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Series/Minis:
⛓️One and Only Mini Series Masterlist: Toxic!Harry x Fem!reader
🍬 Hard Candy Series Mini Series Masterlist: Camboy!Harry
🎂 Birthday Girl Mini Series Masterlist: Famous!Harry, Agegap!, POC!reader
݁ One Shots:
🕊️ Reconciliation: Harry and Y/N get into a fight & decide to take a break - With a twist at the end. (Angst)
🍿 Film Night*: Sub!Harry drives your attention away from a film.
🎵Second to the Song+: Y/N meets Harry at a coffee shop to discuss their relationship after Harry went ghost.
🪩 Kisses & Disco*^+: Harry reunites with Y/N at his ‘Kiss All The Time. Disco, Occasionally.’ Album listening party.
♥️ Bossy*^: An exhausted Harry plays submissive after needing some relief after his show.
🌻 Sunflower*^+: Harry gives his girlfriend, Y/N oral sex for the first time.
💊 Sick Day*^+: Harry has been sick with the flu causing him to be needy, whiny and horny.
🩵 We Belong Together^+: Harry does his first promo interviews for “Kiss All The Time. Disco, Occasionally.” with Y/N by his side.
❤️ Stuck^+: Harry meets a quiet fan while stuck in an elevator.
🎧 Radiate^+: Harry’s girlfriend comes to the studio to be the first listener for his fourth album, ‘Kiss All The Time. Disco, Occasionally.’
📍On Tour*^+: Harry gets sexually frustrated while on tour away from his girlfriend, Y/N.
🏆 Super Pretty^+: Harry supports his wife, Y/N at the Grammy’s after being nominated for ‘Best Female R&B Singer’.
🎀 Filthy Little Slut*^: Y/N defies Harry by going against their set routine. Harry punishes Y/N for the first time.
🔞 Miss*^: Harry goes to an exclusive, members only BDSM event to explore his lack of submission.
⛸️ Golden^: Harry’s girlfriend, Y/N anxiously prepares to compete for gold as a figure skater at the Winter Olympic Games.
💦 Smitten Kitten*^+: Harry abruptly changes the end of their date night by taking his girlfriend to a sex shop to explore.
🏥 You Belong To Me^+: Harry stops his concert to tend to his fiancée who collapsed in undeniable pain.
🏥 You Belong To Me, Part 2^+: After weeks of "walking on eggshells," a raw confrontation leads the couple to stop hiding their pain and start rebuilding their future together.
🧩 Perfect Fit*^+: Harry and his girlfriend break their mundane routine by trying out anal sex.
💋 Sweet & Messy*^: After a high-energy show, Harry and his girlfriend escape the tour's chaos to find a private, heated connection all to themselves.
🌸 His Shy Girl*^: After long, intense night of sex Harry’s shy girlfriend asks for another orgasm, a moment Harry has been waiting for.
🤎 Caught Up^: Harry and Liam’s sister, Y/N get caught outside. Harry has to face Liam and explain why they were alone.
🏃🏻♂️ Little Shorts*+: When Harry’s girlfriend makes a comment about his little shorts after a run, Harry politely shuts her up.
🍝 Full Bellies^+: After enjoying their favorite meal out, Harry and his girlfriend have a cute, make out session despite their full bellies.
📚 Bed Chem*^+: “Who’s the cute boy in the white jacket with the thick accent?” Studying for chemistry has never been more interesting.
🩷Never Have I Ever*^: One reckless game of "Never Have I Ever", turns a family friend into much more for Y/N.
❌Bad Boyfriend*^: Harry faces a punishment for making fun of his girlfriend.
👑 Royal Court^+: Harry goes on Royal Court and gets asked about his girlfriend.
🇬🇧 A Night at the Brits*^+: its performance, too much tequila and steamy encounter with his girlfriend.
⛲️Paris at Night*^+: "Sans toi, je ne suis rien. Notre amour est éternel, Ma lumière. Tu étais formidable, j'étais fort minable. Nous étions formidables. Je suis désolé. " / Harry gets caught emotional cheating on his fiancée right before their holiday to Paris.
🧨 Pop*+: “First time tasting it, it’s nice to mix two flavors together” / Harry experiences a sexual awakening via the dance floor
🧨Pop, Part Two*: And then there were three! / “the more the merrier!”
🐰 Bunny*^+: "Lucky me, I found myself the sweetest bunny." // Harry’s girlfriend has her first real fertile window causing her to be extra needy.
🩺 Doctors Orders^: “Paging Doctor Styles!” // Doctor Harry Styles world flips upside down when his girlfriend becomes his new patient.
⚖️ Guilty Act, Part 1: “Your job? Is it your job to tease me, Ms. Y/L/N?” // A confession, jealousy and forced proximity cause the spark of something new between Mr. Styles & his assistant.
⚖️ Guilty Act, Part 2*: Harry struggles to keep his desires at bay for his pretty assistant.
💊 Medicine*: "I'm here to take my medicine, treat you like a gentleman." // Harry and his girlfriend join the mile high club to relieve some tension.
💤 Dreams with you, of you*^: “Woke up alone in this hotel room, played with myself — where were you?” // Harry has a realistic dream that causes him to call his ex.
🌸 Delicate Touches (Headcanon)*: Harry’s hands are always on his girlfriend and his lips can’t stay away.
🩸”Let Me Take Care Of You”^: Harry's girlfriend experiences excruciating pain on her period so, Harry takes care of her.
💖 The First Time*: Harry’s girlfriend has sex for the first time.
💜 Quiet*^: Harry and his fiancée hit a rough patch while he’s in NYC for his Together, Together Tour.
💬 Too Friendly: Harry is upset because his mates are being "too friendly" with his girlfriend during a game night out. 💕
💬 “I'm Ovulating 😩": Harry's girlfriend is ovulating and extra needy, wanting him home immediately to sort her out.
Warnings: smut, explicit sexual content, sexual tension, sweat/scent kink, mirror sex, oral sex (m!receiving), slight hair pulling, clitoral stimulation, vaginal penetration, unprotected sex, creampie, cockwarming, semi-public sex
Summary: During night seven, the heat of the arena, and Harry’s very sweaty stage presence, make it impossible for you to keep your thoughts innocent.
Amsterdam, N7 — 29 May 2026
It's been hot in Amsterdam for days now. Not just pleasantly warm, not soft summer heat that makes people romantic about open windows and late sunsets, but heavy, stubborn heat that sticks to the city and refuses to lift even at night. By the time the seventh show begins, the arena has swallowed all of it. The lights, the crowd, the bodies pressed together in the pits, the constant movement of people dancing, all of it turns the arena alive and sweltering and Harry seems to thrive in it. That is the problem, your problem, to be exact.
You watch from the side stage tonight, standing near the monitor station, close enough to see him properly without being in the way. The soundboard glows in front of the technician beside you, small coloured lights blinking in quiet contrast to the chaos beyond. From where you stand, you can see Harry in profile when he crosses the main stage, see the way the spotlight catches the side of his face, the way his striped white shirt clings more with every song. At first, it's just a faint mark between his shoulder blades. By the halfway point then, there is a clear line of sweat running down the centre of his back, darkening the fabric where his spine moves underneath. The shirt sticks to him when he turns, when he lifts his arm, when he bends towards the crowd with a grin that makes the entire arena scream. You press your lips together and try very hard to remember that you are a professional, but fuck, it's not an easy task.
Harry is in one of those moods tonight. Loose, cheeky, open in that dangerous way where he seems to let the whole world in while still somehow making certain looks feel private. He dances more than he needs to, shoulders rolling, hips moving with the beat, laughter flashing across his face whenever the crowd reacts exactly as loudly as he knows they will. And every now and then, he looks over at you. Never long enough to be obvious to everyone else, but enough. A glance from under damp lashes while he moves across the stage, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth when he catches you watching him too closely. Once, during an instrumental break, he shakes his shoulders in an exaggerated little move aimed directly at you, clearly ridiculous, clearly aware of what he is doing, and you have to look down at the floor for a second because you're genuinely one more grin away from losing your mind in front of the entire backstage team.
And Harry? He knows, of course he knows. He knows you too well not to notice the way you stand a little too still, arms crossed loosely in front of you, thighs shifting together when he turns his back to the crowd and that sweat-darkened line down his shirt appears on the big screen. The arena laughs at the sight, not cruelly, just delightedly, because Harry himself notices it a second later and reaches behind him as if checking what everyone is reacting to. When he realises, he laughs into the microphone and calls himself disgusting. God, you almost have to walk away. There are things you can handle. There are stage outfits, cheeky dances, curls damp at the temples, the roll of his hips, the way his voice drops rougher near the end of a show. But apparently, there is a limit. And apparently, that limit is Harry Styles discovering his sweaty back on a stadium screen and smirking about it.
By the time the final song begins, you're standing near the stage exit with a towel in one hand and a bottle of water in the other, as you do every night. It has become part of the rhythm now. The last chorus of As It Was, Harry’s goodbye run across the stage and catwalks, the final wave, the last roar of the crowd chasing him into the wings, and then you waiting there, ready to hand him the first two things he always reaches for.
Tonight, your fingers are tighter around the towel than usual as he comes off stage flushed and shining, hair damp, shirt clinging to him, skin warm under the residual glow of the show. He pulls one in-ear free, then the other, the cable sliding down against his collar as he walks towards you with that post-show expression you know so well: adrenaline-drunk, exhausted in the best way, eyes bright enough to light the hallway by themselves. The moment he reaches you, he leans in and kisses your cheek, quick, casual, sweet. It still sends heat straight through you.
“Hi,” he says, a little breathless.
“Hi.”
He takes the water first. “Thank you, love.”
You fall into step beside him as he starts down the corridor towards his private dressing room. He drinks deeply, head tipped back slightly, and you keep your eyes forward because looking at his throat while he drinks feels like a poor choice for your remaining self-control. The roar of the arena fades behind you, replaced by backstage movement. Harry hands the bottle back to you, then immediately begins undoing the buttons of his shirt as he walks. “Jesus,” he mutters, tugging at the fabric near his chest. “It was hot in there tonight. Need to get this thing off me before it becomes part of my skin.”
You intend to say something normal, maybe even something supportive. Something along the lines of, ‘It did look warm’. Instead, because your brain has apparently abandoned you somewhere near song four, you murmur, “Wasn’t only the arena that was hot tonight.”
At that, Harry’s fingers pause on a button and your eyes widen a fraction as he turns his head slowly. There is a second of silence in which you strongly consider pretending you said something about lighting rigs, but Harry’s mouth already curves. “What was that?”
“Nothing.”
“No, no.” His smile grows, dimples appearing with truly unfair timing. “Don’t think that was nothing.”
“I said the arena was hot.”
“No, you said it wasn’t only the arena that was hot.”
“I was talking about the lights.”
“The lights?”
“Yes.”
He looks at you with open amusement, still walking, shirt half undone now. “You’re blaming the lights?”
“They’re very powerful.”
“So are you, apparently. Didn’t know we were doing reviews in the hallway.”
“Don’t get cocky.”
“Bit late.”
You glance away, fighting a smile and failing. Harry’s laugh follows you into the dressing room.
The door closes behind you with a soft click, and the second he’s inside, Harry works open the last button and pulls the shirt off his shoulders with obvious relief, peeling the damp fabric away from his skin. His torso gleams under the warm dressing room lights, the swallow tattoos on his chest shifting with his breathing, the butterfly on his abdomen rising and falling as he exhales. You hand him the towel, he hands you the shirt. The exchange is automatic, something the two of you have done countless times in different forms: water for towel, towel for shirt, phone for jacket, kiss for good luck.
But tonight, the shirt lands in your hands still warm from him, heavy with sweat, smelling unmistakably like stage heat and Harry himself. Harry turns towards the mirror, rubbing the towel over his face, then through his hair, then down over his neck and chest. You stand behind him with the shirt clutched in both hands and you should put it down, you know that. There is a chair right there, laundry can take it, wardrobe can deal with it. It’s not even technically his to keep, not in the way his usual clothes are. Stage pieces move through a system. They return to designers, storage, archives, wherever beautiful clothes go after they survive two hours of sweat and screaming. You should really put it down.
Instead, you look at the back of Harry’s bare shoulders in front of you, then down at the shirt. The fabric is soft between your fingers, the scent of him rises from it, warm and clean and human and completely devastating in your current state. Your body makes the decision before your dignity can intervene and you lift the shirt to your face. Just once, you tell yourself. A terrible, foolish, private little indulgence. You press it close and breathe in, your eyes close automatically, and for a moment, you're back at side stage, watching him move under lights, sweat darkening his shirt, hair damp at his temples, mouth curved around a lyric he knows the whole room will scream back at him. Only now the distance is gone and the heat is in your hands. His scent is everywhere as you inhale deeply, and the last two hours of restraint fold in on themselves at once, as you press your thighs together without thinking.
Unfortunately, you have forgotten the mirror. Harry has not. He’s standing in front of it with the towel held loosely in one hand, no longer drying anything. His reflection watches yours with a grin so wide and boyish that both dimples show, his eyes bright with amusement. You open your eyes and immediately are met with his gaze in the mirror. The shirt is still in your hands near your face, and for one awful, suspended second, neither of you moves. Then Harry’s grin turns lethal. “Did you just sniff my shirt?”
Heat rushes to your face so quickly you almost feel betrayed by your own blood. “No.”
Harry laughs once. “No?”
“I was checking something.”
“With your nose?”
You lower the shirt. “I was seeing if it needed to be washed.”
Harry turns around very slowly, his expression one of pure delight. “Love,” he says, voice full of laughter, “that shirt is soaked.”
“I wanted to be sure.”
“You wanted to be sure whether the shirt I just performed in for two hours, in an oven with fifty thousand people screaming at me, needed washing?”
“Yes.”
“Very thorough of you.”
“I take wardrobe hygiene seriously.”
“You don’t even work in wardrobe.”
“I support all departments.”
Harry lets the towel fall to the low table behind him and starts walking over to you. You hold your ground, mostly because moving backwards would make you look even more guilty than you already do, and also because every step he takes pulls your attention to a new part of him. Damp hair, bare skin, the shine of sweat still caught along his collarbone, the black trousers sitting low on his hips, the tattoos you have seen a hundred times and still look at like they are capable of surprising you. He's so unfairly attractive right now. He stops close enough that you have to tilt your chin slightly, then he takes the shirt from your hands and tosses it onto the nearest chair. “There,” he says. “Laundry crisis solved.”
You swallow as Harry’s hands settle on your hips, warm, steady, and completely unhurried. His thumbs press lightly, and his smile softens from teasing you just now. “So,” he says, “you like how I smell after a show?”
You open your mouth, but nothing useful comes out. “I like how you smell all the time,” you finally say, which is true, but also so clearly an attempt at escape that he laughs again.
“All the time?”
“Yes.”
“Even when I’m disgusting?”
“You’re not disgusting.”
“I just said the shirt was becoming part of my skin.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
“It’s you.”
His teasing expression changes, not disappearing completely, but deepening as warmth and charged air moves into the space between you. He looks down at you with that particular attention that makes you feel as if the whole world has narrowed to the points where his hands hold you. “Yeah?” he murmurs.
You don't trust your voice, so you only nod and Harry’s fingers curl under the hem of your shirt. Not abruptly, or in a rush, he gives you every chance to stop him, eyes staying on yours as his fingertips brush the bare skin at your sides and your breath instantly catches. A small smile touches his mouth. “Still alright?” he asks quietly.
You nod again, more sure this time. “Yeah.”
He lifts the shirt slowly, his knuckles trail up your sides, warm and deliberate, and the air feels cooler where fabric leaves skin. You raise your arms for him, he pulls the shirt over your head and drops it somewhere near his on the chair, leaving you in your bra and trousers, bare from the waist up in the glow of the dressing room lights. Then he looks at you, not exactly hungry in a way that takes, more like someone receiving something precious he still doesn't entirely believe he gets to keep. “There,” he says softly. “Equal now.”
You let out a shaky laugh. “You’re still sweatier.”
“I can’t help that I work hard.”
“Is that what you call all that ass shaking?”
“Cardio.”
“Very professional.”
“Extremely.”
Your eyes betray you then, because they lower from his face before you can stop them. Over his shoulders, damp and broad from the heat of the show. Down to the tattoos on his torso, the light catching the fine sheen of sweat still left there. And then lower, to the parts you've been craving all night. His body is familiar to you, loved by you, held by you in so many quiet settings, hotel beds, lazy mornings in the Roman sun, sofa naps, rooftop blankets after a show, but after watching him command an arena for two hours, seeing him like this up close feels almost unfair. Harry notices again. Of course he does, he always notices. You hate that about him. At least that's what you keep telling yourself.
“Do you like what you see?” he asks, voice low but still edged with that cheeky amusement and it snaps your eyes back to his. The smugness on his face should be illegal, really.
You recover just enough to tilt your head. “Obviously.”
“Obviously?”
“I mean, that’s why I’m here.”
His brow lifts, curiosity edged on his face.
You gesture vaguely at him. “For the body.”
For half a second, he stares at you, then he laughs, bright and genuinely surprised, head tipping forward as his hands tighten at your hips. “Oh, that’s how it is?”
“Yes.”
“Two years. All this time, I thought it was my personality.”
“You have a lovely personality.”
“Thank you.”
“But the body helps.”
Harry shakes his head, still grinning. “Cheeky thing.”
“You started it.”
“I did not.”
“You walked off stage looking like that.”
“Like what?”
“Don’t fish.”
“I’m not fishing.”
“You are absolutely fishing.”
His face moves closer to yours, smile still there, breath warm against your mouth. “Maybe I like hearing you say it.”
You should say something clever, but you don't, the distance between you has become too small for cleverness. Your hands lift of their own accord, resting against his sides, and the moment your palms meet his skin, you feel the warmth of him, the dampness from the stage, the way his muscles shift under your touch as he inhales. Harry’s eyes lower slightly, then he kisses you and it's nothing like the quick cheek kiss in the hallway, or like the lazy rooftop kisses after night five, or the soft goodnight ones half-asleep under blankets. This one carries the whole night inside it: the heat, the lights, the glances from side stage, the sweat-darkened shirt, the teasing, the way you have been holding yourself together with increasingly fragile thread.
Your hands slide over his torso, up along his ribs, and you feel him react to it in the small sound he makes against your mouth and in the way his fingers press more firmly at your waist. His skin is warm under your palms, not polished or distant or stage-perfect now, but real. Slightly damp, familiar, and only yours to touch because he wants you to. Harry walks you back a step, then another, until your back meets the edge of the dressing table, and the mirror behind him catches pieces of you both: his bare back, your arms around him, the abandoned towel, the ruined shirt on the chair like evidence.
He breaks the kiss only enough to breathe. “You were watching me tonight,” he says.
You laugh softly, a little helpless. “Everyone was watching you.”
“Not like you.”
His mouth moves to the corner of yours, then your cheek, then just below your ear, still moving slow, and oh so teasing. Still giving you space to pull him back or push him away. But you just pull him closer. “I couldn’t help it,” you admit.
Harry hums, pleased. “No?”
“You knew exactly what you were doing.”
“Did I?”
“You looked at me during that dance.”
He lifts his head, eyes glinting. “Which dance?”
“You know which dance.”
“There were several dances.”
"You're impossible.”
“And yet you sniffed my shirt.”
You groan, hiding your face briefly against his shoulder. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.” He kisses the side of your head, laughing into your hair. “You like all my scents.”
“That sentence is never leaving this room.”
“Obviously. Private review.”
You lift your head to glare at him, but the effect is ruined by how close he is and how badly you want to kiss him again. Harry’s expression changes a little, his hand coming up to brush a strand of hair away from your face. “You’re very cute when you’re embarrassed,” he says.
“I am not cute right now.”
“No?”
“No.”
His gaze drops for half a second, then returns to yours, darker now, but still warm. “No. You’re not.”
