There’s no protocol for what to do when a handsome stranger you hardly know (but occasionally fool around with), stops showing up at your diner.
You stare at his booth for far longer than you should. Willing him to appear. To walk through the door and make things right. Ease this ache in your chest.
You have no way to contact him. You don’t know his last name, or his phone number, or his address. You don’t even know his license plate number. He’s a ghost to you. More than a stranger but less than a friend.
You give him a few more minutes to appear. Maybe there was traffic. Or maybe he forgot you were working tonight.
But soon, a few minutes turns into an hour, and booth 505 remains empty.
So, you put the idea of him to bed. Carrying on with your shift while wearing your heavy heart on your sleeve. Perhaps he’s gotten bored with you. Or perhaps he’s found other ways to occupy his nights.
You almost think you’d prefer this alternative to the other. The one where he’s not here because he’s not…here. That wherever he goes and whatever he does has finally caught up to him.
It makes your stomach wrench to imagine, and you forcibly shove the thought free before returning your attention to your newest pie.
Peach. Another one of Harry’s favorites.
3 a.m. has never felt so liberating. Bringing you the perfect escape as you clock out and rush through the doors for the parking lot. Eager to rid yourself of this wretched night and head back to your apartment to worry about your stranger in peace.
You step out into the cold morning air and pull your jacket a bit tighter around your frame. Exhaling a shaky breath that you can see dance across the dimly lit space.
There are only two other cars over by the right side of the building, and much to your continued dismay, you notice that Harry’s still isn’t one of them.
So, with a sinking stomach, you reach into your pocket for your apartment keys, and begin walking for the subway. Yet right as round the corner of the diner, you notice something move within the shadows just beside you.
With a jump, you gasp, and spin around on your heel with your keys raised and aimed at the ready.
The figure that emerges sends your heart straight into your throat.
“Harry?” You drop your arm and move closer for a better look. “What…what…?”
The battered and bruised man offers you a tired smile that hardly reaches his lips. “Hi, Cherry.”
He looks worse than you’ve ever seen him. There’s a nasty slash going down his left eyebrow, a dark bruise forming along his jaw, and blood dripping down his arm from beneath his sleeve onto the pavement below.
You search for the right words – for any words at all – but before you can, he’s stumbling forward. Just barely able to catch himself before he collapses onto the ground.
With another gasp, you surge forward, quickly taking hold of his shoulders in order to keep him upright. “Harry—”
“M’okay,” he murmurs, and you can hardly hear him. As if he barely has the strength to speak. “I’m fine. I promise—”
“Harry,” you repeat for a third time, almost incredulously. “You…this is not fine. You’re…what happened?”
Even before he shakes his head, you know he won’t truly answer. “Nothing. S’just a little worse this time, but I’m okay. Really.”
You feel sick. Sick that he’s so hurt, sick that you can’t help him, and sick because you don’t understand who does this to him. “Okay, we…we need to get you to a hospital, we need to get you some help—”
“No.” His head shakes again, a bit more insistently. “No, I can’t go to a hospital. I just…I had to see you.”
You feel your throat constrict. “What?”
His hand lifts, palm finding your jaw until he can softly caress your cheek. And you feel a streak of blood smear across your skin from where his thumb brushes at your chin.
“I had to see you,” he repeats softly. “Had to make sure you were all right. M’so sorry I wasn’t here earlier.”
You want to bury yourself in his arms. Want to kiss him, and hold him, and fix him. Make everything better again.
“It’s okay,” you nearly whimper. Pushing yourself into his touch. “I’m just really worried about you.”
The smirk grows. “I’m all right. I’ll go home, take some pain pills, and be right as rain by tomorrow. Really.”
You’re hardly convinced. “Harry—"
“I’m all right,” he insists, dipping down to press his forehead to yours. “You don’t have to worry about me, Cher. S’not the first time this has happened, and it won’t be the last. I’ll be okay. I just wanted to see you.”
And you don’t believe him. You don’t even think he believes him. But he smiles at you as though he wants to. As though he wants to offer you any sort of consolation for his pain. To make this better…for you.
You allow him to hold you a moment longer before you pull back and declare, “I’ll help.”
His brows pinch together. “What?”
“I’ll help. I’ll go with you. Make sure you’re okay, and…and help you clean up.”
His expression softens, but he sighs heavily. “Baby, I can’t…I can’t ask you to do that—”
“You’re not asking. I’m offering.”
“I know, s’just…” He holds your cheeks in both hands now. Keeping you in his sights. “I made a rule with myself. A promise that I wouldn’t drag you down with me. That I’d make sure you were okay, and that you’d never hurt because of me.”
The pit in your stomach deepens, but you merely straighten up. “How could this hurt me? I just want to help.”
“I know, sweet girl,” he breathes. “But letting you come with me means breaking my rule. And I can’t do that. I won’t.”
You wonder what he means. You wonder if you really want to know.
“Then you come with me,” you decide. “You can come back to my apartment, and I can make sure you’re all right.”
Another heavy exhale, but you can tell he’s touched. “Cherry—”
“I mean it. You’re not…Harry, I’m really worried about you. You can hardly stand and you’re bleeding from more places than one. You could have really hurt yourself and you shouldn’t be alone. I won’t let you be alone right now.”
He considers this. “Cherry, I’m trying to protect you—”
“And I’m trying to protect you, too,” you argue firmly, but with a persuasive grin. “Please let me.”
There’s a long lull of silence, those gentle green eyes studying you closely. He looks so very tired and wrought with grief. Yet when he sees you…his entire world seems to change. Lighting up about as bright as the moon.
“Okay,” he finally agrees. “Okay, we’ll go. I trust you.”
I trust you. Three little words that have never sounded so good and you can’t help but push up onto your toes to kiss him as gingerly as you can.
“Okay, where’s your car?” you ask, letting go in order to look around. “My apartment isn't too far, so I can drive until we—”
“No.”
“What?”
He squeezes onto your wrist almost pointedly. “No, we can’t…can’t take my car. S’not safe.”
“Oh…” Your lashes flutter. “All right. We…we can take the subway. I was going to take it anyway because a friend of mine is borrowing my car for the night, but…that can work. We can make that work.”
He says nothing, instead swaying a bit from the loss of blood as you rush to take hold of him once more.
“All right, okay. You’re okay,” you murmur softly. “Just hold on, okay? It’s only a few stops to my place, and we’ll be there in under twenty minutes.”
He nods weakly in response, and you’re quick to pull his arm around your shoulders in order to help guide him through the parking lot.
He seems grateful for this hold on you. Smirking to himself before leaning over to press his lips to your temple. Keeping you tight against his chest as though the two of you are merely going for a stroll in the park.
Like a real couple.
You cling to his stained hoodie and help lead him toward the subway station. Making sure that you don’t walk too fast (or too slow) in order to get him there in one piece.
You don’t talk much – although there’s so much you want to say – but you can tell he’s pleased. Grateful to be in your company, even despite the circumstances.
Once the train arrives, you both slip through the doors, and take a seat near the exit. You push your shoulder into his and he pushes his shoulder into yours. Leaning against each other almost contently and smiling to yourselves as the rest of the crowd saunters on.
The subway is relatively empty for this time of night. Or rather, early morning. And you’re more than all right with that. It means less people to stare at the bloody, bruised man dripping onto the train floor.
He doesn’t notice the odd looks. He doesn’t seem to notice anything but you, instead staring down at where your fingers are tracing his. The way they run tenderly over the cracked skin across his knuckles before intertwining together.
He hums contently, lips stretching into a gentle grin.
You’re at your stop only fifteen minutes later, practically leaping onto your feet in a rush to get him out.
He seems to have a bit more energy now, perhaps from being able to rest for as long as he did. But he still holds onto you as tightly as he can while you walk along the sidewalk.
And you can’t help but let him.
“My apartment might be a little messy,” you attempt to preface as you head inside the tall building. “I was going to clean it before I left, but something…came up.”
He nods understandingly before glancing over the side of your profile. “Are you all right?”
“Am I all right?” you tease, gesturing toward him.
He smirks, but that curious look doesn’t slip. “Are you?”
You press the elevator button with one hand and squeeze his palm in the other. “I will be once you are.”
Apartment 505 is on the left side of the building, just beside the stairwell. It gives you a perfect view of the city, and you spend most of your days out on the stairwell watching the sun rise and set.
There’s a wreath on your door, hanging just over the number, and your stranger smiles when he sees it. Seemingly amused by the bright flowers and dainty bow that stands out amidst the dark grey paint.
After fumbling with your keys, you finally manage to get you both inside. Exhaling a deep breath and tossing your things toward the coffee table.
“Lock it,” he murmurs just as you’re moving for the kitchen.
“What?”
“The door. Lock it,” he says, almost firmly while nodding toward the handle. “Right now.”
A tad surprised by the resolute tone of voice, you nod, and turn around to oblige. Making sure the lock is turned and the door is secure before glancing over for his approval.
“Good girl,” he mumbles. “I want you to always lock it when you come in, all right? Always.”
“Okay,” you agree softly, returning to him. “I will.”
“Promise?”
“Promise,” you whisper, raising your hand to his face to press a kiss to his cheek. “Can you let me take care of you now?”
He seems to chuckle as he allows you to stroke his jaw. Settling into your gentle touch before nodding.
Pleased, you take his hand, and lead him toward your small bathroom. Sitting him on the edge of the bathtub in order to get a better look.
But the moment you see each cut and scrape beneath the bright, fluorescent light, there’s a hitch in your breath. Overwhelming you with sorrow and anguish at the sight of him.
“Harry,” you exhale, almost unintentionally.
His lashes flutter as he smiles, reaching out to lightly tug on your waitressing dress. “M’okay, Cherry. Really.”
He’s not okay, and you both know it. “I’ll…I’ll need to clean them first. Where…how many are there?”
A beat while he thinks. “There’s a couple on my chest. Plus, the one on my eye, and, you know, my hands.”
You nod, and vaguely gesture toward him, willing yourself not to shake. “Can…may I take off your hoodie? So I can check?”
The corner of his mouth curls up and he nods as well, reaching for the collar of his sweatshirt in order to begin peeling it off his torso.
You attempt to help, making sure he can get his arms through without having to bend too far or cause any strain to the injuries.
But once it’s off, you feel your stomach twist.
His skin is littered with scars, scrapes, and fresh bruises. A variety of colors that range from light pink to an unsettling yellow. Blood is smeared across tattoos you didn’t even know he had, and there’s a rather nasty gash along the side of his ribcage.
You hear yourself gasp, and he quickly tugs on your hem again. “Cher—”
However, you brush his hand away and move closer, running the tips of your fingers along his shoulder and down his sternum. Trailing each inch of stained skin until you reach his heart.
“Harry…” you say again.
He takes hold of your wrist and offers you a look of remorse. “I know.”
You aren’t sure you have the strength to ask, instead swallowing thickly as you pull back, and turn around. Searching through your cupboards for everything you’ll need.
He watches you closely, and it seems your reaction causes him more pain than anything else. It’s a look you know well. One where he’s desperate to comfort you, and you wish you could let him.
You rejoin his side with bandages, rubbing alcohol, and a sterilized needle with thread. “All right, I have to clean them first, and then…”
His eyes flick down to the suturing supplies with a smirk. “Ah.”
You grimace. “It’ll probably hurt.”
To your surprise, he shrugs. “No worse than what gave me the cut, I imagine.”
You hum to yourself and move for the alcohol. “And this might sting.”
“Mm. I’m counting on it.”
Dipping a cloth into the potent liquid, you begin to dab at each open cut that’s painted along his body. Making sure to be as gentle as you can and avoid any potential infections.
