Summary: The tension between you and Professor Styles only grows after that fateful night. When an impromptu ride turns into a shared evening at his apartment, boundaries blur even further. As secrets deepen and stakes rise, you’re left wondering if you can balance your academic future with the dangerous allure of a forbidden connection.
A/N: Back with part 2 of Office Hours! Thank you so much for the love on the first part; your comments and feedback mean the world to me. This chapter delves deeper into their dynamic, with more intensity and higher stakes. Let me know what you think, and whether you want a part 3! If you want to be on the taglist: click here!
Word Count: 5,1k
Warnings: Smut (oral sex, rough sex, unprotected sex, little degradation, little breeding kink, praise kink), forbidden romance, power dynamic, fluff.
Part 1
☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆
The night air is crisp as you step out of the university building, pulling your jacket tighter around you. The glow of the streetlights casts long shadows across the nearly empty campus, and the faint sound of leaves rustling in the breeze fills the silence. You’ve barely taken a few steps when you hear his voice behind you.
“Ms. Y/L/N.”
You pause, turning to find Harry leaning casually against the side of his black Range Rover, his arms crossed over his chest. The sight of him—his curls slightly tousled, the sleeves of his sweater pushed up just enough to reveal his tattoos—makes your stomach flip. He straightens, his hands sliding into his pockets as he walks toward you.
“It’s late,” he says, his tone firm but not unkind. “You shouldn’t be walking home alone.”
You offer a small smile, trying to brush off his concern. “I’ll be fine. It’s not far.”
He shakes his head, his gaze steady. “Humor me. Let me give you a ride.”
You hesitate, weighing your options. The rational part of you knows he’s right—it’s late, and the streets are quiet. But there’s another part of you that’s acutely aware of how dangerous it feels to be alone with him again, the pull between you still fresh and raw.
“Okay,” you finally say, your voice barely above a whisper.
He opens the passenger door for you, waiting until you’re settled before closing it gently and walking around to the driver’s side. The car is warm, the faint scent of leather and his cologne enveloping you as he starts the engine. For a few moments, neither of you speak, the silence filled only by the soft hum of the car as he pulls out of the parking lot.
“You didn’t have to do this,” you say finally, your fingers fidgeting with the strap of your bag.
“I wanted to,” he replies simply, his eyes on the road. “I’d hate for something to happen to you because I let you walk home alone.”
His concern warms you in a way you’re not entirely prepared for. “Thank you,” you say softly, glancing at him out of the corner of your eye.
He nods, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Where do you live?”
You give him your address, and he repeats it under his breath as if committing it to memory. The silence that follows is comfortable, but you can feel the tension simmering just beneath the surface, the weight of what happened earlier still lingering between you.
“You could come home with me,” he says suddenly, his voice low but clear. The words hang in the air, heavy with implication. “If you wanted to.”
Your breath catches, and you turn to look at him, your heart pounding in your chest. “I… I have an essay due at midnight,” you say, your voice trembling slightly. “And my roommate might get suspicious.”
Harry’s lips quirk into a small smirk, but his eyes remain serious. “Fair enough,” he says, though there’s a hint of disappointment in his tone. “But the offer stands.”
You nod, your fingers tightening around your bag as the car turns onto your street. He pulls up to your building, shifting into park but leaving the engine running. For a moment, he says nothing, his gaze fixed on the steering wheel as if he’s weighing his next words carefully.
“We need to be careful,” he says finally, his voice quiet but firm. “I don’t want this to… complicate things for you. Or for me.”
You nod, understanding the unspoken implications. “I know. I’ll be careful too.”
His eyes meet yours, and for a moment, the tension between you feels almost unbearable. Then, as if deciding something, he reaches into the center console and pulls out his phone, handing it to you. “Give me your number.”
Your hands tremble slightly as you take the phone, quickly typing in your details. When you hand it back, his thumb hovers over the screen for a moment before he looks at you again.
“Text me when you’re inside,” he says, his tone leaving no room for argument.
You nod, fumbling with the door handle as you step out into the cool night air. The sound of the door closing feels final, and you glance back at the car. He’s watching you, his gaze steady but unreadable. You force yourself to turn and walk toward your building, the weight of his eyes on you every step of the way.
Once inside, you lean against the closed door, your heart still racing. You pull out your phone, your fingers trembling slightly as you type a quick message:
I’m home. Thank you for the ride.
The reply comes almost immediately, the soft buzz of your phone making you jump. When you open the message, your breath catches.
I should be thanking you, love. Couldn’t stop thinking about earlier. You made it impossible to focus.
Your cheeks heat as you read his words, and you bite your lip, your fingers hovering over the keyboard as you debate your response. Finally, you type:
I’m glad I’m not the only one. You were all I could think about.
The three dots indicating his reply appear almost immediately.
I can still feel you on my lips. Your taste is addictive.
Your breath hitches, your heart pounding as you stare at the screen. You’re not sure how to respond, but before you can overthink it, another message comes through:
If you’re not too busy with that essay, maybe you can help me get you out of my system.
Your fingers tremble as you type back:
I think you’re underestimating how deeply you’ve gotten under my skin.
His reply is immediate:
Careful, love. I might have to prove just how deeply I want you.
The glow of your laptop screen illuminates your face as you sit at your desk, fingers flying over the keyboard. The clock on the corner of the screen reads 08:34 p.m., and your essay is still far from finished. The quiet of your apartment is broken only by the occasional creak of the floorboards and the faint hum of the radiator.
Until it isn’t.
From the other side of the wall, you hear it—the unmistakable sounds of your roommate, Olivia, and her boyfriend, Jake. Their laughter starts soft but quickly escalates into something much more intimate, the rhythmic thudding of the bed against the wall making you groan in frustration.
You press your palms to your temples, trying to block out the noise, but it’s no use. Every sound seems amplified, from Olivia’s breathy moans to Jake’s low groans. You slam your laptop shut, leaning back in your chair with a huff.
Your phone buzzes on the desk, and you glance at it, half-hoping it’s Harry. But the screen is blank. You chew your lip, debating your next move. Finally, you open the chat and type:
Are you still awake?
The response comes almost instantly.
Always. What’s wrong, love?
You hesitate, your fingers hovering over the keyboard before you finally type:
Would you still be willing to pick me up? Olivia and Jake… are busy. But I need to finish this essay.
This time, his reply takes a little longer. When it comes, your heart skips a beat.
Say the word, and I’ll be there in ten.
Your lips curve into a small smile as you type back:
I’ll be outside in ten. Thank you.
You grab your bag and laptop, pulling on your jacket as you glance in the mirror. Your reflection betrays the nervous excitement bubbling beneath the surface, your cheeks slightly flushed.
--
The black Range Rover pulls up to the curb just as you step outside, the cool night air nipping at your skin. Harry leans over to push the passenger door open, his gaze locking onto yours. There’s a softness in his eyes, but something darker lingers beneath it, an unspoken tension that makes your pulse race.
“Trouble concentrating?” he asks, his voice low and smooth as you slide into the seat.
You let out a small laugh, shaking your head. “You could say that.”
He arches a brow, his lips twitching into a smirk. “I take it Olivia and Jake weren’t exactly… quiet?”
“Not even a little,” you admit, your cheeks heating. “Thank you for coming to get me. I wasn’t sure how much more I could take.”
“Always happy to help,” he replies, his tone casual but his eyes lingering on you a beat too long. He gestures to the bag sitting on the console. “I picked up Thai. Thought you might be hungry.”
Your stomach growls at the mention of food, and you glance at the bag with a sheepish smile. “You’re a lifesaver.”
Harry chuckles, the sound low and warm as he shifts the car into drive. “We’ll see if you still think that by the end of the night.”
The air between you feels charged, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife. The soft glow of the dashboard lights casts shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw and the faint stubble dusting his cheeks. You’re hyperaware of every movement he makes, the way his fingers grip the steering wheel, the way his lips part slightly when he concentrates.
“You don’t have to babysit me, you know,” you say, breaking the silence. “I could’ve figured something out.”
“I wanted to,” he says simply, his eyes flicking to yours briefly before returning to the road. “Besides, you’re better off working somewhere quiet. I’m assuming my place fits the bill?”
You nod, your fingers playing with the strap of your bag. “It does. Thank you.”
When you pull up to his building, Harry parks in the underground garage, the quiet hum of the engine cutting off as he turns to you.
“Ready?” he asks, his gaze lingering on your face.
You nod, swallowing hard as you follow him to the elevator. The ride up is silent, but the tension between you crackles, every glance and subtle movement amplified in the confined space. When the doors slide open, Harry leads you down the hall to his apartment, unlocking the door with a quiet click.
The space is just as you imagined it—sleek, modern, and impeccably tidy. The scent of leather and faint cologne lingers in the air, grounding you as you set your things on the kitchen island. Harry places the bag of takeout on the counter, pulling out containers and utensils.
“You get started on that essay,” he says, his tone light but firm. “I’ll take care of this.”
You glance at him, your heart pounding as you pull your laptop from your bag. The way he moves, so calm and confident, makes it impossible to focus on anything else. You settle onto one of the stools, your fingers hovering over the keyboard as you try to drown out the thoughts swirling in your mind.
But Harry’s presence is impossible to ignore. Every glance, every movement, every small sound he makes draws your attention like a magnet. And from the way his eyes flick to you when he thinks you’re not looking, you know he feels it too.
The smell of Thai food fills the kitchen as Harry opens the containers, the aroma making your stomach rumble. He sets out the dishes with the kind of casual precision that makes you think he’s done this countless times, and it’s strangely comforting. You sit across from him at the island, your laptop to one side, the essay still untouched as you dig into your food.
“This is incredible,” you say after a few bites, glancing up at him.
He smirks, spearing a piece of chicken with his fork. “Best Thai place in the city. I wasn’t about to let you settle for instant noodles.”
You laugh softly, shaking your head. “You’ve thought of everything.”
His gaze lingers on you for a moment, the playful glint in his eyes replaced by something deeper. “I try.”
The conversation flows easily as you eat, the tension from earlier softening but still humming beneath the surface. Harry asks about your essay, and before you know it, he’s pulling your laptop closer, scrolling through your notes and offering suggestions. His feedback is sharp and insightful, his tone encouraging without being overbearing.
