In which Harry keeps the announcement of his fourth album a total secret from his biggest (and very pouty) fan
Warnings: Age gap, established relationship, light D/s dynamics, implied smut (fade-to-black), teasing/possessiveness, mild language.
It’s one of those lazy January Saturdays where the world outside feels distant and unimportant, especially when you’re curled up in the massive bed that dominates the master bedroom of Harry’s London house, surrounded by a nest of blankets, pillows, and his oversized hoodie that smells just like him. You’ve been bed rotting for hours, phone in hand, mindlessly scrolling through TikTok edits and Instagram reels, legs tangled in the sheets, hair a mess, content in your little cocoon.
Harry’s somewhere downstairs, you heard him clattering around in the kitchen earlier humming something under his breath, probably making one of those green juices he pretends you both love. You haven’t bothered getting up yet. Why would you? It’s perfect here.
Your thumb flicks past another One Direction 2016 throwback edit (god, the nostalgia hits different now that you’re actually with one of them) and then... your feed refreshes.
The top post is from Harry’s official Instagram.
Your heart stops for a solid second.
The carousel image loads: Harry standing in a dark field at night, T-shirt and jeans, head tilted down under a giant shimmering disco ball hanging from… nothing? The caption reads:
Kiss All The Time. Disco, Occasionally.
Your brain short circuits.
You sit bolt upright, blankets pooling around your waist. “No. Fucking. Way.”
The scream rips out of you before you can stop it. You scramble out of bed so fast you nearly trip over the edge of the duvet, phone clutched like a lifeline, bare feet slapping against the hardwood as you sprint down the hallway.
He’s in the living room now, stretched out on the sofa in nothing but low slung grey joggers and a faded black tee, one arm behind his head, scrolling on his own phone like the announcement didn’t just detonate your entire timeline. He looks up when you burst in, eyes crinkling with immediate amusement.
You skid to a stop in front of him, chest heaving, eyes wide. “What the fuck?!”
He gasps dramatically “Language, baby.”
You ignore him, waving your phone in his face. “You- you- announced the album and didn’t tell me? Kiss All The Time? Disco Occasionally? March 6th? Are you kidding me right now?”
Harry bites the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing outright, but his dimples betray him. He sets his phone aside and pats the cushion next to him. “C’mere.”
You don’t move. You’re too busy vibrating with excitement and betrayal. “You let me listen to half the tracks in the studio like three months ago! You said- and I quote- ‘These are yours, lovie. Just… don’t go spreading the titles around yet.’ And then you drop this without a single heads up? I had to find out from my for you page like some basic fan!”
He chuckles, the sound that always makes your knees weak. “You are a fan, aren’t you?”
You stomp your foot (actually stomp it) like a toddler who’s been told no sweets before dinner. “That’s not the point! The point is you kept this from me! On purpose!”
He raises an eyebrow trying to be serious.
“Oh you fucking asshole” you huff.
Harry’s expression shifts, that casual dominance you love (and sometimes hate) sliding into place. He tilts his head, voice dropping an octave. “Hey. Behave.”
The word hits like a velvet command. Your stomping stops instantly, but your lower lip juts out in a pout that’s pure instinct. You cross your arms, trying to look indignant, but it’s useless, he knows exactly what that pout does to him.
“Come here,” he repeats, softer this time, but no less firm.
You shuffle forward, sulky little steps, until you’re standing between his spread knees. He reaches up, fingers curling around your wrist, tugging you down until you’re straddling his lap. Your oversized hoodie rides up your thighs; his hands immediately settle on your hips, thumbs rubbing slow circles over the bare skin.
“There she is,” he murmurs, brushing his nose against yours. “My dramatic little bunny.”
You huff, but you’re already melting, arms looping around his neck. “You should’ve told me. I would’ve… I don’t know. Screamed in private or something.”
He laughs quietly, the vibration rumbling through your chest. “Wanted to see your face when you found out. Worth it.”
You bury your face in his neck, inhaling him, pressing tiny kisses along his jaw. “You’re the worst. The actual worst boyfriend ever.”
“Liar.” His hand slides up your back, under the hoodie, palm warm against your spine. “You love it.”
You pull back just enough to look at him, eyes sparkling. “When’s the single dropping? Tell me. Please?”
He smirks, that infuriatingly sexy half-smile. “Not yet.”
“What?” He feigns innocence, batting his lashes dramatically. “Patience, honey.”
You whine, dropping your forehead to his shoulder, fists lightly pounding his chest. “You’re so annoying. At least tell me which song it’ll be! Is it one I know? The one with the guitar riff that made me cry? Or the one i said should be an opener? Come onnnn.”