Then he kisses you again before either of you can make another joke, and the laughter fades into tension as your hands move over his shoulders, feeling the heat of him, the strength of his biceps, the leftover tremble of adrenaline in his body. His hands travel slowly along your waist, up your back, learning the shape of you with no hurry and no uncertainty at all. He pulls back just an inch, his green eyes dark with a hunger that is both protective and predatory at the same time. His hands move to the clasp of your bra, his fingers gentle but confident, and with a soft click, the tension releases. He slides the straps off your shoulders, letting the fabric fall to the floor and he lets out a low, shaky breath as your breasts are revealed to the cool air of the dressing room. "Perfect," he murmurs, his voice dripping with affection.
He reaches out, his palms carefully cupping your them, kneading the soft flesh with a slow, rhythmic pressure, before his thumbs find your nipples, circling them teasingly before pinching firmly, just once. You gasp in a mixture of pain and arousal, arching your back, your own hands finding the waistband of his trousers. "I couldn't stop watching you," you breathe against his neck, your voice trembling. "The way you were moving, the sweat, I want you so bad right now."
Harry chuckles, a low vibration in his chest, and kisses your neck, his lips trailing like fire down to your collarbone when he mumbles. "I'm all yours, love. Every bit of me."
The undressing that follows is a slow, deliberate dance. There is no rush, only the mutual trust and desire to feel every inch of skin against skin. He helps you out of your sneakers and jeans, his kisses never leaving your skin for long. When he finally slides your underwear down your legs, he pauses to look at you, his expression one of pure adoration. He strips out of his own clothes with a focused intensity, his hard, aching cock springing free, already fully erect and pulsing with need.
Then he guides you towards the plush velvet couch in the corner of the room and sinks into the cushions, spreading his legs wide, his gaze locked onto yours, the invitation clear. "Kneel for me, love," he requests softly.
You sink to your knees between his thighs, the contrast of the cool floor and his radiating heat making you shiver slightly. You look up at him, your eyes wide and lustful as you reach out to wrap your delicate fingers around his shaft. He is thick and hot, the skin stretched tight, and you stroke him slowly, your palm gliding over the crown, feeling the bead of pre-cum at the tip. Harry lets out a long, shuddering groan, his head hitting the back of the couch as arousal starts to cloud his mind. "Fuck, you feel so good," he gasps, his fingers curling into the pillow next to him on the sofa.
You lean in, your tongue darting out to lick the head of his cock, tasting the salt and the musk, causing Harry to twitch reflexively. Then, you finally open your mouth and slide your lips over him. You're moving slow at first, swirling your tongue around the ridge before taking him deep. Harry focuses on the sensation of your tongue slipping beneath his foreskin, before delving into the sensitive opening of his pee hole, causing his hips to buck instinctively. "Oh god— yes, right there... fuck, baby."
Across the room, a large mirror reflects the entire scene back to him. He shifts his gaze, watching the image of you — the curve of your back, the way your head moves rhythmically on his cock, the sheer devotion in your posture. The visual stimulation suddenly pushes him closer to the edge faster than he would like. He reaches down, his fingers tangling in your hair, not to force, but to guide. Harry gently presses your head down, encouraging you to take him deeper, and you accept the challenge, sliding him all the way to the back of her throat, your eyes watering slightly, but your resolve keeps firm. As you deep-throat him, you reach down with your free hand, cupping his heavy balls and rolling them gently between your fingers. The combination of the tight suction and the tactile stimulation of his balls sends Harry over a threshold. He sputters curses, his voice a series of broken moans, his body trembling slightly and just as he feels the first surge of climax building in his gut, he gently but firmly grips your hair tighter and pulls your mouth away. "Not yet," he pants, his chest heaving. "I want to feel you. I need to be inside you."
He leans forward and reaches for you, pulling you up and hoisting you onto his lap. You go willingly, straddling him now, your wetness already glistening against the tattoo on his left thigh. He adjusts your position and then guides his cock to your entrance, the tip probing the slick folds of your pussy. With a slow, steady movement, he finally pulls you down and sinks into you. You let out a loud, piercing moan, your internal muscles squeezing him tight as you welcome his fullness. It's a perfect fit, a seamless joining of two bodies that know each other by heart. "You're so tight," Harry whispers, his voice thick with emotion as he grips your hips, his fingers digging into your skin as he begins to move you. He doesn't go fast, he keeps it low and grinding, ensuring every nerve ending is firing.
You kiss him deeply, tongues dancing in sync with the rhythm of your hips as you fist your hands in his hair, pulling his face closer, all the while Harry’s hand wanders down to find your clit. He rubs it with a practiced, gentle precision, his thumb circling the sensitive nub as you keep bouncing on him. "Looks so pretty, love," he murmurs against your ear, his eyes returning to your reflection in the mirror across the room. "You're taking me so good, baby. Look at how beautiful you look on top of me."
You glance over your shoulder at the reflection of the two of you, seeing the way your bodies merge, the sweat from his chest rubbing off onto your breasts, the raw intimacy of the moment between you two. The sight sends a fresh wave of arousal through you and you begin to ride him faster now, your breath coming in short, jagged gasps.
"I love you," he groans, his voice breaking. "I love you so fucking much."
The friction builds, the heat intensifying until it becomes unbearable. Harry’s movements become more urgent, his hips stuttering upward as he drives himself deep into you one last time. You cry out, your walls pulsing around him in a violent, rhythmic contraction as your orgasm crashes over you in waves of pure pleasure. The sensation triggers Harry’s own release immediately and he lets out a guttural shout, spilling his seed deep inside you in hot, thick bursts, before you collapse against him, chests heaving, skin slick with a mixture of sweat and spent passion.
Harry doesn't pull away, he just holds you tight, his arms wrapping around you as he feels his cock slowly softening inside you. He knows how much you love that feeling, the lingering intimacy of the afterglow, and he holds you there, breathing you in, the silence of the room filled only by the sound of two hearts returning to a steady beat.
For a while, neither of you moves, there is no rush to. The dressing room is warm and quiet around you now, the sharp edge of the last half hour changing into a slow and heavy atmosphere. Harry stays seated on the sofa with you straddling him, your weight resting fully against his body, your face tucked into the curve between his shoulder and neck. He keeps one arm wrapped around your waist while the other hand traces lazy, absent paths over your back, fingertips moving along your spine, over your shoulder blade, down again. He's still inside you, though both of you have gone soft and spent, and neither of you seems particularly interested in changing that yet. It's not about wanting more, not right now. It's about staying close in the most wordless and intimate way possible, skin against skin, breathing still uneven, both of you slowly returning to yourselves while refusing to separate completely.
Harry’s eyes are half closed, his head tipped back against the sofa. The adrenaline that carried him through the show and then through you is finally leaving him all at once, draining out of his limbs until he feels loose, warm, and almost boneless. Exhaustion settles over him, but not the empty kind. This is the good kind, the kind that comes after giving everything and still having somewhere safe to land. You are that place for him, you always are. He turns his face slightly and presses a kiss to your cheek, right where it rests near his shoulder, then another, then one more. “You alright?” he asks, voice low and rough from the show, from everything after, from being too tired to make it sound polished.
You nod without lifting your head.
Harry smiles faintly. “That’s all I get?”
“Mhm.”
He laughs. “That bad?”
You sigh against his neck. “Not bad.”
“No?”
“Very satisfied.”
His grin appears immediately, lazy and pleased. “Very satisfied,” he repeats, as if committing the phrase to memory. “Well, glad we finally got you sorted.”
You make a small offended sound against his skin, but he keeps rubbing your back, completely unbothered by the protest. “You were wound up all night.”
“I was not.”
“You were staring at me like you wanted me to take you right there on stage.”
“Maybe the lighting was good.”
“Was it the lighting you were sniffing earlier?”
You lift your head, cheeks already warm again, eyes wide. “Harry.”
He looks delighted with himself, hair messy, eyes bright despite the exhaustion. “What? Just asking.”
“You’re never letting that go, are you?”
“Absolutely not.”
“It was one time.”
“It still happened.”
“You’re annoying.”
“And apparently irresistible.”
You narrow your eyes at him, but there is no real bite in it. You're too soft now, too loose in his lap, too wrapped around him to be convincing. Harry knows this version of you better than anyone, how after sex, the sharper edges melt from you. You become quiet, pliant, cuddly in a way you sometimes pretend not to be when you're fully dressed and fully awake and he can't deny that he loves it. He loves being the person you let have this, the person who gets the sleepy pout and the needy arms and the little grumbles that are really only requests to be held tighter. And so that's what he does. He pulls you closer, both arms around you now, one hand cradling the back of your head. “Come here, then. Don’t sulk.”
“I’m not sulking.”
“No, course not.”
“I’m emotionally recovering from bullying.”
“Bullying?” He kisses your temple. “I just made you very satisfied, and now I’m bullying you?”
“Yes.”
“Terrible night for you.”
“The worst.”
He smiles into your hair. “Oh my poor baby.”
That makes you go still for a second, then melt further into him, because he says it exactly the way you like: amused, affectionate, warm enough to undo any pretence of annoyance. He feels your body relax against his again, and his fingers slow over your back. For another minute, neither of you says anything, but then a thought seems to enter Harry’s mind and he opens one eye. “D’you think anyone heard us?”
You lift your head so fast he almost laughs before you even speak. “What?”
Harry’s eyebrows rise. “I mean, this room isn’t exactly built like a recording booth.”
Your eyes widen as the entire evening seems to replay across your face at once: the dressing room, the sofa, the mirror, the complete lack of concern for volume or location. The crew still moving outside, people packing equipment, people walking past that door.
“Oh my God.”
Harry presses his lips together, trying not to smile.
“Oh my God,” you repeat, now sitting back slightly in his lap, one hand flying to your mouth. “Harry.”
“What?”
“People are outside.”
“People are often outside rooms.”
“We were loud.”
He tilts his head. “Were we?”
“Don’t.”
“I’m only asking.”
“You know we were.”
His smile breaks free. “I might know.”
You groan and hide your face in your hands. “I can never leave this room.”
He laughs properly then, tired and warm, his hands sliding to your waist. “Love, we’re a couple. People know.”
“They don't need audio confirmation.”
“I think they may have had suspicions.”
“This isn't funny, H. It’s humiliating.”
“It’s human.”
You peek at him through your fingers. “That’s such a you answer.”
“It’s true.” He leans forward and kisses the nearest part of your wrist. “We’re adults. We’re together. We’re backstage after a show. It was only a matter of time before we were deeply unprofessional in a dressing room.”
You stare at him. “Deeply unprofessional?”
“Would you prefer moderately?”
“I would prefer not having this conversation while still sitting naked in your lap.”
Harry grins and nods at that. “Fair.”
He reaches up, gently pulling your hands away from your face. Your embarrassment is still there, bright across your cheeks, but he looks at you with such open fondness that it begins to dissolve despite your best efforts. “No one’s going to make it weird,” he says quietly. “And if they do, I’ll handle it.”
“You’ll handle it?”
“Mhm.”
“How?”
“By being charming and pretending I don’t know what they mean.”
“You’re very good at that.”
“Years of practice.”
You shake your head, but your mouth twitches. Harry sees it and looks far too proud. “That’s my girl,” he murmurs.
You try to roll your eyes, but he catches your face in both hands and kisses you before you can fully commit to it. The kiss is lazier now, tender and slow, almost sleepy. There is no urgency left in it, only affection and the last traces of heat, softened in a way that makes you want to curl up against him and never move again. His thumbs brush lightly along your cheeks, and when you part, he keeps his forehead near yours for a moment.
“Eventually, you shift carefully, lifting your hips just enough for him to slip free. The separation makes both of you breathe out at the same time, and Harry’s hands stay on you until you're steady on your feet. You cross the room to the vanity on slightly unsteady legs, deliberately avoiding your reflection for the first few seconds because you already know what you will look like: flushed, messy, thoroughly ruined, and definitely not ready to face possible witnesses in the hallway. You grab a few tissues from the box beside the mirror and clean yourself up as best you can. Behind you, Harry rises from the sofa with the quiet groan of a man who has performed a full concert and then made several questionable post-show choices. You catch his reflection as he bends to gather clothes from the floor, and despite everything, your smile returns, because he's still Harry. Naked, tired, hair a disaster, picking up your jeans with one hand and his abandoned stage shirt with the other, looking around the dressing room like he is trying to reconstruct a small crime scene.
“Found your dignity,” he says, holding up his shirt.
“That is yours.”
“Found my dignity, then.”
“You lost yours during the ass shaking.”
He looks over his shoulder at you. “You enjoyed the ass shaking.”
“That’s an insinuation I won't confirm.”
“Nothing to confirm about it, I have eyes.”
He brings your clothes over and helps you into your t-shirt first, pulling it gently over your head and smoothing it down once it falls around you. You let him do it without comment, because being cared for in small, practical ways is one of your favourite kinds of intimacy. He also hands you your underwear and jeans, politely turning his attention to finding his own clothes while you dress as if he hadn't just watched in a mirror how you rode him in a backstage dressing room. From another chair, he pulls on a clean t-shirt himself and a pair of soft shorts, the ones you call the slutty shorts, then sits briefly to get his shoes on while you do the same, still moving a little slowly.
Harry notices. “You good?”
You glance up. “Yes.”
“Need a minute?”
“I need a new identity before we go outside.”
He laughs under his breath and grabs your backpack before you can reach for it. “I’ll carry this.”
“I can carry my own bag, H.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you carrying it?”
“Because I want to.”
You look at him for a second, then let it go. “Fine.”
He smiles and slings the backpack over one shoulder, then opens the door and you immediately duck your head. Harry sees it and laughs softly, but he doesn't tease you this time. Instead, he wraps an arm around your shoulders and pulls you into his side as you step into the corridor together. The backstage hallway is calmer now, though not exactly empty. Crew members still move around with cases and cables, voices lower now that the show is over. Someone passes with a roll of tape around their wrist, somebody else carries a small stack of towels. Two people near the wall pause mid-conversation when you and Harry emerge, then very politely look anywhere else and your face burns.
“Stop smiling,” you mutter.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m happy.”
“You’re proud.”
“Also that.”
“Harry.”
“What? I’m walking. Very normal.”
“You look smug.”
“I’m naturally radiant after shows.”
A crew member walking past gives Harry a knowing little nod and he nods back like nothing in the world could possibly trouble him. You want the floor to open. He leans down, speaking near your ear as you continue towards the back exit. “You’re cute when you’re embarrassed.”
“I’m never touching you backstage again.”
“That is a very dramatic lie.”
“It might be true.”
“It isn’t.”
You glance up at him, trying to glare, but he looks so pleased and soft and tired that you fail immediately. “Fine,” you say. “It isn’t.”
“Thank you for your honesty.”
“Shut up.”
“Gladly.” He says and kisses the side of your head as you walk.
Outside, the car is already waiting near the back doors, black and quiet, engine running. Harry opens the door for you, one hand still resting lightly at your back as you slide into the backseat. He follows, setting your backpack near his feet before buckling himself in. You buckle your seatbelt too, then immediately lean into the space he offers when he lifts his arm. No hesitation now, no teasing, just the two of you tucked together in the dark car, his arm around your shoulders, your cheek resting against his chest. He smells of his cologne and sweat and faintly of sex, but mostly just like Harry.
As the car pulls away from the arena, Amsterdam passes outside the window in quiet streaks of light: bridges, narrow streets, bicycles locked along railings, canals reflecting the city back in broken gold. The noise of the show feels far away now, even though it still lingers in your ears. Harry’s hand moves slowly up and down your arm, thumb tracing the same soothing path over and over.
“You really were something tonight,” you say after a while.
Harry looks down at you. “Yeah?”
You nod. “Very annoying.”
He laughs quietly. “That’s not usually a compliment.”
“It is from me.”
“I’ll take it then.”
You tilt your head back to look at him properly. His face is softer in the passing streetlights, the post-show brightness fading into sleepiness. “And very hot,” you add.
His smile spreads slowly. “Careful. We’re in a car.”
You hide your face against his chest. “Never mind.”
“No, no, continue.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Shame.”
“You’ve had enough praise tonight.”
“Oi, no kink shaming in here.”
You both fall into soft laughter, the kind that barely makes a sound, before Harry presses a kiss to your hair and lets his cheek rest there. “Happy?,” he murmurs.
You close your eyes, warm and tired and completely held. “Very.”
authors note - im really excited for you all to read this series, this may be my favourite harry i’ve wrote about.
The dull hum of the afternoon rush hour drifted through your open window, a stark contrast to the absolute silence of your laptop screen.
You leaned back in your desk chair, rubbing the bridge of your nose where a tension headache was slowly beginning to form.
Working from home was supposed to be a luxury, but lately, your "office" felt more like a construction hazard zone.
You glanced up from your dual monitors.
To your left, a spreadsheet for your day job was still open, filled with numbers you were currently too distracted to process.
To your right, the real problem loomed: the kitchen wall. Or rather, the wallpaper on the kitchen wall that had started to peel back like a sunburned layer of skin, revealing ancient, crumbly plaster underneath.
Every time you joined a Zoom call, you had to position your camera at a very specific, awkward angle just to hide the fact that your new North London Victorian terrace looked less like a chic city home and more like an abandoned set from a historical drama.
The estate agent had called it "characterful."
You were starting to call it a liability.
With a heavy sigh, you clicked away from your work spreadsheet and opened a new tab. You typed in the one website that felt like a digital lifeline for desperate homeowners: Checkatrade.
In the search bar, you typed 'Local Builders / Landscapers – NW London' and hit enter.
Instantly, dozens of profiles flooded the screen. You started scrolling, your mouse clicking rhythmically as you vetted the options between answering work emails.
J. & B. Construction – No availability for nine months.
Build-Right London – A 10-page portfolio of sleek, ultra-modern glass extensions that looked far too expensive for your budget.
P. J. Whelan Groundworks – Two stars. A review read: "Left a pile of gravel blocking my driveway and forgot his shovel."
You sighed, resting your chin in your hand as the blue light of the monitor reflected in your eyes. You wanted to do this place up bit by bit, to really take your time and make it yours, but you couldn't do it alone.
The overgrown jungle of a back garden was mocking you through the window, and the crumbling masonry was a disaster waiting to happen. You needed a team that was local, reliable, and didn't mind a house that required a bit of extra love.
You scrolled down to page three of the listings, about to give up and close the laptop for the day, when a modest profile caught your eye. It didn't have hundreds of reviews like the massive corporate firms, but the ones it did have were a flawless five stars.
Harry’s Landscaping & Grounds Care.
“No job too big, no garden too wild. Reliable, friendly local lads. General building maintenance, brickwork, and full garden clearances. Call for a free estimate.”
Verified Member since 2024 | NW London
You clicked to expand the profile.
'Absolutely brilliant lads,' a review from a woman named Martha in Camden read. 'They cleared my collapsed brick wall and completely redid my hedges in a single afternoon. Very polite, cleaned up after themselves, and drank a lot of tea.'
Another review simply said: 'Hardest working boys in London. Fair pricing and fantastic banter. Highly recommend Harry and his crew.'
A small smile tugged at your lips. It felt right. It didn't feel like a faceless corporation; it felt like a group of local blokes who actually cared about the neighborhood.
Minimizing your work email, you clicked the bright green 'Request a Quote' button.
You quickly typed out a message detailing the state of your Victorian fixer-upper, mentioning the desperate need for a garden clearance and some brickwork assistance, and hit send.
A little notification popped up on the screen: Message sent. Harry’s Landscaping usually responds within 24 hours.
You closed the tab, took a sip of your lukewarm coffee, and looked out the window at the messy, beautiful potential of your new home.
"Alright, Harry," you whispered to the empty room. "Let's see what you've got."
A chime echoed through your quiet room, a sharp contrast to the soft clicking of your keyboard.
You blinked, shaking yourself out of a trance of work emails, and noticed a small pop-up window flashing in the bottom right corner of your screen.
The Checkatrade logo was pulsing, and underneath it, a live chat box had opened.
Harry’s Landscaping & Grounds Care is online.
Your heart gave a funny little thump. That was fast. You adjusted your headset, leaning closer to the monitor as the typing bubbles appeared.
Harry: Hi there! Just saw your request come through for the Victorian terrace in NW London. Sounds like you've got a bit of a jungle on your hands? x
You smiled at the screen, your fingers immediately flying across the keys.