“You’re on the right track,” he says, leaning back and crossing his arms. “Just tighten up your argument in the third paragraph. Make it more concise.”
You nod, scribbling down his suggestions in your notebook. “Thank you. This helps a lot.”
His lips curve into a small smile. “Anytime.”
As the night wears on, the clock ticking closer to midnight, Harry clears the table and washes up. The sound of running water and clinking dishes fills the quiet space, and you find yourself stealing glances at him, your pulse quickening every time he catches you.
“I’m going to shower,” he says once the kitchen is spotless, his tone casual. “Feel free to make yourself comfortable.”
You nod, watching as he disappears down the hall. A few moments later, you hear the sound of water running, the faint hiss of the shower echoing through the apartment. You try to focus on your essay, but your mind keeps drifting, the image of him under the spray of water refusing to leave your thoughts.
Before you can second-guess yourself, you stand, your heart pounding as you follow the sound of the shower. The bathroom door is slightly ajar, steam curling out into the hallway. You push it open slowly, the sight before you stealing your breath.
Harry stands under the stream of water, his back to you, his muscles taut and glistening. His head is tilted back, the droplets running down his neck and shoulders, tracing the inked lines of his tattoos. He doesn’t notice you at first, too caught up in the rhythm of the water and the stillness of the moment.
When he finally turns, his eyes widen slightly, surprise flickering across his face before it softens into something warmer. “Couldn’t stay away, could you?”
You step inside, the heat from the steam enveloping you as you close the door behind you. “I thought you might need some company,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper.
He chuckles, low and rough, the sound sending a shiver down your spine. “Come here,” he says, his voice soft but commanding.
You slip off your clothes, your movements slow and deliberate as his eyes rake over you. The intensity of his gaze makes your skin prickle, every nerve ending alight as you step under the spray. The water is warm, cascading over your shoulders as he reaches for you, his hands settling on your waist.
Harry’s eyes darken as he pulls you closer under the spray of the shower, his hands gripping your waist firmly. The water cascades over you both, the steam curling around your bodies as the tension between you ignites once more. His lips find yours in a searing kiss, his tongue claiming yours with a dominance that leaves you breathless.
“Kneel,” he commands softly, his voice rough with need. His hands guide you downward, and you sink to your knees, the warm water hitting your back as you look up at him. His cock is hard and proud, the sight making your mouth water.
“Such a good girl,” he murmurs, brushing a thumb over your cheek. “Show me how much you want it.”
Your hands reach for him, wrapping around his length as your tongue flicks out to tease the tip. He groans low in his throat, his hand threading into your hair to hold you steady. Encouraged, you take him into your mouth, your tongue swirling around him as you begin to move.
“Fuck,” he growls, his hips jerking slightly. “That’s it. Take me deeper.”
He tightens his grip on your hair, guiding you as he begins to thrust into your mouth. The rhythm starts slow, but soon he’s moving faster, his cock hitting the back of your throat with each stroke. You gag slightly, but the sound only seems to spur him on.
“Look at you,” he groans, his voice thick with lust. “Taking me so well. Such a good little slut for me, aren’t you?”
You moan around him, the vibrations making his hips stutter. His breathing is ragged as he holds your head in place, fucking your throat with abandon. Tears prick at your eyes, but you love the way he loses control, the way his muscles tense as he chases his release.
“Enough,” he says suddenly, pulling back. His cock leaves your mouth with a wet pop, and he hauls you to your feet, his lips crashing into yours. The kiss is messy, desperate, his hands roaming your body as he presses you against the cool tiles.
“Are you on birth control?” he asks, his voice low but serious, his forehead resting against yours.
“No,” you admit, your voice barely audible over the sound of the water.
His jaw tightens, his eyes searching yours. “Do you want to stop?”
“No,” you say, shaking your head. “I want you. I don’t care.”
Something shifts in his expression, a primal hunger taking over. “Turn around,” he commands, his hands guiding you until your palms are flat against the wall and your back is arched.
He lines himself up with your entrance, the head of his cock teasing your folds. “Tell me if it’s too much,” he murmurs, his voice softer now.
You nod, your breath hitching as he pushes inside. The stretch is intense, the fullness almost overwhelming as he fills you completely. He stills for a moment, letting you adjust, his hands gripping your hips tightly.
“So fucking tight,” he groans, his head dropping to your shoulder. “You feel incredible.”
He begins to move, his thrusts slow and deliberate at first, but it doesn’t take long for his pace to quicken. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the air, mingling with your breathless moans and his guttural groans.
“Harder,” you plead, pushing back against him. “Please, Harry.”
He growls low in his throat, his hips snapping harder against yours. One hand slides around to your front, his fingers finding your clit and rubbing tight circles that make your legs tremble.
“That’s it,” he mutters, his lips brushing against your ear. “Come for me, love. Let me feel you.”
Your orgasm crashes over you, your body clenching around him as you cry out his name. He doesn’t stop, his thrusts becoming erratic as he chases his own release.
“Fuck,” he groans, his grip on your hips tightening as he spills inside you. The warmth of his release pushes you into another wave of pleasure, your body trembling as you collapse against the wall.
Harry wraps his arms around you, holding you close as you both catch your breath. The water continues to rain down on you, washing away the evidence of your passion but not the memory of it.
“Come on,” he murmurs after a moment, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “Let’s finish cleaning up.”
He helps you rinse off, his touch gentle and tender now, before stepping out and wrapping a towel around your shoulders. From his closet, he pulls out a soft, oversized shirt and hands it to you.
“Put this on,” he says, his lips quirking into a small smile. “You’ll look good in it.”
You slip it on, the fabric soft against your skin, and follow him to the bedroom, your heart still racing from the intensity of what just happened.
Harry watches you from the doorway of the bedroom as you settle on the edge of the bed, his shirt hanging loosely on your frame. His eyes are dark, full of desire, but there’s a softness there too, a quiet reverence that makes your chest tighten.
“Did you finish your essay?” he asks, leaning casually against the doorframe, but his tone carries an edge of playful curiosity.
You nod, brushing a strand of damp hair behind your ear. “I did. Just before I joined you in the shower.”
His lips curl into a smirk as he steps closer, his movements deliberate. “Good. Then it’s time for dessert.”
The words send a shiver down your spine, and you barely have time to process them before he’s kneeling in front of you. His hands slide up your thighs, parting them gently as he looks up at you with a heat that makes your breath catch.
“Lie back, love,” he murmurs, his voice low and commanding.
You obey, your pulse racing as you recline against the pillows. Harry’s hands push the shirt up to your waist, exposing you to his hungry gaze. He doesn’t waste a moment, pressing soft kisses along the inside of your thighs, his stubble grazing your sensitive skin and making you tremble.
“So fucking perfect,” he mutters, his lips brushing against your core. His tongue flicks out, tasting you, and the sensation pulls a gasp from your lips.
He starts slow, his tongue tracing lazy circles around your clit, teasing and testing your responses. Your fingers grip the sheets as he builds the intensity, alternating between gentle licks and firmer pressure that has you arching into him.
“Harry,” you moan, your voice trembling.
“I know,” he murmurs against you, his voice muffled but filled with reverence. “Let me take care of you.”
His fingers join in, slipping inside you with ease as he continues his assault on your clit. He moves with precision, finding that perfect rhythm that makes you see stars. Your hips buck against his mouth, and he groans in response, the vibrations sending another wave of pleasure through you.
“Come for me,” he commands, his voice rough. “I want to feel you.”
You shatter beneath him, your body trembling as your orgasm washes over you. Harry doesn’t stop, his tongue and fingers working you through every wave until you’re gasping for breath.
When he finally pulls back, his lips glisten, and his eyes are dark with lust. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, a wicked grin spreading across his face as he climbs onto the bed, hovering over you.
“You taste like heaven,” he says, leaning down to capture your lips in a kiss. You can taste yourself on him, the intimacy of it making your head spin.
He lines himself up with your entrance, pausing to look into your eyes. “Are you ready?” he asks, his voice soft but serious.
“Yes,” you breathe, your hands sliding up his arms to grip his shoulders. “I want you.”
Harry pushes inside slowly, the stretch exquisite as he fills you completely. He groans low in his throat, his forehead resting against yours as he stills for a moment, letting you adjust.
“You’re perfect,” he murmurs, his voice strained. “So fucking perfect.”
He begins to move, his thrusts slow and deliberate, each one pushing you closer to the edge. His hands grip your hips, his lips trailing kisses along your neck as he murmurs words of praise against your skin.
“You feel so good,” he groans, his pace quickening. “So tight. Taking me so well.”
Your nails dig into his shoulders, your moans growing louder as he drives you higher. The intimacy of the position, the way his body presses against yours, makes every sensation feel amplified.
“Harry,” you gasp, your body trembling as another orgasm builds.
“That’s it, love,” he murmurs, his thumb finding your clit. “Let go for me. I’ve got you.”
Your release crashes over you, your body clenching around him as you cry out his name. He follows soon after, his thrusts becoming erratic as he spills inside you, his groan of pleasure vibrating against your ear.
He doesn’t pull out right away, his body still pressed against yours as he catches his breath. When he finally does, he rolls onto his back, pulling you with him so you’re straddling his hips.
“Your turn,” he says, his hands settling on your thighs. “Ride me, love.”
You steady yourself, your hands resting on his chest as you sink down onto him. The stretch feels even deeper in this position, and you both moan at the sensation. You start slow, rolling your hips as his hands guide your movements, his fingers digging into your skin.
“Fuck, you look so good like this,” he groans, his head falling back against the pillows. “Taking me so well. So fucking beautiful.”
The praise spurs you on, and you pick up the pace, bouncing on his cock as your hands grip his shoulders for support. His eyes are locked on yours, his gaze heated as he watches you move.
“Touch yourself,” he commands, his voice rough. “I want to see you come again.”
Your fingers find your clit, rubbing in time with your movements. The pleasure builds quickly, and you can feel him throbbing inside you, his own release not far behind.
“Harry,” you moan, your voice trembling.