He tenses every few moments, jaw ticking as he takes steady, even breaths. But he makes no noise of complaint, nor does he flinch away from your touch. Almost leaning into it as you move between each scratch.
“How’s that?” you whisper, glancing over his face curiously before moving for the cut on his brow. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah,” he murmurs, red-rimmed eyes trained on you. Seeming to study you while you study his injury. “M’okay. Are you?”
You smile. “Yeah. Don’t like hurting you, though.”
“You’re not. Could never.”
“Hope you’re right.”
You smooth back the dark hairs of his eyebrow as gingerly as you can before reaching for the medical tape. Cutting the strips to the right length, you place a couple over the cut, and step back to observe.
“All right,” you declare. “Now, um…now I’ll need to…”
You both look toward his stomach where the worst gash lies, and he nods. “Where do you want me?”
“Just…there. Is fine.” You collect the needle and thread before crouching down near him in order to get closer. “It shouldn’t take too long. Be over before you know it.”
“All right.” He’s oddly calm, and for some reason, it makes you nervous. “This isn’t the first time I’ve been stitched, Cherry. I’ll be all right.”
“I can see that,” you mumble to yourself, reaching now for his abdomen. “Just…tell me if it hurts too much, okay?”
“Okay.”
With a deep breath, you pinch his skin between your fingers, and bring the tip of the needle closer. Piercing the skin and threading it through slowly and with great precision.
He looks down, watching for a moment almost as though fascinated. “You’re really good at that.”
You offer a tight-lipped smile. “Should hope so. Spent three years learning how to do it.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. My, uh…my parents really wanted me to pursue a career in the medical field,” you explain as you continue working your way down. “And I thought being a nurse would be good because I liked the idea of helping people. And I liked learning about the body and how to heal it.”
His eyes remain on you.
“Anyway, it didn’t…I didn’t have a great experience in medical school,” you continue. “And it made me realize that it wasn’t what I really wanted to do. I wanted to…help people through food, I guess. Which probably sounds silly—”
“No,” he says, almost immediately. “No, it doesn’t.”
You smile a bit bigger. “Well, my parents were pretty pissed when I dropped out. Which makes sense, since they were the ones paying for it. But…they told me that if I wanted to pursue baking, I’d have to do that on my own. Financially, anyway. Hence all the late shifts at the diner.”
His brows furrow together almost sternly.
“And I don’t mind it. I really like working there. I like my coworkers, I like the people I meet.” You pause now and brave a glance up. “And I really like that it brought me to you.”
There’s a softness in his expression that makes your heart skip. “M’glad it brought you to me, too.”
You chew on the inside of your lip to suppress a rather giddy grin before returning your focus to the wound. “All right, your turn.”
“My turn?”
You nod your chin toward his injured body. “Why do you keep letting this happen?”
He sighs, and his stomach tenses with the strained breath. He wears the same look he wears each time you ask, and you already know he’s searching for the right way to deflect the question.
“I don’t know.”
You expected nothing less, yet tonight, you insist upon the truth. Scooting closer as you glance up almost pleadingly. “Where do you go? Who does this to you?”
He hesitates. “Cher—”
“I won’t judge you. I’d never judge you, but this isn’t…Harry, this is really scary. And I want to make sure you know what you’re doing.”
Another heavy pause as you continue the suture. He contemplates his response, the small bathroom filling with a tense sort of energy. You wonder if the truth hurts him more than the scars.
“I…fight,” he finally says, and you feel your pulse stutter. “I get paid to fight. Three nights a week.”
And even though you’d already begun to assume that was the case, you feel the blood drain from your face. “Harry…”
“It’s okay,” he murmurs quickly, reaching out to brush his thumb along your cheek. “I’m okay.”
You want to argue, but you bite your tongue. Zeroing in your focus on your hands.
“I like it,’ he continues. “Don’t know why, but there’s just…there’s this rush, you know? This adrenaline. Makes me feel alive to be so close to death, I guess.”
You hum quietly, features pulling together in a wince.
“S’about the only thing I’m good at, too,” he adds with a wry chuckle. “And all I have to do is win.”
Your head lifts. “This doesn’t look like a win.”
“Yeah, well. You should’ve seen the other guy.”
And despite his attempt at humor, you look back down, lashes fluttering.
It’s quiet for another long lull before he says, “It’s how I met you.”
You choose to keep your eyes downcast on the needle this time, but your ears perk up.
“One of the guys I work with said your desserts were the best he’d ever had. Said he used to go there all the time, for every fucking meal.”
You pull the thread though his stained skin and he sucks in a sharp breath.
But his story is undeterred. “And I always get kind of a sugar craving after a fight, so I thought I’d go. And then…you.”
You remember the night vividly. The sight of him, hands wrapped in gauze, eyes dark and inquisitive, that familiar hoodie pulled over his head.
He was mysterious and strange, and you were drawn to him like a moth to a flame.
You have been ever since.
“And he was right,” Harry whispers now, tucking his finger beneath your chin until he can see you. “Never had anything as sweet as you.”
Your heart returns to your throat, and there’s a sort of longing in your stomach that can’t be tamped. You aren’t sure if you want to laugh or cry, so you merely release a soft sigh and finish closing the wound.
“Do you know what you’re doing?” you ask of him again. “Really?”
He runs his tongue over his cracked lip. “Sometimes.”
“And would they let you leave? If you wanted to?”
The silence is deafening.
His thumb moves to your mouth, brushing over the pink fibers that part for him. “Maybe one day I’ll be brave enough to find out.”
It’s not a perfect answer. But it’s the one you choose to cling to, reaching up to squeeze his wrist in desperation.
You suppose this explains more than you realized. Why he won’t tell you who he really is. Why he won’t let you into his world. Why he insists on keeping you safe.
But it only makes this new reality that much heavier.
“Just make me a promise, okay?” you exhale. “Promise me that you’ll be all right. That you’ll stay safe. That you won’t…”
The unspoken word carries a weight that nearly crushes you, and he seems to understand as he squeezes your chin.
“That you’ll always come back,” you finish.
“I promise,” he says, even if you both know it’s not a promise he can make. “Always.”
You kiss him. Quickly and without pause, surging forward until your mouth meets his. You take his lips between your own, careful to mind the cut while remembering just how much he enjoys the sting.
Instantly, his hand curls around the back of your neck, tugging you as close as he can get you. Tongues tangling, teeth clashing, and soft grunts that reverberate all the way down to your chest.
“Careful,” you gasp, attempting to pull back when he guides you between his legs. “Your cut—”
“Don’t care,” he whispers, bringing you back to nip at your bottom lip. “Don’t fucking care.”
You whimper against him, hands resting delicately on his chest. “Har—”
“I know. Just missed you. Really missed you, sweet girl.”
He tugs you between his thighs and you allow yourself to be moved. Melting into his touch as he uses his height advantage to fully take control of you. In more ways than one.
Desperate pants fill the tiny bathroom, and you can’t help but feel undone by him. Already feeling a certain throbbing in the pit of your stomach that can’t be tamed by anything else but him.
“Harry,” you try again, moving your hands to his hair. Carding your fingers through his matted, bloody curls. “Please…”
And then…you feel it. Rather, you feel him. Hard and prominent, pressing right up against you.
You gasp, and he rests his forehead against yours. Cursing to himself when you nudge yourself forward.
And that’s when you realize.
“Does pain turn you on?”
There’s a quick pause before he nods once. Trailing his lips along your cheek and toward your throat.
Your head spins. “Really?”
Another motion of his head. “It’s not really pain when it’s you.”
Breathlessly, you drop your touch to his lap, palming him through his dark jeans while he groans again and buries his nose in your neck. Inhaling you deeply while bracing himself against your knelt frame.
“Think it’s my turn now,” you say. “My turn to be good.”
The grip on your neck tightens, and you can feel him release a warm exhale against your collarbone before he’s kissing just below your ear.
Then, he shakes his head, and mumbles, “No.”
You stop, fingers freezing over the bulge between his thighs. “What?”
“No,” he repeats gently. “S’not about me. Wanna make this about you.”
You lean back just far enough to catch his eye. “But—”
“There are a lot of things I’ll never be able to give you. Or do for you,” he explains gingerly. “But I can do this. I want to do this, sweet girl. Wanna give you the fucking world because it’s what you deserve.”
You consider this for only a moment before settling on the floor. “Har…”
His head shakes once more. Thumb stroking the curve of your jaw while tilting your eyes up. “Never be able to tell you how beautiful you are. I don’t…I can’t even understand it. You’re perfect, Cherry. So fucking perfect, and I will spend the rest of my life wanting to be near you.”
It’s a sweet sentiment. One that nearly knocks the wind from your lungs as you gaze at him.
“Wanting to taste you…” he continues, dipping down to brush his nose against yours. “Feel you…touch you. You…are the best goddamn thing I will ever have.”
You whimper, pushing yourself closer until he finally kisses you. “Then let me…”
But he merely smiles. “One day, sweet girl. I promise.”
You want to push. You almost want to insist that he let you take his cock into your mouth, but the look on his face is resolute. Decisive. You aren’t changing his mind, at least not tonight.
And you decide that maybe it’s for the better. His body needs to rest in order to heal, and perhaps any extra strain would hurt him or rip the stitching.
So, you oblige. “Fine. But I’m holding you to that.”
With a chuckle, he kisses you again. “Good girl.”
The kisses grow more frantic. About as frantic as before, and you have to physically yank yourself out of his grasp in order to calm yourself down.
“No,” you say this time as you stand. “No, you need to lay down. And rest. Okay? Give your body time to heal. And get better.”
He watches you go, but he’s unconvinced, already looping an arm around your hips to pull you back. “This is how I get better.”
And even though you’re concerned for his health, you can’t deny the pulsing between your thighs. “Harry—”
“You make me better,” he says, trailing his lips along your arms, all the way down to your palms. “Always. Fucking always—”
You whine beneath a strained breath, your other hand dropping to his head as you tug on his hair.
In turn, he moans against you, and your knees about buckle. “Let me get better…please…”
And it’s almost like he doesn’t realize he’s said it. A subconscious thought that’s whispered against your skin until it becomes one with your bloodstream.
“Want to,” you say. “I want to, but you need to rest. I need you to rest, Har.”
“I am,” he tries to argue, glancing up through those thick lashes of his. “This is me resting.”
“Harry—”
“Please,” he nearly groans again, pressing his nose into your stomach. “God, please, Cher. Please. M’so fucking lost on you, I can’t…I need…”
He told you once that you’re like a drug to him. That he goes through withdrawals if you’re not near. If he’s gone too long without you.
And, truthfully, you feel about the same. Feeling strung-out and shaky without his touch. Even the sound of his voice. It’s borderline pathetic, yet you don’t ever want to be rid of him.
“You need to rest,” you repeat, although you’re losing conviction. “I want to, but I can’t…I’m worried. You shouldn’t move, you should rest.”
The air becomes charged as he looks back up. “Then ride my face.”
You hesitate. “What?”
“Ride my face,” he says again, practically groaning the instruction. “S’easy, right? Won’t have to move. I’ll just hold you, yeah?”
You feel the heat rush into your cheeks as you blink down at him. “I…you’re already hurt. I don’t want to suffocate you, too—”
“God, suffocate me,” he sighs, grabbing onto the backs of your thighs. Squeezing the flesh in his strong, battered hands pleadingly. “You’d never hurt me, baby, ever. S’all I fucking want. Don’t want anything else but you. Only you. All of you. Want you everywhere.”
And you believe him. You do. But the idea of…and being that close…
“What…but what if it’s too much?” you murmur. “What if I’m too…—”
“Never.” A firm shake of his head. “Fucking never. You would never be too much. Believe me. Tasting you is the only good thing in my life.”