He catches your wrists easily, pinning them behind your back with one hand. The move is casual, effortless, but it sends heat pooling low in your belly. His other hand cups your jaw, tilting your face up so you’re forced to meet his eyes.
“Keep stomping those pretty little feet at me,” he says quietly, “and I’ll make you wait even longer.”
Your breath hitches. “That’s mean.”
“Mm. Maybe.” He leans in, lips brushing yours—just a tease. “But you like when I’m mean, don’t you, baby?”
You nod before you can stop yourself, cheeks flushing.
You pull back just enough to look at him, eyes shining. “Can I at least know if the disco thing is literal? Like, are we getting full on disco tracks?”
Harry’s lips quirk. “Disco occasionally.”
You groan dramatically, dropping your head to his shoulder again. “You’re the worst tease in the world.”
He kisses you then, slow, deep, claiming. When he pulls back, you’re dazed, lips swollen, heart hammering.
“Shut up,” he whispers against your mouth. “Be sweet and maybe I’ll give you a hint later.”
You pout again, but it’s softer now, more playful. “Fine. But only because you’re hot when you’re bossy.”
He laughs, releasing your wrists so he can wrap both arms around you, pulling you flush against him. You burrow in, cheek pressed to his chest, listening to the steady thump of his heart.
“I still can’t believe it’s real,” you mumble after a minute. “The album. Your album. And it’s… it’s so good, H. I knew it was about us, about me,” you cut off the serious talk to flip your hair jokingly. “but hearing it announced like that? It’s wild.”
He strokes your hair, fingers gentle now. “You helped make it, y’know. Every late night ramble, every time you cried on my shoulder, every stupid inside joke. It’s all in there. My perfect muse.”
You sniffle, suddenly emotional. “Shut up- I love you.”
“Love you more, bunny.” He presses a kiss to the top of your head. “Now, stop pouting and come help me make dinner. Or are you gonna keep bed rotting all day?” (He learned that word from you).
You groan dramatically but don’t move. “It’s cooold... Ten more minutes.”
He squeezes your waist. “Five. Then you’re mine.”
You smile into his neck. “Always am.”
The rest of the afternoon slips by in easy domesticity. Harry finally coaxes you off the couch, the two of you moving around the kitchen like you’ve done a hundred times. He chops vegetables while you perch on the counter, swinging your legs, stealing bites of whatever he’s cooking. Every so often, you sneak glances at your phone, watching the fan reactions pour in, screaming, crying, theorizing tracklists. It feels surreal that you’re part of the secret now, that the songs you once heard in a dimly lit studio are about to belong to the world.
But the best part? The best part is him. Harry, barefoot and humming, occasionally reaching over to tuck your hair behind your ear or drop a kiss on your shoulder. The casual way he commands your attention without even trying. The way he knows exactly how to wind you up and calm you down in the same breath.
Later, when the sun has set and the house is quiet, he pulls you back into bed. You’re both showered, skin warm, tangled together under the covers. His hand rests possessively on your thigh, thumb tracing lazy patterns.
“Still mad I didn’t tell you?” he asks, voice low in the dark.
You shake your head, nuzzling closer. “Nah. It was kinda fun. Like being a secret fan again.”
He chuckles. “My favorite fan.”
Then, softly: “The lead single’s the one you called the sexy sad bop.”
Your eyes fly open. “Wait- really?”
You squeal, throwing your arms around him. “I knew it! Oh my god, Harry-”
He silences you with a kiss, deep and unhurried. When he pulls back, his voice is rough. “Be good, yeah? No more stomping.”
You bite your lip, nodding. “Yes, sir.”
Harry keeps patient for the next twenty minutes. He’s lying on his side facing you, head propped on one hand, the other resting possessively on your bare thigh under the covers. He’s been watching you more than his own phone, eyes soft but increasingly amused at how wound up you still are.
You laugh out loud at something and tilt the screen toward him. “Look at this one! They’re already calling it the disco bunny era. That’s me. I’m the bunny.”
He hums, lips twitching. “You are.”
You swipe again, muttering, “God, the comments are feral. Someone sai-.”
Without warning, his hand shoots out, quick and casual like he’s reaching for the remote, and snatches your phone right out of your grip. Your mouth drops open in genuine shock.
He holds it high above his head, well out of your reach even when you lunge for it. “That’s enough screen time.”
You freeze mid reach, eyes wide. “You—did you just—”
“Yep.” He tosses the phone onto the armchair across the room with perfect aim. It lands softly on the pile of clothes there. “We’re celebrating. Privately.”
Your brain short circuits for a second. You’re still half raised on your elbows, lips parted in that perfect little 😮 expression he loves so much, equal parts scandalized and delighted.
“Privately,” you repeat slowly, like you’re testing the word.
