sound vibrating against your throat.
''Everyone wanted something tonight,'' he continues, voice rough. “Pictures. Stories. Attention. Favors. And I just kept thinking... I didn't want to be around any of them. I just want you.''
His hands slide under your oversized t-shirt, the one you stole from him months ago, palms warm and possessive on your bare waist. He walks you backwards until your back meets the wall in the hallway. The glow from the living room lamp casts soft shadows over his face.
You cup his cheek, thumb brushing his bottom lip. ''Then why do you keep going?''
Harry exhales a tired laugh, forehead dropping to yours. ''Because I'm an idiot. Because it's easier to get drunk and high than sit with how much I miss you when we've broken up again.''
The confession hangs between you, heavy and honest in a way he rarely allows himself to be. Then his mouth is on yours. It's slow, deep, sensual. Not rushed like it usually is. It's like he wants to feel your lips on his to make up for every second he wasted tonight. His tongue slides against yours, lazy and needy at the same time, while his hands roam under your shirt, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts.
''Missed you,'' he whispers into the kiss. ''Missed this.''
You tug his shirt open the rest of the way, pushing it off his shoulders. Your palms glide over his warm chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart. Harry shudders under your touch. He lifts your shirt off in one smooth motion and presses his bare chest to yours, skin on skin.
''Bedroom?'' you murmur.
''Don't wanna wait that long.''
He picks you up, your legs wrapping around his waist as he carries you the few steps to the couch. When he lays you down, he doesn't climb over you right away. He kneels between your legs, slowly pulling your panties down your thighs, his eyes dark and reverent.
''Look at you,'' he breathes, voice thick. ''So fucking pretty. So fucking wet for me already.'' His hands slide up your thighs, spreading them wider. Then his mouth is on your pussy, kissing your clit in a way that make your back arch. He takes his time, humming against you like he's savoring it, like nothing else in the world exists.
''Harry...'' you moan, fingers tightening in his hair.
He pulls back just enough to look up at you, lips shiny. ''Say it again. Say my name like that.''
''Harry,'' you whisper, softer this time.
He curses under his breath and moves up your body, kissing every inch on the way. When he finally pushes inside you, it's slow and deep, stretching you open in that perfect way only he does. A broken groan leaves his throat as he bottoms out, forehead pressed to yours.
''Fuck... nothing feels like you. Nothing.''
He starts moving, rolling his hips in long, sensual strokes. Not fast or rough like usual. Just deep and intentional, like he's trying to memorize every second. His mouth stays close to yours, kissing you between breaths, whispering filthy but sweet things against your lips.
''No one else gets me like this... no one else makes me feel this good. Just you, baby. Always you.''
Your hands roam his back, nails dragging lightly down his skin as he moves inside you. Pleasure curls low in your belly, and your back arches off the bed, nipples brushing his bare chest. Harry's breathing grows heavier, more desperate, his hips pressing deeper with every thrust.
''You make my whole fucking week, you know that?'' he rasps, face buried in your neck and pressing kisses against the sensitive skin there. ''There's nowhere else in the world I rather be than inside of you.''
He moans when you clench around him, and his pace falters, growing a little needier, a little less controlled as he chases the edge.
''Come with me,'' he pleads softly. ''Please, baby... let me feel you.''
You do, falling apart around him with his name on your lips. Harry follows right after, hips stuttering as he spills inside you, whispering broken praises and quiet confessions into your skin.
Afterwards, he doesn't pull out right away.
He stays buried deep, arms wrapped around you, heart hammering against yours in the quiet of your living room.
''Stay tonight?'' you whisper, fingers in his hair.
Harry lifts his head, green eyes soft and tired and honest.
''Yeah,'' he murmurs, brushing his nose against yours. ''I'm not going anywhere.''
...
thank you so much for reading! i appreciate any and all support so remember to like, comment and reblog. requests are open! 💕
Summary: He's heard every vulnerable word you've written, but tonight Harry wants to hear the sounds you make when he's buried deep inside you, breaking every professional boundary in the process.
Warnings: fingering, oral (f!receiving), sex in a recording studio, surprise at the end
Word Count: 2,867
...