There’s a catch in your throat that you swallow down. “I just…I’ve never…”
His expression softens. Thumbs brushing at your exposed skin before squeezing once more. “It’s okay. S’okay, sweet girl, really. Don’t have to if you don’t want to. Don’t have to do anything at all. But…I promise you…you could never do anything wrong. Ever. You breathe and you’re perfect.”
And he’s so honest. So good. You know he means it, know he’d never lie about something like this. And you do trust him. More than anything. Trust that he’d never judge you or want anything more from you than what you’re willing to give.
“If you say no, then it’s no,” he adds gently. “End of. Promise.”
But that’s not your problem. You’d happily do anything and everything with him. But you’re worried about his injuries and all the blood he’s already lost. Granted, his suggestion would perhaps be the best alternative, but…
“Fine,” you whisper, squeezing his curls in your fist. “Okay. But you need to be very careful and very still. And if it starts to hurt, we stop. Okay?”
There’s a wicked gleam in his eye. One you recognize all too well, yet it merely makes your pulse jump.
“Okay,” he agrees, almost mischievously. “Deal. Just lead the way.”
You bite back a whimper before glancing toward his knuckles. “I need wrap your hands first—”
“No,” he interjects. “No, leave ‘em. Just for right now. Wanna see them when I hold you.”
And there’s something about the idea that leaves you breathless, making your nails curl into his scalp as if to drag him closer. “Are you sure—”
“Yes.” He tugs on the hem of your dress again, almost as though trying to rip it off. “Yes, m’sure. Please, Cher…”
And you have no choice but to oblige.
You reach down, take his hand, and pull him onto his feet. Quickly and impatiently leading him out of the bathroom and down the hall to your room before pushing the door open and bringing him inside.
He only takes a moment to look around, eyebrows raised while a smile plays at his lips. He studies the array of artwork you have displayed, the baby blue paint on your walls, and the plethora of pillows that sit near your headboard. He seems…enchanted, almost, and it makes you giddy.
“S’cute,” he decides, offering his smirk to you. “Very cute. Very you.”
“Thanks,” you reply anxiously, already looping your arms around his neck in order to yank him back down. “Please?”
He chuckles against your lips before dropping his hands to your waist, nodding once, and pushing you back. “Do you trust me, baby? Trust me to take care of you?”
“Yes,” you answer instantaneously. “Yes, always.”
“Yeah? Know I’ll take care of you?”
“Yes.”
He drops you onto the bed before chasing after you. Lips on your cheek, your neck, your chest. Fingers playing with the buttons on your chest before he whispers, “Can I take this off, sweet girl?”
You motion your head almost frantically, leaning back to give him room.
He undoes your dress and slips it over your head in a matter of seconds. Leaving you in nothing but your underwear as he tosses it toward the floor before surging forward to kiss you again.
He’s seen you before. Seen your chest, your stomach, your thighs. But never in the privacy of your own home, and the way he seems to look at you now feels as though it changes everything. Like he’s looking at you for the very first time.
“Baby,” he breathes, pulling your lip between his teeth before groaning. “God…s’fucking cruel you have to hide this behind such a hideous dress.”
You grin against his mouth, scooting back in order to make space for him. “Then maybe you should come around and take it off more often.”
He likes this idea, chuckling to himself before grabbing hold of your hips, and flipping over onto his back. Effectively pulling you with him until you’re straddling his waist.
With a gasp, you glance down to his newly stitched cut, quickly inspecting in order to make sure nothing has been ripped or pulled. “Harry, you can’t—”
“Shh,” he coos, pulling on the back of your neck to bring you down again. Nose nudging with yours. “M’okay. I’ll tell you, yeah?”
“But—”
“I’m all right,” he insists quietly. “Promise. Just need you.”
You swallow the rest of your complaints, allowing your body to be pulled into his before he’s moving both hands to your naked thighs. Stroking along the tender, soft flesh and kneading it tenderly.
“Think you’re ready, baby?” he whispers. “Hm? Gonna let me have a taste?”
And even if you’re somewhat apprehensive, the lust that swims within the bottom of your stomach makes you whimper. Urging you to say, “Yes. Yes, I’m ready.”
“Good girl,” he hums, gliding his palms toward your ass before patting it once. “Up you go.”
You imagine you seem somewhat terrified, but his look of encouragement goes straight to your cunt. Encouraging you up his body until you can place your knees on either side of his head.
“Good,” he breathes, eyes already gluing to your panties. “So good, baby. Can you hold onto me? Hold onto my hair? And tug it if it’s too much?”
You nod weakly and drop your fingers to his curls. Brushing them gently while he smiles, lashes fluttering.
“Good girl,” he says again, and it makes you clench around nothing. “M’gonna pull you down now, okay? Don’t worry about anything. Just let me make you feel good. Promise I’ll be all right.”
You whimper beneath a deep breath before nodding again and allowing him to guide you down to his face.
You feel the tip of his nose ghost across the edge of your panties, right near your clit. And you can help but buck up, gasping as you squirm away from the stimulating touch.
But his hold on you is unrelenting, tightening when he feels you twitch before yanking you back into position.
“Uh-uh, sweet girl, none of that,” he warns softly, mouth dancing down your covered cunt. Tauntingly. Deviously. “M’just having some fun, yeah? Gonna let me have fun with such a pretty pussy?”
When you don’t answer, he gently smacks his hand against the side of your thigh.
“Yes,” you answer quickly, gathering his curls in your fist. “Yes, I…I will.”
“Mm. Good. Cause m’having so much fun with you, Cher. You know that? Always have fun getting to play with what’s mine.”
This possession sends chills down your spine and your chest heaves from the way he flattens his tongue against your underwear before dragging it down.
He seems to bask in your whines, moaning against your cunt before curling his fingers into your skin. Forcing you down even further until you’re nearly sat on his mouth.
His technique is sinful. Just enough to tease you and leave you wanting more. Effortlessly casting out any doubts or hesitation as you begin to settle in his hold, permitting him to keep you against his tongue until he sighs contently.
“Fucking killing me, baby,” he says, lifting you up in order to reach for the soft material against your pussy and drag it to the side. “Ready, sweet girl?”
You nod quickly.
“Promise to tug me if it’s too much or you want to stop?”
“Yes…yes, Har, please—”
“I know,” he shushes. “Just so well behaved for me, aren’t you? Hold still for me, all right?”
You go to nod again, but before you can, his lips are meeting your clit. Pressing the most innocent of kisses to the sensitive nerves until you choke on his name and yank his curls.
He seems to realize this aggression has more to do with the pleasure than the pain, and you can practically feel him smirk into your cunt before he does it again. Over and over and over, making your eyes roll back and your throat run dry with desperate pants and whimpers.
Then…he sucks. Takes your clit into his mouth before flattening his tongue and dragging it through.
You’ve never felt this kind of stimulation. This kind of overwhelming pleasure that goes directly to your toes.
Sure, he’s eaten you out before, but he’s never been this…close. He’s devouring you from the inside out. Forcing you against his mouth as though his life depends on it.
The hold on your hip is unforgiving, and you’re almost sure you’ll see remnants of him on your skin tomorrow. The tips of his fingers tattooing to your waist and marking you as his forevermore.
You aren’t sure what to do with yourself. Overcome with lust and infatuation for the man between your thighs. The way he expertly slides his lips through your folds, drowning in you.
The tip of his tongue teases your hole, and you feel him groan at the way your pussy flutters from the slight intrusion. And the vibration of his greed makes your hands tighten in his hair. Nail scraping so hard down his scalp, you’re sure you’ll draw blood.
But he loves it. Seems to thrive off it. Going in a bit further before dragging your arousal up to your clit and flicking.
Then, he swallows you down.
“Harry,” you gasp, and you wish you could see him. Wish more than anything that you could gaze down at his face and watch while he does this to you.
He always tends to get a sort of mesmeric look in his eye when he’s making you cum. Almost like he’s in a trance. Hypnotized by your body, drunk off the way he’s making you feel.
You imagine that’s about how he looks now, and you’d give anything to see those beautiful, hazy eyes just once.
“You’re okay,” he whispers, pulling away just long enough to speak. “You’re okay, yeah?”
You nod quickly. “Yes. Yes, I’m okay. I promise—please…”
He understands your request perhaps better than anyone and smiles to himself before going back in. It’s far too easy to unravel you, it seems. All he has to do is suck, and flick, and slide his mouth along your dripping pussy, and you’re done for. Already nearing release before he’s even really begun.
He senses this, and instantly goes harder. Faster. Tongue fucking into your clenching hole relentlessly until you cry out his name…and let go.
You hardly have time to register what’s happening or warn him of your impending orgasm. Nor do you have the time to remove yourself from him before accidently crushing him between your thighs and beneath your weight.
Yet through every second, he holds on. Keeps you exactly where you were, stuck in his hold, glued to his tongue. Until every drop of your cum belongs to him.
“Har…Harry,” you pant, uncurling your fingers from his hair. “Okay, it’s okay…I came, I—”
“I know,” he mumbles, leaving another kiss to your clit. “And you’re gonna do it again.”
It’s resolute. He leaves no room for bargaining or questioning before he’s going back in. Quick flicks of his tongue through your pussy until you feel breathless.
It’s sloppy. Everything about it is sloppy and wet. The sounds, his technique. The way he makes out with your cunt as though it’s the best thing he’s ever had. And, truthfully, you imagine he believes it is.
He repeats the movement of his tongue along the overstimulated nerves until you begin to shake. Never letting up, even when you begin to whine rather pitifully. Instead, he squeezes your waist, and keeps you close. Makes sure you take every second of this blissful affliction until you cum for a second time.
The moment you do, he readjusts his hold on your panties in order to slip a finger inside. Forcing you up onto your knees so he can nip at your clit and fuck his finger into you with a newly determined fervor.
“Harry,” you cry out again, moving one hand to your headboard to brace yourself. “Can’t…can’t—”
“You’re all right,” he hums, the tip of his nose pressing hard into your skin. “You’re all right, sweet girl. Just want one more, okay?”
And you believe him. You do believe you’re all right, even if the painful pleasure he’s dragging you into nearly kills you. Making your legs shake and your lungs heave.
You want to give him another. You want to give him all of your orgasms, forever. And he knows this, so he adds a second finger, and pumps you mercilessly.
The sound echoes through your room, loud and lewd. But it intertwines beautifully with his soft murmurs of encouragement:
“Good, baby, just like that. Fucking squeezin’ me, aren’t you? Hm? S’it feel good? Feel so good to ride my face?”
You can’t answer. Want to. Can’t. Skin growing hot as sweat beads at your hairline. Muscles burning, aching, crying out for reprieve.
But all you really feel…is him.
“One more, come on,” he urges, increasing the speed of his tongue and his thrusts. “Can feel how close you are, sweet girl. Know you want to, yeah?”
You whimper softly, body tensing with the impending release.
“Yeah? I know. Know you’re so close. Bet it hurts, doesn’t it? S’just too much for this sweet little pussy, hm?”
He curls those long digits into your cunt until you moan, thighs trembling beside his head as you attempt to keep yourself upright. “Har, please—”
“What? What do you need?”
Everything, all of it, whatever it takes. You aren’t even sure, you just need…more.
He moves his mouth to the inside of your leg. Kissing and sucking into the tender skin while his fingers continue to encourage you closer.
“Just taste so good, don’t you?” He trails his lips back toward your cunt. Lazily mouthing at your clit as if to torture you. “Get so wet for me. S’precious. So fucking precious.”