“Mhm.” He rolls onto his back, dragging you with him so you end up sprawled across his chest. His arms lock around your waist, keeping you pinned. “No more TikTok. No more theories. Just you. Me. This bed. And whatever filthy little thoughts that announcement put in your head.”
You blink down at him, cheeks already heating. “I was just… supporting my boyfriend. Being a good fan.”
“You’re being a brat who’s been glued to a screen for three hours.” His voice dips, that low velvety tone he uses when he’s done playing. “And I want my girl’s full attention now.”
You bite your lip, trying (and failing) to hide the shiver that runs through you. “Fine. You win. Phone’s gone.”
“Good.” He brushes a strand of hair off your face, thumb lingering on your cheek. “Now how are you?”
You hesitate for half a second, then decide fuck it. You sit up a little, straddling his hips, hands planted on his chest.
“Okay, so…” You take a breath, suddenly shy despite everything. “Do you still have the shirt from the album cover? The sheer one?”
Harry’s brows lift, intrigued. “Why?”
You shrug, trying to play it cool even though your heart is hammering. “Just… wondering.”
He studies you for a long moment, then smirks like he already knows exactly where this is going. “It’s with Harry Lambert. Why? You want it?”
Your eyes light up before you can stop them. “Yes. I mean- maybe. Okay, yes. I really want it.”
He chuckles, low and warm. “It’s just a shirt, baby. Calm down.”
“It’s not just a shirt,” you insist, leaning down so your noses almost touch. “It’s the shirt. The one you wore for the announcement pic. All sheer and cool and you looked so-” You break off, cheeks burning. “I kept staring at it on my phone. Like, embarrassingly long.”
His hands slide up your thighs, squeezing gently. “Did you now?”
You nod, words tumbling out faster now. “It would look so good on me. Like, imagine it with a cute little bra underneath– black lace or maybe the red one you like to match the writing- and my low rise jeans. The ones that sit right here.” You drag his hand to your hipbones, pressing his palm flat against the sensitive skin just above the waistband of your sleep shorts. “You’d see the bra through the sheer fabric and the jeans would be… low. Like, really low. And I’d wear those chunky boots you hate because they–”
“I don’t hate them,” he interrupts
You grin. “Anyway. Picture it. Me in your shirt, basically see through, tits on display, jeans barely hanging on my hips, hair messy from you pulling it… I’d look so slutty and so cool at the same time.”
Harry’s pupils blow wide. His grip on your hips tightens hard enough to leave marks. “Jesus, bunny.”
“What?” you ask innocently, batting your lashes. “You don’t like the visual?”
“I like it too much,” he growls. In one smooth motion he flips you onto your back, caging you under him. His forearms bracket your head. “You’ve been thinking about this since the announcement dropped, haven’t you?”
“Maybe,” you breathe, arching up just enough to brush against him.
He lowers his head, lips grazing the shell of your ear. “You want to wear my clothes. Parade around in them. Let everyone see you marked as mine without saying a word.”
His mouth trails down your neck, slow and deliberate. “And you want me to see it too. Want me to look at you in that shirt, my shirt, and know exactly what you’re doing to me.”
“Uh-huh.” Your fingers dig into his shoulders. “Please, H. Ask Lambert for it back. Or steal it. I don’t care. I need it.”
He laughs against your skin, fond. “Needy little thing tonight.”
He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes. “If I get it for you,” he says slowly, “I want you in just the shirt and panties. And you let me take pictures. For my eyes only.”
Your breath catches. “Deal.”
“Good girl.” He kisses you hard, claiming, hungry, then breaks away to murmur against your lips, “But tonight? No clothes. Just you. Naked. Under me. Celebrating properly.”
You melt, already reaching for the hem of your hoodie to yank it off. “Yes, please.”
He helps you strip it away, tossing it somewhere across the room to join your abandoned phone. His hands are everywhere, mapping every inch of skin like he’s committing it to memory all over again.
Later (much later) when you’re both boneless and breathless, tangled in the sheets with his arm slung heavy across your waist, you murmur into the dark, “You’re really not gonna tell me the single date?”
He huffs a laugh against your shoulder. “Not yet.”
You whine softly, but there’s no real heat behind it anymore. “Mean.”
“Mm. But you love it.” He presses a lazy kiss to your temple. “And tomorrow, maybe, I’ll text Lambert about that shirt.”
You squeal quietly, turning to bury your face in his neck. “Best boyfriend ever.”
“Damn right.” His voice is sleepy, satisfied. “Now sleep, sweetheart. Big week ahead.”
You hum in agreement, already drifting, safe and warm and stupidly in love.
The album might belong to the world soon, but this, this quiet filthy perfect moment, is yours alone.