“That’s it, love,” he groans, one hand sliding to your ass. His thumb brushes against the tight ring of muscle there, the sensation surprising but not unwelcome. “You like that?”
You nod, your body tightening as the added stimulation pushes you closer to the edge.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, his other hand gripping your hip. “Come for me. Let me feel you.”
You shatter around him, your body trembling as your orgasm rips through you. The sight and feel of you coming undone pushes him over the edge, his hands gripping you tightly as he spills inside you.
For a long moment, the two of you stay like that, tangled together, your breaths mingling as you come down from the high. Finally, Harry pulls you down to rest against his chest, his arms wrapping around you.
“You’re incredible,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your forehead.
You smile, your fingers tracing lazy patterns on his chest. “So are you.”
The silence in the room was heavy but not uncomfortable. His breath was warm against your skin as he pulled you closer, his arms wrapping securely around you. Your cheek rested against his chest, where you could hear the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. It was calming, grounding even, in the wake of everything that had just happened.
“Are you okay?” His voice was soft, laced with concern as his hand gently traced circles on my back.
You nodded, but then you realized he couldn’t see you. “Yeah. I’m okay. Are you?”
His chest rose and fell with a deep sigh. “I am now.” There was a pause before he added, “But we need to talk.”
You swallowed hard, bracing myself. “I know.”
He pulled back slightly, just enough so he could look down at you, his hand cupping your cheek. “I mean it. Are you really okay? Not just physically, but with everything? I… I don’t want you to regret this.”
Looking into his eyes, you could see the worry etched in them. He wasn’t asking out of obligation; he genuinely cared.
“I don’t regret it,” you assured him, your voice steady. “But, yeah, we should talk about what this means. For us. For… everything.”
He nodded, his thumb brushing over your cheek. “First,” he said, “I need to say that I’m sorry if it felt rushed or if… if I crossed any boundaries.”
“You didn’t,” you interrupted, shaking your head. “I wanted this, too. I still do.”
His shoulders relaxed slightly at your words, but the tension in the air remained. “We need to be careful, though. About everything. Especially with the… student-teacher dynamic.”
You bit your lip. “Yeah. I know. It’s… complicated. And risky.”
“It is,” he agreed. “But I care about you. More than I probably should. And I don’t want this to be something fleeting or secret that hurts you in the end. That’s the last thing I want.”
Hearing him admit that made your chest tighten in a way you weren't prepared for. “I care about you, too,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “But you’re right. We need to figure out what this is and how to handle it.”
He nodded, his fingers brushing a strand of hair away from your face. “We’ll figure it out. Together. But there’s something else we need to address.”
“The fact that it was… unprotected?” you guessed, your cheeks heating up.
His lips pressed into a thin line. “Yeah. I… wasn’t thinking clearly, and that’s on me. But we should talk about what to do now.”
“I’ll take care of it,” you said quickly. “There’s the morning-after pill, and if we keep… seeing each other, I’ll look into starting birth control.”
His brow furrowed. “I’ll help with whatever you need. This isn’t just your responsibility; it’s mine, too.”
You appreciated his willingness to take accountability, but you could see the guilt in his eyes. “We’ll handle it,” I said softly. “Together.”
He exhaled slowly, pressing a kiss to my forehead. “Thank you. For being so… understanding. I’ll do better. I promise.”
You stayed like that for a while, wrapped up in each other. It felt safe, even amidst all the uncertainty.
“What about tomorrow?” you finally asked, breaking the silence. “And the days after that? We can’t just pretend nothing happened.”
He tensed slightly but didn’t let go. “You’re right. We need to set boundaries. At least in public.”
“And in class,” you added, the weight of reality sinking in. “We can’t let anyone suspect anything. Not until we figure this out.”
“Agreed,” he said. “It’ll be hard, but if this is going to work, we need to be careful.”
You hesitated before asking, “Do you think it can work?”
His hand tilted my chin up so you were looking directly at him. “I do. But only if we’re honest with each other and take things one step at a time. No rushing. No hiding from the hard conversations.”
You nodded, feeling a flicker of hope. “Okay. Then let’s try. One step at a time.”
“One step at a time,” he echoed, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Starting with breakfast tomorrow. I’ll make it.”
“You cook?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Don’t sound so surprised,” he teased. “You’ll see. But seriously, we’ll talk more in the morning. About everything.”
“I’d like that,” you said, a warmth spreading through me that had nothing to do with the blankets wrapped around us.
For now, the future was uncertain, but as you lay in his arms, you felt like you could face it together. One step at a time.
☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆
Thank you so much for reading! I appreciate any support so remember to comment, reblog, & like ❤️🔥
Summary: Harry's got a reputation on campus, and you're curious to find out if the rumors about the enigmatic literature professor are true. When a question about your essay turns into an unorthodox lesson, you realize Professor Styles might be able to teach you more than you bargained for.
A/N: This is my first fic / one shot, i'm don't really know yet if i'm gonna give it a part two, hope y'all enjoy!
The classroom is bathed in warm afternoon light, the sun filtering through the tall, arched windows of the university’s historic building. The scent of old paper and the faint scratch of pen on paper fill the room as Professor Styles—Harry to his colleagues, but only “Professor” to his students—leans against the oak desk at the front. His sleeves are rolled up, revealing toned forearms etched with faint tattoos, an unorthodox sight in this bastion of academia.
“Ms. Y/L/N,” he calls, his voice a honeyed baritone that pulls your attention away from your open notebook. The way he says your name, deliberate and slow, sends a shiver down your spine. “Do you have any thoughts on the passage from ‘The Picture of Dorian Gray’ we just discussed?”
You’ve been half-distracted the entire lecture, tracing the curve of his jaw and the way his fingers tap idly against the desk. Caught off guard, you scramble to remember the last ten minutes of discussion. Clearing your throat, you respond, “I think... Wilde is emphasizing the moral corruption that accompanies vanity?” Your voice wavers slightly, but you hold his gaze.
Harry’s lips twitch into a faint smile. “Interesting interpretation,” he murmurs, eyes scanning you for a beat longer than necessary. “But I’d argue it’s more about the fear of aging and the lengths one goes to preserve youth.”
Heat rushes to your cheeks. It’s not the first time he’s challenged you in class, though it always feels personal when he does. You’re not sure if it’s his teaching style or something more deliberate. Either way, the air between you has always felt charged.
Class ends shortly after, and as the other students trickle out, you linger, pretending to adjust the strap of your bag. You’ve been looking for an excuse to speak to him alone, though your intentions blur the longer you’re near him.
“Was there something else, Ms. Y/L/N?” Harry’s voice breaks your train of thought. He’s still leaning against the desk, arms crossed now, his stance casual but his gaze anything but.
“I just…” You hesitate, clutching the strap of your bag tighter. “I’m having a little trouble with the essay prompt. I was wondering if I could get some clarification?”
He tilts his head, regarding you thoughtfully. “Of course. Why don’t you stop by my office during office hours tomorrow? We’ll go over it in detail.”
Disappointment flickers in your chest. You were hoping for a conversation now. But then he adds, “Unless you’d prefer to discuss it now?” His voice dips lower, and there’s a glimmer of something in his eyes—something that makes your pulse quicken.
“Now works,” you say quickly.
He gestures for you to follow him out of the classroom, leading you down the hall to his office. It’s a cozy space, lined with shelves overflowing with books. The scent of leather and faint cologne lingers in the air. Harry moves behind his desk, unbuttoning his cuffs as he sits, rolling his sleeves further up his forearms. He gestures to the chair opposite him.
“Have a seat.”
You sit, your legs crossing nervously as you pull out your notebook. Harry watches you intently, the silence stretching until it feels heavy.
“So, what specifically are you struggling with?” he asks, leaning forward slightly. His tone is professional, but there’s an undercurrent of warmth that makes it impossible to focus.
“It’s the part about…” You trail off, struggling to articulate your thoughts. His presence is so overwhelming that the words tangle in your throat. “About how morality ties into aestheticism.”
Harry nods slowly, his gaze unwavering. “A complex question. But you’re more than capable of handling it.”
The compliment catches you off guard. “You think so?”
“I know so,” he says, and there’s a softness to his voice that makes your stomach flip. “You’re one of my most promising students, Ms. Y/L/N.”
The tension in the room shifts. His eyes hold yours, and for a moment, the space between professor and student feels dangerously thin. You shift in your chair, the leather creaking beneath you. Harry’s gaze flickers to the movement, then back to your face.
“Thank you,” you manage, your voice barely above a whisper.
The air between you thickens. You’re acutely aware of every movement, every breath. Harry leans back in his chair, running a hand through his curls. “You have a lot of potential,” he says, his voice lower now. “I hope you realize that.”
Your heart pounds in your chest. The way he looks at you is no longer just that of a professor evaluating a student. It’s something else entirely.
“I… I appreciate that,” you say, though the words feel inadequate. Your gaze drops to your notebook, but you’re too flustered to concentrate.
Harry stands suddenly, the movement making you look up. He rounds the desk, leaning against its edge in front of you. The proximity is intoxicating.
“Tell me something,” he says, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “Do you enjoy my class, Ms. Y/L/N?”
You nod quickly. “Yes. Very much.”
His lips curve into a small smile. “Good. I’d hate to think I’ve been wasting my time.”
The double meaning in his words isn’t lost on you. Your breath hitches as he steps closer, his knees brushing yours. The tension is electric now, the lines of propriety blurring with every passing second.
“Professor,” you start, your voice trembling, “I should…”
“Should you?” he interrupts softly, his eyes searching yours. “Or do you want to stay?”
Your resolve crumbles under his gaze. “I want to stay.”
His smile deepens, and he steps even closer, his hands resting on the arms of your chair, caging you in. The scent of his cologne is heady, making your thoughts swim.
“Then stay,” he murmurs.
Your heart is a wild drumbeat in your chest as he leans down, his lips brushing yours in the faintest, most tantalizing whisper of a kiss. You’re frozen, caught between disbelief and desire, until his hand cups your jaw, tilting your face up to his.
The kiss deepens, slow and deliberate, his lips soft but commanding. Your hands find their way to his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your fingertips. He pulls you to your feet, his arms wrapping around your waist as he backs you against the desk.