He uses his fingers to spread you open. Exhaling against your dripping cunt until you begin to squirm. Writhing away from the sensation while he does it again.
“Mm-mm,” he tuts, pulling you closer. “Told you no, sweet girl. Said I could play with you, so I am. Thought you were behaving for me?”
He exploits your need to please him. To obey and win his approval, and it nearly drives you mad.
“Know it’s a lot, baby,” he coos next, slipping back inside and curling. “Know you’re all sensitive. Not used to being so overstimulated, are you?”
He’s right, you’re not. Apart from him, nobody else has ever really taken the time.
“Makes me wonder,” he continues gently. “Wonder how you touch yourself…here in this very room.”
He pulls your clit between his teeth and tugs until you gasp.
“Tell me, Cherry. Tell me how you touch yourself when I’m not around.”
Your mind goes blank. Darkening around the edges while you suck in quick pants for air.
“Tell me,” he repeats, coarse and riddled with an insatiable hunger. “Tell me what you think about. D’you think about me, baby? Think about how good you look on my tongue?”
You find just enough strength to nod as you squeeze his curls and whimper out your agreement.
“Yeah? Go on, tell me.”
Your mouth drops open, yet nothing else comes out. Save for a plethora of pathetic whines and anxious mewling.
He seems to laugh, the low sound sending goosebumps across the back of your neck. “What’s the matter, Cher? Pussy got your tongue?”
You can hardly acknowledge the joke as you go reeling forward, just barely able to catch yourself against the headboard before collapsing. “You…you,” you finally groan. “Always you, Harry. Always.”
“Me?” You can hear the faux fascination. “You think about me, baby? What do you think about?”
What don’t you think about? “Your…your fingers,” you stammer. “And…and your mouth.”
“Yeah? Good girl. What else?”
You’re too close to think straight, already falling victim to your orgasm before it’s even found you. “You…your…your…”
“S’okay, baby, come on. Tell me.”
You swallow thickly and will yourself to speak. “Think…think about taking you. About how you’d feel. How you’d…be.”
“How I’d be, hm?” The hand on your hip tightens almost possessively. “How would you want me to be? How would you want me to fuck you?”
An array of positions flash through your mind. The echoing of his groans and pants in your ear as he fucks you. The way he’d hold onto your leg and push it into the bed. The way he’d pull your hair and demand you take him. That you behave, be good.
There’s something about him, you realize. Something about his dominance that makes you feel safe. Seen and cared for.
You want him to tell you what to do. Want to give him full control of your body and mind. Make your decisions for you so you don’t have to wrestle with them yourself. You trust him. Trust that he’d always put you first.
“Any way you want,” you finally answer. “Any…any way. Hard…slow…fast…deep. Just wanna be good for you.”
The noise he makes against your pussy is animistic. Virile and obsessed, and his mouth reattaches to your clit almost like a reward.
“Good,” he nearly growls. “Know you would be. Know you’d be fucking perfect, yeah? Let me stretch this sweet, little pussy anyway I’d like?”
“Yes. Yes, Harry, please—”
“Just take it, wouldn’t you? Take me so well?” He yanks you down so hard, you wonder if he can even breathe. Truthfully, you don’t think he cares either way. “What else do you think about, sweet girl? Think about me tying you up?”
You nod zealously, sneaking a glance at the headboard almost as though to recreate your fantasy.
“Yeah? What else? Would you want me to spank you?” He follows this inquiry up with a quick – albeit gentle – slap to your outer thigh. “S’that what you want?”
“Harry—”
“What about your pretty, little throat, hm? D’you want me to hold it in my hand? Squeeze it till you see stars?”
The thought sends you into a frenzy. Stomach flipping in on itself until you’re clenching so hard around his fingers, you’re surprised they don’t break.
“Yeah? Oh, sweet girl,” he coos, slowly and almost inconspicuously sneaking a third digit into play. Filling you exactly the way you need. “My dirty little Cherry just wants to be taken care of, doesn’t she?”
You have nothing more to offer him. No more noises, no more whines, no more pleas. Your throat has gone dry, and your body is trembling almost violently.
He grins. “Then I’ll always take care of what’s mine.”
You’re not sure what does it. If it’s the way he strokes his fingers into that sweet spot in your cunt, the way he skims his tongue against your clit, or if it’s his promise.
But no matter the cause, your third orgasm overwhelms you. Pulls you down into the deepest part of your pleasure before ripping you apart. Seam by seam.
He swallows every second of it. Attempting to drag the stimulation on for as long as he can before you have to psychically take yourself away in order to breathe.
“Okay, okay,” you whimper, returning to the bed just beside him. “Can’t…I can’t…”
“Okay,” he agrees in a soft, soothing tone. Quicky reaching out to press his hand to your cheek while his thumb brushes at your heated skin. “Okay, we’re done. Did so good for me.”
Your lashes flutter as your vision slowly returns, and when you see him, you about moan.
During his ravaging of your pussy, the cut on his lip reopened, and now, blood is smeared across his mouth and chin. Glistening from his skin right beside the remnants of you.
You don’t imagine you’ve ever seen something so erotic. You also never imagined you’d find it so appealing, and yet the way it looks painted across his sharp jaw and swollen lips…
You surge forward and kiss him. So hard and so fast, you imagine you’ve made him dizzy.
Instantly, his palm is pressing to the back of your head. Keeping you against his mouth while slowly pulling you back into his embrace. And he holds you against his chest while moaning something that sounds a lot like, “Fucking hell.”
You kiss until the sun comes up. The soft, warm beams of light slipping through your curtains, setting the whole room – and your tired bodies – aglow.
His mouth moves to your neck. “You still with me, baby?”
You smile. “Always.”
“Good.” He leaves one, final kiss. “And you’re feeling all right?”
“Mhm. Are you?”
“Oh, I’m more than all right, sweet girl. M’fucking perfect.”
He guides back onto his chest. Limbs tangling together as he puts your body between his legs until he can hold you properly. Even despite your fussing over his injuries.
But it’s not until you’ve begun to settle that you feel it. “Harry?” you whisper softly.
“Mm?”
“…did you cum?”
He smiles before pressing his lips to your forehead. “Yeah.”
“But I didn’t…I mean I didn’t get to—"
“You just have that effect on me, Cher,” he murmurs, snaking his arms a bit tighter around your frame. “Told you. Making you feel good is all I want.”
You glance, expression wounded. “Why won’t you let me help? I thought…I mean, you keep saying you want me to, but you never…you won’t let me.”
The bedroom falls silent as he considers this. The sage green in his eye melting into something golden from the reflection of the sunrise.
He reaches out and brushes his thumb across your mouth. Seeming to clean you of the blood that smeared when you kissed.
“I didn’t want this to be about me,” he finally says. “I never do.”
You merely frown. “But I want to do it. Do you not…I mean, do you think I can’t or something?”
A soft chuckle. “Oh, I know you can. Know you’d use this pretty little mouth just right, yeah?”
You nod.
“Yeah.” He squeezes your chin. “I meant what I said. One day. There are a lot of things I want to do with you. Be for you. But right now, I can’t…I’m not in a place where I can offer them to you. Not with…everything else going on.”
Your stomach sinks as you realize. You might not understand the complexities of his job or his life, but you do understand his concern. And you trust that he doesn’t make this decision lightly.
“Besides,” he adds coyly, “they kind of have a rule about it.”
“Oh, do they?”
“Yeah. Something about reduced testosterone and decreased aggression. I don’t know, s’probably bullshit.” A nonchalant shrug. “Just means I get to keep the focus on you. Which is all I really want, anyway.”
“I can tell,” you tease, reaching up to brush your nose against his. “Why is that?”
“Because you’re perfect.” He says it so easily. As though it needs no thought. “Baby, you have no fucking idea how beautiful you are. Touching you is the closest I will ever get to heaven.”
You wonder how he does that. How he always manages to say exactly what you need to hear. And make you believe it. Every time.
You kiss him again, but it’s slow. Soft and gentle and full of an unspoken emotion that nearly overwhelms you.
You fall asleep against his heart. His lips in your hair, your fingers on his chest. And for the next few hours, you dream of nothing but him.
By the time you wake, it’s nearly afternoon. Your muscles are sore and your body aches from the decisions and positions of the night before.
But it’s a good sort of pain. The kind that reminds you of how willing you are to do it again.
You’re both quiet as you stir, and it’s comfortable. As though you’re used to waking up together. Exchanging nothing more than smiles and a hoarse, “Morning.”
After offering him some cereal, you ask if he’d like to take a shower. Maybe change into something else before you take him back to the diner so he can retrieve his car and you can pick up yours from your friend.
He politely declines, but he does agree to your stipulation that you check his wounds before you leave. He even stands perfectly still while you assess each cut and stitch in order to make sure everything is still in place.
Which to your surprise, it is.
Once you’ve gathered your things, you exit your apartment (after locking it as previously instructed), and head for the subway station.
It’s almost strange to see him in the light of day. He’s still as effortlessly striking as before, if not perhaps more. His skin looks a bit more tan, and his hair seems softer in the sun. But he walks with a kind of confidence you almost envy, slinging his arm around your shoulders just like the night before. This time, out of possession.
And you grin the whole way there.
It feels normal. Feels good. Natural. Like it was always meant to be. You and him. Always.
Your heart begins to sink with each step closer you get to the diner. You cling to his hoodie as though it physically hurts to say goodbye. And in turn, he pulls you in tighter to his heart, as if refusing to let you.
“I’ll walk you in,” he murmurs once you reach the parking lot, and you nod gratefully. Already taking in a deep breath as you prepare to watch him leave.
You see your car near the front of the diner, signaling that your friend is here to drop off the keys. And you almost feel nervous because you aren’t sure how to explain Harry. Or if you even need to explain him at all.
If he’d want you to.
A part of you wants to protect him from everybody else. From their prying eyes and inquisitive questions. From their haughty, judgmental stares and this idea that they know who he really is.
Instead, you take his hand in yours, and squeeze. Offering him one last smile to hold you over until you see him again.
Which you can only hope will be soon.
He pushes the door open and leads you inside. Loosening his grip on you almost regretfully while your heart sinks down into your toes.
But the moment you both step beneath the light, he stops. Suddenly and with a strained inhale as fingers retighten around yours, halting you in place.
Concerned, you glance over the side of his face rather curiously before following his eyeline further into the diner.
And that’s when you see him.
“Hey, thanks again for letting me borrow your car,” your friend says, sliding off one of the barstools in order to hand you your keys. “I really appreciate it. It was a huge help.”
“Oh, yeah, no problem,” you murmur before looking back to the tense man beside you. “Uh…this is my friend, Jesse. And Jesse, this is—”
“Harry,” Jesse says for you, lips curling up almost knowingly before he’s nodding once.
Now even more confused, your head tilts while Harry’s skin instantly pales, his jaw clenching as his grip on your hand gets stronger.
But despite your muddled expression, Jesse merely chuckles to himself and steps forward, dragging his eyes from you to the tall stranger holding you.
OH MY GOSH I LOVE YOU!!!!! This is so sweet of you, thank you so much for reading and taking the time to say this, I adore you and this made me smile so big 😭💞💞💞
Summary: The one where Harry is a handsome stranger who always comes to your diner covered in bruises.
Word Count: 9.4k (jeepers, sorry!)
Content Warning: 18+, smut, slight exhibitionism, very brief violence
Your stranger is here.
He’s sitting in his favorite booth, fifth one down from the first row, directly next to the window.
He’s got his usual hoodie pulled over his head, obscuring any view of his face. His clothes are dark and seem to cover nearly every inch of his skin. His knuckles are wrapped in white gauze, but are stained with streaks of red.