The overhead lights in the studio are dimmed to a warm amber glow, casting soft shadows across the dark woord panels and the endless tangle of cables snaking across the floor. It smells faintly of stale coffee from the half-empty mugs on the console and the cherry-scented candle you'd lit hours ago to cut through the recycled air.
It's just past two in the morning now. The rest of the team had trickled out one by one: engineers with families, producers citing early calls, mumbled goodnights and promises to pick it up tomorrow fading down the hallway until only the two of you remained.
Outside the thick soundproof glass, New York City flickers far below, indifferent to whatever is about to happen up here on the eighth floor.
You've been curled up in the corner of the couch for the last forty minutes, notebook balanced on your knees, pen tapping an absent rhythm against the page. The lyrics you scribbled earlier feel half-formed, vulnerable in a way that makes your stomach twist every time you reread them. This is only your third official session with Harry, but it already feels different from the polished, professional co-writes you've done with others. He has a way of... pulling things out of you.
Harry sits at the mixing board, one leg bouncing lightly, headphones pulled off one ear so he can hear you when you speak. His curls are messy; he's pushed them back more often than you can count. A simple white t-shirt stretches across his shoulders, the fabric soft and slightly worn, and a pair of loose beige sweatpants sits low on his hips. A silver cross necklace catches the dim lamplight whenever he moves.
He looks unfairly good for someone who's been in this room since noon.
You remember the first time you met Harry vividly. A sleek studio in Los Angeles much like this one, but brighter, full of people. You'd walked in clutching your laptop and a coffee that had gone cold, nerves buzzing under your skin. Harry had glanced up from his guitar, a dimpled smile on his face that somehow made the entire room feel smaller, and said, ''Heard your stuff on that Phoebe Bridgers track. It's good. Really good.''
From there it's been easy, surprisingly so.
Hours of trading melodies, him humming low in his throat while you scribble adjustments, the kind of creative back-and-forth that leaves you buzzing even after you get home. But lately the air between you has thickened. Lingering looks when one of you nails a line. His fingers brushing yours when he passes you the notebook. The way his voice drops a little when he praises something you write.
Tonight that tension feels heavier.
''Play it again,'' you say softly, setting your notebook aside.
Harry glances over his shoulder at you, green eyes catching the glow of the screen. A small smirk tugs at his lips. ''Bossy tonight, aren't we?''
You roll your eyes, but heat creeps up your neck anyway. ''It's past two a.m. and we're still stuck on the bridge. Play it.''
He chuckles and turns back to the board to hit play. The track fills the room, moody, atmospheric, the kind of late-night sound that quietens any restless thoughts. His voice is layered in, raspy and intimate, singing the lines you workshopped together earlier.
You get up and walk over, pushing your sleeves up to your elbows. You changed into something more comfortable hours ago: soft black lounge shorts and an oversized lilac sweater that slips off one shoulder.
Harry leans back in his chair as the song plays, one arm draped casually over the back. When you stop beside him, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from his body, he tilts his head to look up at you.
''See? Right there,'' he murmurs, pointing at the waveform. ''Your harmony on that last line... We should definitely keep that.''
Your heart stutters. You lean in a little to see the screen better, your arm brushing his. ''Yeah?''
''Mhm.'' His voice is quieter now. ''You've got this way of writing that gets under the skin.''
The song loops into the bridge again. The overhead lights cast shadows across his cheekbones and the stubble along his jaw, and his cologne, something earthy and expensive, lingers in the air like smoke.
You swallow. ''I started songwriting because I was shit at saying things out loud,'' you admit, the words slipping out before you can stop them. ''Still am, sometimes. Easier to hide behind metaphors and melodies.''
Harry's gaze lingers on your face, tracing the curve of your cheek, the way your lips part slightly. ''I get that.'' He reaches up slowly, almost absentmindedly, and tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His fingertips graze the shell of your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. ''That's why this works so well. Our partnership. You hear what I'm trying to say even when I don't quite know how to say it yet.''
The song plays on, but neither of you is really listening anymore. His hand lingers near your jaw for a second longer than necessary before dropping, but his eyes don't leave yours.