“Tell me to stop,” he whispers against your lips, his voice ragged. “If this isn’t what you want, tell me now.”
But stopping is the last thing on your mind. You shake your head, your fingers tangling in his hair as you pull him closer.
His lips trail down your jaw, to the sensitive spot beneath your ear, as his hands roam your body. Every touch is purposeful, igniting a fire that burns hotter with each passing moment.
“Professor Styles,” you breathe, and he groans at the sound of his title on your lips.
“Harry,” he corrects, his voice a low rumble. “Call me Harry.”
You comply, his name falling from your lips like a prayer as he lifts you onto the desk, his body slotting perfectly between your thighs. His hands slip beneath your blouse, exploring the soft skin of your waist, and you arch into his touch.
The world outside his office fades away, leaving only the two of you tangled in a web of forbidden desire. You know the risks, the consequences, but the pull between you is undeniable, impossible to resist.
Harry’s hands hover at your waist, his hesitation palpable as his eyes search yours for reassurance. “We don’t have to do this,” he murmurs, his voice rough, almost pained. “You can tell me to stop.”
Instead of answering, you cup his jaw, your thumb brushing against the stubble on his cheek. “I don’t want you to stop.”
He exhales sharply, as if he’s been holding his breath, and then his lips capture yours again. This time, the kiss is slow, measured, as though he’s trying to savor every second. His hands grip your hips lightly, his fingers twitching as though he’s holding himself back. The weight of his restraint is intoxicating, the tension between you mounting with each tentative touch.
“You’re sure?” he asks, his forehead resting against yours, his breath mingling with yours.
“I’m sure,” you whisper, your voice steady despite the wild beat of your heart.
That’s all it takes. Harry’s lips move with more urgency, his hands finally roaming your body with intent. He traces the curve of your waist, the small of your back, the soft skin of your arms, as if committing you to memory. Each touch ignites a spark, a slow burn that consumes you both.
When he lifts your blouse over your head, his movements are careful, reverent. He pauses, his gaze sweeping over your exposed skin, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. “You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, almost to himself.
You’re not sure who moves first, but suddenly his shirt is gone, and your hands are exploring the taut muscles of his chest, the intricate tattoos that adorn his skin. He shudders under your touch, his breath hitching when your fingers trace the line of his collarbone.
He leans in, his mouth brushing over your collarbone, the curve of your shoulder, his lips pressing tender, lingering kisses to your skin. The slow pace is maddening, the anticipation coiling tighter with every moment.
“Harry,” you breathe, your hands gripping his shoulders. “I need…”
“I know,” he cuts you off, his voice low and thick with want. “I’ll get you there, love. Just… let me take my time.”
And he does. He maps your body with his lips and hands, his touch alternating between featherlight and firm. When his mouth finds your breast, his tongue teasing your nipple, you arch into him, a soft moan escaping your lips. His hand trails down, his fingers skimming the waistband of your jeans, hesitating again.
“Tell me you want this,” he says, his voice a strained whisper. “Say the words.”
“I want this,” you say, your voice unwavering. “I want you.”
The sound he makes is low, guttural, as he unbuttons your jeans and slides them down, taking your underwear with them. He stands back for a moment, his eyes dark as they rake over you. “You’re breathtaking,” he murmurs, almost as if in awe.
When he lowers himself to his knees, his hands grip your thighs with more force, his hesitation giving way to something more primal. He presses a kiss to the inside of your knee, then slowly works his way up, his stubble grazing your sensitive skin. By the time his mouth reaches your center, you’re trembling with need.
His tongue flicks out tentatively at first, testing your response. When you gasp and tangle your fingers in his curls, he grows bolder, his tongue tracing deliberate patterns over your folds. He circles your clit slowly, his movements maddeningly precise.
“Harry,” you moan, your hips bucking against his mouth. He groans in response, the vibrations sending a jolt of pleasure through you. One of his hands slides up your thigh, his fingers teasing your entrance before pushing inside. The stretch is delicious, and you can’t help the way your body arches toward him.
“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he mutters against you, his voice muffled. His fingers curl inside you, finding that spot that makes you see stars. He alternates between thrusting his fingers and flicking his tongue over your clit, building you up slowly, methodically.
“Don’t stop,” you plead, your voice breathless.
“Never,” he promises, his pace quickening. The tension in your body builds and builds until it snaps, your orgasm crashing over you in waves. Your thighs tremble around his head, and he holds you through it, his movements gentle as he helps you come down.
But he’s not done. He rises to his feet, his lips glistening as he kisses you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. His hands are on your hips, lifting you onto the desk, your legs wrapping around his waist instinctively.
“Tell me how you like it,” he murmurs against your lips, his voice rough.
“Hard,” you admit, your nails digging into his shoulders. “I like it rough.”
His eyes darken, and a wicked smile curves his lips. “Careful what you wish for, love.”
He unbuckles his belt and frees himself from his trousers, the sight of him making your breath catch. He’s thick, hard, and achingly ready, and the anticipation makes you clench around nothing.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” he says, his voice soft despite the fire in his eyes.
“I can take it,” you assure him.
He pushes inside slowly, inch by inch, giving you time to adjust. The stretch is intense, and you’re grateful for his patience. Once he’s fully seated, he stills, his forehead resting against yours as you both catch your breath.
“You feel incredible,” he groans, his hands gripping your hips. He starts to move, his thrusts slow and deliberate, each one pushing you closer to the edge.
As your moans grow louder, his restraint slips. His movements grow rougher, his pace unrelenting as he drives into you. The sound of skin against skin fills the room, mingling with your cries and his grunts of pleasure.
“Look at you,” he growls, his hand wrapping around the back of your neck to pull you closer. “Taking me so well. So fucking perfect.”
You’re lost to the pleasure, your body meeting his thrusts eagerly. The desk creaks beneath you, the sharp edge digging into your back, but you don’t care. All that matters is the way he feels inside you, the way he’s unraveling you piece by piece.
“Harry, I’m so close,” you manage, your voice breaking.
“Come for me,” he commands, his voice rough. His thumb finds your clit, rubbing tight circles that push you over the edge. Your orgasm crashes through you, your body clenching around him as you cry out his name.
The sensation is too much for him, and with a guttural moan, he follows you over the edge. His thrusts grow erratic as he spills inside you, his head dropping to your shoulder as he pants against your skin.
For a long moment, neither of you move, the room filled with the sound of your ragged breaths. Finally, Harry lifts his head, his eyes soft as he looks at you.
“We shouldn’t have done that,” he says, though his tone lacks conviction.
You smile faintly, your fingers brushing through his curls. “But we did.”
He chuckles, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips. “And I’m not sure I can stop wanting you.”
“Then don’t,” you whisper, pulling him back in for another kiss.
☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆
Thank you so much for reading! I appreciate any support so remember to comment, reblog, & like ❤️🔥
omg no cos why is that ‚dont go fast make it last‘ shirt giving lazy mornings after a show, in harrys huge presidential suite bed, the sunlight filtering through the curtains and cockwarming
cw: 2 uses of daddy
"Good morning," Harry rasped, brushing your hair away from your face.
Sighing, your head falls to the side, your nose knocking into Harry's. "Mmm, good morning," you parroted, your voice groggy with sleep. "What time is it? Are we late-"
"No, no," Harry reassured you quickly, quietly, stroking your head soothingly. "There's nothing going on today. Just missed you is all."
His sweet words make you hum with a smile. With your eyes still shut, you rolled onto your side and curled up to him, hitching a leg over his hip. Pressed up against him, you feel the heated throb of his hard cock pulsate between you. It reminded you of last night, Harry still high off the adrenaline of his show, using all the pent up energy to pound into you.
It made you greedy for more.
Grinding into him, you whine when his cock nudges against your sore pussy, growing more aroused.
"Shh, baby," Harry cooed, pulling you closer into him, his cock snug along your lips. "Do you need something?" He was teasing you now, you could practically hear the smirk in his voice. "You need daddy to take care of you?"
"Mhmm," you whimpered, nodding your head. "Want daddy's cock. Please."
He kissed the tip of your nose, shushing you. "You'll get it, don't worry baby." Lifting your leg higher, he then grabbed his cock, running the tip through your sloppy pussy before dipping inside. You groaned around the intrusion, the stretch achingly, delightfully tight. "There we go. Right where I belong, right baby?"
Harry birthday request- you and Harry are in a relationship but you're very open to exploring out of normal boundaries. And maybe Harry has been asking for a while to try out a threesome with another guy (maybe he's bi or pan) but you haven't found the right person or time. But then you finally find the perfect guy for your threesome and surprise Harry with him for his birthday. You tell harry its just a guy you went to college with and you all go out to a club and then before the two of you leave you inform Harry that the other guy would be joining you. He's confused at first but then it clicks and he gets giddy. You go back home and harry finally gets a threesome for his birthday. He makes sure you're comfortable the whole time and you have to tell him that watching him mess with (other guy) turns you on more then it should. 😉
HAPPY BIRTHDAY HARRY!!!!!!
WARNINGS: MMF threesome/smut, protected sex for males, talks of getting someone pregnant, spanking, anal, strap-ons, cursing, extramarital sex, dirty talk, sort of voyerism, I think that's it. It's filthy so buckle in.
wc: 7,188
About two months ago, Harry had hinted to you that he wanted to do a threesome. He's bi, but he said he wanted to do it with another man because you're his girl, and no one could come between you.
The idea sounded hot to you, but you haven't found anyone to initiate it with. Harry's birthday was coming up, and you really wanted to give him a threesome as his gift.
You texted your friend, Niall, from college, who you remembered to also be bi. He had a lot of people in and out of his dorm then. You think he might have even been involved in an orgy at one point. You had never slept with him, but heard he was very good.
Hey Niall. It's (Y/N) from college. Long time, no talk. I hope you're well. I have a weird favor/request to ask you. :)
You put down your phone and watched as three dots appeared and then disappeared over and over again.
(Y/N)! he finally wrote. I am spectacular. How are you sweet girl? I miss you. What is it that you need?
You giggled. I'm good. Married now for three years. We moved about two hours away.