And he’s looking down. Staring at the menu on the table as though he doesn’t order the exact same thing every time.
A cup of coffee – black – and a slice of pie.
He’s like clockwork. He comes in exactly five minutes after midnight, takes a seat in his booth, and orders his usual.
Then, he pays his bill, and he leaves.
You’ve grown used to him. Comfortable with the idea of his face and his voice and the strange, but unsettling presence he brings with him.
You find that it’s more unnerving when he’s not here than when he is.
“Hi, Cherry.”
Your stranger’s voice cuts through the quiet diner and forces your attention from the mug of coffee you’re pouring.
You glance up, finally able to see his face now that he’s lifted his head. His skin is littered with deep cuts and vicious scratches. There’s a bruise just by his eye that’s dissolving into an unsettling shade of purple and his bottom lip is split down the middle.
Even still, he’s smiling. A gentle upturn that looks almost painful given the cracked fibers and dried blood.
“Hi,” you reply softly, feeling your heart race beneath your chest as his eyes find yours. “Would you like your usual?”
Somehow, his grin gets a bit brighter. As though he’s touched by the question. “Of course,” he answers calmly, in a voice you imagine you’d recognize anywhere. It’s deep and sultry, but it crackles like lightning. Sensual in a way you can’t exactly explain. “What have you made tonight?”
“Chocolate,” you tell him, glancing back toward the counter where the pies are displayed. “With extra whipped cream.”
“Mm.” His hum is playful, and it matches the glint in his eye. “How much extra?”
“As much as you want.”
He laughs, and you swear fairies are born. “Then I will have a slice of your chocolate pie, with as much whipped cream as you’ll allow.”
You feel your cheeks warm as you nod and turn on your heel to grab his order. Setting the coffee pot down before grabbing a small plate.
Once it’s ready, you return, sliding it across the table beside his mug. “Is that all?”
“No,” he says simply, gesturing now toward the seat across from him.
And just like every other time, you feel your pulse jump. “I’m…I need to get back—”
“You don’t need to go anywhere,” he interrupts with a wry grin. “Please?”
Your lips roll into your mouth, and your heart lands in your throat. Your stranger has always been good at getting you to do what he’d like, and it seems tonight is no different.
So, with a sigh, you glance back toward the kitchen. Checking to make sure you aren’t needed too direly before you slip off your apron and slide into the booth.
“There,” he hums, placing his arms on the table to learn forward. “S’much better, hm?”
And you can’t help but smile as you nod and glance toward your cuticles. Avoiding that vivid green that always seems to send your stomach into a frenzy.
“How are you?” he asks next, and his voice is soft, as if attempting to draw your attention back.
Braving a glance, you lift your head, and meet his eye. “I’m all right. How are you?”
“Good. Better now.”
The flirtatious remark sends a rush of heat to your cheeks. But you don’t respond, instead reaching out your hand toward his. Allowing your fingers to dance along the gauze that’s wrapped around his knuckles.
“It’s bad again,” you whisper, and you feel him study you.
There’s a gentle pause. And then, “Not by much. It’s been worse.”
You suck in a quiet breath and hold it deep within your lungs. Turning his arm around in order to inspect the wounds painted near his wrist. “You promised.”
Even without seeing the full of his face, you catch his expression fall.
“I know, Cherry,” he murmurs. “And I’m trying, I promise. S’just…not that easy.”
Your throat constricts, growing dry from the implication. “I know.”
It’s almost inaudible, but your stranger still hears it, and he sighs as he slips his fingers between yours. Pulling your focus back to him.
“You know you don’t have to worry about me,” he says, squeezing your palm as if to cement the point. “M’gonna be okay.”
“Are you?”
He looks gutted. Ashamed of your disappointment. “It’s just something that I have to do.”
“Why?”
He considers this before shaking his head once. “I don’t know.”
It’s the same answer every time. You ask him who does this to him. Why he does this to himself. Where he goes, why he keeps going back.
But he never offers anything concrete. Just enough to keep you hoping.
He leans closer. Desperate to make you understand. “I’m gonna be all right, Cherry. I promised, didn’t I?”
“But this isn’t ‘all right,’” you argue quietly, once again studying his scars. “You hurt yourself. Or you let somebody else hurt you. And I don’t know why.”
He takes in a breath before setting it free. “I don’t know why, either. But it’s not forever. And I promised you I would be okay. So, I will be.”
You release him and pull yourself from his grasp. Creating a physical distance much like his emotional one.
“I have to be,” he adds, and that charming smirk reappears. Popping a dimple from his cheek. “I’d miss your pies too much.”
Even if your insides have twisted, you can’t help but laugh. “I suppose they’d miss you, too.”
“Good, I would hope. Might be my second-favorite sweet thing here. Only after you.”
Again, his coy remark leaves you entranced. Hands gathering on your lap as you look out through the large window beside you. “You’re quite forward tonight.”
“M’forward every night. You just don’t notice.”
“Is that right?”
“It is. Can’t really help myself, Cherry.”
The familiar nickname feels like home. It was coined after the first night he’d come in. He’d sat in your section – this very booth – and made small talk while you served him.
He asked for your recommendation, and you suggested one of the desserts. The pies were your specialty, and you made a new one every evening. He seemed charmed by this and ordered two slices.
That night was cherry. He ate every bite between sips of his coffee and compliments to you. Leaving nothing but crumbs once you came to collect his plate.
He told you he loved cherry pie. It was his absolute favorite. But he’d never had a pie as good as yours.
And from that night on, you became his Cherry.
He never asked for your real name, and you never offered. You supposed this was intentional. A way to protect you from whatever life he led outside the diner doors.
And in the few weeks he’s been coming back for yet another slice of your pie, you’ve learned only three things about him:
He always pays with big bills.
He drives a vintage, black ’69 Mustang.
And his name is Harry.
Anything past that you suppose isn’t yours to know. Yet despite that, you feel drawn to your stranger. Even if he only seems to exist after midnight.
“You weren’t supposed to be working tonight,” he says, calling your attention back.
You glance away from the window just in time to see his frown. “Joshua asked me to cover a few of his shifts,” you explain. “I’ll be here through the weekend.”
“You covered him last week,” he reminds you, with just a touch of disapproval. “And a few weekends before that.”
Your stranger is right, but you merely lift a shoulder and let it fall. “I don’t mind. The extra money is nice, and the night shift is always quiet.”
“Not always,” he retorts, and you notice the pull of his eyebrows. “Not everybody is as kind as you, Cher. Not in this part of town. Or this late.”
You can’t help but smile at his need to shelter you. “I know. But Owen is here, and he makes sure to check on me from time to time.”
However, Harry’s expression seems to settle into something hard and unnerved. “And what if he gets distracted? What if he doesn’t see some loser trying to grab for you? Or talk to you? Or take advantage of you?”
His voice is rising, a gentle but obvious crescendo that turns the heads of the few patrons scattered about the diner.
You reach for his hand once more, squeezing it hard to implore him to listen. “Then I will use my extensive training as a waitress and kick their ass.”
You can tell he doesn’t want to, but he smiles. Brushing his thumb along your wrist before looking down. “I’m only trying to protect you.”
“I know,” you whisper, dipping down in order to find his eye. “But I’m not the one who needs protecting.”
The air is charged with a sort of tension you can’t explain. He feels so close and yet so very far away. Your heart aches for your stranger, and for his scars that never heal.
“Hey,” calls a loud voice, ringing through the small diner until you and Harry both turn. You find a man sitting near the counter, wearing a camouflage baseball hat and flannel shirt. His beard is long and scruffy, and his expression is wildly annoyed. “Do you fucking work here or not? Been waiting on a refill for ten goddamn minutes.”
Feeling rather embarrassed of the way you’ve neglected the other customers and deserted your post, you quickly slide out of the booth and stand. Cheeks warm and heart racing. “Yes, of course. I’m so sorry, sir.”
You rush to check on the coffee pot near the counter, making sure that it’s hot and fresh before you approach. Then, you tip the spout into his mug, and refill his drink that’s already three-fourths of the way full.
You can see Harry watching you from his spot. A similarly irritated look behind his eye as he studies the man sitting before you.
Once the coffee has been refilled, you nod an apology, and begin to retreat.
“Not so fast,” the customer grumbles, clearing his throat as he straightens up. Forcing you to hesitate. “I want my check. And a slice of pie on the house. For my troubles.”
Your heart leaps into your throat, but you nod again. The Starlight Diner doesn’t exactly offer free pastries, and anything that a staff member has to comp comes out of the employee’s paycheck.
Granted, one slice won’t set you back too far, but the shame will. The idea that you left a customer waiting while you chatted with a man you hardly know. It’s unprofessional and not at all how you’d like to be perceived in the workplace. As a mindless girl who merely doddles her day away. Fawning over handsome strangers and daydreaming about a life she can’t have.
“Absolutely,” you tell him, rushing to grab him a fresh piece just as Harry begins to stand from the booth. “Will that be all?”
“Don’t be stingy with the whipped cream,” he instructs. “In fact, I’d like to see you put it on in front of me. So I can make sure you aren’t trying to fuck me over.”
The blood drains from your face. You feel humiliated under the warm hue of lights strung up around the restaurant. Grabbing the can of whipped topping in a desperate attempt to please and end the interaction all together.
“Why don’t you watch your fucking tone,” Harry grits, approaching the man from his left.
But the customer merely scoffs, refusing to offer him even a disinterested glance. “Yeah, and why don’t you mind your own business?”
Suddenly, Harry’s hand smacks down onto the counter beside him, inches from his plate while the coffee inside his mug trembles.
You can’t help but jump, arm recoiling away from the pie while the entire diner grows quiet. Everybody’s attention has turned to your stranger. Watching him closely as he leans forward, and dips down to catch the man’s eye.
“Wasn’t a question,” he murmurs darkly. “You watch your fucking tone when you speak to her. Or I’ll watch it for you.”
And you can tell the older gentleman is a bit off-put by Harry’s distressing demeanor. Yet he remains rather calm, clearing his throat again before leaning back. “And what are you gonna do about it, cupcake?”
Harry’s head cocks to the side. “Would you like me to show you?”
“Harry,” you whisper, just loud enough to force his eyes to yours. “It’s okay. It’s fine.”
“Yeah, she’s fine, buttercup,” the customer snorts, spinning around to face you once more. “Now let’s go, princess. I don’t have all fucking night.”
His fingers snap together before he points toward the pie. Instructing you to continue applying the fluffy cream until you hesitantly continue.
The whipped desert sprays out of the can in a steady stream, piling higher and higher atop the pie until it begins to spill over onto the side.
Yet he doesn’t stop you. He simply nods and mutters for you to keep going. To fill the plate until he’s satisfied.
And you know exactly why he’s doing it. Not to satiate a sweet tooth but to demean you. To force you under his cruel, sadistic stare until you fold like a house of cards.
Your stranger fumes from his place a few feet away. You can tell he’s desperate to intervene, but he obeys your look of frantic insistence. Remaining quiet while you oblige the customer’s request.
Soon, the can runs out. The last few drops spewing from the nozzle until you’re left with nothing but air and an empty bottle.
With a hitch in your breath, you begin to withdraw your hand. He’ll have to drop this degradation act now, and you hope that he only demands the rest of his check before going about his night.
However, before you can fully retract your arm, a collection of grimy fingers dart out and curl around your wrist. Keeping you in place while the man’s eyes narrow and he hisses, “Did I say you could stop?”
But the moment his palm touches your skin, Harry is stepping forward, grabbing a fistful of his collar, and hoisting him from his seat. Then, he shoves him back against the tile wall just behind him, the connection so forceful, it knocks the gentleman’s hat askew.