''You should sing it with me,'' he says, voice rougher. ''Just once. I want to hear how it sounds when we're both in it.''
You hesitate, pulse hammering. Being this close to him, alone, in the middle of the night, with the rest of the world shut out, feels dangerous. Thrilling. Like taking a step off the edge you won't be able to take back.
Harry stands up slowly, towering over you in the small space between the chair and the console. The movement brings your bodies nearly flush. You can see the faint freckles across his nose, the way his t-shirt clings to his chest with the slight sheen of studio warmth.
''Harry...'' you start, not sure if it's a warning or an invitation.
He tilts his head, that crooked smile returning, but challenging this time. ''C'mon, love. Just us. We sound so good together, don't we?''
You're not sure he's talking about the song anymore.
The tension snaps taut between you like a live wire. His hand comes up again, this time resting lightly at your waist, thumb brushing the sliver of skin where your sweater had ridden up. The touch burns.
You're both breathing a little heavier now, the low music still swirling around you, making the moment feel even more intimate. His eyes drop to your lips for a beat, then back up, dark and questioning.
Your back presses lightly against the edge of the mixing board as he steps closer, caging you in without fully trapping you. The heat of him, the scent of him, the way he's looking at you like he's been waiting for this exact second for weeks, it's overwhelming.
For one suspended heartbeat, you both hold your breath. Then Harry's other hand lands on your waist, fingers pressing into the soft give of your skin beneath the hem of your sweater, and he pulls you in.
His mouth meets yours like he's been starving for it. The kiss is slow at first, almost disbelieving. Warm lips, the faint scratch of stubble, the taste of black coffee and the gum he'd chewed hours earlier... But hunger quickly overtakes restraint. A low sound rumbles in his chest as you open for him, tongues sliding, breaths mingling hot and urgent.
Your back presses harder against the mixing console, the edge digging into your spine, yet all you feel is the solid heat of him crowding you, consuming you. You shouldn't, the thought flickers somewhere distant in your mind. You work together. This could ruin everything.
Still, you kiss him harder.
His hands roam. One slides up your back beneath the oversized sweater, palm warm and possessive against your bare skin, while the other cups the side of your neck, thumb stroking along your jaw as he tilts your head to deepen the kiss. You swallow the groan he lets out when your fingers twist into his curls, tugging lightly.
''Fuck, you've no idea how long I've wanted this,'' Harry murmurs against your lips, voice raspy and low. He nips at your bottom lip, then soothes it with his tongue. ''Every night in this room... watching you bite your pen when you're thinking, the way your voice gets all soft and shy when you propose something. Fuck. You drive me insane, love.''
His words send heat pooling low in your belly. You arch into him, feeling the hard line of his cock already pressing against your thigh through his sweatpants. The realization that you did this to him makes you dizzy.
Harry's mouth trails down your neck, sucking lightly at the sensitive spot just below your ear until your knees weaken. ''Tell me to stop,'' he breathes against your skin, even as his hand slips under your sweater to cup your breast, thumb circling your nipple. ''Tell me and I will.''
You don't. Instead you pull him closer, whispering, ''Don't you dare.''
A dark, satisfied sound leaves him. In one fluid motion he tugs your sweater over your head and drops it to the floor. Cool studio air kisses your skin, but his hands are everywhere, warm, slightly calloused from years of guitar strings, mapping every inch like he's memorizing you. He lifts you effortlessly onto the edge of the console, stepping between your spread thighs. The new angle lets him grind against you, slow and deliberate, the friction pulling a broken moan from your throat.
''God, listen to you,'' he groans, forehead pressed to yours. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide. ''You sound so pretty, baby.''
You reach down and palm him through the soft fabric of his sweatpants. He's thick, hot, already leaking. The way his hips jerk into your touch makes pride flare hot in your chest. Harry curses under his breath and captures your mouth again, kissing you deeply.
Clothes disappear in a haze. Your shorts and underwear are tugged down together. His t-shirt joins the growing pile on the rug. When he's finally bare, you can't help but stare: the ink covering his torso, the cut of his hips, the way his cock curves up heavy and flushed against his stomach. He's beautiful in the low amber and blue light, curls wild, lips kiss-swollen, chest rising and falling rapidly.