You: Hi Harry! Yes, 'jungle' is putting it politely. I think there might be a lost civilization living at the back of my garden. And the brickwork near the old patio is practically crumbling.
The response was almost instant. You could see the little three dots dancing on the screen as he typed, stopped, and typed again.
Harry: Haha, don't worry, we’ve seen it all. The old London clay and ivy love to tear those Victorian walls apart. Is the house accessible from the back, or will we be tracking mud through your hallway? (We’re tidy, promise!)
You: There’s a small side alley, thank goodness! But honestly, the inside isn't much better yet. I'm doing it up bit by bit while working from home, so a bit of mud won't kill me. As long as you don't mind a loud Zoom call happening in the kitchen.
Harry: Perfect, alleyways make life much easier. And no worries at all about the work—Louis usually sings while he digs, but I'll make sure he keeps it down so he doesn't ruin your meetings. x
You chuckled quietly, typing back.
You: I might hold you to that. When do you think you could come by to take a look and give a proper quote?
The typing bubbles vanished for a longer moment this time, and you wondered if he was checking his diary. When the text popped back up, a warmth spread through your chest.
Harry: We actually just finished a job nearby in Highgate. The lads and I are just packing up the van now. If you’re free this afternoon, we could swing by in about twenty minutes just to have a quick look? No pressure at all, of course.
You glanced down at your loungewear trousers—thankfully paired with a decent jumper for your video calls—and then looked out at the sunny afternoon.
You: Twenty minutes works perfectly for me. I'll put the kettle on.
You pushed a strand of hair behind your hair.
Harry: You’ve just said the magic words. Niall will run to the van if he knows there’s tea involved. See you in twenty! x
Rule number one: do not fall in love with your boss.
Rule number two: do not forget rule number one.
Rule number three: when he looks at you like that, pretend it doesn't mean anything.
Summary: When you land a job as the personal assistant to Harry Styles, the calm, charismatic CEO of Fine Line Enterprises, you quickly learn the role is much more than managing a calendar. From early morning calls to last minute flights and being the gatekeeper to one of the busiest men in the industry, your lite becomes completely intertwined with his.
Word Count: 6.5k
Warnings: Power imbalance, eventual smut, drinking, cursing, mentions of throwing up (no throwing up).
You set your coffee cup down very carefully on the table between you, like if you do it slowly enough it might buy you a few more seconds before you have to say something.
It doesn’t.
He’s still watching you with that same patient expression, hands clasped, completely relaxed, like he has all the time in the world and absolutely no intention of letting you out of this conversation. Outside the window, clouds stretch in every direction, white and endless, the ground somewhere impossibly far below. There is nowhere to go. He made sure of that.
You look down at your notebook like it might have something useful written in it.
It doesn’t.
You close it.
“I don’t know what you want me to say,” you start, and even as the words leave your mouth you know how weak they sound.
“I want you to say something real,” he says simply. “Not professional. Not carefully worded. Just honest.”
You look up at him then, and something about the way he’s watching you makes your chest feel tight. He’s not pushing. He’s not being aggressive about it. He’s just sitting there being absolutely certain that this conversation is happening, which is somehow more difficult to resist than if he’d demanded it.
“I’ve been honest,” you say. “I told you it couldn’t happen again.”
“You said that,” he agrees. “And then you spent the rest of the week acting like I did something wrong.”
You open your mouth to argue and then close it again, because the truth is he has a point and you know it. He hasn’t done anything wrong. He kissed you and you kissed him back and then you panicked and retreated behind your desk like a fortress and made everything unbearably awkward for five straight days.
“I didn’t think you did something wrong,” you say carefully.
“Then why won’t you look at me?”
The question lands quietly but it lands hard. You feel it in your chest before your brain fully catches up to it. Because he’s right. You’ve been avoiding his eyes all week, keeping your interactions brief and professional and carefully surface level, like if you just don’t look directly at him the feelings might not be real.
The plane hums softly around you and the clouds outside the window drift past, unhurried, indifferent to the fact that you are currently sitting across from your boss having the conversation you’ve been dreading for five days.
“I was trying to keep things professional,” you say finally.
“By pretending I don’t exist?”
“By doing my job.”
He tilts his head slightly, studying you. “You can do your job and still acknowledge that something happened between us.”
“Can I?” you ask, and there’s more edge in your voice than you intended. “Because from where I’m sitting, every time I acknowledge it, everything gets more complicated.”
He’s quiet for a second after that, and you look back out the window, pressing your lips together slightly. The sky out here is impossibly blue, the kind of blue that only exists above the clouds, and for a strange, brief moment you understand why he travels so much. Up here, everything below feels very far away.
“I’m not trying to make your life complicated,” he says, quieter now.
“I know,” you admit.
“Then talk to me.”
You look back at him and he’s still watching you, steady and patient, and there’s something in his expression that makes it very hard to keep your walls exactly where you put them. He looks like a person who genuinely wants to understand, not someone trying to get something from you, not someone pushing an agenda. Just a person sitting across a small table on a private plane asking you to be honest with him.
And you’re so tired of not being honest.
“You make me nervous,” you say, and the words come out quieter than you intended but at least they’re honest. At least they’re something real.
He doesn’t look surprised. He just nods slightly, like he was waiting for you to get there. “Why?”
You let out a small breath and look down at the table. “I don’t know.”
“That’s a lie,” he says simply.
You look up at him.
“This job,” he continues, his voice calm and even, “is built on two things. Trust and honesty. You know that. I told you that before you even started. So don’t sit there and tell me you don’t know why when you clearly do.”
The directness of it makes your chest tighten. You hate that he’s right. You hate that he can see straight through the carefully constructed professional version of you that you’ve been trying so hard to maintain all week, and you hate even more that some part of you is relieved he can.
You don’t say anything.
The plane hums around you, steady and quiet, and outside the window the clouds stretch on endlessly, and you sit there in the silence he’s left open for you, the kind of silence that isn’t waiting for you to fill it but knows eventually you will.
He leans forward slightly, his forearms resting on the table between you.
“I see the way you look at me,” he says.
Your stomach drops. “I don’t—”
“Don’t,” he says, and the corner of his mouth lifts just slightly. Not mocking. Just knowing. “Cut the shit.”
Heat floods your face immediately and you look away toward the window, which you know is basically a confession but you can’t help it.
“I’ve seen it since the interview,” he continues, and his voice is so calm about it, so unbothered, like he’s stating facts instead of dismantling every carefully built wall you’ve put up over the last five days. “You were looking me up and down the second I walked into that lobby.”
“I was not,” you say, but even as you say it you can hear how unconvincing it sounds.
He laughs then, a quiet, genuine laugh that does absolutely nothing to help your situation. “You absolutely were.”
You press your lips together and stare very hard at the clouds outside.
“And then,” he continues, like he’s enjoying this a little more than he should be, “the first morning you came in. You checked my hand for a wedding ring.”
You close your eyes briefly. “I was being thorough.”
“You were checking if I was taken,” he says simply.
“That’s not—” you start.
“You checked twice,” he says.
You turn back to look at him then, your face warm, your carefully maintained composure completely unraveling, and he’s watching you with that small smile that makes it very hard to be annoyed at him even though you’re absolutely trying to be.
“That is not something you can prove,” you say.
“I don’t need to prove it,” he says. “You just did.”
You stare at him for a second, trying to find some kind of response that salvages any piece of your dignity, and coming up completely empty. There is nothing to say to that. He’s right and you know it and he knows it and the silence between you right now is so full of things neither of you has said yet that it almost feels like a sound of its own.
You look down at your hands in your lap and exhale slowly.
“Okay,” you say quietly. “Fine.”
He doesn’t say anything, just waits, and somehow the patience of it is more disarming than anything else he could have done.
“Maybe I noticed you,” you admit, the words coming out carefully, like you’re placing them down one at a time and checking each one before you let it go. “Maybe it wasn’t strictly professional. But that doesn’t change anything. I still work for you. That still matters.”
“I never said it didn’t,” he replies.
You look up at him. “Then what are you saying?”
He holds your gaze for a moment, steady and unhurried, and when he speaks his voice is quieter than before.
“I’m saying stop pretending you don’t feel something when I can see that you do,” he says. “That’s all. I’m not asking you to do anything about it. I just want you to stop lying to both of us.”
The clouds drift past outside the window and the plane moves steadily forward and you sit there across from him feeling more seen than you’ve felt in a very long time, which is terrifying and not entirely unpleasant and absolutely not something you know what to do with.
“I’m sorry,” you say, and it comes out before you can stop it, automatic and sincere. “I know it wasn’t appropriate. It won’t happen again. I’ll be more professional, I promise.”
He looks at you for a long moment after you say that. Not angry. Not frustrated. Just looking at you with an expression you can’t quite read, like he’s waiting for you to realize something on your own before he has to tell you.
The silence stretches long enough that you start to feel slightly uncomfortable under the weight of it.
Then he says, “I’m not having this conversation to scold you.”
You blink. “What?”
“I’m not bringing this up because you did something wrong,” he says, his voice patient and even. “I’m not trying to reprimand you. I’m not trying to make you feel bad about what happened.”
You stare at him, trying to recalibrate everything you thought this conversation was. You had it all mapped out in your head. He was going to tell you it was inappropriate. You were going to agree. You were both going to acknowledge that it couldn’t happen again and then go back to being professional and everything would be uncomfortable but manageable.
That’s not what’s happening.
“Then why,” you say slowly, “are we having it?”
He holds your gaze and his voice is steady and completely certain when he says, “Because I want you to finally admit what you want. Out loud. To me. So I can actually do something about it.”
The words land in the middle of the small table between you and just sit there, and your brain goes very quiet for a second trying to process them.
You look at him. He looks back at you. The plane hums steadily around you both and outside the window the sky is endless and blue and completely indifferent to the fact that your entire understanding of this conversation just shifted entirely.
Do something about it.
You open your mouth and then close it again, because for the first time in possibly your entire life you have absolutely nothing to say.
He leans back slightly in his chair, one hand running through his hair, and for the first time since you’ve known him he looks like something is costing him a little to say.
“I can’t stop thinking about it,” he says, and his voice is quieter now, lower, stripped of the calm executive composure he wears so effortlessly everywhere else. “The kiss. The way you just fell into my lap like that.” A short breath leaves him, almost like a laugh but not quite. “The way you kissed me back.”
You don’t move.
You’re not sure you’re breathing.
“I’ve been sitting at that desk all week,” he continues, “trying to have normal conversations with you and act like everything is fine, and it’s driving me completely mad.”
The words settle over you slowly, like something warm, and you feel your carefully maintained resolve start to crack at the edges in a way you’re not sure you can stop anymore.
“Harry,” you say softly, and even just his name feels dangerous right now.
“I can still remember exactly how your lips tasted,” he says, and the directness of it, the quiet honesty of it, hits you somewhere so deep in your chest that you have to look away for a second just to collect yourself.
You stare at the clouds outside the window and try to remember every single reason you came up with on the drive to work every morning this week. The job. The talk around the office. Lucy’s warning. Your own carefully constructed boundaries that made so much sense when he wasn’t sitting three feet away from you telling you he can’t stop thinking about kissing you.
All of it feels very far away right now.
You look back at him.
He’s watching you with an expression that’s completely unguarded in a way you haven’t seen before, not the composed executive, not the calm professional, not the version of him that runs meetings and makes people straighten in their chairs. Just him. Sitting across from you, honest and a little undone, waiting for you to say something real.
“That’s not fair,” you say finally, and your voice comes out quieter than you intend.
“No,” he agrees, and the corner of his mouth lifts just slightly. “It’s probably not.”
You look down at your hands for a second, your heart beating so loud you’re surprised he can’t hear it over the quiet hum of the plane.
“I think about it too,” you say.
It comes out soft and honest and once it’s out there you can’t take it back and you’re not sure you want to.
He goes still for just a second before you look up and find him watching you with something new in his expression. The composed, patient version of him that’s been sitting across from you this entire conversation shifts into something warmer, something quieter.
“Yeah?” he says, and his voice is lower than before.
“Yes,” you say, and now that you’ve started you can’t seem to stop. “I think about it. And I think about you. More than I should. More than is probably smart.”
He’s smiling now, just a little, just enough, and it’s not the professional smile or the polite smile or even the amused smile you’ve catalogued over the past two weeks. It’s something more private than all of those. Something that feels like it’s just for you.
“I sit at that desk every single day,” you continue, your voice dropping slightly, “trying to do my job and trying to be professional and trying to act like everything is completely normal. And then you walk past or say my name or do something completely ordinary and it’s like—” you stop for a second, pressing your lips together, trying to find the right words. “You make me nervous in a way I can’t explain. But it’s not a bad nervous. It’s a—”
You hesitate.
His eyes are steady on yours, waiting, not rushing you.
“It’s a way that also makes me want you,” you finish, and the words come out so plainly, so honestly, that your face immediately floods with heat and you almost laugh at yourself. “Which is a terrible thing to say to your boss on a work trip.”
He holds your gaze for a moment that feels much longer than it probably is, something dark and warm moving through his expression, and then he laughs. Low and quiet and genuine, his head dropping slightly before he looks back up at you.
“It’s not terrible,” he says.
“It’s very unprofessional,” you say.
“Probably,” he agrees, but he doesn’t look even remotely sorry about it.
He leans forward slightly, his forearms resting on the table again, and the distance between you feels smaller than it did a few minutes ago even though neither of you has moved.
“So,” he says, his voice low and unhurried. “What are we going to do about it?”
You look at him and you genuinely have no idea. Your brain, which is usually very good at having plans and contingencies and backup options, has completely abandoned you. You just sit there looking at him like the answer might be written somewhere on his face if you stare long enough.
He watches you for a moment, something thoughtful moving through his expression, like he’s already considered this from every angle and arrived somewhere you haven’t caught up to yet.
“This could work out really well for you,” he says.
You tilt your head slightly. “What do you mean?”
He pauses for just a second, choosing his words carefully in that deliberate way he has. “I know what your life looks like right now. You work hard. You always have. And you’re good at it, genuinely good at it, better than most people I’ve had in that role.” He holds your gaze steadily. “But there are parts of life you haven’t had access to. Nice things. Good things. Things you deserve.”
You’re very still, listening.
“I travel to places most people only ever read about,” he continues, his voice quiet and even. “I eat at restaurants where you can’t get a table without knowing someone. I stay in hotels that don’t feel like hotels. I know people, and I go places, and I live a life that is—” he pauses briefly, “a lot.”
“I know that,” you say softly.
“I want to share that with you,” he says, and the simplicity of it, the directness, makes your breath catch slightly. “I know you. I know how you work. I know you’re not going to let any of this affect what you do for me professionally because that matters to you too much. You proved that this week.”
Something warm moves through your chest at that even as your brain is trying very hard to keep up with what he’s actually saying.
“Let me treat you,” he says, and his eyes don’t leave yours. “Let me take care of you.”
The words settle over you like something heavy and soft at the same time, and you sit there on a private plane somewhere above the clouds trying to process the fact that Harry Styles just said let me take care of you like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Part of you wants to say something sensible. Something measured and professional about boundaries and workplace dynamics and everything Lucy warned you about.
But a much larger part of you is thinking about the way he kissed you in his office, and the way he caught you when you fell, and the way he looks at you like you’re something worth paying attention to.
And the sensible part gets a little quieter.
“That’s a lot to take in,” you say finally.
“I know,” he says.
“You’re my boss.”
“I know that too.”
“This is complicated.”
“It doesn’t have to be,” he says simply.
You look at him for a long moment, the clouds drifting past outside, the plane carrying you both forward somewhere neither of you has been together yet, and you think about your apartment and your car and your carefully organized life and the granola bar you ate on the way to your interview because you were nervous and running late.
And then you look at him. Really look at him. The rings on his fingers and the tattoos beneath his rolled sleeves and the quiet certainty of someone who has never once in his life offered something he didn’t mean.
“Just like that?” you ask softly.
He holds your gaze and his voice is warm and completely sure when he says, “Just like that.”
You sit with it for a moment, letting it settle into something real instead of just words floating in the space between you.
You think about your apartment. The way the heating takes twenty minutes to actually work in the winter. The neighbor above you who walks like he’s trying to collapse the floor. The bathroom tile that’s been cracked since you moved in and that your landlord has been meaning to fix for eight months. You’ve made it home because that’s what you do, you make things work, you take what you have and you organize it and you make it function. But it’s never been more than that. It’s never been somewhere that felt like it was actually yours.
You think about your car. The check engine light that’s been on for three months and that three different mechanics have given three different explanations for. The passenger window that sticks when it rains. The way you grip the steering wheel a little tighter every time you merge onto the highway because you’re never entirely sure it’s going to do what you ask it to.
You think about the places you’ve never been. The passport sitting in your desk drawer at home, barely used, a couple of stamps from a trip to Canada in college and one long weekend in Mexico that you saved up for over six months. You’ve looked at pictures of places. You’ve read about them. You’ve planned hypothetical trips in your head on the nights when your apartment feels too small and your life feels too stationary.
You’ve just never actually gone.
And then you look at him sitting across from you on a private plane, unhurried and certain, a man who moves through the world like it was built to accommodate him, offering to let you move through it the same way.
He’s not asking you to be something you’re not. He’s not asking you to compromise your work or your integrity or the part of you that takes pride in being good at what you do. He knows that part of you. He said so himself. He’s betting on it, actually.
He just wants to take care of you.
And maybe that’s the part that gets you. Not the travel or the restaurants or the hotels that don’t feel like hotels. But the fact that someone who could have anything, someone who could have anyone, is sitting across from you on a Thursday afternoon telling you he wants to share it with you specifically.
You.
The girl who ate a granola bar in her car before her interview. The girl who almost threw up in his lobby. The girl who called him Mr. Styles on her second day and thought her career was over.
You look down at the table for just a second, at your hands resting in your lap, at the notebook you brought on this flight as armor against a conversation you knew was coming.
Then you look back up at him.
“Okay,” you say.
It comes out quietly but steadily, without the waver you expected, without the panic that’s been living in your chest since last Tuesday night.
He looks at you for a moment, like he wants to make sure you mean it.
“Okay,” you say again, and this time there’s something almost like certainty underneath it.
The corner of his mouth lifts slowly, and it’s different from every other smile you’ve catalogued over the past two weeks. Warmer. More private. Like something he’s been waiting to do for a while.
“Okay,” he says softly, and the word sounds completely different coming from him than it did coming from you.
Outside the window the clouds stretch on endlessly and the plane carries you both forward and somewhere far below your cracked bathroom tile and your check engine light and your barely used passport continue to exist, but they feel strangely far away right now.
Like they belong to a version of your life that’s already starting to change.
The smile stays on his face for a moment longer before he settles back into his seat, and the air between you feels different now. Lighter somehow. Like something that was wound too tight has finally been allowed to loosen.
You reach for your coffee cup, mostly just to have something to do with your hands, and find it’s gone cold. You drink it anyway.
He’s looking out the window now, relaxed in a way that feels easy and unhurried, one arm resting along the side of his seat, and you find yourself watching him for a second without immediately looking away. Which is new. Or maybe it’s not new, maybe you’ve always done it, but now you don’t have to pretend you’re not.
That’s going to take some getting used to.
The flight attendant appears from the front of the cabin, moving quietly and efficiently down the aisle toward you, her expression warm and professional.
“Can I get either of you anything?” she asks.
Harry glances up at her. “Actually, yes.” He pauses for a second, thoughtful. “I had a bottle of the Burgundy loaded before we left. Would you mind opening that and pouring us two glasses?”
“Of course,” she says, and she disappears back toward the front of the plane without another word.
You look at him. “It’s two in the afternoon.”
“It is,” he agrees easily.
“We have a meeting tomorrow morning.”
“We do,” he says, completely unbothered.
“And you’re ordering wine.”
He looks at you then, that calm, amused expression settling across his face. “We’re celebrating.”
You blink. “Celebrating what?”
He tilts his head slightly, like the answer is obvious. “You said okay.”