Amazing... then a brief pause before. What's the favor?
Ok, you're going to think I'm totally crazy
Lay it on me, hun. I've heard all kinds of crazy
Ok. So, my husband's birthday is coming up soon and, well, he's bi, like you, and he's been asking me for a threesome for like ever. But, he wants it with another guy. We never found the right one, but I figured you'd be good since I know you, but don't really have a huge connection to us. You can totally say no though...
You want me to be your third?
Well, I was just asking. You don't have to. You know, very minimal action with me probably. I'd have to ask Harry, but he wants all the stops with him
Fuck yeah. I'm in
You let out a sigh of relief. Really?
Really. When and where is this happening?
You smiled and sent him the details. I owe you so much
You dressed in your tiniest and slinkiest dress you could find with heels you deemed your "fuck me" heels for the club you and Harry were going to.
He had on tight black jeans and a button-down shirt with only the bottom button done and black dress shoes.
"C'mere," Harry said when he saw you standing in your bedroom. "Fuck. You look hot."
You giggled. "You're not so bad yourself, mister."
It was the day before Harry's birthday since his fell on a Sunday and you would have to get up early the next day. "Do we have to go out? Can't I just make sweet love to you right here and then we order a pizza?"
You giggled and gave him a kiss. "Come on. It'll be fun. We can do that tomorrow."
"Fine," he pouted. "Let's go." Harry held onto your hips as you walked outside to call an Uber.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The club was packed. Many people were dancing, some doing other questionable things, others were drinking.
You and Harry were in the middle of the dance floor, grinding and swaying back and forth to "3" by Britney Spears.
When the song ended, you turned back around to face Harry. "I'm going to go get some water. Want to come?"
He nodded, and you led him through the crowds to the bar to get some water for the both of you.
As you both took your first sip, Niall walked up and greeted you. "Hello," he said.
"Hi," you said chipper.
Harry hummed.
"I'm Niall," he stuck his hand out and you both shook it. You introduced both of you and Niall smiled.
Harry was too preoccupied drinking his water that he didn't see the eyes Niall was giving him.
"You are both gorgeous, I just have to say," Niall said to you in the loud club.
"Oh, well, thank you," you giggled. "You're not so bad yourself."
This made Harry's eyebrow raise. He put his hands on your hips and said over your shoulder to Niall, "Is there something we can help you with?"
Niall smirked, putting down his rum and Coke. "I was just admiring your beauty." Niall walked around you both and hummed. "There's a lot of beauty here."
"Listen, man," Harry said, pulling you close. "She's taken, so just buzz off, ok?"
You turned to Harry, putting your hands on his shoulders. "Harry, why don't we be nice to the man, ok? He was just paying us a compliment."
"He's eye-fucking you. I don't like it," Harry said, seizing Niall up.
As Harry stared at Niall, who waved to him with a smile, you ran your hands down his chest. "Baby, look at me."
Harry turned his attention back to you.
"I know him," you said.
"You do?"
"Yes, we went to college together," you nodded.
"That makes me not like him even more," he said through gritted teeth.
"No, baby. You don't get it."
"What?"
"I hired him, well, not really hired him because he's not getting paid, but I recruited him," you said.
"For what?"
"What's the one thing you've been begging me for for a while now?" you said, playing with the buttons on his shirt.
"A baby," he said.
"Besides that," you rolled your eyes.
"A threesome?" he asked.
You nodded and giggled. "Exactly."
"A threesome with him?" Harry asked.
"Yep. He's hot and he's bi and he's ready for you, baby," you kissed his ear.
Harry swallowed, and suddenly the room got very hot. He looked from you to Niall and then back to you. "Am I dreaming? Is this a dream?"
You pinched him kind of hard on the arm. "OW!"
"No, you're not dreaming," you said.
"Fuck. That hurt," he rubbed his arm.
"Sorry, baby," you pouted and kissed where you pinched.
As Harry rubbed his arm, he turned back to Niall and swallowed. His cock twitched in his pants. He couldn't believe you had set this up for him. He had the best wife ever.
"You really want to be with us?" Harry asked Niall.
"Fuck yeah. I'm ready to fill some holes," he said.
Harry started coughing and you had to pat him on the back to calm him down.
When he calmed down, you stood in front of him and rubbed his shoulders. "Are you ok with this?"
Harry nodded. "Yeah. Fuck. Thank you."
"Of course," you kissed him. "Happy birthday, baby!"
Harry swallowed as you took his hand and walked out of the club with him and Niall.
You giggled as you saw both of the men in the moonlight. They were gorgeous. Harry's hands were shaky as you held it. "I'll call an Uber for us, ok?"
Both of the men nodded as you pulled up the app and ordered a car.
Still dizzy from all of this, Harry said, "Wait."
"What's wrong, H? Are you having second thoughts?"
He shook his head. "No. I just want to establish some ground rules."
"Shoot," Niall said.
"You don't fuck my wife. Only I fuck her, ok? Hand stuff and even oral is ok, but your cock isn't coming near her pussy. Got it?" Harry said, poking Niall in the chest.
"Hey, man. This is all for you. Whatever you want, I'm cool with."
"Thank you," he said.
"Everything else goes," Harry said, putting his hands up. "No limits except that."
"Good to know," Niall said. "You've been with men before?"
Harry nodded. "Yeah a few times, so I know my way around, but it's been a bit."
Niall smirked. "Perfect. Fuck. This is going to be so much fun. You guys are so hot. "
You giggled and squeezed Harry's hand. He leaned over and whispered to you. "Did you guys ever...?"
"Me and Niall? No! He was way too popular for me in college. We became friends like our last year because we were lab partners. But, we've never slept together," you shook your head.
"Ok. Good," he squeezed your hand.
"Babe, I wouldn't lead you astray. And if at any time, you don't want to do this anymore, you just tell me. This is all for you, so we're going at your speed. Yeah?"
Harry nodded. "Good boy," you said, kissing his forehead. Harry's face got red and Niall smirked as your Uber pulled up.
When you got in, you sat on the right, Harry in the middle, and Niall on the left. The door closed and the Uber sped off. Niall's hand made its way on to Harry's leg. You felt an intake of breath from him as the man next to him rubbed it up and down.
"Deep breaths, baby," you whispered in his ear. "Do you like that? What he's doing to you?"
"Yeah," he said on shaky breath.
"Then, let him know," you kissed his ear.
Harry put his hand over Niall's and drug it up and down his leg. Eventually, their hands made their way to Harry's clothed cock and he moaned.
Niall turned to look to Harry, and they both shared a look before their lips collided and they were kissing each other.
The men moaned as they grabbed each other's faces and made out. You bit your lip as you watched the whole thing go down. Niall shoved his tongue in Harry's mouth, and your husband moaned.
He saw you watching and laid his eyes on you as the man above him, kissed him. You smiled and encouraged him with a rub on his arm.
As the Uber pulled up to your house, the men pulled apart. Their chests were pounding. You thanked the Uber driver and gave him a five-star rating since he didn't say anything about the bi threesome starting in the back of his car.
You quickly walked to your front door, Harry opening it with shaky hands. Once he got the door open, he let you in first, then Niall.
"Wow. Nice place," Niall said, looking around.
"You should see the bedroom," you teased.
Niall smirked. "I'd love to see it."
You guided him up the stairs quickly, Harry in tow.
When you got up to the bedroom, you all stood in the wide room. The air became nervous as you stood there.
You walked over to the bed and sat down. You looked at both of the men above you and giggled. "What should we do first?"
Harry looked down at you with a glint in his eye. "Can you strip for us, love?"
You nodded, taking off your heels and then your dress, which left you in just a strapless bra and panties.
"Fuck," Niall muttered.
"Beautiful," Harry said.
"Alright. You two strip as well. I'm not going to be the only one naked here!" you said.
The men stripped down quickly, discarding everything, including their underwear. Harry was already hard, harder than you've ever seen him. When you looked over at Niall, you gulped. He was bigger than Harry, which was nuts because Harry was more than average, and he was hard too.
You licked your lips and undid your bra, throwing it onto the bed. The men looked at each other and kissed. As they kissed, you gripped their cocks and stroked them.
Harry moaned, and Niall practically grunted at your touch. As the men played tonsil hockey, you ran your finger over their tips and stroked from base to tip.
"Jesus. Fuck," Harry muttered, pulling away from the kiss and looking at you. His cock twitched in your hand. "Baby."
You looked up at him. "Yeah?"
"Suck me off."
"Sure, baby." You scooted over a bit, aligning your mouth up with Harry's cock. You put his cock in your mouth and began to bob while also stroking Niall's cock.
When you deep-throated your husband, Niall moaned, putting a hand on the back of your head. "Fuck. Choke on him."
As you deep-throated your husband, Niall and Harry made out again. Harry moaned and you sputtered on his cock as you reached the end.
Niall moved from Harry's lips to his neck. You knew that was his weak spot. Harry's knees buckled a bit before he pulled you off him. "Fuck. I'll cum right now if you don't stop."
You giggled. "Want it. Want to taste you."
"You will, love, but not yet," he said breathlessly. Harry let out a big moan as Niall left hickies on his neck. "Fuck."
"You found his weak spot," you said to Niall. "Keep kissing there and he'll do anything you want."
"Not true," Harry swallowed thickly.
"Very true," you smirked.
Niall just hummed and continued with his kisses. They made out again and you laid back on the bed, reaching down to rub your clit. Seeing the two of them together had you so turned on.
"Can I put your cock in my mouth?" Niall asked Harry.
"Fuck," he whispered. "Sure."
Niall kneeled down and stroked Harry for a few pumps. Harry ran his hands through his hair and breathed deeply.
When Niall put his mouth on his cock, he nearly fell forward. You giggled. Harry's mouth hung open in ecstasy. He looked over at you and suddenly felt sad. "Baby, c'mere. Don't want you excluded."
"I'm not excluded," you shook your head as you rubbed your clit. "I'm enjoying the view."
"Fuck," he looked back down at Niall deep-throating him. Harry's eyes rolled back in his head. He gripped Niall's face, guiding him on his cock. "Jesus Christ," Harry let out.