He drops to his knees.
The first swipe of his tongue through your folds rips a gasp from you. Harry hums in pleasure, the vibration shooting straight through your core. He eats you out like a man possessed, two thick fingers curling inside you, stroking that spot that makes your vision spark white.
One of your hands grips the edge of the console, the other fists his hair as your thighs tremble around his shoulders.
''That's it,'' he murmurs between your legs, voice muffled and filthy. ''Let me hear you. No one else is here, baby. Just us. Let it out.''
You come hard on his tongue, back arching, a broken cry echoing through the studio. He doesn't stop until you're shaking, oversensitive and gasping his name like a prayer.
When he rises, his chin glistens. The look in his eyes is almost feral. He kisses you again, letting you taste yourself on his tongue, and lines himself up at your entrance.
''Been thinking about this for weeks,'' he confesses, voice strained as he pushes in slowly, inch by thick inch. The stretch burns so good you forget how to breathe for a second. ''Wondering how tight you'd feel. How wet. Fuck, you're perfect.''
He bottoms out with a choked moan. For a moment you both stay still, foreheads pressed together, breathing each other in.
The weight of it all, colleagues, late night at the studio, crossing every professional boundary, only makes it feel that much hotter.
Then he starts to move. His deep, rolling thrusts drag against every sensitive spot inside you, the console creaking in protest beneath you. Your nails dig into his back, leaving red trails across the skin there.
Harry buries his face in your neck, sucking marks you'll have to hide tomorrow, whispering the dirtiest praise between thrusts.
''So fucking good for me... taking my cock like you were made for it... been so patient, haven't you, love?''
You wrap your legs around his waist, heels digging into his lower back, urging him deeper. Pleasure sparks with the new angle, and another orgasm builds fast and overwhelming. Harry feels it, reaches between you to circle your clit with his thumb, and you shatter again, clenching around him so tightly he curses, pace turning erratic.
''Where do you want me?'' he rasps, voice wrecked.
''Inside,'' you gasp. ''Please, Harry—''
He comes with a deep groan, hips stuttering as he spills inside you, face buried in your neck. ''Fuck, you're incredible,'' he mumbles into your skin. The two of you stay locked together, trembling, breathing hard.
Eventually Harry pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes soft and hazy. He presses a slow, tender kiss to your lips, then another to your forehead. Gentle fingers brush damp strands of hair from your face as he helps you down from the console on shaky legs. You both dress in quiet, sharing glances and small smiles, the kind that say more than either of you are ready to voice yet. The red light on the console is blinking, but in the haze of afterglow, neither of you notices.
You leave the studio together just before sunrise, his hand brushing yours in the hallway before you part ways into the cool NYC morning.
...
The next morning you walk back into the studio with a coffee in hand. Sleep had been restless, your body still carrying the memory of Harry's hands, his mouth, the way he had sounded falling apart inside you.
You're wearing a loose black turtleneck to hide the faint marks along your neck and a pair of wide-leg jeans, trying to look casual even though your heart races every time you think about last night.
A couple of the other engineers are already there, Marcus at the console and Lena lounging on the couch with her laptop. The room smells like fresh coffee and the same warm electronics as always, but everything feels different, charged, after what you did here.
''Morning,'' you greet, forcing your voice to sound normal as you drop into your usual spot on the couch.
''Morning,'' Marcus replies without looking up, already clicking through files. ''Harry's running a few minutes late. He texted he got stuck in traffic. Let's catch up on where you two left off last night. I'll pull up the latest draft so we can all be on the same page.''
The moody instrumental you and Harry had been perfecting fills the studio first. Atmospheric synths, the low thrum of bass, Harry's layered vocals on the verses you'd worked on together. It sounds good. Really good. For a few blissful seconds you almost relax.
Then the bridge hits. Instead of the clean harmony you'd been workshopping, the speakers fill with the unmistakable wet sounds of kissing. A low, needy moan, unmistakably yours, cuts through the track, followed by Harry's rough, breathless voice:
''Fuck, you've no idea how long I've wanted this...''