Something warm moves through your chest and you look down at the table, pressing your lips together against a smile you don’t entirely want him to see yet.
The flight attendant returns a minute later with two glasses, long stemmed and elegant, and a bottle that looks expensive in the specific understated way that things are expensive when they don’t need to announce it. She sets the glasses down on the small table between you with quiet precision, then pours for you first, a deep rich red that catches the light from the window, then for him.
“Would you like me to take the bottle?” she asks.
“Leave it on the table,” Harry says, glancing up at her. “Thank you.”
She smiles and disappears again, leaving the two of you alone with the wine and the window and the endless sky outside.
He picks up his glass and holds it toward you across the table, waiting.
You pick yours up and touch it lightly against his, the soft clink of it quiet in the hum of the cabin.
“Okay,” you say again, and this time you let yourself smile when you say it.
He smiles back, and takes a slow sip, his eyes staying on yours just a moment longer than necessary before he looks back out the window.
You sink a little deeper into your seat and let yourself breathe properly for what feels like the first time all week. Outside, the clouds drift past in long slow shapes, and the afternoon light coming through the window is soft and golden, and the wine is so good it almost feels unreasonable.
You look at the bottle sitting on the table between you.
No label you recognize. No price you could guess without embarrassing yourself.
Just another small glimpse of the world he’s been living in this whole time, sitting right there on a table between you like it’s nothing.
Like it’s just where you are now.
You take another sip and let yourself believe, quietly, that maybe it is.
The next few hours pass in a way that feels different from anything that came before them.
Not uncomfortable exactly. Just new. Like the two of you are figuring out what this is now, what it looks like in practice, what changes and what stays the same when you’re no longer pretending the thing between you doesn’t exist.
You talk. Easily, mostly. He asks about the book you pulled out somewhere over the midwest, something you picked up at the airport on a whim, and you tell him about it and he listens the way he always listens, like he’s actually interested and not just being polite. He tells you about a trip he took years ago that had nothing to do with work, just him and a friend driving through the south of France with no real plan, and you find yourself leaning slightly forward as he talks, your wine glass resting loosely in your fingers.
At some point you try to go back to reading.
You get through approximately one page.
The words are there but your brain isn’t. Your brain is very busy being aware of him sitting across from you, the way he looks when he’s relaxed, the way his eyes catch the light from the window when he glances up, the way he turns his wine glass slowly between his fingers when he’s thinking about something. You read the same paragraph three times before you accept defeat and close the book quietly and hope he doesn’t notice.
He notices.
“Good book?” he asks, not looking up from his phone.
“Great book,” you say. “Very engaging.”
The corner of his mouth lifts and he doesn’t say anything else, which is somehow worse.
You look back out the window and watch the sky begin to change as the afternoon softens toward evening, the light going golden and then amber, the clouds below you turning colors you don’t have names for. You’ve never seen a sunset from above the clouds before. It looks like something out of a painting, like something that shouldn’t be real.
You don’t say that out loud because you don’t want to seem like someone who’s never done this before.
Even though you haven’t.
Even though everything about today is something you’ve never done before.
The pilot announces descent about twenty minutes later and you feel the subtle shift of the plane beginning to drop, the clouds rising up around you as you sink back through them, the world below emerging slowly through the grey. City lights beginning to flicker on in the early evening. Roads and buildings and the particular sprawl of a city seen from above, everything small and organized and quietly beautiful in a way it never looks from the ground.
You feel the wheels touch down and the plane slows steadily and by the time it stops completely the sky outside has gone a deep blue that’s almost purple at the edges.
The flight attendant reappears to let you know you can move around, and Harry is already standing, reaching up for his bag with the easy movement of someone who does this constantly, who has never once had to think about where to put his arms during turbulence or whether his ears will pop on descent.
You gather your things and follow him off the plane, stepping out into air that’s cooler than home, carrying the particular smell of a city that isn’t yours.
The steps down from the plane are narrow and you’re navigating your bag and your notebook and trying to look like someone who deplanes private aircraft regularly when you feel it.
His hand.
Settling at the small of your back, warm and steady, guiding you forward without making a thing of it. Like it’s the most natural gesture in the world. Like he’s done it a thousand times.
Maybe he has.
But he hasn’t done it with you, and the warmth of it travels up your spine in a way that makes you very glad you’re already moving so you have somewhere to look that isn’t directly at him.
The car is waiting on the tarmac, a black SUV with a driver who nods when he sees Harry and immediately moves to take the bags without being asked.
You slide into the back seat and Harry gets in beside you, closer than on the drive to the airport this morning, or maybe the same distance and you’re just more aware of it now.
The drive to the hotel starts with easy conversation, both of you talking about tomorrow’s meeting, what to expect, who will be in the room, what he needs from you. It feels normal. Comfortable even. Like you’ve found some middle ground between what you were before the plane and whatever this is now.
Then his phone rings.
He glances at the screen and something shifts slightly in his expression. “I have to take this,” he says, already answering.
You nod and turn toward the window, giving him the privacy of your attention pointed somewhere else, watching the city move past outside the glass while his voice fills the back seat behind you. Low and focused, slipping back into that professional mode like he never left it, asking sharp questions and listening and giving instructions that leave no room for misinterpretation.
You watch the city and think about the hand on your back and the wine on the plane and the way he said let me take care of you like it cost him nothing to offer.
He’s still on the phone when the car pulls up in front of the hotel.
You look up at the building through the window and feel your stomach do something complicated.
It’s beautiful. The kind of hotel that has a name you’ve heard before but never had a reason to look up. All clean lines and warm lighting, the entrance framed by something architectural you can’t name but immediately understand is expensive. A doorman steps forward before the car has fully stopped.
Harry wraps up his call as the driver opens the door, and you both step out into the evening air while someone appears to deal with the bags without either of you asking.
You follow Harry inside and the lobby is everything the outside promised. High ceilings. Soft lighting. Marble floors that reflect everything above them. Flowers arranged on a center table that are probably changed every day. The quiet of money, which is different from regular quiet, denser somehow, more deliberate.
You try not to look too obviously impressed.
You are extremely impressed.
Check in is seamless in the way things are seamless when someone is expecting you. The woman behind the desk smiles at Harry with professional warmth and has everything ready before he even finishes saying his name. Two key cards appear on the marble counter without discussion.
Harry takes both of them, glances at them briefly, then holds one out to you.
“You’re on the eighth floor,” he says. “I’m on nine.”
You take the key card from him, your fingers brushing his for just a second.
“Okay,” you say.
He stands there for a moment, hands in his pockets, looking at you in that quiet, unhurried way of his. The lobby moves softly around you, other guests passing, the low sound of conversation and heels on marble, and you stand there in the middle of it looking at each other like the rest of it isn’t happening.
“Bright and early tomorrow,” he says. “Nine o’clock. I’ll meet you down here.”
“I’ll be ready,” you say.
He nods once. “Get some sleep.”
You smile a little. “You too.”
And then neither of you moves for a second longer than is strictly necessary, the same way you didn’t move right away in the elevator, or in his office doorway, or in any of the small charged moments that have been accumulating between you since the day you walked into his lobby and almost threw up from nerves.
Then he picks up his bag, gives you one last look that you feel somewhere in the vicinity of your sternum, and heads toward the elevator.
You stand there holding your key card and watching him go, and when the elevator doors close behind him you let out a long slow breath and look down at the marble floor beneath your feet.
You are in a very nice hotel.
In a city that isn’t yours.
With a key card to a room on the eighth floor.
And something that started this morning as the most dreaded conversation of your professional life somehow ended with you saying okay on a plane at thirty thousand feet while drinking wine that probably cost more than your electric bill.
You pick up your bag and head toward the elevator.
The doors open and you step inside and press eight and lean back against the wall and stare at the ceiling while the elevator climbs.
You should call Mia.
You are absolutely going to call Mia.
But first you need to find your room and set down your bag and sit on what you already know is going to be an unreasonably comfortable bed and stare at the ceiling for a few minutes while you process the fact that your life appears to be changing in ways you didn’t entirely plan for.
The elevator doors open on the eighth floor and you step out into a hallway that smells faintly of something expensive and looks like it belongs in a magazine.
You find your room, press the key card to the door, and push it open.
And then you stand in the doorway for a moment, just taking it in.
Floor to ceiling windows. City lights spread out below you like something from a film. A bed so large it looks almost absurd. Soft warm lighting that makes everything look golden. Flowers on the dresser. A bathroom visible through an open door that appears to be mostly made of marble.
You set your bag down slowly.
You sit on the edge of the bed, which is exactly as unreasonably comfortable as you predicted.
A/N: this one you guys!!! i literally wrote it in 24 hours which is insane but idc, i got into the flow with this one!!! its also for the plus size girlies who think they are not worthy of the love they deserve 🫶
WORD COUNT: 14.7k
PAIRING: college!hockey!harry x plus-size!bestfriend!reader
WARNING: sexual content
SUMMARY: You have always refused to let yourself even think about falling for your best friend, but then suddenly you come to the realization you failed at that horribly. Even though you've been best friends for what feels like forever you're in two very different leagues, so you're eager to get over these inconvenient feeling, though that mission turns out to be harder than you expected it to be.
MASTERLIST | SUPPORT ME!
The cafeteria is pure chaos between twelve and one o’clock, so you usually try to arrive as early as possible after your Curatorial Studies class on Wednesdays to avoid the endless line and no free table situation, but today you had to discuss a few things with professor Didak about your last essay, so by the time you’re nearing the food hall it’s packed.
With a defeated sigh you join the line and pull out your phone to kill the time with some empty scrolling, but a notification pops up on your screen right when you open TikTok.
HARRY: where are uuuuu???
Y/N: in line, u?
HARRY: front of the line, come join us!!
Chewing on your bottom lip you take a look at the line ahead of you. Normally you hate those who cut the line and join their friends, but you only have about forty minutes before your next class, so you’re kind of in a rush. Taking a deep breath you step out of the line and start walking ahead.
As you near the front you immediately spot him.
Harry has been your best friend since sixth grade when he transferred to your school and he was sat next to you. On his first day you spotted the stack of Pokemon cards in his bag, which you pointed out excitedly. His ears turned bright red and he tried to make you believe it wasn’t his, but then you told him you collected them as well and if he wanted to you could exchange cards. And boom, just like that you became the best of friends.
Even though in high school it started to become pretty obvious that the two of you would lean into different crowds, Harry started playing hockey on a more serious level, so he became a popular athlete in school while you decided to explore your love for art and everything related. He spent most of his time in practice on the ice and you were a frequent in the art room painting or drawing or in the library reading books about art history.
But despite the diversion, you still remained friends. Not once did you feel like he felt embarrassed to hang out with someone who wasn’t as popular as he was, he invited you to every party, every outing and always made sure to spend time with you even when you both were busy with your studies. Now you’re college juniors, Harry is an Econ major and captain of the hockey team, a damn good one even despite the doubts whether a junior could take up on the role and you’re a Fine Arts major with the intention of starting your masters in Studio Art soon, but you’re still the best of friends, even though neither of you collects Pokemon cards anymore.
As you walk up to him and his teammates at the front of the line you get a few dirty stares thrown at you from girls, but you try your best to ignore. It’s been like that since forever, plenty of girls have shown their jealousy over how close you are with Harry, girls who wanted his attention, but ended up not even making an impression on him, though it was never like that between you and him.
“Hey,” you tap on his shoulder lightly. His head whips around and a goofy smile stretches across his face as he sees you.
“Honey Lemon!” he beams, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and squeezing you to his side as he pulls you next to him in line. The nickname will never stop being silly, he is the only one calling you that. He started using it after he found out Big Hero 6 was your favorite animated movie and Honey Lemon was your favorite character in it.
“She is kinda like you, silly and sweet,” he told you and then just started calling Honey Lemon after that.
“Want to share a cinnamon roll with me?” he asks, eyeing today’s menu.
“Sure,” you nod, smiling.
You all get your food and then take one of the last open tables. The rowdy hockey players always draw attention when there are more than three of them at the same place and sitting with them often makes you feel like you shouldn’t be sharing a table with them, but they all have been pretty welcoming towards you.
“Y/N, you still don’t need a naked model for any of your classes?” Niall, one of the left wingers on the team asks, wiggling his eyebrows at you.
“Still no. But if you’re so keen on showing yourself, I’m sure some of the girls would love to have you for a private session,” you chuckle, shaking your head.
“Stop being a manwhore, Niall,” Harry grunts into his sandwich.
“I just want to share my beauty with everyone, is that a crime?” he scoffs dramatically.
“Everything you do is a crime,” Mitch, the goalie says, making everyone laugh at the table.
“Y’all are just jealous!” Niall waves his hands around grinning.
Harry just shakes his head at his friend as he finishes his sandwich, pulling the cinnamon roll closer so he can cut it in half.
“So are you coming on Friday?”
You furrow your eyebrows, taking another bite of your greek salad.
“What’s on Friday?”
“Told you we are having a party before the season starts. Well, Niall wanted to have a party before all our weekends are occupied by games for a while,” he adds with a huffed laugh.
“Ah yeah. Right. Do I need to be there though?” you ask with a cautious smile. It’s not that you’re against parties, you go to them, quite often, but sometimes you feel very out of place and your anxiety tends to kick in whenever you notice that Harry is keeping an eye on you, staying by your side instead of doing his own thing. It kinda feels like he needs to babysit you.
“Of course,” he nods confidently. “I want you there, so you need to be there.”
“Alright,” you sigh in defeat. “Can I bring Samira?” you ask, referring to your roommate.
“Sure. Do you want me to pick you guys up?”
“We are capable of taking that twenty minute walk on our own,” you chuckle, bumping a shoulder against his.
While you finish your part of the cinnamon roll you listen to the boys bickering about something that happened at practice in the morning, they always find something to argue about. Leaning back in your seat you just casually run your eyes over the students around when your gaze meets an icy blue pair.
Wynter Harris has the ability to make you feel like you’re about to drop dead just by her gaze. If you have the chance you would rather avoid her at any cost, especially since she started looking at you like you’re the devil herself. That correlated with Harry hooking up with her about a year ago and then not wanting to date her, which apparently hurt her ego pretty badly. You have an inkling feeling that she thinks you and Harry have something going on and that’s why he dumped her. Which is just absolutely ridiculous to you.
Well, you can’t deny that Harry is awfully handsome, he is tall and fit and he’s been collecting tattoos for a few years now, giving him a badboyish charm. Additionally to that he is the kindest and funniest person you know, falling for him would be the easiest thing on Earth in your opinion, but you never let that happen to you. If the societal differences weren’t enough, you’re nothing like the girls Harry was associated with throughout the years. Unlike the pretty, cheerleaders and puck bunnies he has hooked up with over the years you carry quite some extra weight, you don’t go around flaunting your thick thighs and soft lower belly, you like to hide your body in baggy, oversized clothes, though your full boobs are definitely considered an asset. As long as you can keep them tamed of course, because once your bra is off, they sag a few levels lower on your abdomen.
Your body has been one of your biggest insecurities probably since you were a teenager and gained those stubborn extra pounds you haven’t been able to get rid of ever since. And guys Harry, the star athletes simply don’t go after girls like you, so you spared yourself the heartbreak and talked some sense into yourself before a crush could even spark inside you.
“Want some more?” Harry’s question pulls you out of your thoughts as you tear your gaze away from Wynter. He is offering you the last bite of his part of the cinnamon roll, the middle of it which is the absolute best, but your appetite has disappeared.
“No, I’m good,” you shake your head. “I gotta head to my next class, I’ll talk to you later, okay?”
Standing from your seat you grab your bag and swing it over your shoulder before taking my tray. Harry assesses you with a curious look, but you brush it off with a quick smile before waving goodbye to him and the boys.
You will not let Wynter’s death glare send you down a spiral, you tell yourself as you exit the cafeteria and head over to your next class.
***
“Be honest, do I look like a racoon?”
Samira turns to you from her mirror, referring to her eye makeup, that turned out just a tad bit too smokey.
“Um, maybe a little bit. Wipe some off on the lid,” you suggest and she nods, turning back to her mirror.
It’s Friday evening, you’re getting ready for the party Harry said he needed you to go to. Luckily, Samira didn’t need much convincing about attending, she broke up with her boyfriend of two years in the summer and she’s been living her best single life since then, taking any opportunities to mess around at parties.
“Do you have your eyes on someone for tonight?” you ask, smirking as you step over to your dresser, trying to figure out what to wear.
“There is this cute guy I have microeconomics together with this semester, would be nice if he was there,” Sami says with a little dance that makes you chuckle. “Are you gonna be glued to your boy’s side again?”
“Hey! I’m not glued to his side and he is not my boy,” you defend yourself, ignoring a funky feeling deep in your gut as you pull out a black top.
“Girl, keep telling yourself that, but he is your boy and you’re his girl,” she scoffs.
Samira has been convinced since the day you met in freshman year that you and Harry are in love with each other, even though you’ve told her millions of times that you’re just friends, nothing more. She doesn’t believe it.
“Whatever,” you mutter. “Though I swear if we were anything, Wynter Harris would probably murder me in my dreams,” you huff out a laugh.
“She’s just jealous,” Sami shrugs, standing from her spot. She turns her face to you with a questioning look, referring to her makeup, to which you give her a nod. “That girl is so obsessed with Styles, it’s kinda scary,” she adds with an eye-roll. “Wear that with those light-washed jeans,” she says, pointing at the top you chose for tonight.
“But those are so tight,” you frown.
“Yeah, and your ass looks great in them. Wear it!”
You’re hesitant, but give in, feeling kind of out of your comfort zone, but also excited about your outfit. It’s definitely not one of your baggy fits, but you don’t let yourself dwell on the way your tummy is showing or how your backrolls make an appearance if the fabric of your shirt sticks to you.
By the time you’re done getting ready, Samira is already halfway out the door.
“You look hot, by the way,” she says, adjusting her hoop earrings in the mirror.
“I look… normal,” you reply, tugging lightly at the hem of your top for the tenth time.
“Just take the fucking compliment!” she groans, but you know she’s just joking.
“Fine, thank you! You look hot too.”
“Now let’s get our hot asses going!” She cheers, pulling you towards the hallway.
The party is exactly as you expected. Loud, crowded, warm and full of alcohol, so just like an average party.
Samira hooks her arm with yours as you make your way into the kitchen to get yourselves a drink. She is quick to mix up something sweet for the two of you and bumping your cups together you take a long chug. That’s when Harry appears, his eyes landing on you instantly.
“There is my Honey Lemon!” he throws his hands up, like he hasn’t seen you earlier that day when you had coffee together. “Already drinking, very well,” he grins, wrapping his arms around your shoulders as he pulls you into a bear hug.
His masculine scent instantly fills your nostrils, mixing a bit of his own smell, which you can’t quite deter, but you could pick out of a million anytime.
You laugh against his shoulder before he lets go of you, though lets one of his arms around your shoulders.
“Sami, good to see you,” he nods at your roommate.
“You too, Styles. Ready for the season?” she asks. Samira is actually a big hockey fan, she has two older brothers and they both played hockey growing up.
“Never been more ready,” he grins confidently, giving your shoulder a squeeze.
A moment later more of his teammates flood into the kitchen, carrying pizza boxes, so chaos takes over the room as everyone tries to get a slice.
“You hungry?” Harry asks, leaning closer to your ear, his breath tickling your skin.
“I’m good,” you shake your head. His arm falls from around your shoulder as he fetches two slices for himself.
“Hey, I think I just saw Eli,” Samira says to you, craning her neck to peek into the living room. You give her a puzzled look. “The guy from microeconomics. Would you hate me if I left you for a bit?” she asks with doe eyes.
“I’ve got her, don’t worry,” Harry answers for you with his mouth full of food.
“It’s not like I need babysitting,” you give him a look, before turning back to Sami. “Go, I’ll be fine.”
“Text me if you need me or want to leave,” she says, giving you a quick hug before disappearing.
“You sure you don’t want some?” Harry asks, holding up the slice in his hand when he catches you eyeing the pizzas on the kitchen island. Truth is you’d love to have some, but you’ve been trying to cut back on fast food.