You crawled over to the edge of the bed to get a better view. "He likes his balls played with too," you told Niall.
The man hummed and cupped Harry's balls in his hands while still sucking his cock.
"They're nice and full, aren't they? Mmm," you hummed. "He always has the biggest loads."
"Baby," Harry had his eyes closed as he let out the breathy word.
"Do you want to cum on Niall's face, Har?"
"Fuck," he bit his lip.
"I want to see that. And then, I can lick it all up as you regroup yourself," you said.
"Jesus, baby," he ran a hand through his sweaty hair.
"Do you want that, Niall? You want him to cum on your face."
"Fuck yes. Give it to me," he said.
A few more pumps and Harry was unraveling. "Shit," he said, pumping his cock on Niall's face. Harry let out groans and noises as he came all over the man's face below hin. "Christ."
When he finished, you crawled off the bed and licked the cum off Niall's face. Your last stop was his mouth as you captured his in a kiss, Harry's cum between the both of you. "Mmmm. He tastes so good, doesn't he?"
"He does," Niall said breathlessly.
You hummed and turned to face Harry. "What do you want now?"
He was still trying to catch his breath as Niall stood up. "I- uh, what should we do?"
"This is all for you, baby. You pick," you said, your hands resting on his chest.
"Fuck. I can't even think straight," he chuckled.
"You're not. You're thinking bi," you smiled.
Harry smiled back. "Uh, I really want to fuck you but I need some time to recover."
"Mkay. What do you want to do in the meantime?"
"Fuck. Um. I kind of want to give Niall a blow job."
"Yeah, baby? Go ahead," you gave him a toothy smile.
"I feel like you're not participating," he held onto your hips.
"What would you like me to do, bub?"
"Um," Harry licked his lips. "You can sit on Niall's face while I blow him."
Your eyes got wide. "Is that ok with you?"
"Yeah," he let out a breath. "Yeah. That's fine."
"You're sure?"
"Mmhmm. Want you to feel good too."
You smiled and gave him a light peck. "Ok baby. Whatever you want I'll do."
Niall got on the bed, torso laying flat, legs hanging over the mattress, on the floor. Harry got down in between Niall's legs and you climbed up on Niall's chest.
Niall pulled you close, pushing you down on him.
"I haven't done this for a while," Harry admitted as he began to stroke Niall's cock.
"It's ok. You don't have to do it. But, it's just like riding a bike. You'll ease back into it," Niall said.
You squeezed his hand as Niall put his tongue between your legs. "Oh wow." He was good.
Niall hummed and then groaned when Harry's mouth sucked on his tip. You faced away from Niall, so you could see Harry. You smiled. "That's it, good boy. Put it in your mouth. I know he's big but you can take it."
Harry nodded and shoved Niall's cock down his throat. Niall's face fell off your pussy as he cursed for a second. "God, he's good."
You nodded. "He's very talented with his mouth."
Niall went back to licking your folds and Harry choked on his cock. Your legs started to shake, which cause Niall to send a spank to your ass cheek. "Ohhhh," you moaned. "Fuck. I'm going to cum soon."
Harry popped off Niall's cock. "You gonna cum on his face, baby?"
You nodded, whining, pushing your breasts together. "Yes, H. Can I pleasee? Fuck he's so good."
"As long as I get to taste it," Harry smirked, licking up the length of Niall's cock. Niall moaned really loud under you.
"I think we're both close," you giggled.
Niall's cock twitched and Harry took his balls into his mouth, sucking on them. Niall sent another spank to your ass and you came hard on his face.
Niall licked you all up at the same time that he came in Harry's mouth. Harry swallowed it all like a good boy. When your orgasm subsided, you fell over on the bed next to Niall.
Harry stood up and kissed Niall once again, tasting both of your releases. They swapped spit and groped each other's butts as they rolled around the bed.
You watched in awe. Niall broke away from the kiss, panting. "Time to fuck this tight ass," he said, spanking Harry's left cheek.
Harry yelped and you moaned. You got up and got your lube quickly, as well as a condom. You had used a strap-on a few times with Harry but it wasn't as big as Niall.
Niall stood up and lubed up his condom. You crawled in front of Harry on the bed. "You ok, baby? You want to keep going?"
He nodded quickly. "Yes. Oh. Please don't make me stop."
You giggled. "We'll only stop when you want too. Right, Niall?"
"Right," he said. The condom was lubed, so now it was time to do Harry.
As Niall spread some lube in his fingers, Harry told you to lay in front of him. "Let me taste you, my love."
You opened your legs gladly. Harry gladly pulled you to him and inhaled your scent, which was also mixed with Niall's as you had just been sitting on his face.
As Harry licked up your pussy, Niall lubed up Harry's ass, sticking a finger up his hole. Harry lifted his head and moaned.
"Oh shit. You're tight," Niall said.
Harry nodded and went back to licking your folds. Niall put another finger in and Harry shook.
"Bend your legs for me," Niall said.
Harry bent his knees and scooted up further on the bed.
"Relax," Niall placed a hand on Harry's hip, giving him a comforting squeeze. "If you're uncomfortable at all, just tell me to stop, ok?"
"Yep."
You cupped Harry's chin. "Deep breaths. We've done this before."
Harry took a deep breath in and out. You smiled. Niall gave him one last reassuring squeeze before he began. "I'll start with the tip and go slow. Yeah?"
"Mmhmm."
You grabbed Harry's hand as Niall pushed the tip in. "Fuck," your husband moaned.
"Can I go more?" Niall said.
"Yes please," he moaned.
Harry put his mouth back on your pussy as Niall pushed his cock in further. As Niall fucked your husband, he couldn't keep his mouth on you.
Niall pounded your husband from the back and made eye contact with you. Your breaths were uneven. "Oh my God," Harry moaned.
"Feel good, baby?" You asked.
"Baby," he bit his lip. "Fuck."
You giggled. "That good, huh?"
He nodded. You looked up at Niall. "How about for you?"
"He's so tight," Niall moaned and spanked his ass cheek. "Squeezing me. Fuck."
You smirked at the sight in front of you. With the way Harry was being jostled and his euphoric state, he wasn't licking your pussy anymore, but you understood.
"Take care of your girl," Niall said to Harry.
"I, fuck, baby-." He squeezed your hand.
"It's ok, my love. I know it's a lot." He swallowed and fingered you with the free hand that wasn't holding his. He rubbed your clit with his thumb as he did so.
As Niall fucked Harry harder, he leaned over his back. You sat up and kissed Niall. Just a quick few kisses. "You like watching your husband get fucked?" He asked you. You nodded and moaned. "Thought so. Know he's probably a good fuck too. He'll fuck me nice and deep." You moaned even louder.
You clenched on Harry's fingers, so close to release. Harry moaned.
"Fuck. I'm gonna cum soon," Niall said. "Can I cum in your ass?"
"God, please," Harry said, tilting his head to the side.
A few more thrusts and Niall was painting the condom with his cum. When he pulled out, Harry whimpered. Niall spanked his cheek again. Harry collapsed on the bed and Nial pulled the condom off.
"You ok?" You asked.
Harry nodded. "C'mere," he said pulling you closer. Harry went back to eating you out.
Just as your legs began to shake, Niall separated Harry's cheeks and stuck his tongue inside. "Holy fuck," Harry pounded his fist on the bed.
Niall hummed as he licked his cum out of Harry's hole. "Look at you puckering. All fucked out."
A few more rims to Harry's hole and he was cumming on the bed. "Oh my God."
He put his sweaty head down on the bed and caught his breath. "I need a minute."
You and Niall both chuckled. "I think you wore him out," you said to Niall.
"Good, but I'm not done with him." Harry groaned from the bed. Niall chuckled.
You rubbed Harry's head as Niall wandered into the bathroom to find towels.
"Hey," you whispered.
"Mmm?" Harry asked, with his head still down.
"You ok?"
He nodded.
"Baby, look at me," you rubbed his head.
Niall came walking back into the room with towels. Harry turned to look at you and he had a tear running down his face. "Oh, my love. What's wrong?" You scooped him up in your arms and rocked him.
Niall came over to the bed. "I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable. I can go-."
"No, don't go," Harry said, wiping his face.
"Baby, tell me why you're crying," you whispered to him.
He sighed. Niall cleaned up the sheets Harry had cum on and the other areas that were wet.
"I couldn't get you off... and then I just came and... I should have held it for you." When Harry is a bottom, he gets very emotional.
"Oh, Harry..." Your heart broke. "Listen to me. The night is still young. You can still get me off. You were overwhelmed in a good way. I know your mind wasn't on me."
"But, it should have been-."
You shook your head. "Stop. This whole thing is for you. For you to feel good and enjoy. Stop worrying about me, ok? I'm wetter than Niagra Falls over here just watching you two."
Harry chuckled. "And don't worry about where you came. Sheets can be washed. I've swallowed your cum plenty of times."
Now he really chuckled.
"I love you."
"I love you too."
"Did you want to keep going or stop?" You asked.
Harry looked at you and then at Niall. "I'd like to keep going if that's ok with you guys."
You nodded and Niall said, "I could do this all night. You just holler when you want to stop."
Harry smiled. "Sorry for crying."
"Don't worry about it, man," Niall slapped him on the back. "It's an emotional thing. I was just worried I hurt you."
"No. You definitely didn't hurt me," Harry said.
"Good."
"So, what do you want to do now, honey?" You asked.
Harry stroked his cock, which was getting hard again. "Can I fuck you?" He asked Niall.
"Geez. I thought you'd never ask."
Harry laughed. "Cool if I taste your girl?" Niall asked.
"Yeah," Harry nodded. "It's cool with me if it's cool with (Y/N)."
You nodded and opened your legs back up. "Fuck," Niall said, scooting up to eat you out. "God, you're so fucking wet." You moaned as Niall licked up your pussy. "And you taste so good."
Harry lubbed his condom up as he watched another man's mouth on your pussy. It was kind of turning him on. He wasn't going to lie.
"I'm not as big as you so it might not feel as good," Harry said to Niall as he lubbed up his hole.
Niall threw his head back and moaned. "Trust me. It'll feel good."