Your blood turns to ice. Heat floods your face so fast you feel dizzy. Lena coughs. Marcus freezes, finger hovering uselessly over the mouse.
The audio continues mercilessly. The wet slide of tongues. Your broken whimpers. The unmistakable creak of the console. Harry's filthy groan as he tells you how tight you feel, how perfect you are for him.
''Oh my god—'' you whisper, mortified.
The studio door swings open right as the sounds grow louder, Harry stepping in with his sunglasses still on and a half-eaten bagel in hand. He takes one look at everyone's faces, hears his own voice groaning ''That's it, let me hear you'' through the speakers, and his eyes widen.
In one chaotic movement he practically vaults over the mixing console, nearly knocking over a coffee cup as he slams his hand down on the spacebar to pause it.
''Jesus, okay, that's enough of that,'' he blurts, voice cracking slightly. He clears his throat, running a hand through his messy curls. ''That was... uh, a rough draft. I was messing around with some... backing vocal ideas. Got a bit experimental. Bad idea. Terrible, actually.''
The silence that follows is deafening.
Harry's gaze finally finds yours across the room. His cheeks are flushed, but there's something else in his eyes. A spark of heat, a secret smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. The same look he gave you last night right before he dropped to his knees.
You feel that same pull low in your belly. The forbidden thrill hasn't disappeared. If anything, it's more exciting now. You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling and simply raise an eyebrow at him, letting the shared secret hang thick in the air between you.
Harry coughs again, rubbing the back of his neck. ''Right. So... should we, uh, start from the top?''
...
thank you so much for reading! i appreciate any and all support so remember to like, comment and reblog. requests are open! 💕
Summary: He's heard every vulnerable word you've written, but tonight Harry wants to hear the sounds you make when he's buried deep inside you, breaking every professional boundary in the process.
Warnings: fingering, oral (f!receiving), sex in a recording studio, surprise at the end
Word Count: 2,867
...
The overhead lights in the studio are dimmed to a warm amber glow, casting soft shadows across the dark woord panels and the endless tangle of cables snaking across the floor. It smells faintly of stale coffee from the half-empty mugs on the console and the cherry-scented candle you'd lit hours ago to cut through the recycled air.
It's just past two in the morning now. The rest of the team had trickled out one by one: engineers with families, producers citing early calls, mumbled goodnights and promises to pick it up tomorrow fading down the hallway until only the two of you remained.
Outside the thick soundproof glass, New York City flickers far below, indifferent to whatever is about to happen up here on the eighth floor.
You've been curled up in the corner of the couch for the last forty minutes, notebook balanced on your knees, pen tapping an absent rhythm against the page. The lyrics you scribbled earlier feel half-formed, vulnerable in a way that makes your stomach twist every time you reread them. This is only your third official session with Harry, but it already feels different from the polished, professional co-writes you've done with others. He has a way of... pulling things out of you.
Harry sits at the mixing board, one leg bouncing lightly, headphones pulled off one ear so he can hear you when you speak. His curls are messy; he's pushed them back more often than you can count. A simple white t-shirt stretches across his shoulders, the fabric soft and slightly worn, and a pair of loose beige sweatpants sits low on his hips. A silver cross necklace catches the dim lamplight whenever he moves.
He looks unfairly good for someone who's been in this room since noon.
You remember the first time you met Harry vividly. A sleek studio in Los Angeles much like this one, but brighter, full of people. You'd walked in clutching your laptop and a coffee that had gone cold, nerves buzzing under your skin. Harry had glanced up from his guitar, a dimpled smile on his face that somehow made the entire room feel smaller, and said, ''Heard your stuff on that Phoebe Bridgers track. It's good. Really good.''
From there it's been easy, surprisingly so.
Hours of trading melodies, him humming low in his throat while you scribble adjustments, the kind of creative back-and-forth that leaves you buzzing even after you get home. But lately the air between you has thickened. Lingering looks when one of you nails a line. His fingers brushing yours when he passes you the notebook. The way his voice drops a little when he praises something you write.
Tonight that tension feels heavier.