“No, I wouldn’t eat a whole slice,” you shake your head and then Harry holds his slice out to you.
“Take a bite, I know you want a taste,” he grins and he looks so goofy with his greasy lips and slightly hazy eyes from the drinks he has probably had, you can’t help but chuckle at him before accepting his offer and taking a bite.
“Mm, it’s so good,” you moan as the cheese melts on your tongue.
Harry lets out a soft laugh at your reaction, shaking his head, but he doesn’t say anything else.
Once most of the pizza is gone Niall demands a round of shots and you are no exception, though Harry switches glasses with you, since he got one with less vodka in it, then he also pours you some juice in a cup.
“I know you hate the taste of vodka,” he smiles at you.
“Thanks,” you smile back.
After the round of vodka Niall convinces you to have another one with him and that’s enough to make you feel tipsy. Soon, you all move to the backyard where the beerpong tables are set up and most of the boys decide to join the game. Harry asks if you want to play, but you’d rather just stay on the side and he stays with you. There are quite some people around, making it a bit crowded so you’re kind of pressed against Harry, but somehow you end up standing in front of him, with his arms around your shoulders, pulling you against his hard chest. It’s not the first time he holds you like this, but for some reason, you’re awfully aware of just how much he envelops you with his body.
Then at one point a girl comes up beside the two of you.
“Harry! Hi! Haven’t seen you in ages!” The blondie taps a hand on his bicep, smiling up at him with flirty eyes.
“Hi Charlotte,” he nods with a polite smile, but his gaze quickly falls back to the game, though that doesn’t bother Charlotte.
“Remember how you promised to do a round of shots with me at that sorority party?”
She is blinking up at him innocently, pushing her chest out in a pretty obvious way, while she hasn’t even acknowledged your existence. Suddenly, your stomach twists.
“Uh, yeah, I remember,” Harry chuckles softly. His arms loosen around you, but he keeps his hands on your shoulders.
“Maybe we can do that now,” Charlotte suggests. You turn to face Harry.
“Go on, I’ll just keep watching the game,” you smile up at him.
“You sure?”
“Yeah.”
He hesitates for another second before nodding. Charlotte claps happily and as soon as Harry’s hands fall from your shoulder she is holding onto him, tugging him inside. You watch them disappear in the crowd with your teeth sunk into your bottom lip.
Fuck, why do you feel like throwing up suddenly? Maybe you had too much to drink. Not enough to make you feel sick though, so why are you feeling like shit?
You stick around for a little longer, moments go by, Harry doesn’t return and the game starts to bore you, so you decide to have a quick bathroom break. Pushing your way through the people inside you’re heading to the bathroom downstairs, but when you see the line you decide to use Harry’s bathroom upstairs.
There are noticeably less people as you walk up the stairs, half the hockey team lives in this big renovated townhouse and Harry’s room is the last one in the hallway, so you just keep walking past the doors, but then stop in your tracks when you spot him.
And not just him, Charlotte is with him.
They are standing in front of Harry’s room, she has her arms around his neck, breasts pressed against his chest as she is seductively saying something leaning close to his ear. Harry stands straight, one hand on her hip, the other one in his pocket. It doesn’t seem like he is very into the situation, but he is definitely not against it.
Your stomach drops when Charlotte presses a kiss to his neck and you turn around before you could witness her pull him into his room.
You practically sprint down the stairs, the need to use the bathroom long forgotten. Your chest is burning and it feels like you’re carrying a rock inside it. You don’t stop until you’re outside, rounding the house and plastering your back against the wall in the dark where no one can see you.
What the hell is wrong with you? Why are you reacting like you just saw your worst nightmare? It was just Harry being seduced by a girl, nothing new, it’s not the first time he hooks up with someone at a party, though he doesn’t do it as often as one would expect him to.
And you have never actually seen him do this.
You know about most of his little adventures by him telling you about them, but you never actually witnessed any of them happening, while you sat in first row now with him and Charlotte and it triggered something inside you. Something you’ve been very adamant to deny. But now it’s crashing down on you all of a sudden.
You feel this way because you actually do have a crush on Harry.
“Fuck,” you breathe out, burying your face in your hands. This is bad. This is so bad on so many levels.
You can’t be into your best friend, because that’s all he should be. Your best friend. It’s what he sees you as for sure, so your end can’t change. He would never look at you more than just a friend, you are nowhere near his league.
Star athletes and popular guys like him are not into girls like you. Girls who blend into the crowd, girls who are not thin like models and girls who lack any confidence. It’s just not how things go, no matter how long you’ve known each other.
You press your palms harder against your face like you can physically push the thought back in. It doesn’t work though, of course it doesn’t work.
“No,” you whisper to yourself, shaking your head. “No, no, no.”
You refuse to sink into this, you’ve been suppressing it all along for a very good reason and you won’t let this wreck you right now.
You take a deep breath, then another and another one before forcing yourself to move away from the wall and walk back inside. You plan on finding Samira, hoping she might be up to hang out some with you some or maybe head home, but the first person you run into is Harry.
“Hey,” he says carefully. “I’ve been looking for you.”
You blink at him, suddenly the sight of him feels like a stab into your chest. But at least he is not in his room all over Charlotte right now.
“I was just getting air,” you say quickly, forcing a smile onto your face, that probably doesn’t look too convincing, because Harry narrows his eyes at you.
“You alright?”
“Yeah!” you nod. “’m fine,” you reassure him, softer this time. “Just… a bit overwhelmed.”
That’s when you spot Samira across the room, talking to two girls, no boy near.
“I’ll go hang out with Sami for a bit,” you nod towards your roommate. Harry follows your gaze, then looks back at you and the worry is obvious in his eyes, but he doesn’t question you.
“Okay. See you later?”
“Sure,” you nod with a smile, swallowing the ball in your throat.
“And if you’re leaving let me know.”
“I will,” you nod again and then walk past him, afraid that if you keep looking at him you might break.
You join Sami and the two girls she knows from her statistics class from last semester, though you completely zone out of their conversation. Sami notices your behavior, but you just brush it off and excuse yourself to go to the bathroom, this time actually.
Luckily the line has shortened for the one downstairs, so you don’t have to use Harry’s. While you’re in you keep thinking about how you need to get your head straight. You can’t let this get out of hands or you might ruin your friendship with him, which is simply not an option.
When you step out of the bathroom you’re so deep in thoughts that you run right into someone. A very tall and muscular someone.
“Shit, sorry,” you mumble, stepping back, while the stranger’s hands come to your arms steadying you.
“Are you up by the beerpong table?” his deep voice chuckles and you blink up at him.
“What?”
“Just thought you might be next in the game, that’s why you’re in such a hurry.”
His words finally process in your mind and you shake your head with an airy chuckle.
“No, sorry, I was just… thinking about something.”
“Hey, do I know you?” he asks, his hands falling from your arms. At his words you look up at him too and he looks familiar as well, but it doesn’t click at first. Then his eyes light up, but there’s a bit of mischief in them. “Ah, you’re… Y…?”
“Y/N,” you help him out and that’s when you realize who he is.
Mason Thorne was on the hockey team up until the end of last year. The guy was a great player, but even greater trouble, he was doing some pretty hard partying and ended up trashing the entrance of the building where the dean’s office is. It was a huge scandal, not his first either. It happened when their coach finally told Harry that from this fall he’ll be captain since their previous one was a senior, finishing up his studies. Because of his future position Coach Bernard asked Harry’s thoughts on Mason too. He said he was a liability, cares way too much about parties and it affects his performance as well, so Harry advised to kick him out.
It wasn’t his decision though, but at last that’s what Coach Bernard ended up doing. As far as you know Mason understood the decision and he’s been holding back on the partying lately even though he is not getting back on the team.
“Yes, you’re friends with Harry, right?” he smiles and you have to admit he is charming.
But not as charming as Harry.
“Yep,” you nod with a tight-lipped smile. Mason’s gaze runs down your body, which has you feeling uncomfortable for a second.
“Haven’t seen you in a while. Would you want to catch up over a drink maybe?” he asks with a flirty smile and at first you almost turn him down.
But then you think about it for a moment. This is exactly what you need, someone to take your mind off of this whole Harry thing, some flirting, some ego-boosting and judging from Mason’s look that’s exactly what he is offering you right now.
“Sure,” you nod at last. “Why not?”
***
Usually after parties the boys like to go out for dinner in a chinese place close to campus, so you’re not surprised when Harry invites you and Samira out as well.
You’ve made a promise to yourself to carry on with everything as normal, so you accept.
When the two of you arrive the boys are already there, looking tired and hungover, but as rowdy as usual.
“Hello Honey Lemon,” Harry greets you when you take the seat beside him.”
“Hi,” you smile, ignoring the twist in your stomach.
The nice old Chinese lady comes and takes your orders and then the conversation around the table carries on as you wait for the food. Harry leans in closer, so only you can hear him.
“Saw you talking to Mason Thorne last night.”
You’re actually surprised, not just that he noticed you talking to Mason, but that he is now bringing it up.
“Yeah, we kinda caught up a bit,” you shrug, hoping to sound casual, though your nerves are definitely on edge. Harry hums, but doesn’t say anything. “Why?” you ask.
“No reason,” he says, too fast. Then, after a pause: “Just… be careful around him, yeah?”
You blink with a frown.
“Careful?”
Harry exhales through his nose, shaking his head slightly. “He’s just not—” he stops himself, rephrasing. “He’s not exactly the best guy to be around.”
“Because of him being kicked out of the team? He’s been actually cutting back on the partying since then.”
“I know, but he had weird things going on when he was still on the team,” he shrugs, grabbing his water and taking a sip. You are not liking this conversation, defense rises in your gut.
“Since when do you care who I talk to at parties?” you ask, crunching your nose.
“No need to get all worked up, just thought I might tell you,” he shrugs again. “I know you’re capable of deciding who is worthy of your time,” he adds and that part softens you a little.
Your heart aches, because it’s him who is actually the most worthy of your time, but knowing that it’s not gonna happen, you need to force yourself to move on and right now Mason is your best chance for that.
“I am,” you nod, but it’s more like an assurance to yourself, rather than him. Talking to Mason was kind of fun last night, he has a sharp tongue and flirted quite a lot with you, even asked for your number at the end of the night and he has already texted you.
And now as you sit beside Harry you make the decision to do everything you can to forget about your feelings for him. Starting with giving a chance to someone who isn’t him.
***
You and Mason agreed to meet up for a coffee on Tuesday. You’ve been texting since the party and it felt like a logical step to spend some time together in person as well.
He is already there at the café when you arrive, greets you with a short hug and you can’t not notice how his hand slips lower on your back, towards your butt, but it’s still barely appropriate, so you decide to let it slide. You both order and then sit at one of the tables.
There’s a confidence in him that feels… easy. Different from Harry’s, but still familiar in a way you don’t fully want to analyze.
“So you’re a Fine Arts major, huh? The next da Vinci?”
You let out a chuckle, though you kind of hate it when people assume that just because you study art you also want to be a painter. While you do enjoy creating art, it’s so much more than just that.
“We’ll see. But I’m kind of more into the history of art these days and curation.”
“That’s a fancy word,” he smirks, taking a sip of his coffee.
The conversation flows easily, though you kind of stay on the surface level. It’s pleasant, but not memorable so far.
Mason is telling you about the internship he is planning to start next summer when the door of the small café opens and an all too familiar figure steps inside.
Harry walks in wearing a black hoodie, his hair slightly messy, like maybe he just rolled out of bed. His eyes scan the room just casually, but then he spots you and Mason. His expression is unreadable as he stops for a moment and then heads over to you, making you curse internally. His appearance is the last thing you needed right now.
“Hey guys, what a nice surprise,” he nods, stopping by your table.
“Hey man,” Mason nods back as you drop him a smile too. Harry looks at him and Mason stares back and suddenly the air around you feels different, but you can’t put your finger on it.
“Are you guys on a date or something?” Harry asks in a weird tone.
“Just having a chat,” Mason answers.
“Right,” Harry nods once, slowly. “Didn’t realize you two knew each other that well already.”
Something about the way he says that well makes your brows knit. This whole conversation feels off.
“Getting there,” Mason smiles at you, which you return, but it’s not genuine.
Harry shifts his weight slightly, gaze flicking briefly to Mason’s coffee, then back to him, like he has something to say, but keeps to himself.
“Want to study together later, Honey Lemon?” he then asks you.
“Uh, sure. I’ll text you.”
Then Harry nods and lingers for another beat before mumbling his goodbye and walking back to the counter to order.
“Honey Lemon?” Mason asks with an amused look.
“It’s just a silly nickname he gave me a long time ago,” you wave your hand dismissively.
“So you guys are like… something?”
“We’re friends,” you answer instantly. “We’ve been friends for a long time, but that’s all.”
“Friends who give each other cute nicknames.” Mason nods into his coffee, he doesn’t sound upset, his tone is more teasing, mixed with something you can’t quite read.
“Just friends,” you repeat and it’s a reminder to you as well, not just an answer for Mason.
Your gaze flickers up to Harry’s figure by the counter just as he puts the lid on his cup. He looks at you too, your eyes meeting for a heartbeat before you turn away. From the corner of your eyes you see him walk out and something shifts in your chest, but you ignore it and turn your attention back to Mason.
There is no use of dwelling on your useless feelings for Harry when you have a cute guy right in front of you, right?
Right.
***
You were hoping Harry would forget about the study session he suggested, but you’re out of luck. About an hour after you part ways with Mason he texts you.
HARRY: u home yet?
Y/N: yep
The three dots appear immediately after you sent your reply.
HARRY: meet me in the library in 20?
You hesitate for a second, but then agree.
He is waiting outside the building when you get there, greeting you with a soft smile. The sight of him sends a shiver down your spine and for a second you wonder how you got here just in a few days, that even just looking at him has your body twisting and bending.
“Hi there,” he says as you reach him. It’s a little windy and you forgot to tie your hair back, so a few strands are dancing right in your face. Harry reaches up and tugs them behind your ears with an easy move, but as his fingers brush against the side of your face you almost let out a tortured moan.
Now you regret agreeing to meet him.
“Hi. Let’s get going,” you suggest and the two of you walk inside.
You find a nice spot near the windows and settle across from each other, covering the tabletop with your textbooks and notebooks. You have barely started studying ten minutes ago when he drops his pen and looks at you.
“So you and Mason?”
Right into the middle of it.
“What about us?”
“Is it… like, serious?” He leans back, eyeing you with a hard expression.
“We’re just talking,” you shrug and that’s the truth. Nothing happened between the two of you, though Mason has been definitely hinting that he would love to change that.
Harry nods shortly and then you both return to your books, but not even two minutes later he looks up again.
“I just don’t get it.”
“What?” you sigh.
“You,” he simply says. “I mean, why him?”
Your jaw tightens a little. “Why is that even your business?”
“It’s not,” he admits quickly. “You’re right, but… we’re best friends, so it is kind of a bit of my business.”
“Yeah, but you don’t hear me questioning you about your hook ups, so why am I being interrogated?”
Your words come out a little sharper than you intended them and you see how they stun him. For a second you feel bad for biting back at him like that.
“I just care about you,” he then says. “And I want to make sure you’re good.”
Your whole body relaxes at that, that heavy weight in your chest softens, because that’s exactly the Harry you love so much. The one who always shows up. Always checks in. Always makes space for you like it’s the easiest thing in the world.
“I’m good. Don’t worry about me,” you tell him this time softer.
“I will always worry about my Honey Lemon,” he says and something grips your heart.
You’re actually close to crying, so you shake your head with an airy chuckle and turn your attention back to your reading.
“Study, Styles. Worry about your grades.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he replies, making you laugh as you both go back to your books, though you stare at the same line for what feels like eternity before you finally manage to recover from the conversation you just had.
Your heart already feels like breaking and that’s exactly what you wanted to avoid. So in the heat of your emotions you grab your phone from the table and text Mason, asking if he wants to meet up again. He is quick to reply.
MASON: always up to see u gorgeous ;)
You like his message and put your phone back, ignoring the way Harry is staring at you from the other side of the table.
***
At the end of October there is always a Fall Festival on campus that you love so much. The central quad is transformed into something straight out of a movie. String lights are hung between trees, food trucks line the walkways, student organizations set up booths, live music plays from a temporary stage and there are carnival games scattered around. You always get excited to wander around and see everything and that’s exactly what you were planning this year too with Samira, but the moment she enters your shared room that afternoon, just an hour before you were supposed to go and explore the festival you know something is up.
“Spill it out,” you sigh, shoulders sagging.
“Okay, don’t hate me, but… Eli asked me out to go to the festival with him.”
“Oh. Oh…” It takes you a second to realize what that means.
“But I told him I promised you to go with and I don’t want to bail on you so what would you say if Eli joined us too?” she asks, flashing a wide, hopeful smile at you.
“Sami, I don’t want to be your third wheel,” you moan.
“You won’t! Just think of it as a hangout!”
“But it’s not,” you roll your eyes. “Just… go with him. I’ll ask someone else.”
“What about Mason?” she suggests.
“He is out of town for the weekend, but I’ll just text Holly and see if she is up to it,” you say with a soft smile, though you already know Holly, who you had Visual Culture class two semesters ago and remained friends with will be going with her own boyfriend, but Sami doesn’t need to know that. Your mood for the festival was killed so you’ll just probably stay home and binge watch another trashy dating reality show.
“Okay, but if Holly is not available please just come with us. I don’t want you to miss out on the festival, I know how much you love it,” Sami tells you, pointing a stern finger at you.
“I will,” you nod, knowing well you won’t.
Soon Samira leaves to meet up with Eli and you pretend like you’re getting ready to head out too, but as soon as she is out the door you put your sweats back on and crash onto your bed. However your chilling session cuts short when a text pops up on your phone from Harry.
HARRY: where are u?
Y/N: home
HARRY: ?? why??
Y/N: bc I live here?
HARRY: smartass, what about the festival?
Y/N: not in the mood
HARRY: absolutely not, get dressed, I’ll pick u up in 10
You stare at the message for a bit, debating whether it’s worth fighting him, but you soon realize Harry is one stubborn asshole and will literally pound on your door until you go with him, so it’s better if you just gave up.
You step out of your dorm building right when Harry arrives. He is wearing his hockey jacket over a thick hoodie and dark jeans, looking his usual handsome self that has you sighing silently as you approach him.
“Aw, did you turn into GoGo today?” he grins at you, referring to the moodier character from Big Hero 6. “What do I need to do to get Honey Lemon back?”
“Maybe not annoy me to death?”
“I’ll see what I can do,” he winks and gives you a quick bear hug before tugging you towards the festival.
The festival is already packed when you arrive. Students crowd the walkways, laughter and music filling the air. The scent of caramel apples, popcorn and cinnamon hangs in the chilly evening breeze.
"Okay," Harry announces, rubbing his hands together. "First mission."
"What mission?"
"Get Honey Lemon to stop looking like someone ran over her goldfish."
“I never had a goldfish.”
“I know, but this is exactly how you’d look if you had and someone ran over it.”
“How do you even run over a fish?” you frown. Harry sighs, shaking his head.
“The situation is worse than I thought. Come on, I’ll win you something at the games, that will cheer you up.”
You have no time to protest, he takes your hand and pulls you over to the carnival games. He decides he has the best shot with that ridiculous ring tossing game, saying that his aim is perfect thanks to hockey.
Well, he definitely overestimated his abilities when it comes to rigged carnival games. You watch him spend over twenty bucks before he finally wins the smallest prize, an ugly looking pumpkin plushie.
“What is this?” you chuckle, holding the little guy up.
“A pumpkin!” he cheerfully announces.
“It’s hideous,” you shake your head, assessing how one of his eyes is way higher than his other.
“Hey, don’t insult him!” he gasps dramatically, making you laugh.
“He kinda looks possessed.”
“Possessed by the spirit of fall fun!”
“You’re weird,” you shake your head laughing as you tuck the ugly pumpkin into your bag.
“Yeah, but you love me,” he grins.
Yes, you think to yourself. You really do.