The other customers, including yourself, gasp from the sudden act of violence. Watching as Harry steps up to him and sneers in his face with the vilest look of disdain you imagine you’ve ever seen.
“Don’t ever…” he seethes through deep, even breaths, “…put your fucking hands on her…again.”
And he’s terrifying. So utterly terrifying, with his busted knuckles, his cracked lip, and his bruised jaw. It’s clear he’s a threat, and the man he’s holding goes deathly pale as Harry keeps him trapped against the wall.
All he can do is nod his understanding, choosing to end the fight before it can begin while Harry – after a very long moment – finally lets him go and allows him to flee from the diner.
There’s a stillness in the café that makes your heart race. The few regulars that are left watching on with a mixture of sympathy and embarrassment. It’s not until Harry shoots them their own venomous glare that they quickly turn away and continue on with their meals.
You slump into the counter, letting the can drop to your side while the sound of a door flinging open echoes from somewhere behind you.
“The hell…is going on?” Owen calls, exiting the kitchen in order to get a better look around. He finds you first, raking his stare up and down your frame before looking to Harry. “What happened?”
“You fucking left her out here, alone,” Harry barks. “That’s what fucking happened.”
Owen’s eyebrows raise as he moves his attention to you. But you quickly side-step into Harry’s path, attempting to end another confrontation before it can begin.
“Just…a customer,” you finally answer softly, reaching for the plate in order to clear your regret away. “It’s fine. He left.”
Your boss nods once. “But he paid first, yes?”
Again, your heart sinks into your toes. Lashes fluttering when you realize his bill will be coming out of your paycheck. “He…um, no, he…he left before I could collect it—”
“Darling,” Owen sighs, and it’s heavy with disappointment, “what did we talk about?”
“I…I know. I’ll…I’ll pay for it—"
Harry’s palm suddenly smacks down onto the counter for a second time this evening. Yet now, there’s a wad of cash beneath his hand. From the looks of it, well over a hundred dollars.
“This will cover it,” he mumbles, turning his unforgiving stare to your boss. “And it’ll cover the rest of her shift, too. She’s done.”
With that, his fingers are wrapping around your upper arm before you can even wrap your head around his offering. Blinking wildly while Owen glances from the cash to you in an effort to piece together Harry’s instruction.
But your stranger leaves you no room for questioning or bargaining. He’s pulling you out the diner door and into the dark parking lot before you can even bid your boss goodbye.
He strides between the cars before hooking a left around the building. Leading you toward the back alleyway where he normally keeps his car, the wet pavement squeaking beneath his sneakers.
And during this fervent stalking, his fingers slide down from your upper arm and into your hand. Grasping it tightly as if to make sure he won’t lose you.
Perhaps a part of you would like to feel miffed or ashamed of what just took place, but you can’t seem to fault him for his reaction. He’s always been nothing but kind to you – even if he doesn’t always lend that kindness to others. Expressing his desire to protect you, even if he doesn’t know you.
You wonder if this need to defend is part of the reason why you’ve only ever seen him covered in scars and bruises. If he comes to the diner in the dead of night in order to watch over you. Like a guardian angel or vigilante.
Right now, however, he disappears into the shadows, gently pulling you along with him until you see his car only a few feet away. He releases you at the same time that he releases a heavy sigh, running a hand through his dark curls as his hood is pushed down.
“Harry…” you begin quietly, tentative of startling him.
“I’m sorry,” he says before you can even finish. “M’sorry, I lost my temper. I know.”
You watch the way he turns away from you. Bracing himself against the hood of the Mustang while dropping his head in what you only assume is remorse.
And your heart aches for him. For the gentleman that lives beneath the outlaw. “Harry,” you whisper again, stepping closer in order run your fingers down his back. Feeling the way his muscles tense before melting beneath your touch. “I’m not mad, I promise.”
“I know you don’t like it when I interfere,” he mumbles, and it’s almost swept away by the cold, early morning air. “But he fucking touched you, and I—”
“I know,” you interrupt tenderly. “I know, and I’m not mad. I’m glad you did it. I’m glad you were here.”
He hesitates, face turning toward his shoulder. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You allow your chest to meet his spine. “Always feel safer with you.”
He exhales deeply, releasing something heavy before he’s turning around, and reaching for your cheeks. The soft, stained gauze slides against your skin, and his touch is firm. Keeping you in his embrace while he gazes at you warmly.
“Are you all right, Cherry?” he asks now, thumbs sweeping beneath your eyes. “Did he hurt you?”
Your head shakes. “No. Scared me a little, but I’m okay.”
It’s clear he doesn’t like this, that familiar frown reforming as he holds you a bit tighter. “He never should have spoken to you like that. Much less put his fucking hands on you—”
“I know, but it’s okay,” you interject again, hoping to ease his stress. “I’m okay because you were here.”
And this is the only thing that seems to calm him. That familiar smile of his the perfect remedy for such a strange night. You don’t want to tell him how often this happens. Especially during the later shift. But that’s what you get for working at a 24-hour diner, and you’re starting to think this is merely part of the job.
And truth be told…you think he already knows.
His forehead meets yours, and you can’t help but grin yourself. Grateful for the comfort he provides – stranger or not.
“Speaking of which…why are you here?” you ask gingerly. “I thought you didn’t come in on my days off?”
“I don’t. But…I saw your car.”
“Oh…how?”
His smirk transforms into something coy. “I was driving by.”
“Oh, really?” you tease. “On purpose?”
The smile slips now, a more reverent look in his eye as he nods. “I like to check on you. Make sure you’re okay.”
And maybe in any other universe, this would strike you as odd. Perhaps even unsettling or disconcerting.
But even if you don’t know him, you know him. You know his intentions have only ever been pure, and even without having much more than his name, he has always made you feel safe.
You choose to believe in him. In the goodness of your stranger and the care he provides. Inside and out.
“You do?” you murmur, allowing your hands to rest on his chest. “How often?”
A beat. Then, “…every night.”
The alley grows quiet. Scattered streetlamps reflect off the pools of water that are sprinkled across the cement, warming the dark night with their sepia-toned beams.
And you stand there, just you and him, while the weight of the world seems to rest on his shoulders.
But instead of chastising him or asking any further questions, you push yourself up onto your tiptoes…and kiss him.
It’s not the first kiss you’ve shared, and you know, undoubtedly, that it won’t be your last. Your stranger has been stealing your kisses for weeks now.
And you suppose stealing isn’t exactly a fair comparison. After all, you’ve nearly pleaded with him to kiss you every time he’s come in.
Not that there’s much need for begging when he’s so willing to offer them to you. Sneaking you away the moment your shift is through. Chasing you through the parking lot…pulling you into the backseat of his car.
It makes you giddy. You feel like a schoolgirl with a crush on the handsome senior. Slipping into the shadows where he waits. Letting him hold you, kiss you, touch you.
It doesn’t matter if you don’t know more than his name or what he does behind closed doors. You choose to share these special – albeit somewhat scandalous – moments with the mysterious gentleman in booth 505.
“My sweet girl,” he breathes against your lips. The wonderfully delicious nickname melting on your tongue. “Missed you.”
You want to remind him that it’s only been about two days, but you can’t. Because you missed him, too.
“And m’so sorry,” he says next, trailing his quick but fervent kisses down your neck. “So fucking sorry for being so bad. Never wanna scare you or make you anxious.”
A soft, delicate noise bleeds from your throat, and you cling to his much stronger frame as though you’re afraid you’ll simply disappear without him.
“Wanna make it up to you,” he whispers. “Will you let me, Cherry? Let me be good again?”
You nod, needing him to keep himself as close to you as he’ll allow. You want to settle him in your lungs, keep him snug inside in your chest. Against your heart.
And a large part of you just wants to keep him…always.
“Let me make it better,” he says, hands dropping to your hips in order to push you toward his car. Placing you against the door in order to trap you and deepen his kiss. “Let me be good, sweet girl. Be good for you.”
And he’s always good. Good to you, good for you. It doesn’t matter how he is with everybody else.
“Please?” he asks again, leaning back just far enough to catch your eye. “Will you let me?”
He wants your explicit consent. Wants you to say the words before he continues, and you appreciate this stricter habit.
“Yes,” you manage to answer, exhaling the word with the little strength you still possess. “Yes, please—”
He takes your hand before you can finish, guiding you over toward the backseat before swinging the door open and stepping aside.
“Lay down, baby,” he mumbles gently, pressing a kiss to the side of your head while guiding you in. “On your back, okay? Want you comfy.”
You do as instructed, dipping down into the vehicle before settling into the soft, leather seat. Flipping over until you can find a position you like.
Harry is quick to follow, landing between your thighs before pulling the door shut. You both maneuver until he can hover his body above yours, keeping you beneath him as he runs a palm up the side of your leg.
His warm hand feels good against your bare skin, the dress you’re required to wear as part of your waitressing uniform bunching just at the top of your knees from the new position. But it’s like ecstasy, heating up your goose bumped skin from the nippy air outside.
“How’s this, hm?” He squeezes your hip. “You all right, Cher?”
You rest your head against the door and nod, fingers already itching to reach for him again. “Yes, I’m okay.”
“Promise?”
“Mhm. Promise.”
The side of his mouth curls up, and it makes your stomach flutter. “Good girl. Gonna go slow, okay? Earn my forgiveness.”
He continues the lazy strokes to your thigh, falling all the way down to your ankle before going back up. It is slow, and it almost drives you mad. Because he knows what you want. And he knows just how badly you want it.
Things with Harry never go further than you. Something you’re almost tempted to find odd, but he’s a giver. That was made clear from the first time. He derives more pleasure out of your orgasms than he apparently does his own. He only ever wants to touch you, taste you, feel you. It’s never about him.
You often wonder if there’s a deeper reason for this. If he’s denying himself release on purpose or if he’s merely terrified of getting close. And occasionally you wonder if he simply just doesn’t want to fuck you, but something tells you that’s not the case.
Maybe one day you’ll be brave enough to ask.
Tonight, however, it seems he’s still determined to put the attention on you. Long fingers gently scratching at your leg until you shiver. It makes him grin.
“Can I see you, baby?” he asks softly, letting his eyes trail beneath the hem of your dress. “See how pretty you are?”
Again, you can only whine pitifully as you motion your head up and down quickly. Wanting to succumb to his strong touch. Only feeling grounded if he’s there to hold you.
“Thank you, sweet girl,” he breathes, using his scarred hands to push your outfit up a bit higher. Revealing your quivering stomach and the delicate pair of panties around your hips.
They’re nothing special. In fact, you imagine they’re rather embarrassing. A simple, tan fabric that does absolutely nothing to make your pussy look more desirable.
Perhaps it’s a little silly, but you like to look nice for him. On the nights you know he might be coming to see you (which has been every night you’ve worked since you met), you tend to pick prettier pairs.
Some with lace, some with little bows. Sweeter colors, sexier colors. Anything that might make him smile.
But you hadn’t anticipated seeing him tonight, and now, you almost want to shy away. Lashes fluttering as you look up toward the roof of his car.
But he doesn’t seem to notice. Nor does he seem to care about the color around your waist, his eyes growing wide as his attention glues to the mesmeric sight before him. Pink, bruised lips parting with wonder while he moves closer.
“Cherry,” he exhales, the feel of his breath sweeping against your bent knee, “missed you so much. Been forever, hm?”
You nod again, braving another glance just in time to see his hand lower. And then you feel him. Feel his thumb pressing gently into the front of your underwear, just above where your clit lies.
Your entire body seems to spark to life like the flicker of a flame. And you gasp, subtly bucking up into his touch in search of more. In search of him.