''Play it again,'' you say softly, setting your notebook aside.
Harry glances over his shoulder at you, green eyes catching the glow of the screen. A small smirk tugs at his lips. ''Bossy tonight, aren't we?''
You roll your eyes, but heat creeps up your neck anyway. ''It's past two a.m. and we're still stuck on the bridge. Play it.''
He chuckles and turns back to the board to hit play. The track fills the room, moody, atmospheric, the kind of late-night sound that quietens any restless thoughts. His voice is layered in, raspy and intimate, singing the lines you workshopped together earlier.
You get up and walk over, pushing your sleeves up to your elbows. You changed into something more comfortable hours ago: soft black lounge shorts and an oversized lilac sweater that slips off one shoulder.
Harry leans back in his chair as the song plays, one arm draped casually over the back. When you stop beside him, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from his body, he tilts his head to look up at you.
''See? Right there,'' he murmurs, pointing at the waveform. ''Your harmony on that last line... We should definitely keep that.''
Your heart stutters. You lean in a little to see the screen better, your arm brushing his. ''Yeah?''
''Mhm.'' His voice is quieter now. ''You've got this way of writing that gets under the skin.''
The song loops into the bridge again. The overhead lights cast shadows across his cheekbones and the stubble along his jaw, and his cologne, something earthy and expensive, lingers in the air like smoke.
You swallow. ''I started songwriting because I was shit at saying things out loud,'' you admit, the words slipping out before you can stop them. ''Still am, sometimes. Easier to hide behind metaphors and melodies.''
Harry's gaze lingers on your face, tracing the curve of your cheek, the way your lips part slightly. ''I get that.'' He reaches up slowly, almost absentmindedly, and tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His fingertips graze the shell of your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. ''That's why this works so well. Our partnership. You hear what I'm trying to say even when I don't quite know how to say it yet.''
The song plays on, but neither of you is really listening anymore. His hand lingers near your jaw for a second longer than necessary before dropping, but his eyes don't leave yours.
''You should sing it with me,'' he says, voice rougher. ''Just once. I want to hear how it sounds when we're both in it.''
You hesitate, pulse hammering. Being this close to him, alone, in the middle of the night, with the rest of the world shut out, feels dangerous. Thrilling. Like taking a step off the edge you won't be able to take back.
Harry stands up slowly, towering over you in the small space between the chair and the console. The movement brings your bodies nearly flush. You can see the faint freckles across his nose, the way his t-shirt clings to his chest with the slight sheen of studio warmth.
''Harry...'' you start, not sure if it's a warning or an invitation.
He tilts his head, that crooked smile returning, but challenging this time. ''C'mon, love. Just us. We sound so good together, don't we?''
You're not sure he's talking about the song anymore.
The tension snaps taut between you like a live wire. His hand comes up again, this time resting lightly at your waist, thumb brushing the sliver of skin where your sweater had ridden up. The touch burns.
You're both breathing a little heavier now, the low music still swirling around you, making the moment feel even more intimate. His eyes drop to your lips for a beat, then back up, dark and questioning.
Your back presses lightly against the edge of the mixing board as he steps closer, caging you in without fully trapping you. The heat of him, the scent of him, the way he's looking at you like he's been waiting for this exact second for weeks, it's overwhelming.
For one suspended heartbeat, you both hold your breath. Then Harry's other hand lands on your waist, fingers pressing into the soft give of your skin beneath the hem of your sweater, and he pulls you in.
His mouth meets yours like he's been starving for it. The kiss is slow at first, almost disbelieving. Warm lips, the faint scratch of stubble, the taste of black coffee and the gum he'd chewed hours earlier... But hunger quickly overtakes restraint. A low sound rumbles in his chest as you open for him, tongues sliding, breaths mingling hot and urgent.
Your back presses harder against the mixing console, the edge digging into your spine, yet all you feel is the solid heat of him crowding you, consuming you. You shouldn't, the thought flickers somewhere distant in your mind. You work together. This could ruin everything.
Still, you kiss him harder.