You wander around the festival, get some cookies you share and play some more games. Soon you totally forget how you didn’t even want to come in the first place. It also helps that hanging out with Harry feels just like before, he is being his goofy, fun self you always loved so much and you somehow leave your torturous thoughts from the past few weeks behind as well, allowing yourself to enjoy the time spent with your best friend.
Because that’s what he is and that’s what you’re reminded of. No matter what, Harry is truly your best friend.
Standing in line for some hot chocolate a particularly cold breeze rushes past you, making you regret not bringing a jacket, you really thought a sweater would be enough, but now that the sun has gone down it’s definitely getting chillier.
“Are you cold?” he asks, noticing how you’ve wrapped your arms around yourself.
“No.”
“Liar,” he hisses, already shrugging his jacket off.
“Harry, no,” you protest, but he just drapes it over your shoulders.
“Don’t be a pain in the ass, Honey Lemon. I don’t want you to get sick.”
“Oh, so it’s okay for you to catch a cold?” you narrow your eyes at him.
“I’m not cold,” he shrugs. “Besides, I’m used to it. Remember? Hockey is played on ice, in a pretty cold place,” he grins at you. God, he is so insufferable.
“Yes, but you’re moving on the ice, your body’s temperature is a lot higher.”
“I’m gonna get it higher now with a hot chocolate,” he simply nods towards the booth where you’re up next.
With a sigh you let it go and slip your arms into his jacket. Now you’re wrapped in warmth and his scent.
Of course, the evening can’t end without the two of you going for a ride on the ferris wheel. It’s pretty small, but it definitely has a vibe that just goes perfectly with the festival.
The line moves quite fast so you take your seat soon and start the ride.
“Are you feeling better?” Harry asks, bumping his shoulder against yours.
“Yes,” you admit truthfully.
“And want to tell me why you were so mopey?”
Chewing on your bottom lip you just shrug as you stare ahead. What would you even tell him? That recently you realized you have feelings for him and since it’s surely a lost cause you’ve been trying to get over it, but it sucks? Yeah, you’re not sharing that with him.
“Are we good?” he then asks and his question surprises you.
“Why wouldn’t we?”
“Dunno,” he shrugs, but you know there’s more behind it. “I just feel like things between us have been kinda different between us, but I want to make sure we’re good.”
Great, now you feel guilty for making him feel like something is wrong, when the only thing wrong is whatever is going on in your head. It’s not his fault that you’re a mess because of your feelings, he did nothing wrong and you’d hate it if he blamed himself.
“Of course we’re good,” you smile at him softly. “I’ve just been in a… funk lately, I guess” you chuckle awkwardly. “But it’s all good.”
“Is there anything I can do to help you with that?” he asks and you know he means it.
Harry would do anything for you, that’s why it all pains you even more. You were so blind, you should have known from the start that falling for such a great guy is inevitable.
“Just be yourself,” you manage to tell him, swallowing down the ball in your throat, hoping he doesn’t notice the hurt behind your eyes.
“I’m always myself when I’m with you,” he tips his head slightly with the tiniest smile on his lips. “You’re my favorite person, Honey Lemon. You know that, right?”
“I know,” you nod. “And you’re mine.”
You stare at each other for another beat and for a second something feels different. The way he is looking at you, there’s something in it you haven’t noticed before and it’s quick to put a pin into your heart and pop a thought into your mind.
What if Samira was right? What if… there’s more between the two of you?
All the touches, the hugs, the laughs, the endless time spent together, what if those mean more to him as well?
By the time you get off the ferris wheel your head is spinning and your heart is pounding in your chest, especially when his hand brushes against yours and he hooks your pinkies together. It’s the tiniest of touch, but it ignites fireworks in your tummy.
You barely notice where you're walking as Harry guides you through the crowd toward another row of booths. You’ve seen practically everything around the festival, but you definitely don’t want the evening to end just yet.
“Can we drop by the restrooms?” you ask and Harry nods, instantly changing your direction towards the science building that was left open so the restrooms could be used while the festival is open.
Walking on the pavement Harry’s pinky lets go of yours and you feel the disappointment right away, but before you could wallow in it he drapes his arm around your shoulder, pulling you against his side.
“I’ll wait for you here,” he smiles, stopping in front of the building and you rush inside, eager to get back to him as fast as possible.
You’re washing your hand already when the last stall on the row opens and you spot Wynter walking out. Her gaze catches yours in the mirror instantly and you quickly look back down, hoping she’ll just ignore your existence.
But you’re out of luck.
“You know, I have to give you credits for your bravery.”
At first you’re not even sure she is talking to you, because you have no idea what she meant by that, but when you look up you see that she is looking straight at you with her usual icy stare.
“Excuse me?”
“You’re pretty brave for still hanging out with Harry.”
“And why is that?” you ask, knowing well you shouldn’t be interacting with her, but she got you curious.
“The two of you are just so different, he is popular, liked by everyone, one of the best looking guys around campus, while you’re…”
She doesn’t continue, but the runover she gives you with her eyes speaks for her.
You’re not popular, nobody really notices you if Harry isn’t around and you don’t have the looks either. You’re the polar opposite of what he is.
You clench your jaw, feeling all your darkest thoughts flooding your mind suddenly. Wynter’s smile turns almost evil.
“I mean if I were you I would take even a morsel of whatever he is willing to give me, so I don’t blame you. But I think you’re brave for sticking around even when you clearly don’t belong in his circle.”
You want to curse her out, tell her she knows nothing about you or Harry, but you feel like if you opened your mouth you’d start crying. And Wynter probably knows that too, because pride is plastered all over her face as she simply walks past you and exits the restroom.
You stay frozen at the sink, fingers still damp, staring at your reflection like it belongs to someone else. Her words are on repeat in your mind, clawing at your chest more and more every time.
You swallow hard, forcing air into your lungs as you lean onto the sink. Now you feel stupid for letting yourself think even for a minute that there could be more between you and Harry, because Wynter might be a total bitch, but suddenly her words. You really are different and there’s absolutely no way Harry would ever even consider you when it comes to dating when he could have any girl on campus. Cheerleaders, dancers, girls who model in their freetime, that’s the kind of girls he should be with, not you.
Walking out of the building Harry is still right there, scrolling on his phone, but when he sees you he smiles and slips it back into his pocket. Then he sees your face and worry etches onto his expression.
“What’s wrong?”
“I think I’m gonna head home, I’m not feeling too good.”
“Why? What’s the matter?” he keeps searching for your eyes, but you can’t look into his for longer than just a second.
“I think that corndog didn’t like the ferris wheel,” you lie, hoping he won’t question you.
“Ow. Okay, let me walk you home.”
You want to protest, but you know that would be suspicious, so you just nod. The walk back to your dorm is quiet, Harry asks a few times if you want to stop for a bit, but you just really want to get back to your room, be alone and probably cry yourself to sleep.
Somehow you hold it together long enough. In front of the building you slip his jacket off and hand it back.
“Thanks for… everything,” you smile at him faintly.
“You sure I can’t do anything for you? I can stay with you, make sure you’re okay.”
“No need. I just really want to lie down, that’s all.”
he is not pleased by your answer, but he nods and doesn’t protest.
“Okay. Call me if you need anything.”
“Will do. Thank you Harry,” you smile, then turn around and walk back inside.
Tears are rolling down your cheeks by the time you get to your room. Samira is not back, so you can peacefully sob until you’re too tired to carry on. So you take a shower and cocoon yourself in bed, allowing yourself to sink into the sadness for one last night, because now it’s crystal clear for you that you need to get over Harry.
There is no need lusting for something that will never happen and the sooner you move on the better.
***
By the end of the weekend after the festival you’re actively trying to get your shit together. It’s tough, but you have no choice and there are two things you start doing.
One, you start to lean towards Mason more. He returns to campus and the two of you go out for dinner on Monday and when he walks you home from class on Tuesday you even let him kiss you. There are no fireworks, but it’s surely a pleasant kiss, so you tell yourself to just stay open.
On the other hand, you start to put some distance between you and Harry, knowing that’s what you need to make it easier on you, even if it kills you to avoid your best friend. You know he is worried, he tells you through texts, but you just try to brush it all off, hoping he won’t come after you and call you out on your bullshitting.
Friday evening the basketball team is throwing a party following their winning match earlier that day and Mason asks you to go with him, like as a date and you agree.
You also know Harry will be there since he is friends with some of the boys on the basketball team, but you’re trying not to worry ahead, you’ll just stick to Mason’s side and everything will be fine.
Unfortunately, you don’t go too long without running into the hockey boys.
“Y/N!” Niall grins brightly upon seeing you. “Haven’t seen you in fucking ages!”
“Sorry, I’ve been kinda busy,” you let out a nervous chuckle. Behind Niall you spot Harry who is already staring at you with an unreadable expression, but you can tell he is not happy.
“Too busy to meet your best friend?” Harry bites out.
“You know how this stage goes, Styles,” Mason inserts himself into the conversation, draping an arm around your shoulders, though the move feels strange from him. “We’re busy getting to know each other.”
“Yeah, I know how it is,” Harry replies and there’s something dark in his eyes as he stares back at Mason.
“Okay, why don’t we all take a shot?” you suggest, eager to break the awkward vibes.
“That’s what I’m talking about!” Niall cheers and gets to work.
After the shots Mason asks if you want to go see what’s going on by the pool and you nod, but Harry’s hand on your wrist stops you.
“Hey, can we maybe talk tonight?”
“Uh, sure,” you nod, gently pulling your hand back. Not because he is gripping you tight, but because the warmth of his touch is making you shiver.
“Meet me upstairs in half an hour?”
“Okay,” you nod and then go after Mason.
While you hang out by the pool area with Mason and a few other people your thoughts are stuck on Harry. The way he looked at you and his begging eyes when he asked you to talk. It’s not becoming very clear that avoiding him is not only hard for you but for him as well.
You tell Mason you’re going to pee when you head inside, but instead of finding a bathroom you take the stairs up. You’ve only been here once, so you’re not too familiar with the house, but as soon as you reach the hallway upstairs you spot Harry at the end sitting on a sofa under the window.
“You came,” he says quietly as you sit next to him.
“I said I would.”
“Yeah, but you’ve been avoiding me all week, I wasn’t sure…”
Guilt gnaws at your stomach, your first instinct is to apologize, but you hold it back.
“What did you want to talk about?” you ask.
“Well, that’s exactly what I wanted to bring up. You’ve been actively avoiding me and I wanna know why.”
You stare down at your hands in your lap, fumbling with the fabric of your jeans, you really have no idea what to tell him.
“I really don’t like where this is going, Y/N,” he sighs.
“What do you mean? I’ve just been busy and–”
“Please don’t bullshit me,” he frowns, holding his hands up to stop you from rambling on. “I need you to answer my next question honestly, okay?”
“Okay,” you whisper.
“Is Mason telling you to avoid me? Is it because of him?”
You can’t help the puzzled look on your face.
“What? Why would he do that?”
“Because I have a feeling that he is doing all of this to mess with me and get back for getting kicked out of the team.”
It takes a few moments for his words to settle, but when they do, anger starts rising in your gut.
“Oh, so you think Mason is using me to mess with you?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised. He is… not who you think he is.”
“And you know him so well, right?” you scoff.
“No, but I know him enough. I know that he has ulterior motives with you.”
That tips you over. You jump to your feet, taking a step back, needing some distance between the two of you, but this time it’s because you’re close to strangling him.
“Fuck you,” you spat, surprising him with your sudden outburst. “Really, you think a good-looking guy like Mason couldn’t be interested in me without having some secret motives connected to you? Is that what you think?”
His eyes widen as he realizes that’s how you interpreted his words. He stands up and tries to get closer to you, but as soon as he moves, you take another step back, so he stops, not wanting to drive you away.
“That’s not what I mean, Y/N.”
“But I think that’s kind of actually what you meant, Harry. Maybe not directly, but deep down you actually had the thought.”
“Why would I think that? That’s insane, I just want to protect you from whatever Mason has planned, because I’m sure it won’t end well.”
“I don’t need your protection, okay? I’m more than capable of choosing who I want to spend my time with and right now you’re at the very bottom of that list.”
Turning around you start marching away from him, but he is quick to catch up. He grabs your wrist, tries to pull you back, but you shake his hand off.
“Y/N, wait, let’s talk about this,” he pleads, but you’re seeing red and talking is the last thing you want to do right now.
“No. I mean it. I don’t want to see you right now and if we’re actually friends please respect that.”
If you weren’t this angry you’d actually be pretty proud of standing your ground. Harry senses the determination in you as well, so hesitantly, but he steps back and lets you walk away.
The music is loud downstairs, but your pulse is actually drumming louder in your ears as you push your way downstairs and then head back outside. You don’t see Mason by the pool so you start looking for him. As you’re just about to go back inside you hear his voice coming from beside the house from the dark.
Walking closer you still don’t see him, but hear him talking to someone and soon you realize the other voice belongs to Wynter. The blood freezes in your veins as you plaster yourself against the wall and listen to their conversation.
“How long are you gonna toy with her?” Wynter asks with a giggle. “Don’t drag it too long.”
Mason scoffs. “Relax. I’ve got it handled.”
“I don’t doubt that, but we don’t want another scandal out of it,” Wynter purrs.
“I know what I’m doing. I have her wrapped around my fingers.”
Your stomach drops and nausea starts to take over you, but you keep listening.
“I think Harry is really spiraling over this,” Mason adds with a proud chuckle. “You should have seen his face tonight when he saw her with me.”
“I really don’t understand what he likes so much about her,” Wynter scoffs and now tears are threatening to spill from your eyes. “He could literally have anyone and he is still spending all his time with her.”
“You mean he could have you,” Mason corrects her and they both laugh. “Yeah, he is seething over her spending time with me.”
“But you’re not actually liking her, right?” Wynter asks.
“Fuck no,” Mason laughs. “She is kinda annoying sometimes and definitely not my type. I don’t even know how she could believe that I’m into her.”
That’s the final knife in your chest. With red eyes and wet cheeks you step out from behind the wall and let them know that you heard them. They look actually surprised about getting busted, but neither of them says anything. Instead, they even look smug, as if they are trying to send a message: Yes, we did that, what are you gonna do about it?
“I hope you’ll both have fun in hell together,” you simply say, then turn around and walk away.
You’re done. Absolutely done with everything and everyone. Tears stream down your cheeks as you push your way through the house with the intention of leaving, but right when you’re about to reach the front door Harry stops you.
“Y/N I’m so sorry for– Hey, are you crying because of what I said?” he asks panicking, following you out the door, because you’re not stopping.
“Just leave me alone,” you sob, trying to turn away from him, but he jumps in front of you on the front porch and finally stops you, gently grabbing you by your shoulders.
“Fuck Y/N if it’s because of me I–”
“It’s not, okay?” you snap at him. “But congratulations, you were fucking right!” You let out a bitter laugh before shrugging his hands off and actually running away from him.
You don’t stop until you reach the end of the street and you managed to shock him enough that he doesn’t come after you. With trembling hands you call yourself an Uber and go back to your dorm with the intention of never ever leaving your room again.
It’s kind of a blur, the ride back, the way the driver asked if you’re alright, but you could only sob as an answer. When you barge into your room Samira is shocked at your current state and tries to ask what happened, but you can’t even talk.
She hugs you close as you lie on your bed and lets you cry it all out until you finally calm down enough to tell her what happened. The fight with Harry, the conversation you overheard between Mason and Wynter and then literally running away.
“I’m so sorry, Girly. Mason is a fucking ass, do you know his email address?”
You give her a puzzled look.
“Yes?”
“Good, I’m gonna sign him up for every annoying ass newsletter and embarrassing website.”
That makes you laugh. Then Sami grabs her secret stash of gummy bears and the two of you decide to watch an awful move to take your mind off of what happened tonight.
About twenty minutes into the movie Sami gets a text.
“Hey, I know Harry is like Voldemort in this room now, but you might want to check this out.”
She pauses the movie and hands you over her phone, a text thread open with one of her classmates.
MONICA: OMG Sami!!! Harry Styles literally just punched Mason Thorne in the face and threatened him!!
MONICA: Update, Tony said he heard Harry say that he will break more than just Mason’s nose if he as much as looks at Y/N again, this is WILDDD
“Holy shit,” you breathe out, eyes going wide as you reread the messages.
“That’s like something straight out of a movie,” Sami gasps and right when she is about to ask Monica for more details, there’s a knock on the door.
“Y/N? Can we please talk?” Harry’s voice is soft and pained and it makes your stomach twist.
Samira stands from the bed and gives you a questioning look, asking whether she should open the door or let him camp outside. You nod.
She throws the door open and there he is, in the same clothes you saw him earlier at the party, but his expression is full of worry and pain and so much more.
“Um, I’m gonna spend the night at Eli’s, you two have a lot to talk about,” Sami smiles awkwardly, quickly throws her necessities into her bag and then scurries out of the room. Harry is still standing at the door.
“Can I come in?” he asks and you can only nod again. Sitting on your bed you watch him walk in, he softly closes the door and then walks closer, stopping a few feet away from you, like he is trying to give you space.
“Is it true that you punched Mason in the face?” you ask quietly, staring at him with wide eyes. Harry licks his lips and nods, kind of ashamed.
“Not my proudest moment, but when he told me that he used you to piss me off I just… lost my mind.” He shakes his head with a sad chuckle. “I’m so sorry, Y/N, I didn’t want my prediction to be true, you didn’t deserve any of it.”
“You have nothing to apologize for.”
“But I do, I feel like it was my job to protect you and I did a pretty shitty job at that.”
You stand from the bed and step closer, though leave a bit of space between the two of you. Then your eyes spot the bruise on his knuckles and you gasp, reaching for it.
“Shit, this looks bad,” you say, assessing the dark patches on his hand.
“It’s alright, I’ve had it worse on the ice,” he shrugs, but then hisses when you gently run a finger over his bruised knuckles.
“Sit down, I have some ice.”
He obeys, taking a seat on the edge of your bed as you step over to the mini freezer and grab some ice, put it into a towel and then return to Harry. You take his hand into your lap and carefully put the ice over, making him hiss again.
Silence wraps around you as you just sit there with his hand on your lap, holding the ice against his knuckles, you have so many thoughts racing in your head, but he is the first one to speak up.
“I have a confession to make.”
“Uh-oh, come clean, Styles,” you smile at him faintly, making him chuckle, before seriousness takes over his expression again as he keeps his gaze glued to his hand in your lap.
“I only wanted to threaten him at first, but then he said that I’m this mad about what he did because I’m in love with you and I’ll never be brave enough to tell you.”
Nausea takes over you again, but you muster up everything in you to keep yourself together.
“I bet that upset you,” you whisper, avoiding looking at him. Of course that pissed him off, because probably the thought of him being in love with you is so ridiculous to him that he–
“It did, because it’s true.”
You completely freeze. Did you just hear him right? Because it sounded like he just said that he is in love with you.
Slowly and very carefully you look up at him and the way he is staring at you is something you’ve never seen from him.
“Well, I mean the part that I’ll never be brave enough to tell you is not true now, because I’m literally telling you now,” he rambles with a nervous chuckle while you’re still in shock. He clears his throat and pulls back his hand before he continues to speak. “Y/N, I was protective over you when it came to Mason because he really is an asshole, but also because I was so fucking jealous, it’s insane,” he admits. “I hated seeing you handing your heart over to someone who I knew was not worthy of it and I wanted to be the one receiving it. And maybe I’m ruining our friendship right now, but I just can’t do this any longer, I can’t pretend like I haven’t been in love with you since… probably I was sixteen.”
You’re convinced you’ve died and this is an alternate universe. It can’t be happening, Harry surely hasn’t just admitted to being in love with you for years. You stare back at him with a complete loss of words.
“I know it’s kind of a lot, but I would love to hear your thoughts, Y/N,” he lets out another nervous chuckle.
“I only dated Mason because I was trying to get over my feelings for you,” you confess suddenly, the words rolling off your tongue surprisingly easily. You watch Harry’s expression change from anxious to stunned before you continue. “I realized that I have feelings for you not long ago, but I think I’ve been just ignoring them for a long time, because I never thought you’d see me as more than just a friend. But… I do love you too, Harry.”