"I'm a little rusty," Harry admitted, adjusting Niall's hips to where he wanted him.
"Stop doubting yourself," Niall said. "Again, just like riding a bike. I can help, if this will make you feel better." Niall reached back and opened up his cheeks. His hole was puckering and pink.
"Fuck," Harry cursed and his cock twitched.
"Pretty sight, I bet," you said.
Harry nodded and then looked at you. "Yeah," he licked his lips. "Yeah it is."
"You know what to do, baby. Don't be afraid. It's just like with me, only probably a little bit bigger."
Harry nodded and gave Niall one more good lube. Niall turned his face back around and moved his hands back to your thighs as he ate you out.
Harry put his tip up to Niall's hole and pushed in a bit. "Fuck," Niall cursed between your legs.
"You good for me to go in more?" Harry asked.
"Fuck yeah. Pound me."
"Christ," Harry said as he pushed in more.
"Good God," Niall moaned. "Your husband's cock feels so fucking good in my ass."
You moaned and clenched around Niall's fingers. This was turning you on so much. Harry started his thrusts and Niall went back to giving you pleasure. Between Niall's mouth and the sight above you, you didn't last long.
You came on Niall's face as he took a pounding from Harry. After you came down from your high, you laid back and enjoyed the men enjoying each other.
"You're doing so good, baby," you encouraged Harry.
He leaned down to kiss you as he pounded into Niall. "Want you to cum in his ass, baby. Fill him up good."
Both men moaned. You wish they could have actually came inside of each other, but safety first always, so you just used your words instead.
Harry's thrusts got faster. You crawled off the bed and slunk in between the men. Being the menace you were, you licked Harry's balls and cock all the way up to Niall's ass. "Oh my God. Baby."
You giggled menancingly and did it again. "So pretty," you hummed. "Want to see you cum in his ass."
A few more tugs and licks to Harry's balls, and he was cumming. Harry grunted and stopped his thrusts as he filled the condom to the brim.
Harry pulled out and you caught the cum that spilled out on your tongue. "Hey! Save some for me," Harry said, licking above you.
"Jesus. Fuck," Niall moaned. "I picked the right fucking couple."
Once Niall was fully drained, he turned and laid on his back on the bed. His cock was rock hard. Harry grabbed it and stroked. "Holy hell. You guys are trying to kill me."
Harry chuckled. "Had enough?"
"No," Niall shook his head.
"Me either." Harry leaned down and deepthroated Niall until he came in his mouth.
Harry didn't swallow like a good boy and slowly spit his cum into your mouth. Niall watched in awe. You swapped Niall's cum back and forth for a bit in heavy kisses.
"Baby," he moaned in your mouth.
"Yes my love?"
"I need to fuck you now," he said.
"Yeah?"
"Mmhmm."
"You want Niall to watch?"
Harry looked from you to Niall. "Want you to take him in your mouth as I fuck you."
"Fuck," Niall swallowed. "I am so game."
Harry crawled onto the bed and laid down. You crawled up and sat down fully on his cock, facing Harry. "Mmm. Missed you," you said, giving Harry a kiss.
"Missed you too, baby. You feel so fucking good," he said as he bounced you on his bare cock.
Niall stood above you on the bed. You took his cock in your hand as you bounced on Harry's cock. "Fuuuuck," Niall moaned. "Fuck yes. Ride his cock."
As you rode his cock, you put Niall's cock in your mouth. Harry couldn't help but latch on to one of your breasts as they bounced up and down. You were in heaven.
"Yesss. So good," Niall said. He pulled his cock out of your mouth and tapped it in your tongue. "You're good with your mouth. Huh, darling?"
"Oh you have no idea," Harry huffed.
Niall chuckled and put his cock back into your mouth. Your blow job became a bit sloppy as Harry had you bouncing fast on his cock.
You pulled off Niall's cock and hummed. "I want us all to cum at the same time."
"Fuck," Niall said as Harry nodded. "Put me back in your mouth."
You took him back in your mouth and deep-throated him. Harry watched as he pounded into you from below. His eyes turned dark, so you knew he was enjoying it.
You made eye contact with Harry as you licked Niall's tip. You moaned just as Harry hit your g-spot. "Yes, right there, baby."
He went a little faster. "Right there?"
"Ye-ee-ee-es," you said in syllables as he bounced you hard.
"Look at you taking two cocks at once like a champ," Niall said, guiding his cock back to your lips.
You could see the look in Niall's eyes, like he wanted to fuck you, but you knew that was a hard no from Harry, and you respected that.
You choked on Niall as Harry bruised your insides. Niall twitched in your mouth, and you were squeezing Harry, both signaling you were close. But Harry wasn't quite there yet.
"Come on, Har. Cum in me. Want you to get me pregnant in front of Niall," you said.
"Fuck," both men grunted.
You reached down to fondle Harry's balls to get him to cum quicker. He had already came a lot in this short amount of time, so you knew it would take him a bit.
"You get me pregnant, you can have Niall's cock again. I'll rearrange another date," you encouraged.
Harry moaned. Niall rubbed the back of Harry's head. "Come on. Knock her up. I just know that pussy is tight and squeezing you," Niall said.
"Fuck," Harry gasped. "'M close."
"Good boy. Cum in me. I'm close too," you moved your hands from Harry's balls to your clit.
You pumped Niall's cock a few more times before he was grunting. You stuck your tongue out, and he painted your face with his cum. "Mmm," you said as you licked it up.
This spurred Harry's orgasm, and you and him came at the same time. You both collapsed back onto the bed, exhausted. Niall laid down next to you.
"I'm wiped," you said. Harry and Niall agreed.
You all decided to get some water and order a pizza. The only time someone put clothes on was when someone had to answer the door to get the pizza.
After the pizza was ate, you all went at it again in the living room. This time you brought out your strap-on to join in on the fun. You had used this a few times with Harry, but nothing compared to the real thing for him.
You put your strapon on and fucked Niall while he fucked Harry. This time, Harry had his back on the couch with his legs on Niall's shoulders.
"You like watching your wife fuck me while I'm pounding your tight hole?" Niall asked Harry.
"Fuck," Harry swallowed and licked his lips. "It feels so good."
"Fuck it does," Niall said, his head falling back on your shoulder.
No words were said for a bit as you all just basked in how good it felt. Your strap-on had a clit stimulator, so you got pleasure out of it too.
"Niall's got such a pretty tushy, Harry," you said over Niall's head. "Cute enough to bite it."
Harry tried to keep his composure with Niall's cock pounding into him. "Don't... don't bite it without me."
You giggled. "You want to bite it too?"
"Mmhmmm."
"Ok. I'll wait for you, baby."
Niall turned his face to you, and you kissed him. You could hear Harry groaning under his breath. Niall had to pull away when it became too much.
He leaned forward, pushing Harry's legs further down his back. You took hold of them and rubbed them.
Niall and Harry made out and Niall stroked Harry's cock.
"I think you guys should cum with your cocks together. What do you think?" you asked.
The men both moaned.
"Then, I'll clean you both up if you're good."
"Fuck," Harry said, pulling away from Niall's mouth. "Fuck, yes, Let's do it."
A few more thrusts and Niall pulled out. The men were cumming together. Niall grabbed both of their cocks in his hands and let the cum fall down them.
They both panted. Niall brought his hand up to Harry's mouth, and he sucked the cum off of it. After you pulled out of Niall, he flopped on the couch. You leaned down and licked both of them clean, not leaving a single drop.
"I'm spent, mate," Harry said.
"Me too," Niall said, trying to catch his breath.
"Aww, you guys are giving up?" you pouted, still standing there with the strap-on on.
"Please, baby. We're tired," Harry pouted.
"Aww. Ok," you took your strap-on off and crawled on top of him. You pecked kisses on his lips and Harry grabbed your butt, squeezing your cheeks.
"Thank you, baby. This was the best birthday gift ever," he said.
"You're welcome!" you smiled. "I picked Niall cause I knew him and he's handsome, but you lucked out with the big cock."
Harry looked over at Niall, who was staring at the both of you, smirking. "I think he tore me apart," Harry joked. You all laughed.
You looked over at Niall. "Would you want to do this again?"
He raised an eyebrow. "Would you want me to?"
You looked to Harry. He nodded. "I think Harry will mope if we don't."
Niall chuckled. "Hit me up whenever. I'm always down to do this again." He got up and found his clothes, somehow, somewhere.
"Wait, where are you going?" Harry asked, gently taking you off of him and standing up.
"I'm going to get out of your hair," he said. "But (Y/N), you have my number."
"So, you're just going to hit it and quit it?" Harry asked, putting his hands on his hips.
Niall now stood with just his pants on. "Well, I- I'm not sure."
"Stay," Harry said.
"Are you sure?" Niall asked.
"Positive," he nodded, looking to you.
You put a hand on Harry's back. "Harry always wants this big blowout breakfast for his birthday, and there's no way we can eat it all."
Harry smiled, kissing your forehead. "(Y/N) makes amazing chocolate chip pancakes."
"O-ok," Niall said.
"You don't have to, if you don't want to," Harry said quickly, but you could hear the disappointment in his voice.
"No. I want to. I just didn't expect it. I don't have anything..."
"I can give you some clothes," Harry said. "Or sleep naked. I don't care. I've seen it and fucked it all," he chuckled. "And we have extra toothbrushes and such."
"Whatever you need, we can run out and get you if we don't have it," you said.
Niall ran a hand through his hair. "Yeah, uh, ok." He blew out a breath. "This doesn't mean we're like a throuple or anything though, right? It's just sex?"
"It's whatever you want it to be, Niall. You did us a solid by doing this," you said.
He nodded. "Ok. Yeah. I'll stay."
"Perfect! Now, let's go shower." You grabbed their hands and headed to the bathroom to get unsticky from the night's activities.
You all laid in your bed, cuddled up together, and fell asleep quickly.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The morning of Harry's birthday, you left the men sleeping in the bed as you got up to blow up balloons and prep breakfast. You had slipped on an oversized shirt as you cooked, waiting for the men to get up.
As you plated the food, you made your way back to the bedroom. When you walked in the doorway, you found Niall in between Harry's legs sucking him off. Harry's head was thrown back, his eyes closed, his hands in Niall's hair.