His hands roam. One slides up your back beneath the oversized sweater, palm warm and possessive against your bare skin, while the other cups the side of your neck, thumb stroking along your jaw as he tilts your head to deepen the kiss. You swallow the groan he lets out when your fingers twist into his curls, tugging lightly.
''Fuck, you've no idea how long I've wanted this,'' Harry murmurs against your lips, voice raspy and low. He nips at your bottom lip, then soothes it with his tongue. ''Every night in this room... watching you bite your pen when you're thinking, the way your voice gets all soft and shy when you propose something. Fuck. You drive me insane, love.''
His words send heat pooling low in your belly. You arch into him, feeling the hard line of his cock already pressing against your thigh through his sweatpants. The realization that you did this to him makes you dizzy.
Harry's mouth trails down your neck, sucking lightly at the sensitive spot just below your ear until your knees weaken. ''Tell me to stop,'' he breathes against your skin, even as his hand slips under your sweater to cup your breast, thumb circling your nipple. ''Tell me and I will.''
You don't. Instead you pull him closer, whispering, ''Don't you dare.''
A dark, satisfied sound leaves him. In one fluid motion he tugs your sweater over your head and drops it to the floor. Cool studio air kisses your skin, but his hands are everywhere, warm, slightly calloused from years of guitar strings, mapping every inch like he's memorizing you. He lifts you effortlessly onto the edge of the console, stepping between your spread thighs. The new angle lets him grind against you, slow and deliberate, the friction pulling a broken moan from your throat.
''God, listen to you,'' he groans, forehead pressed to yours. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide. ''You sound so pretty, baby.''
You reach down and palm him through the soft fabric of his sweatpants. He's thick, hot, already leaking. The way his hips jerk into your touch makes pride flare hot in your chest. Harry curses under his breath and captures your mouth again, kissing you deeply.
Clothes disappear in a haze. Your shorts and underwear are tugged down together. His t-shirt joins the growing pile on the rug. When he's finally bare, you can't help but stare: the ink covering his torso, the cut of his hips, the way his cock curves up heavy and flushed against his stomach. He's beautiful in the low amber and blue light, curls wild, lips kiss-swollen, chest rising and falling rapidly.
He drops to his knees.
The first swipe of his tongue through your folds rips a gasp from you. Harry hums in pleasure, the vibration shooting straight through your core. He eats you out like a man possessed, two thick fingers curling inside you, stroking that spot that makes your vision spark white.
One of your hands grips the edge of the console, the other fists his hair as your thighs tremble around his shoulders.
''That's it,'' he murmurs between your legs, voice muffled and filthy. ''Let me hear you. No one else is here, baby. Just us. Let it out.''
You come hard on his tongue, back arching, a broken cry echoing through the studio. He doesn't stop until you're shaking, oversensitive and gasping his name like a prayer.
When he rises, his chin glistens. The look in his eyes is almost feral. He kisses you again, letting you taste yourself on his tongue, and lines himself up at your entrance.
''Been thinking about this for weeks,'' he confesses, voice strained as he pushes in slowly, inch by thick inch. The stretch burns so good you forget how to breathe for a second. ''Wondering how tight you'd feel. How wet. Fuck, you're perfect.''
He bottoms out with a choked moan. For a moment you both stay still, foreheads pressed together, breathing each other in.
The weight of it all, colleagues, late night at the studio, crossing every professional boundary, only makes it feel that much hotter.
Then he starts to move. His deep, rolling thrusts drag against every sensitive spot inside you, the console creaking in protest beneath you. Your nails dig into his back, leaving red trails across the skin there.
Harry buries his face in your neck, sucking marks you'll have to hide tomorrow, whispering the dirtiest praise between thrusts.
''So fucking good for me... taking my cock like you were made for it... been so patient, haven't you, love?''
You wrap your legs around his waist, heels digging into his lower back, urging him deeper. Pleasure sparks with the new angle, and another orgasm builds fast and overwhelming. Harry feels it, reaches between you to circle your clit with his thumb, and you shatter again, clenching around him so tightly he curses, pace turning erratic.
''Where do you want me?'' he rasps, voice wrecked.