It’s like something in the universe shifted as you said it out loud, you feel lighter, but an excited buzz has started to spring in your chest as well as you stare at each other, stunned, unable to speak as the words hang in the air between the two of you.
Then slowly, a relieved smile tugs on his lips that you can’t help but mirror and suddenly you feel giddy in the head, like you’re a kid who just admitted to having a crush on a boy, even though it’s a lot more than that.
Harry reaches out, takes the ice from your hand and puts it to the desk before turning back to you. You swallow hard when his hand cups your cheek first, his thumb gently caressing it before his palm slips to the back of your head and he pulls you closer until there’s only an inch between your lips.
“I’m about to kiss you, Y/N,” he murmurs. “So if you’d rather stay just friends, now is the time to stop me.”
No words come out of your mouth, not that you want to stop him. Instead, you dart your tongue out and lick your lips, the tip of your tongue brushing against his lips and that’s when he snaps.
He kisses you eagerly at first, opening your mouth for him right away, tongues clashing, but then he turns it down a little, changing it into something exploratory, but the hunger is still right there. Your mind is blank, all you can think of and feel is Harry, his lips moving perfectly in sync with yours, one of his hands on the back of your head, fisting your hair, the other one holding your jaw as he keeps angling you so he could get even more of you.
You both keep pushing against each other and before you realize you’re straddling his lap, breasts pressing against his hard chest as you don’t even try to hold your moans back once his erection rubs against your core through your pants and his jeans.
“Fuck, Y/N,” he breathes out, his mouth kissing its way down your neck, biting and licking and sucking, most likely leaving marks on your skin. One hand comes to your lower back, slipping under your shirt as he teases your heated skin with his fingers before his palm moves down and gives your ass a firm grab. Your fingers sink into his shoulders, but he is still wearing his hoodie and it’s just too many layers.
As if he could read your mind, he leans back just enough to tug his hoodie off and throws it aside before his lips return to devouring yours. It’s all heat and lust and need for each other, Harry’s scent fills your nostrils and it’s maddening how skilled he is claiming your mouth.
But then his hands find the hem of your t-shirt and he starts to peel it up and your mind steps on the break. You pull back, head dizzy from the bruising kisses you’ve been getting, but you can’t ignore how your anxiety just spiked in seconds.
“What’s wrong?” he breathes out, his hands settling on your thighs. You’re both still clothed, but you’ve seen him shirtless. He is all muscles and smooth skin with tattoos, the perfect athlete body, but he hasn’t seen you without a shirt on and suddenly you’re very aware that he is about to see every inch of you.
“Sorry,” you shake your head, trying to get your thoughts straight. “I just…”
“Hey,” he softly says, one hand coming up to cradle your face and you instantly lean into his touch. “We don’t have to do anything. I’m more than okay with just kissing you and falling asleep.”
“But I want to do more, I just… I’m not exactly like the girls you usually hook up with,” you mumble, embarrassment burning your cheeks.
A very insecure part of you was expecting him to laugh and agree, but Harry stays serious as his eyes scan over your face, chewing on his bottom lip.
“Yeah, but you’re the one I want and have always wanted. I know I haven’t seen you without clothes on, but I have a great imagination,” he adds with a cheeky smirk. “I’ve fantasized about you countless times, Y/N, and I assure you it was fucking amazing every time.”
“But those weren’t real,” you manage to say, though his words definitely sent a shiver down your spine.
You feel awful for being so hung up on it, he might not have seen you naked, but he surely saw enough of you to know what to expect and judging from his erection that’s still straining against his jeans he must be enjoying your body so far.
But still.
That evil little voice in the back of your mind just wouldn’t shut up, telling you that you’re going to be a disappointment to him.
Harry takes a deep breath as he keeps staring at you and you’re kind of expecting him to get irritated by your behavior, but that doesn’t happen.
“Do you have a scarf?” he asks suddenly, completely throwing you off.
“Um, I do. Why?”
“Can you give it to me? I have an idea.”
Still lost, but you climb off him and step over to your dresser, pull out a soft pink scarf and hand it over to him, sitting beside him on the bed this time.
He rolls up the scarf and then brings it to his face, covering his eyes with it before tying it behind his head.
“What are you doing?” you ask with an awkward chuckle as Harry is now sitting on your bed, blindfolded.
“I’m going to give you all the control,” he announces. “I will stay blindfolded for as long as you want me and you get to control where I’m touching you too. You decide how far we go and how much I get from you. Just know that I’m more than eager to have it all, but I’ll be a good boy for you,” he grins cheekily and you stare at him in disbelief.
Your first instinct is to tell him to quit playing, but then you actually consider his idea. He can’t see you, he can’t see your body and all the insecurities you want to hide from him and he said you decide where he can touch you, so you can keep him away from crucial parts of your body.
This is actually a genius idea.
“Okay,” you breathe out eventually.
“Okay,” he repeats after you, nodding.
Your heart is pounding against your chest and your hands are trembling when you reach for the hem of your shirt and pull it up and off your body.
“Take off your shirt,” you tell him and he obeys without hesitation. His shirt comes right off, revealing his chest that’s just begging for your hands to be explored and you decide not to deny anything from yourself.
Climbing over to him you settle back in his lap and true to his word, Harry keeps his hands off you, so you take them and a little hesitantly but put them on your thighs. He exhales sharply, his fingers digging into you and he moves his hands just a tad bit, rubbing his palms over your thighs, but they don’t go anywhere else.
Your hands however are having a field trip on his chest, fingers digging into his pecks, nails dragging down them, mapping every inch of his smooth skin. When you press a palm over his chest you feel just how wildly his heart is thumping against his ribs and you can’t help but smile that you’re making him feel this way.
Leaning in you kiss him again, but it’s slower now, you take your time tasting and exploring him, it’s so much more sensual, you keep moaning into each other’s mouth. You get so lost in it that you start rolling your hips, looking for friction between your legs over his erection that’s still neatly hidden in his jeans. Eager to feel his hand somewhere else too you give him more access by moving his hands to your butt which he quickly celebrates with another firm grab that makes you press up against him even more.
“Fuck, I want you so bad,” he moans when your lips move down his neck, sucking on the sensitive skin under his ear.
When you need more of him you pull back and stand, just so you can take your pants off, the lack of your closeness pulling a grunt from Harry, but he just sits there obediently, just how he promised. For a second you almost tell him to get rid of his jeans, but then you decide to do it yourself.
Your hands more to his crotch and he hisses shortly when he realizes you’re unbuttoning them. To help you he lifts his hips up so you can easily tug them down and get rid of them, leaving him in only his briefs while you’re in your underwear too.
Anxiety starts to spike inside you, but you push it down and move back to straddle his lap. Taking his hands he draws in an excited breath, waiting where they might end up and that’s when you decide to just go all out.
It’s Harry, your best friend and the most wonderful man you’ve ever known. He told you he loved you and he wants you, he wants all of you, so then why are you hiding from him?
You put his hands back next to him on the mattress and even though you sense his disappointment, you ignore it as you unclasp your bra and throw it behind before taking a deep breath and reaching up to pull the scarf off his eyes.
And just like that, he is looking at you, completely naked on the top, only wearing your panties as you sit on his lap, breathing rapidly as if you’re doing a workout, it’s almost embarrassing, but the way Harry’s eyes scan over your body makes you forget everything. Pure hunger and lust coats his vision and you can tell he is fighting himself to keep his word.
“You can touch me,” you tell him. “Anywhere.”
“Are you sure?” he asks, eyes searching yours and you nod.
Then his hands move to your thighs first, this time his palms meeting your naked skin, then they slip up your waist and just as you’re about to worry that he can feel the rolls and all the extra softness the most obscene moan slips out of his mouth once his hands palm your breasts.
“Fuck, look at you, Honey Lemon. You are everything I’ve ever dreamed of.”
If you weren’t so damn turned on maybe you would have cried at his words, but right now you just want to feel him everywhere.
“Want to hear a confession?” he grins against your lips, pecking them a few times.
“Sure,” you nod, raking your fingers through his hair that earns you a satisfied groan.
“Remember that short yellow dress you used to wear in the summer around sophomore year in high school?”
“I think so,” you nod, not sure where he is going with all this when you’re almost entirely naked on his lap.
“You in that dress was my go-to fantasy for a long time, well, it was me taking it off you, to be precise.”
Now that surprises you, for a second you look at him with a stunned expression. You specifically remember how self-conscious you were when you had that dress on, because it was showing your arms and legs. Well it seems like that’s exactly what gave your best friend some pretty dirty thoughts.
“I think I still have that dress,” you suddenly say and the widest grin stretches across his face.
“Let me know when you find it.”
That makes you chuckle before you go back to kissing him. His confession was great at easing the rest of your nerves, because when Harry wraps an arm around you and pushes you onto the mattress, rolling on top of you the tiny evil voice is gone from your mind, it’s all pleasure and want for Harry and you’re ready to enjoy this to the fullest.
Your kisses grow needier and a bit sloppier as one of his hands start to venture down your body, palming your breasts, playing with your nipples before dipping lower, it sweeps over your tummy before moving to your clothed sex. Your panties are drenched at this point and he sighs contently when he runs two of his fingers over the damp fabric while you shudder under him.
He keeps kissing you as his hand dips under the elastic and this time his two fingers slide right between your wet folds, pulling a moan from you. Harry grins, kissing your lips once more before his lips move down until his face is at your chest.
He starts circling your clit right when he sucks your right nipple into his mouth and you almost see stars.
“Harry,” you cry out, tugging on his hair as he keeps sucking and biting the sensitive bud while his fingers work at a perfect pace on your clit.
“Does that feel good, baby?” he hums and moves over to your other nipple. You can’t answer, but the way your hips buckle against him is enough to let him know he is doing amazing.
Then he slips two fingers inside and curls them, making you gasp as you claw at his shoulders. Lifting his head he flashes you a cheeky smirk before he starts pumping his fingers in and out, his lips returning to your breasts, licking and biting, leaving marks on you.
He gets you to the verge of an orgasm quite fast, but then pulls his hands out of your panties, a dissatisfied groan slipping out between your lips. Harry chuckles softly as he sits back on his heels and pulls your panties down your legs, finally getting you entirely naked in front of him.
For a split second you feel self-conscious about your body, but as soon as you see the way he looks at you, like you’re a goddess, your confidence spikes as you open your knees wide so he can see all of you.
“What do you want, baby?” he asks, hooking his fingers into the elastic of his briefs, but not tugging them down just yet.
“You.”
“Only me?”
“Only you.”
With a sharp exhale he gets on his knees and quickly gets rid of his last clothing item, his erection finally completely naked in front of your hungry eyes. He climbs up your body, his hips coming between your legs and as soon as you can reach you wrap your hands around his length.
“Fuck,” he trembles under your touch and when you run your thumb over the tip, smearing some of the precum his head falls against your collarbone with a growl. “I could come just by you holding my dick.”
At that you can’t help but laugh. You love the effect you have on him and love how vocal he is about it.
“Condom is in the nightstand drawer,” you murmur into his ear, giving him a few lazy pumps. He is quick to reach to the side and grab a packet that he tears open with his teeth and then you take the condom, rolling it onto his length.
He pulls back a little, just enough so he can grab the base of his cock and then line up at your entrance, the head already slipping inside. He looks deep into your eyes as he slides in to the hilt, both of you letting out a long, airy moan.
“You okay?” he softly asks, planting a kiss to the corner of your mouth.
“Yes,” you nod eagerly, but then a wandering though crosses your mind, it’s quick, but Harry knows you too well, he catches it right away.
“What is it?” he asks, not moving.
“Just… It’s not weird, right?”
“What are we talking about exactly?” he exhales shakily with a soft chuckle.
“That we’ve known each other for so long and now we are having sex.”
He takes a few breaths, thinking about your words before answering and for a second you feel thankful that even when he is literally inside you he takes the time to talk you through your mini freak-out, because that’s probably what’s happening with you.
“It’s not weird,” he shakes his head, eyes meeting yours again. “I’ve loved you since we were teenagers and I love you now.”
He said he loved you right before he kissed you, but hearing it again just completely melts you. You take his face between your hands and pulls him down for a long, loving kiss.
“I love you too.”
He smiles and then finally starts moving. In and out, at first slowly, but he picks up his pace quite fast and it’s absolute heaven. Sex has never felt like this before, but you haven’t had it with someone you loved as much as you love Harry either.
He falls into a steady rhythm, but often tries to change the angle his hips snap against yours or drawing his thrusts longer, then going faster, but anything he does just pushes you closer to the edge. And all along, Harry keeps praising you.
“You feel so fucking good, baby.”
“This is all I’ve ever wanted, fuck.”
“Taking my cock so well, I fucking love you, Y/N.”
It doesn’t take long for you to finally reach your high. Clawing at his back you gasp and arch against him as pleasure washes over you in waves and Harry follows you right behind. He buries his face into the crook of your neck, moaning and grunting as his thrusts get sharper and out of rhythm until he stops.
You have no idea how much time passes with just Harry lying on top of you, still inside you, it might be an eternity or just five minutes, but you’re so gone nothing exists outside of Harry’s sweaty body pressing into yours and the delicious ache that’s already forming in your thighs.
Then Harry finally gathers himself and stands from the bed. You watch him get rid of the condom and then he kneels beside you on the floor, eyes sparkling from happiness, but you have a guess you’re sporting the same look.
“Let’s have a quick shower and then get some sleep. We have a lot to sleep off.”
“Mm, can’t move,” you moan dramatically. Harry chuckles and smacks a kiss to your lips before simply picking you up from the bed in bridal style and then head over to your tiny bathroom. He carries you so easily, like you’re just something lightweight.
When your feet are back on the floor in the bathroom you turn to him, arms around his neck, that’s when you notice something in his eyes.
“What’s on your mind?” you softly ask, smoothing out the line between his eyebrows with your thumb.
“I know we just had these confessions and some mind-blowing sex, but I want to make it clear, that I want you. Like, I want you as my girlfriend, no sharing, no testing the waters, just you and me.”
You can’t help but smile, because after all your insecurities, now you see a bit of it in him, even though he has no reason to doubt what you are.
“Just you and me. We’re official,” you tell him and he lets out a relieved breath, his hands dancing up and down your sides.
“My Honey Lemon is finally mine,” he smirks down at you, lips inching closer until they meet yours, sealing it all with a kiss.
Thank you for reading, please like and reblog if you enjoyed and buy me a coffee if you want to support me!
Please do write an angsty, make up sex oneshot (husband!H) where he’s busy promoting KATTDO era and the wife feels a bit neglected (she’s a strong woman and a professional also maybe a lawyer or a doctor or a marketing professional — but doesn’t work in show business) so she doesn’t really get the long hours !!! ANGSTY AND ROUUUUGH 🥵 and lots of dirty talking…. My soul needs it
💜 Quiet*
Summary: Harry and his fiancée hit a rough patch while he’s in NYC for his Together, Together Tour.
CW: Smut (MDNI — dirty talk (slight degrading, pet names), oral (f!rec), penetration (p in v), safe word system, soft!dom Harry, rough sex) Angst, long distance relationship, strong language use.
Word count: 5.1k
Pairing: Current!Harry x Fiancée fem!reader
Location: London/NYC
POV: fem!readers / Harry’s, third person
💌 A/N: This is SO long overdue! I am so sorry to the anon who requested this. I apologize for not getting it out sooner but I really hope you like it!! I did change a few things up since we're around tour time now! 🙂↕️💜 let me know what you think! Please share & comments because I love to hear your thoughts.
(Reader's POV)
It was quiet before the storm. Recently, it seemed like everything and everyone had been practicing to not make a sound, a notice, a movement even.
As if the world was full of quiet, cold rooms that lacked affection and warmth. The quiet was everywhere and it was overconsuming.
Quiet in the morning, only the hushed sound of the coffee machine calculated to make a single cup for one. Quiet in the evening when her food grew cold, left uneaten due to her lack of appetite. Quiet in their bed, only the soft rumble of sheets when she tossed and turned at night, missing the warm body she’d been longing for.
Everything had been too quiet, it seemed as if loneliness had occupied her whole existence. She told herself she wasn’t really lonely. She had friends, people who looked after her when Harry was away. She had her family around to help fill the void but the noise only lasted an hour or two. Then, it was back to quiet.
Even with Harry, he silently demanded quiet too. After making loads of noise on stage, listening and interacting with screaming fans — by the time he called, he grew quiet. He grew distant, maybe not by choice but by occupation. He simply couldn’t be his loud, affectionate, happy self when all his energy was drained by their early morning call (midnight for him).
She knew this.
She understood it.
It didn’t make the quiet any easier though.
It only caused her to want to make noise, an attention seeking, selfish noise that forced him to be loud. Not because she wanted to weather the storm and she certainly wasn’t prepared for it but she needed something other than quiet.
“Why’d y’go quiet on me?” Harry asked, his chin rested against his dark blue jumper. The light brown stubble on his face made him look a little older, wiser and properly spent. Through the screen, his green eyes still held the same intensity and questioning like he was curious. He had to know something was up. Probably just afraid to ask and not mess up their only few moments together.
“Just not much to say,” she shrugged, shifting her position to get more comfortable on their bed. Her body felt tired, not just from the time difference but from everything. The distance was weighing between them and time was just another current that pulled the wave higher against the shore.
Now, her favorite part of the day was failing her too. Her call with Harry usually perked up her spirits. He’d tell a funny joke or explain a silly fan story but she couldn’t fake it anymore. The awkward pauses were becoming too loud for her to handle.
Harry let the quiet flow between them, a sea-parting distance filled them in more ways than physical. She was counting down the days until she’d be visiting Harry in the States but worried filled her heart that their time would be just as quiet together as separate.
“Tell me about your day,” Harry asked softly, treading lightly on the parted sea that held their conversation.
“Not much to tell really,” she told him, the passive tone of her voice carried heavy through the call. She could tell by the way Harry straightened up on his mattress, focusing his attention.
“Nothing exciting happened, love?” She heard Harry pause, waiting for her to carry on. Instead the silence filled again. The tidal wave building.
“Not anything news worthy,” she sighed. “What about you?” She attempted to perk up, rubbing her tired eyes to focus.
“I saw a couple of girls dressed as tomatoes,” Harry chucked, attempting to lighten the mood. “Oh, and there was a whole frenzy when I played kiwi tonight,” he smirked through the screen but it fell quickly when he saw his fiancée’ face didn’t change. “But that’s the same as always,” he whispered into the air followed by a heavy sigh.
“Baby, talk to me… What’s going on in that pretty head of yours?” He said after a few more minutes of silence.
“I don’t know, Harry.” She frowned, drowning in a sea of silence. After a few seconds, she spoke up again. “It’s just been really difficult lately,” she confessed. “It’s been so quiet here without you and I thought I’d be used to it by now,” she added, sounding more disappointed in herself for allowing the miles to spread between them.
Just as Harry was about to speak, she heard a knock coming from his end. His eyes flickered off the camera before he let out a sigh. His attention shifted back towards the door as another knock rang through.
“Just a second love,” Harry promised. Suddenly, her screen filled with the image of Harry’s high rental home ceiling as he fell into conversation with who she presumed was Jeff by the sound of his voice.
Tired and emotionally exhausted, she tuned out the chattering noise that filled the background as they talked schedules and whatnot. As her phone rested on her pajama top, a tension headache hit her hard. She attempted to soothe her pain with the tips of her fingers like Harry used to but it was no use.
When a couple minutes turned into a few, the same lonely feeling returned with Harry nowhere in sight. As she heard his familiar, comforting laugh crackle through the phone, she grew frustrated and envious that their precious time was being interrupted and his energy was carefully utilized elsewhere in conversation. Before she could stop herself, jealousy flooded her veins and she hung up then placed her phone on silent. It rested face down against her wooden nightstand, forgotten as she turned away in frustration.
There it was, the quiet filled the air once again.
Harry’s fiancé woke a few hours later, groggy but well rested. Her phone buzzed nonstop throughout the morning but her sleep was not interrupted. When she reached for her phone, the first thing she saw was a string of notifications from Harry.