He smiles. “S’it feel good, honey?”
You let out a soft breath, chest nearly caving in as you whisper, “Harry…”
He looks up, eyes flicking to yours as that coy smirk grows. “What, baby? You okay?”
Of course you’re okay. He knows you’re okay, but you’ve noticed he likes to hear you say it. He likes to know he’s making it better for you. That he’s helping, that he’s doing good.
When you don’t answer, he returns to your pussy, fingers strumming up and down your covered cunt like he’s playing an instrument. Tuning your body to his needs.
“Can I touch you?” he asks now, dipping down to nudge his nose beneath your jaw. Pressing a soft kiss to your throat. “Wanna touch you…be good for you, Cher. Was so bad…just wanna make it better.”
He’s attempting to atone for what he did in the diner. To apologize, offer his remorse.
And even if you know he has nothing to apologize for, you can’t find it in you to deny him. Reaching up to tangle your fingers in his curls as you tug him closer. Kissing him fiercely.
He’s hard on himself. You know he is. You don’t know why. You don’t know what the cause is. But you can see the repercussions. They’re painted all over his body, and he wears them proudly.
He curses against your mouth, and you’re reminded then of his busted lip. Instantly pulling away while you mumble an apologetic, “I’m sorry. I forgot—”
“No,” he nearly groans, slipping his other hand around the back of your neck to keep you close. “No, it’s okay. I don’t mind, I promise. I like it.”
His kisses become hard again. Anxious, desperate, and rushed. As though he needs you in order to survive. His nose knocking into yours from the way he readjusts himself. Wanting to take you deeper, really taste you.
You’ve never been so happy in your life.
He only pulls away in order to slip your panties down your thighs, pushing them to your ankles until he can really see you.
His entire expression softens the moment his eyes find you. Filled with a certain kind of hope and indulgence as he gazes at you almost tenderly. Unable to resist reaching out and letting his finger brush down your folds.
You make another noise, but he doesn’t notice this one. Too content to be touching you. Feeling you. Spreading you open just to watch you drip.
“So fucking good to me,” he murmurs. “You know that, sweet girl? So perfect for me. Exactly what I need and far more than I deserve.”
You aren’t sure what he means, but the implication makes you frown. Pulling on his hair a bit harder while he moves to your clit and begins to press down.
The pressure of his thumb against the more sensitive nerves leaves you breathless. Squirming beneath him from the rush of pleasure that only serves in making you needier.
“Always so warm,” he muses quietly. Almost as if to himself. “So soft. So sweet. Can’t ever get enough of you.”
It makes your head spin the way he seems to adore you. The way he talks about your body as if he can’t believe he’s lucky enough to behold it. To feel it, to get to indulge in it. Worshiping you like you’re his religion.
He begins to rub your clit in slow, teasing circles. Kissing you once more in order to taste your whines and feed off your desperation. Wet noises fill the car. Not just from your pussy, but from his frantic kisses that echo between the foggy windows.
It makes you shiver, loving the way he nips at your bottom lip just to leave you restless. The way he whispers your nickname before moving to your neck, pulling your skin between his teeth and smoothing over the mark with his tongue.
He goes faster. Chasing after your whimpers and the way you arch your body into his. Loving how excitable you get from only a few flicks of his thumb across your sensitive clit.
Then, he slows down. Exhaling a heavy breath as if bracing himself to edge you. Like it hurts him more than it hurts you.
And you mewl pitifully as you cling to his broader frame and tug him down into your arms. “Harry—”
“I know,” he coos, and it’s gentle the way he speaks. Sympathetic almost. “I know, sweet girl. But m’not done with you yet. Just wanna keep you a little longer. Is that okay?”
You bury your face in his neck and make another noise. Something akin to his name that gets lost in the way he curses.
“It’s okay,” he tries again, allowing you to use his body like a lifeline. “I’ve got you, baby. All right? M’right here, I’ve got you.”
He proves this by resuming his sweet torture. Circling the nerves a time or two more before moving down. Smoothing through your folds and lowering toward the pooling of arousal that waits for him.
You hear him hum. “So precious. S’this all for me, then? Mine to play with? Mine to taste?”
You whine, “Yes, yes, yes,” as quickly as your mouth will permit, and he chuckles.
The tip of his finger dips inside, presumably to collect everything you have to offer him before he’s lifting it toward his lips.
And you settle back against the door to watch. Enchanted by the way he places you on his tongue and sucks. His lashes fluttering and cheeks flushing from the taste.
You don’t imagine you’ll ever get used to watching him do that. After all, you’ve never been particularly…unbothered by the idea of somebody tasting you. Not even with past partners. You get too caught up in your own head. Worried about the taste, the feel, the smell.
Truth be told, most of the men you’ve been with before were never interested in you. They wanted what you could give them. And then they wanted out.
By all accounts, Harry is nothing like anyone else you’ve ever known. Not just because of the mystery that follows his persona, but because of his endless attention to you. To what you need, what makes you feel good.
He devotes every second to making you feel like you’re God’s gift to Earth. A gift to him. Praising you for simply existing. Indulging in your taste as though you're the sweetest dessert he’s ever had.
Like now, while a deep moan reverberates from the depths of his chest. Filling the car and your ears like music, making your thighs clench around his hips.
“S’why I call you my sweet girl, you know that?” he murmurs, sucking on his fingers until you’re sure there’s nothing left. And even then some. “So fucking sweet for me. Can’t ever get enough. Gonna get me addicted, baby. Might already have.”
The moment he takes his hand back out, you’re lifting up, and pressing your mouth to his. And you don’t even care if you can taste yourself on his tongue because all you really taste is him.
But the mixture of him, and you, and the slight tang of blood from the busted fibers of his lip is euphoric. Strange but lovely in a way you hadn’t anticipated.
He seems to understand this despondency, growing a bit more frantic in his need to please. No longer focused on edging as he drops his fingers back to your cunt while his other hand moves for the buttons on your chest.
He pops them free one by one until your equally plain bra is revealed to him. But again, he doesn’t take notice of such things. Instead swallowing thickly at the sight of your breasts that swell behind the cups.
He kisses you again. And again, and again. Then he moves to your cheek and down your neck. Trailing his tongue toward your collarbone and along your sternum.
You feel restless. Waiting for something – for him. You already know how magical his touch is. You already know the kind of pleasure he provides, and it nearly drives you mad to simply sit in anticipation. Stuck on his time.
Eventually he reaches your chest, lips moving for the curve of your tit before he’s making another noise and sucking into the tender flesh. Nipping at it, pulling it between hungry teeth. Smoothing over the marks with the warmth of his mouth while you reel.
Your hands disappear back into his hair. Stroking the curls almost fondly, nails lightly scratching at his scalp.
He’s always seemed to enjoy this. Instructing that you pull on him as hard as you’d like. That you tug and scratch. That you use him to inflict your pain and your pleasure. That you think of him first and foremost.
Now is no different. He nuzzles himself further into your breasts while simultaneously sighing with contentment at the way your hand feels against his head. The way you keep him close to your heart.
You’d keep him forever if you could.
You hardly even notice the way his finger has slipped inside. The way it strokes your delicate walls that flutter from the intrusion, tensing before relaxing in order to allow him in.
“There,” he whispers, pleased with the way your body obeys him. “S’okay. Gonna make it better. I promise.”
And you know he will.
“So tight today, baby,” he says, leaving another kiss to the swell of your chest. Open-mouthed and messy. “Has it been that long?”
You don’t know. You can’t remember the last time he touched you, although you’re almost sure it hasn’t been more than a week. The two of you have become rather insatiable for each other. Chasing after a kind of release you only seem to find within the hands of the other.
Those beautiful green eyes flitter up to yours, studying you closely. Benevolently. “Have you not been taking care of yourself, sweet girl?”
You take a moment to consider what he means before you feel your cheeks warm. Offering him nothing more than a quick shake of your head.
He frowns, brows pulling together. “Why not, hm? Thought you promised you’d try for me. Help make things better when I’m not around.”
You shrug, growing a touch embarrassed. “I know, but…it’s not the same. Don’t like it.”
“Is that right?”
Another shake. “Get bored.”
“Bored,’ he repeats, and there’s a certain glint in his eye. But instead of disappointed, he seems empathetic. “Cause it’s not the same, yeah? Your fingers too small?”
Now you nod, making a noise of agreement.
He nods along with you, beginning to smirk. “Yeah,” he whispers. “Bet it’s just so frustrating, isn’t it? Trying to find all your sweet, little spots, but just not quite being able to reach?”
You cling to him as he stretches you a bit further. Doing everything you can’t do for yourself. Effortlessly curling his finger into that one spot until you begin to shake.
“Just like that, hm?” he mumbles, pressing another kiss to your collarbone. “S’that what you can’t find, baby? S’that what’s so achy?”
And it is. It’s so infuriatingly sore that it almost makes you cry. Wishing you could chase after that feeling until your heart gives out.
“I bet.” More kisses to your chest. “Don’t worry. I’m gonna fix it, okay? Make it all better again.”
“Please?” you whimper, nails scratching down his broad back. Attempting to pull him closer.
“Mhm.” He leans forward and brings his lips to yours now. His kiss quick but full of promise. “Always gonna take care of you.”
He begins to thrust the longer digit in and out. Slow enough to work you up but fast enough to leave you wanting more. Coaxing the muscles open before bringing a second finger into play.
The sounds of your wetness being pushed and pulled by his hand are sinful. Sending a chill down your spine and directly into your cunt.
You moan when you feel them, writhing a bit beneath his body until he has to press his leg into yours to keep you still.
“Shh, it’s okay,” he mumbles. Leaving another kiss below your jaw. “Know you can take it, baby. You always do. Don’t you?”
And even if that’s true, you aren’t opposed to the slight sting. Instead invigorated by it and the way he uses great care with you. Wanting to make sure you’re all right so he can please you the way he wants.
Yet somehow, it’s still not enough. Even with the way he curls, and pumps, and thrusts those beautiful digits into your pussy, you feel empty. Barely scratching the surface of that itch as he presses his chest to yours to calm you.
Your noises are becoming more pathetic. Your entire being heaving with the weight of promised pleasure in a way you can’t seem to understand.
His thumb presses into your clit every few minutes, attempting to guide you closer to your release, and it works. The combination making your stomach coil until you nearly see stars. Every cell in your body tightening.
“You close, Cherry?” His free hand moves for your face. Palm pressing into your jaw as the bandage on his knuckles sweeps across your cheek. “Hm? You gonna cum for me?”
And you are. You are, you are. You can almost taste it. Can feel it bubbling up from between your thighs, ready to unravel like the seams on your favorite sweater.
“Yes,” you gasp, arching from the leather seat. “Yes, please…please don’t stop. Please—”
“Won’t stop,” he promises in a soothing tone, lips ghosting atop yours. “Never stop, I promise. M’gonna be right here until you do, okay? Go ahead. I’ve got you.”
And this is all you need. It happens suddenly and yet far too slowly. Pulling you apart from the inside out.
You moan so loud, your chest shakes. Eyes rolling back and nails scratching down his spine as it hits you.
Instantly, he moves his hand from your jaw to your lips. Palm pressing hard against your mouth in order to silence you as he whispers, “Shh, baby. Gotta be quiet for me, okay? It’s okay, you’re all right. Just let go—"
And you do. Allow your body to deplete itself of all energy as he works you through every goddamn second. Dragging it out as far as it’ll go. Increasing the speed of his flicks and thrusts. Pumping your orgasm out of you until it sits in his waiting hand.