''Inside,'' you gasp. ''Please, Harry—''
He comes with a deep groan, hips stuttering as he spills inside you, face buried in your neck. ''Fuck, you're incredible,'' he mumbles into your skin. The two of you stay locked together, trembling, breathing hard.
Eventually Harry pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes soft and hazy. He presses a slow, tender kiss to your lips, then another to your forehead. Gentle fingers brush damp strands of hair from your face as he helps you down from the console on shaky legs. You both dress in quiet, sharing glances and small smiles, the kind that say more than either of you are ready to voice yet. The red light on the console is blinking, but in the haze of afterglow, neither of you notices.
You leave the studio together just before sunrise, his hand brushing yours in the hallway before you part ways into the cool NYC morning.
...
The next morning you walk back into the studio with a coffee in hand. Sleep had been restless, your body still carrying the memory of Harry's hands, his mouth, the way he had sounded falling apart inside you.
You're wearing a loose black turtleneck to hide the faint marks along your neck and a pair of wide-leg jeans, trying to look casual even though your heart races every time you think about last night.
A couple of the other engineers are already there, Marcus at the console and Lena lounging on the couch with her laptop. The room smells like fresh coffee and the same warm electronics as always, but everything feels different, charged, after what you did here.
''Morning,'' you greet, forcing your voice to sound normal as you drop into your usual spot on the couch.
''Morning,'' Marcus replies without looking up, already clicking through files. ''Harry's running a few minutes late. He texted he got stuck in traffic. Let's catch up on where you two left off last night. I'll pull up the latest draft so we can all be on the same page.''
The moody instrumental you and Harry had been perfecting fills the studio first. Atmospheric synths, the low thrum of bass, Harry's layered vocals on the verses you'd worked on together. It sounds good. Really good. For a few blissful seconds you almost relax.
Then the bridge hits. Instead of the clean harmony you'd been workshopping, the speakers fill with the unmistakable wet sounds of kissing. A low, needy moan, unmistakably yours, cuts through the track, followed by Harry's rough, breathless voice:
''Fuck, you've no idea how long I've wanted this...''
Your blood turns to ice. Heat floods your face so fast you feel dizzy. Lena coughs. Marcus freezes, finger hovering uselessly over the mouse.
The audio continues mercilessly. The wet slide of tongues. Your broken whimpers. The unmistakable creak of the console. Harry's filthy groan as he tells you how tight you feel, how perfect you are for him.
''Oh my god—'' you whisper, mortified.
The studio door swings open right as the sounds grow louder, Harry stepping in with his sunglasses still on and a half-eaten bagel in hand. He takes one look at everyone's faces, hears his own voice groaning ''That's it, let me hear you'' through the speakers, and his eyes widen.
In one chaotic movement he practically vaults over the mixing console, nearly knocking over a coffee cup as he slams his hand down on the spacebar to pause it.
''Jesus, okay, that's enough of that,'' he blurts, voice cracking slightly. He clears his throat, running a hand through his messy curls. ''That was... uh, a rough draft. I was messing around with some... backing vocal ideas. Got a bit experimental. Bad idea. Terrible, actually.''
The silence that follows is deafening.
Harry's gaze finally finds yours across the room. His cheeks are flushed, but there's something else in his eyes. A spark of heat, a secret smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. The same look he gave you last night right before he dropped to his knees.
You feel that same pull low in your belly. The forbidden thrill hasn't disappeared. If anything, it's more exciting now. You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling and simply raise an eyebrow at him, letting the shared secret hang thick in the air between you.
Harry coughs again, rubbing the back of his neck. ''Right. So... should we, uh, start from the top?''
...
thank you so much for reading! i appreciate any and all support so remember to like, comment and reblog. requests are open! 💕
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. ''Harry—''
''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 you’ve mentioned how harry would smile at other women and kind of let them flirt with him while he was with Y/N… 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!!!!😚😚💖
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
...
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 and— 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 this—'' your hand gestures vaguely between the two of you, voice trembling, ''—what 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 deliver—''
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 café. 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 eggs 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! 💕
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 lo— 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 tonight—'' 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't— 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 I—''
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 breathe—''
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 extras… 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.
...
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