Harry ❤️
I’m so sorry, baby. Jeff came to ask me about the schedule and we ended up sidetracked.
Missed Call
Harry ❤️
Harry ❤️
I tried to call you again but you must be asleep. We’ll talk tomorrow morning. I’m sorry it’s been tough on you. It’s been hard on me too.
Harry ❤️
I love you.
As much as she wanted to be upset, she couldn’t ignore him. She wasn’t necessarily upset at him but the situation was tough and he was having a hard time too. So, she sympathized and time went on. The quiet stayed, grew more eerie as their reunion day approached.
“You have everything packed?” Harry asked, double checking while on facetime.
“Yes, I packed two days ago. I already told you that, baby.” She exclaimed gently, a soft smile on her lips. “I won’t forget a thing.”
“Ok, just wanted to be sure,” Harry picked at his lips. A familiar nervous habit as he glanced off camera for a second. “I think… I uhm,” he began to say something but then stopped. “Jeff scheduled a private car to come pick you up from the airport. I have soundcheck when you land,” Harry explained as he packed something away.
“Okay,” she tried her best not to sound disappointed. She knew realistically that Harry would be busy during their in person time together too. He had 17 more shows to work through on his Madison Square Garden residency and that didn’t account for interviews, and television appearances. Harry kept a strict schedule and rarely made exceptions but she figured this time would be different.
As she sat in the quiet blacked out SUV that idled through the busy New York streets, she day dreamed about their time together getting reacquainted.
“Oh, lovie!” Harry beamed, delighted to see her, to touch her once again. He’d scooped her up in his arms, planting wet, sloppy kisses all over her face. “I missed you,” he’d breathe into her hair. Her body would automatically relax and sink into his calming scent of vanilla and sandalwood. Harry would dare to sneak her away into a private area, needing to feel every inch of his body pressed against her own. He’d be gentle, caring and never miss an inch of her skin to cover with his fingertips or lips.
But that perfectly painted picture came to a dying halt when she arrived to his soundcheck. Instead of an excited, cheerful greeting — she got very a stressed, checked out Harry.
“Hi,” his features softened as he saw her walk by the crew members and elongated wires with ease. Their reunion lasted a matter of seconds. Harry gave her a brief hug before getting whisked away with a whisper of a promise to “be back soon.”
As his partner, she knew Harry or at least she thought. Granted, this was their first tour of his during their relationship but she picked up on a few things during his European leg. There were six rules that he followed closely to keep his physique, mental health and focus in order.
1. No drinking or drugs.
2. No after parties or clubbing.
3. Train everyday except for “off days”.
4. Clean, wholesome diet only.
5. 8 hours of sleep per night.
6. No useless distractions — social media, excessive phone usage or anything that brings his attention too far away.
Harry’s fiancée was beginning to feel like she fell into the last category. It was well past soundcheck when a crew member from Harry’s team rushed her from backstage of the venue to her private car that dropped her off at Harry’s rental home. She figured he’d be back in under an hour but after two, it was cutting it close to Harry’s show time.
(Harry's POV)
Utter exhaustion clouded his head as he closed his eyes on the way back to his rental home. He only had about an hour to spare until he needed to be back at the venue for dress rehearsal, makeup and hair. Unfortunately Harry couldn’t give his fiancee the warm welcome she deserved due to an urgent meeting Jeff forgot to mention. It was some stupid miniscule topic that could’ve been an email. As soon as the meeting ended, Harry told his driver to send him back home so he could properly greet his partner before his stage appearance. As he walked through the secure area and into his home, he noticed how quiet it was.
“Hello?” He called out, placing his keys around the hook. “I’m back, love. I’m sorry that took so long,” Harry announced a little louder as he walked through the corridor. He saw his beautiful fiancee with her arms tucked around her, a defensive look on her face as he spoke up again. “I – I know it’s not an excuse but Jeff got the dates wrong for this urgent meeting and –,” her voice cut him off.
“Am I a distraction for you?” Her tone was harsh, her posture the same, playing defense.
Harry frowned, opening his mouth to respond before his phone buzzed persistently in his hand. He quickly clicked it off without glancing at the caller ID. He walked around his sofa and sat across from her, keeping his distance. “What are y’talking about, baby?” He asked, his voice gentle. “You’re never a distraction.” He wanted to say more but she began to argue, obviously frustrated and maybe even hurt.
“Then why do I get only two seconds of your time when I flew six hours to see you?” She snapped.
The question didn’t make sense to him. He knew that in the next coming days, he’d finally get a well deserved break and be able to spend time with her – quality time. He missed being with her or at least, he thought he did. He was beginning to second guess himself. Relationships while on tour weren't exactly his strongest connections but in the past, he successfully maintained them. So, he began to explain what he told his partners in the past —
“You are a priority of mine, that will never change,” but as he said it, the words fell out funny. “Work is just a lot right now, and it's important too. I have hundreds of thousands of fans demanding my attention and –,”
“No. I get you have to do your job, Harry.” She interrupted again, putting up a defensive hand to stop him. “You're busy but you could’ve told Jeff like… Five or ten minutes? Actually came to properly greet me? Instead, you just sent me here to be alone again!” Her voice slightly raised, anger that had been brewing finally spilled over.
Harry let out a breath, gathering his thoughts before he said anything rash. He pinched the bridge of his nose, a tension headache forming. “First of all, I didn’t send you here.” Harry spat out, shaking his head. “I don’t know why they didn’t just let you wait at the arena but I never gave that order.” His tone carried a slight dismissive edge as he spoke next, “I’ll be better next time.”
Harry was good at this, making empty promises. He didn’t necessarily not mean them but between his schedule demands and requirements - promises rarely followed through. It was a boundary issue on his end that he needed to work out fixing. Unluckily for him, his partner caught onto his half arse promise quickly.
“You’re just saying that,” she continued. “Ever since the tour started, the tour has been the priority, not us, not our relationship.”
Harry was hanging on by a thread now, completely sidetracked by her words. “Well, this is quite the warm welcome,” his tone was harsh as he stood up from his seat, reaching for a bottle of water to calm his nerves.
“Why do you do that?”
“Do what?” He questioned, bringing the rim of the bottle to his lips.
“You’re always so dismissive when I voice a problem in our relationship.”
“Dismissive? Me?” Harry pointed at his chest, a humorless chuckle escaping his lips. “That’s real rich coming from you.” He argued back, shaking his head as he guzzled some water down.
“And what is that supposed to mean?” She rose from her spot, brows pushed together as she held herself with her arms wrapped around her chest.
“It means that this whole time we’ve been long distance I’ve been trying to connect with you and you’re barely there! You don’t tell me about your day, you’re never happy on the call anymore, you barely even fucking crack a smile or laugh at my jokes.” Harry exclaimed, his green hues boring into her own.
“You’ve been trying to connect?” She laughed, a genuine laugh. “Sorry Harry, didn’t know I was only there for your entertainment!”
“No, no, no. You don’t get to do that.” he barked, stepping a bit closer into her space. “This isn’t about me, this is about our relationship.”
“Well, maybe we shouldn’t have a relationship if we can barely connect.”
There it was, the tidal wave washing over.
Harry stared at her for a few seconds, locking in every angry, hurt emotion that ran across her skin. “So, that’s it, huh? You’re breaking up with me because I didn’t have the chance to properly greet you, is that it?” Harry’s tone grew darker and harsher than he wanted but he continued.
“You don’t get it, do you?” she asked, a small pout crossed her face.
“Guess, I don’t.”
The silence fell between them as Harry shuffled around the room.
“Fine,” her tone matched his but broke at the tail end. When he glanced over at her as he passed by, he saw the tears begging to fall from her eyes. She mirrored his movements, grabbing her belongings along with her phone. “All I wanted was for you to give me a minute's worth of proper attention, hold me for more than a few seconds, actually seem overjoyed that I am here…” she clarified as she walked past him.
“I am overjoyed! Fucking hell,” Harry cursed. “There’s nothing I want more in this world than to… to be with you, don’t y’know that?”
“Knowing and feeling it are two different things, Harry.”
His shoulders dropped, giving in.
“Just stay for the concert and we can talk afte – ,” he tried, his voice filled with a whisper of hope.
“No! I can’t have another quiet conversation where we don’t say the things we really mean.”
“Then we don’t have to talk!” Harry whipped around, his body towering over her own.
“What do you mean by that?” He could practically hear the disgust in her voice.
“We can just…” He lets out a defeated sigh, invading her space. “Wonder if we just… filled the quiet with something else?” His voice was a lot less pensive and held a suggestive tone.
“Something else?” He watched her frown before a scoff filled the air. “You think sex will fix this?” She laughed, beginning to step around him. Harry gently reached out, placing his hand on her waist to halt her.
“Fix it? God, no. Only a proper talk will do that,” he said with certainty. “But I know you really miss me and I miss you too.”
“Okay, so?” He could tell some of her resolve was peaking through. The way her body inched towards his own as she shifted her weight was telling enough.
“I don’t want to argue and I don’t want you to lose you,” Harry told her deliberately. “It’s been a really long day for the both of us, and it’s going to be a really long night.” His fingers hooked under her chin, forcing her to look up at him. “But I want to come back to you, my home, here in this space,” he gestured around the temporary home. “Can we please, start over?”
“How?” She asked, almost hesitantly.
“By me giving you what you want and what you need,” Harry's voice dipped an octave lower. He followed it up with a simple question, one burning in the back of his mind for ages – “Can I kiss you?” His fingers stilled on her chin, holding her in place. For a second, he was sure he’d either be slapped or rejected but a small smile curved on her lips. He could tell she was hesitant but desperate for his touch.
“Just one.”
“Just one?” Harry frowned, already pressing a soft, quick kiss to her lips.
Then seconds later, “See? Not nearly enough,” He said as he pulled back. “Can I have another? A proper kiss? I’m a greedy, sorry bastard.”
Their eyes locked as she contemplated.
“One proper kiss.”
Harry wasted no time, he kissed her with complete certainty. His lips covered her own, dominating at a slanted angle for a short millisecond before she began to kiss back. Her plump lips mushing together with his own — so perfectly, so needed. He felt his heart rate quicken as he naturally pulled her firm against his chest, his fingers spreading up her spine. One hand cupped the side of her flushed cheek and the other wrapped around her to keep her steady. His lips were wet, sloppy against her own, claiming her. The soft sound of their saliva mixing together echoed throughout the room as his tongue traced her bottom lip, asking. When she opened her mouth to accommodate, his composure fractured slightly. Harry kissed her harder, feral about the taste of her mouth on his. Her tongue met his in an instant - earning a soft moan from the contact. Harry’s grip on her back tightened as he pulled her square against him. He worked his tongue in her mouth, tasting all the corners he had been missing. Her tongue explored too, swallowing his involuntarily groans and escaped breaths. A shiver tingled down his back as he felt her claw at his cotton shirt, demanding him closer. For a second, he thought they would stay in this - lost in the quiet rejoining of their lips but the kiss broke.
Panting, his fiancee asked – “How much time do we have?”
“Enough,” Harry barked. His body naturally stumped back, pulling him with her. His lips fell to her neck, nipping and sucking to create a mark. At the same time, his hands fell to her waist. He pulled her body flush against his own as he felt her hands go to his hair. The sheer tug alone made him groan out in approval. He abruptly switched their position so her front was against the credenza. With his chest flush against her back, he whispered into her ear.
“This is what you want, isn’t it?” His hands steadied on the hem of her skirt, letting his fingertips brush against the back of her bare thighs. He felt goosebumps running along her skin as he touched highly over the curve of her ass. “Beg for it.”
“Please, Harry. I need you to fuck me,” her voice whined as her palms rested against the old wooden surface.
“Needy thing you,” Harry tsked, hooking his fingers around the waist band of her underwear and yanking it down her thighs. “Always wanting attention,” he spat out as Harry gripped a hand full of her ass as the other wrapped around her front. “Fucks sakes,” he cursed as he felt her cunt absolutely soaked for him. “Gonna make a mess all over my cock, hm?
“Yes, please. Take me right here,” she begged.
Harry almost gave in, his trousers were strained and extremely uncomfortable but he wanted to keep the anticipation for a few minutes longer.
“But you’re not a very good girl f’me, always talking back.” Harry purred in her ear, massaging between the folds of her vulva slowly. He felt her jolt as a gasp echoed across the room, a sound he missed for far too long.
“I’ll be quiet, I’ll shut up, please.”
“Oh, will you?” Harry smirked, “keep that pretty mouth of yours shut.”
Harry dropped to his knees, his hands drawing her hips back. He positioned her just enough that he was eye level with her bare ass. With her skirt bunched around her hips, he practically was salivating at the looks of her.
“Look at you, filthy thing. So wet f’me, pussy begging to be eaten.”
“Harry, please.” He heard her whine out as he gently spread her from the back, getting a deliberate look at her precious vulva. His breath was warm against her as he spoke.
“Can I taste you?” He barely could process words but consent was extremely important to them both.
“Yes, please, Harry.” She begged, clearly desperate. Harry didn’t make her wait any longer, he couldn’t wait any longer. Her scent alone was drawing flashbacks and he could practically taste her on his tongue. He needed to taste her. So, he did.
His tongue swirled around her entrance before flicking her clit and giving the small but mighty bud a good suck. He could feel her squirming and hear her moan out but Harry stayed focused. As much as he was prepping her, he wanted to overestimate her as much as he possibly could. It didn’t take much, she was just as touch starved as him. He kept his head angled, munching on her clit with skilled precision. His lips wrapped around her clit as he sucked then soothed her with his flat tongue. The air became thick as he continued tasting her sweet, tangy arousal. When her legs began to shake, he finally pulled back, equally as breathless as her. He quickly stood, working his belt as he whispered, his hot breath against her ear.
“That was just a taste, not finished with you yet.” His hands worked fast, stripping himself of his trousers and briefs just enough to free himself. His cock bounced in the air, thick and hard, painfully red. His hand stroked twice to relieve a bit of pressure before he lined up with her entrance.
“Colour check?” A little system they had whenever they engaged in intercourse. “Green” was good to go, “Yellow” for a pause or check in, “Red” for an immediate stop. Harry particularly valued the colour system to keep his partner comfortable and safe during all types of sex.
“Green,” she said with enthusiasm.
“Good.” Harry buried himself inside her with one smooth thrust, halting once their hips were flush together. He gave her a small chance to adjust, savoring the feeling of her walls clenching around him.
“Oh God, I missed this, missed you,” his words were soft and gentle as he whispered against her hair.
“Y’know I respect you, right baby?” He asked, propping his head up to glance into her eyes. He watched as she nodded her head, a bit confused.
“For the next while, it may seem like I don’t, okay? But I do, I need you to remember that.”
“I’ll remember,” she whispered, biting down on her bottom lip.
He felt her relax a few seconds later as his hands pressed into her sides. He positioned her to arch her back, his chest flush against her spine. Harry a few seconds to collect himself, flipped a small switch in his brain.
“Move please,” she mumbled into the quiet air.
“So demanding,” he hissed, drawing his hips back to give her exactly what she needed. He wasn’t gentle when he began to move, he bucked forward causing the credenza to squeak against the floor. His partner gasped into the open air, gripping the wood with her hands.
“Fuck, baby.” His hands helped angled her body up, hands wrapping around her clothed chest. He continued to draw his hips back, plunging back into her at a steady speed. Her moans filled the air, ragged as the intoxicating, pleasure sensation filled her body. Harry’s breath was hot against her as he pounded into her.
“Silly girl, thinking I’d leave this pussy, hm? This perfect, pretty pussy.” He praised, breathing hitched as he pulled out of her completely just to drive back in. “Don’t ever fucking say that to me again, understood?”
“Y– Yes, fuck, yes.”
“Who’s pussy is this, hm?” Harry encouraged, increasing his pace. When she didn’t answer right away, only moaning louder, Harry continued on. “Don’t go quiet on me now. Go on, whose pussy is this?” he pulled out of her completely, breathless and leaving her walls clenching around nothing.
“Yours, Harry. Just yours.”
“Good. Don’t go dumb on me now.” Harry teased, fixing their position again as her legs were nearly giving out. “Hands, please.” Harry helped gently draw her palms back behind her, making her hands interlock to steady her.
“Just like that, perfect.” Harry whispered to himself, inspecting her position. He held his large palm over her interlocked fingers, suspending her chest in the air. He caught her looking back over her shoulder, desperate for relief and a quick glance his way. “Eye’s forward,” he demanded firmly before pushing the tip of his cock against her entrance once again.
When he pushed forward, he wasn’t so forgiving. Immediately his partner cried out, overwhelmed by his sheer force.
“Attagirl, just like that. Just feel.” He instructed her as he sent an intoxicating, thought stealing pleasure her way. He could feel her pulsating around him, nearing her peak after a few strokes. Harry’s free hand left her hip and snaked around her front. His fingertips added a gentle pressure against her clit, rubbing sure circles to urge her on.
“Harry! Har –, shit! I’m gonna…” she gasped, panting as he continued at a vigorous pace.
“I know, I know, baby. Ask permission first.” He grunted out, a bead of sweat rolling down the corner of his brow.
“Can I? Can I cum, please?” His fiancée whined out, moving back against him.
“Go on, darling. Cum f’me. Milk my cock,” Harry’s words surprised himself but he couldn’t help his filthy mouth.
His head fell back as his fiancée convulsed around him. He let out a deep groan, cursing under his breath as his grip tightened around her hands.
“Fuck, good girl, my good fucking girl,” his voice was full of rasp as he pumped his hips twice more and felt that burning, bubbly feeling deep in his stomach. “Agh, I’m gonna cum,” he pulled out the second he felt himself twitch inside her.
“Yeah? Cum for me, baby. I’m your little cum slut.”
Harry’s face broke into a wide smirk as he heard her words. She pleasantly surprised him.
“My little cum slut?” His voice cracked, giving in to the pleasure. His hand moved to his cock, pumping once before he released warm, milky white cum all over her ass and lower back, close to their joined hands.
“There you go, there you go baby,” he panted, breathless as he looked at the mess between them. “Fuck, we got a little messy.” Harry helped her stand properly before grabbing the shirt off his back and wiping the mess he created off of her. “You okay?” He asked, still panting hard as he pulled his trousers up.
“I’m okay,” she smiled softly, a warm flush rising to her cheeks, fixing her clothes. “It’s just — I wasn’t expecting that.” He watched as her eyes roamed his chest and lower abdomen.
“I wasn’t either, just happened…” he shrugged, “guess we just…needed it to release some frustration.”
“Yeah,” he noticed the little shift in her voice as she cleared her throat.
“Hey,” his tone flattened to something much more subtle. He reached out, cupping her face in his hands. “I’m sorry I was a prick earlier, I should’ve greeted you properly. I’ve been stressed but it’s not an excuse. I love you and I’m really, really happy you are here.”
“I love you too but I feel like we should talk about this properly, the whole… long distance thing isn’t working.”
On que, Harry’s phone vibrated on the table urgently but he didn’t move towards it.
“We will, I promise, we will. We’ll sort it out because you are my priority and I don’t want you to feel so… alone.”
“Promise? After the show?”
“Yes, I promise with all my heart. We’ll talk.”
The quiet filled the space once again as Harry pulled her into a hug. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled against her hair.
“It’s not okay but you stink so, I’m going to say it’s okay.” she teased, trying to break free from his embrace.
“Hey,” his voice dragged out, his dimples showing as he smirked. “I always smell good.”
“Absolutely not.” She teased back, a small laugh breaking the silence. He grinned at the sound, booping her nose with his finger.
“Alright, wee, shower then head out together?”
“Okay.”
“Come here,” he pulled her close, his arm wrapping around her shoulder as he led them through the corridor.
While in the shower, Harry washed his fiancée's hair with a pensive look on his face.
“What are you thinking about?” She asked, a small smile breaking through.
“Alone is a quiet place to be.” He said slowly, massaging her scalp.
“It is.” She confirmed, letting out a sigh.
“No more of that,” her eyes locked with his. “Promise.”