“Good,” he breathes before finally removing his hand in order to kiss you quickly. Fingers squeezing the back of your neck as he brings you closer. “So fucking good, there you go. S’okay. Keep going, come on.”
And it’s so good, so wonderful. You feel like you’re floating, high up into the clouds. You decide then that he must be an angel, carrying you in his wings and setting you on a sunset.
But you’re still squirming, seemingly discontented, and he notices far too easily. “You okay, Cher?”
“More,” you whisper faintly. “More…please…”
“More,” he echoes. “My sweet girl wants more. More what, hm? What do you need?”
“More,” is all you say. Once again wiggling your hips down as if to sink his fingers in further. “More, Harry, please.”
“Oh. You want another one. Is that it?”
You nod silently, too strung-out to think in coherent sentences.
He chuckles again, kissing your other cheek before pinching your chin. “All right. Give you as many as you want, baby.”
Feeling incredibly grateful, you allow your trembling limbs to fall slack. Once again settling beneath him as he works to get you to your second.
But even as he resumes the languid but practiced thrusts of his fingers, you feel unsatiated. Eager for something else, but you aren’t sure what.
He realizes before you do. “S’not enough, is it?” he coos. “Need something bigger, don’t you?”
That’s what it is, and you nod eagerly as your nails scratch down the sleeves of his hoodie.
“Think you can take something bigger? Think you can take another finger, baby?”
Another nod. Faster, more fervent. Eyes pleading with him to give you anything he has to offer.
He obliges this, glancing down before lining his fingers up, and slowly slipping all three inside.
This stretch is a bit more prominent. He’s deliberately gentle, never giving you more than he assumes you can handle.
And he watches you closely. Searching for any grimaces or winces of discomfort.
When he finds none, he seems relieved, kissing up from your chest to your throat once more. “Good girl. There you go.”
You begin to writhe a little more ardently until he has to bring his other hand to your knee in order to press it down into the seat. Keeping you spread and still until you settle.
“Easy,” he coos gently, placing some of his weight onto your thigh. “Gonna have to be good, baby, and relax for me. Let me make you feel good, okay?”
You want to obey. You do, really. But the overstimulation and sensitivity from your first orgasm is almost too much. Making you choke on the heated air until you can hardly breathe.
“Like it when I take care of you, don’t you?” he asks you now. Licking a stripe along your jaw. “Like it when I steal you away from them?”
He’s right, you do. Perhaps you shouldn’t, but there’s something about the way he makes you feel as though you deserve more than this. As though you’re meant for more than the diner. He makes you feel invincible.
“Maybe one day I’ll take you away,” he decides. “Fucking take you from them and make you mine. Forever. For always.”
And you decide you like the sound of that.
Another moment of his strenuous torture passes before he leans back to watch. And you notice something in his face. Utter fascination and lust over the way your body bends to his will. Over the way it stretches around his fingers, the way he pulls it open.
He releases a deep, coarse groan through clenched teeth. Fixated on the way his fingers disappear into your pussy. “Taking me so well, baby. Know you’d take my cock, too, wouldn’t you?”
You whimper miserably, undone by the thought. You can’t deny that you’ve wondered what he’d feel like. All of him, stretching you open. Fucking into you while leaving you a panting mess.
You often imagine what he’s like in bed. In an actual bed and not in the backseat of his car or yours. What he might be like when he’s truly lost himself to the pleasure. Guiding his hips to yours, bending you into a hundred and one positions meant just for his indulgence.
You wonder if he’d be just as careful as he is now. Just as devoted to you. If he’d be hard and fast or soft and slow. If he has dirty kinks, secret fantasies. If he likes the lights on or off. If he likes the bed or if he likes it up against the wall.
You hope one day you get to find out.
“Think you would, yeah?” he continues, sliding his digits all the way to the knuckle. The fibers of the gauze brushing against your clit. “Know you would. Be so good for me. This sweet little pussy would treat me so well, wouldn’t it?”
You nod quickly, pouting at him anxiously.
“I know,” he tuts, finally leaning back over to kiss you again. “Know you’d be such a good girl for me. Let me work you open until you could fit me…let me stretch you just right.”
You reach out for his wrist in search of something to squeeze, and it makes him chuckle. Teeth sinking into your bottom lip until you moan.
“Might take a while,” he muses. “Might take hours. Days. I’ll have to just keep you in my bed until you can fit me, hm?”
He attempts to pull away, but you chase after him. Looping an arm around his neck in order to yank him back to you.
His smirk feels good against your lips. “M’not going anywhere, sweet girl. Just like to watch you. Bet it’d be fun to watch you take my cock, wouldn’t it? Watch it sink right into this tight little hole.”
He’s evil. Absolutely sadistic and it makes you groan against his tongue until he has to soothe you.
“I know, baby. One day,” he breathes. “I promise. M’gonna take you away and do it right. Make it worth it.”
The thrusting of his fingers becomes more poignant. Enough to drive a plethora of desperate moans from your chest as he nuzzles his nose below your jaw and simply breathes.
“Gonna worship you. Give you everything you deserve.” He sucks in a quiet inhale before dancing his lips along your throat. “Have you sit on my face until I can’t breathe.”
The image has your eyes rolling back. Even if you aren’t sure you’d ever feel comfortable doing so, you’re enamored by the idea. Of the thought of him holding onto your thighs, pressing you down to his mouth. Completely controlling you.
“Can never breathe when I’m with you, anyway,” he whispers, and you almost don’t catch it. You wonder if you were meant to. “M’gonna do it right, sweet girl. I promise.”
And this is the vow that pulls you through to the other side. Large digits curling up into that one spot that makes your legs shake and you’re falling apart for the second time.
But he still doesn’t stop. Stroking, pressing, pumping even after the tears have begun to slip from your eye.
“Keep going, there you go. Does it feel good? Feel so good, cumming all over my hand?”
And it does, but you can’t exactly answer. Can’t seem to do anything but cry out as you ride the wave and his fingers as though your life depends on it.
“Doing so good,” he murmurs gently, raising up to kiss you once more. Swallowing your pitiful mewling. “So fucking good, baby. M’so proud of you. Took me so well. So beautiful when you cum, Cherry, you know that? Could watch you forever.”
The sentiment makes your entire body grow warm. You’ve always wondered what you might look like when you orgasm, and truth be told, you imagine it’s not very pretty.
But to hear him say it now – so earnestly – makes your stomach wrench. Nails curling into the seat below as you lift off the leather and knock your chest into his.
He holds you as tight as he can before slowly pulling his fingers out. Relieving you from the overstimulation before putting you back in his mouth. Sucking until a string of saliva drips down his into the gauze on his knuckles. Painting it a much prettier picture than the red has.
After swelling every drop of you with a lewd groan, he finally pulls his hand out, and takes you into his arms. Kissing you through the remnants of the blissful rush.
“So good,” he says again, face burying back into your neck while stroking your thigh with his soaked fingers. “Always make me so proud.”
Your limbs tangle with his as you both slouch into the backseat. Allowing your heart beats to synchronize into one, steady rhythm.
And once they have, you begin to grin. “Harry?”
“Mm?”
“Thank you.”
He exhales a soft laugh before leaning back onto his knees to get a good look at you. “What for, sweet girl?”
“Just for…this, I suppose,” you mumble shyly. “For all of it. Tonight. Standing up for me and…you know, this part.”
His chuckle becomes a bit more smug. “Are you thanking me for making you cum?”
“I’m…trying. I think.”
“Hm.” His grin is playful and so damn charming as he dips back down to hover his lips near yours. “Don’t have to thank me, Cherry. Believe me. It’s my pleasure.”
His teasing remark makes you giggle, and you kiss him hard before he has the chance to leave you again.
You kiss for a while. A long while. Until you can hardly breathe, your muscles beginning to ache and your eyelids beginning to grow heavy from the lack of sleep in this early morning hour.
It’s not until you actually yawn that Harry finally remembers to pull himself away and reach for the panties around your ankles. “Shit, it’s late, isn’t it? Know I’ve kept you longer than I should have.”
With a quick shake of your head, you push up onto your elbows. “No. I’m fine, I promise. Just…cumming makes me sleepy, I guess. And you’re so warm. It’s nice.”
This makes him smile again, and that dimple of his makes your heart ache. “You know I’d keep you in this car until the sun came up if I could.”
“I know.” Your fingers outstretch for his hoodie, tangling into the material on his stomach while he guides your underwear back up around your hips. “Maybe one day, yeah?”
His expression softens, and you almost swear you see a flash of sadness behind that sage green. “Yeah. Maybe.”
It’s quiet as you rebutton your dress and pull the hem back down. And even quieter as Harry opens the door and slips out of the car, extending his hand toward you in order to help you out as well.
But once you’ve straightened up and turned to face him, you see that something has changed. A look of longing that hadn’t been there before etched between those scarred features.
His thumb brushes just beneath your eye and then down to your lips. Tracing the lines and dips before he sighs and cradles your cheek in his palm. “Are you gonna be all right?”
You place your hand over his and squeeze. “Are you?”
Another deep breath. Heavier and more forlorn. “You know I’ll try.”
“Promise?”
His forehead meets yours, and you both still. “I promise.”
And you choose to believe him.
You say goodbye, and regretfully let him go. Shaky legs carrying you back to your car as his eyes follow you all the way. Making sure you get there safely before you take off down the road and leave him behind.
A few nights later, you’re back for your next shift. And truth be told, you’re almost excited. Because having to go so long without him feels like a form of punishment. Like your days aren’t nearly as bright without him. And neither are your nights.
You can’t help but count the seconds as you go about your evening. Unable to distract yourself with the pastries no matter how hard you try. Thoughts drifting back to those chocolate curls and that devilish smile.
When midnight strikes, you feel relieved. Releasing a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding as you grab your notepad and slip out of the kitchen. Ready to greet him in his favorite booth.
But the moment you slip past the door, you find that the diner is empty. Not a single customer to greet you as you scan the floor in search of that familiar face. Even a glimpse of his shoes or the sound of his voice.
But the booth is empty, the diner is quiet, and it’s 12:06.
Your stranger isn’t here.
I know not too much has happened yet but we are building up to tons more smut and plot and angst and fluff, I swear!! 😭💞
Ok I'm the most useless Instagram user,I'm aware . Most of y'all have tried to help me send links from Twitter and make videos and I'm just hopeless 😩. My links never work and the apps people recommend to me are always mysteriously missing from the App Store. I should not be allowed to have a phone 😤🙄 anyhoo... 🎶doo daa doo 🎶 #feelingstupid #ashamed #harrystyles #happyanyway #laughingatmyself #onedirection #sillygirl #dontworrybehappy
i can’t stop of thinking of how important snl is and has been to pop culture for decades as a source of satire and social commentary–and especially now, it’s relevant again thanks to this political fuck mess and ratings are way, way up–and how going live across the country for the first time in like 42 seasons is a big fucking deal for them. jimmy fallon’s coming back, other snl alums might make cameos, they’re probably testing to see if it should be a permanent change (it should lmao), and it’s going to be discussed extensively in the media. there are a ton of articles about it already.
and JUST. harry is going to go out there and give (possibly) his first live performance at their first live show? this is a Moment in television history, and he’s going to be a part of it. they wanted him for that. i’m so proud of him i don’t even know how to contain it?? he’s going to be amazing.
Completely random but I got a super sweet new coffee pot . I LOVE it but apparently I'm not to be trusted alone with it 😳😆#coffeetime #coffeeobsessed #ilovecoffee #coffeeislove #coffeeislife
Go follow @thenocontrolseries and read the series on Wattpad! No Control is book 1 and It's so amazing!! Anyone who loves 1D will be in love these books!! Find the author @scooby-snacks
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