You walked over to the door and caressed his face. He opened his eyes. "Baby," he swallowed.
"Happy birthday, my love," you smiled, leaning down to kiss him.
"Thank you," he said. "Fuck," he whispered. "Sorry. I meant to include you, but we got carried away."
You chuckled. "That's ok, baby. That's a nice way to wake up, huh?"
"Mhmmm," he moaned.
"Well, I'll let you two finish up in here and then when you're done, you can come and eat, ok?"
"Wait-."
"What?"
"Sit on my face, please," he said, grabbing you by the hips.
"Yeah?"
"Please."
"How can I say no on your birthday?" You climbed on top of Harry and sat on his face. You faced away from him and faced Niall.
"Fuck. Deepthroat him, Niall. Yesss. Look at that," you encouraged.
Niall hummed and winked at you. You all stayed quiet in sexual bliss. As Niall sped up, so did Harry's tongue. "Yes. Fuck. Right there, baby."
Harry's hips began to buck, signaling he was close. Niall reached down and played with his balls. You cupped your breasts in your hands, watching them. Biting your lip, you moaned out as your husband tasted your pussy.
Harry said something under you, and you think you heard "cumming."
He bucked up into Niall's mouth and came down his throat. He moaned deeply into your pussy.
Between the vibrations, his tongue, and the sight before you, your orgasm came quickly.
"Oh my God!" your legs shook and you came on Harry's face.
Niall sat up to watch you cum with a smile on his face. "Fuck. Beautiful," he whispered.
When your orgasm subsided, you sat forward on Harry's chest.
"Babe," he said, grabbing onto your hips.
"Shit, Harry. That was intense."
"You fucking squirted," he chuckled. "That was hot."
"Shit. Did I?"
"Yeah."
"Oh fuck. I need to taste this," Niall leaned down and made out with Harry. He then moved to licking your orgasm off of Harry's face.
You all sat back on the bed. "Well, good morning," you giggled.
"It is indeed," Niall said.
"This is the best birthday ever," Harry sighed.
You laughed. "Good. Now, come eat the breakfast I made for you before it gets cold."
"Second breakfast," he winked.
You rolled your eyes. "Come on. Both of you."
You all walked out to the kitchen in fucked out states. After you all ate breakfast, things got kind of quiet.
"I think it's time for me to go," Niall said. "I don't want to intrude any longer and I think if I cum anymore, I'll have to go to the emergency room."
You chuckled.
"Thanks for breakfast, (Y/N). Harry was right. Those pancakes are to die for," Niall smiled.
"You're welcome," you smiled. "And thank you for doing this. We really.... appreciate it. I don't know if that's the right word," you huffed.
Niall smirked and ran his hand through his hair. "I had a lot of fun. Call me if you ever want to do it again."
Harry nodded. "Thank you. Honestly. That was... yeah probably the best birthday gift ever."
Niall nodded. "I'm glad it was memorable." He went into the room to gather his clothes and things and you and Harry stood in the kitchen.
"Are you happy?" you asked, reaching over to take his hand.
"Babe, are you kidding? How are we ever going to top gifts from now on?" he said.
You laughed. "I know. I'm glad I picked him."
"Me too. He fucked us right, but was very considerate," Harry nodded.
"I agree."
Niall came back into the room and huffed. "Uh, Happy birthday, Harry. I'm going to head out."
"Thank you," Harry said.
You both walked him to the door and froze at the goodbye. "End it with a kiss?" Harry asked.
You and Niall both nodded. Niall kissed you first, just a little peck. Then, he kissed Harry a bit deeper. When he pulled away, he gave Harry's butt a swat. "Be sure to take a warm bath for your bum. I've been told it helps after all that."
Harry chuckled. "Good to know. Thank you."
Niall nodded and went to open the door. You hung on the side of it. "Hey, it was good to see you again."
"You too, (Y/N). And we didn't have to talk about science this time," Niall said.
You giggled. "We definitely explored it though."
"That we did."
"Listen, maybe in a couple of months, if we find out I'm pregnant, you could come back, as like a little reward for Harry?" you bit your lip.
Niall took in a deep breath and closed his eyes. "Fuck. Now, I'm going to be hard in my Uber."
You giggled. Harry moved in behind you. "Maybe I'll even let you fuck her. Anal or something," Harry added.
"Fuck," he cursed again. "You two are devils," he said.
You both laughed and winked at him as he walked out the door. You closed the door and leaned against it, sighing.
Harry looked at you and captured you in a kiss. "Best fucking wife ever," he said. "God. Gonna take proper care of you now." He scooped you up and walked you back to the bedroom. You shrieked and Harry did, indeed, take care of you, putting all of his attention on you.
Berlin!Harry x Girlfriend!Reader x German Sex Worker!Conner Storrie
Summary: "It had started as a tease, something small and suggestive to pull his attention away from the notebook in front of him, but knowing you, one touch had turned into two, which turned into you grinding against your hand, until you needed more."
A/N: This is a check-in for the Pleasing Yourself couple, a story I wrote when the pleasing vibrator came out. Read HERE <- if you're curious where they started!! This is also kind of request. Sorry it took so long. Hope you love it ANON!!!
Also, shout-out to @zclhes for graciously walking me through a quick lesson in German. Your patience is beautiful!! And to the anon who also helped you rock!!
Word Count: 11.2k 🤭
Warning: SMUT HEAVY w/some plot!!!
Threesome-> in order of how it plays out in the story:
—>MxF—>MxFxM—>MxM(blowjob)
So really, the whole conversation started while Harry was working your slick, sticky fingers in and out of his mouth. You had just been buried knuckle-deep inside yourself, and already his tongue was pressing into your wet fingers. Hell, your legs had barely closed before he was claiming what he wanted.
It had started as a tease, something small and suggestive to pull his attention away from the notebook in front of him, but knowing you, one touch had turned into two, which turned into you grinding against your hand, until you needed more. Then your fingers were inside, gliding slick against the spots that made your toes curl. Before long, you were coming, calling out his name on a breathless moan, and when you opened your eyes, his jaw was slack, eyes watching you.
Of course, you weren't new to this. You had put on plenty of shows for him, had learned your angles, knew which ones would make his eyes go dark and his pen drop. This was far from your first time of pleasing yourself—always ready to fall apart for him, no matter what form or shape that came in—and sitting on the edge of the bed now, watching the way he worked his mouth around your fingers, trying to taste every last second of it, you knew it would definitely not be your last.
You guys had been in Berlin for the past few months, diligently searching for inspo for Harry’s new album. With each passing day, Harry sank deeper into the workflow, but this time, things were different. Harry wanted to put himself in the clutches of life’s hands, letting every experience unfold as authentically as possible for someone like him. He wanted to feel everything he laid down on every track. He wanted to live each moment until they felt true to who he was, to what he wanted to bring to the table after all this time away—
“Mmm… babe. The way you’re working your tongue against my fingers is turning me on all over again,” you told him, looking down at him on his knees, feeling the vibration of his pleased hum vibrate to the bones of your fingers.
He rolled his tongue over your fingers again, massaging the smooth underside, then dragged it back up the length of your fingers. You closed your eyes, focusing on the bumpy texture of his velvety tongue as it worked you in and out of his mouth. “Do you think you could take them deeper? Yeah—just like that… so good with that tongue—the way you’re taking me.”
His hand was on your wrist, in complete control of every movement, pushing your fingers deeper and deeper. He had been warming up, nearly taking you all the way back. “Fuck—baby. I bet you would be good at giving head. I can imagine it now—a nice, yummy cock in that perfect mouth of yours—” His gaze widened, smiling with his eyes before it reached his mouth as he gasped with a laugh, gagging slightly when the tips of your fingers snagged the back of his throat.
He pulled your fingers from his mouth with a smirk, “What, really? Does that turn you on?” He laughed again, his lips glistening in the dim glow of the bedside lamp as he brought his thumb up to wipe away the spit gathering there. “You think I’d be good at it because I’m sucking your fingers? I’m just trying to get every drop of you I can. Can’t let anything go to waste.”
“Well—yes, and that for sure is turning me on. I’m standing by my statement, though. I’ve given plenty of blowjobs to have a say.” You answered with a playful laugh, and he silently nodded in agreement, brows lifting like he was recalling every single one. “I mean—I’ve definitely practiced with my fingers before—you know, those curious pre-blowjob days—”
“Yeah—But with your fingers?” he asked. “I pictured girls using, like, bananas or something—”
You sat up then, loving where this conversation was heading. “Well, yes—bananas, cucumbers—”
“So—anything shaped like a dick, I’m guessing…” he finished for you, interrupting your list, which you were more than happy to come clean about, because that was definitely a little object-fetish phase, but now you could chalk it up to curiosity. But in all honesty, that craving had never gone away—it’s just that now your objects were a little more sophisticated and costly, compared to the clean end of your brush handle in the desperate, inconspicuous exploratory days of your youth.
He cleared his throat, sitting back on his heels. “I would do it,” he said simply, hands resting on the tops of his bare thighs. “Maybe we can make a night of it. We don’t really have any plans this weekend… How serious are you feeling about this?
“Babe—what kind of question is that? When am I not serious about having a little fun?”
He smiled, then came up to his knees again, planting a hand on either side of your thighs, waiting for your answer. “I’m serious, but are you serious?” You added.
You parted your legs, making more room for him, wanting him closer. “Oh, I’m completely serious, my love.” And you could tell by the way his eyes dropped from your face to your bare pussy, still wet and glistening before him, that he would have given you anything you asked for. “Give me some time, and I’ll have everything planned out for us.” His voice was low and certain, serious in the way you knew he would keep his word. “Want to do this right.”
Then he was moving, pushing you back onto the bed with one hand while shoving his running shorts down with the other. His cock was already hard and hungry for you. Then he was fucking you deep, his thick dick effortlessly sliding past your slick entrance, moving until each stroke was unrelenting, until your voice was breaking into a desperate, slur of nonsense as your nails raked down his back and he was wringing every last coherent thought from your fucking brain.
That had been Monday. Now it was Saturday night, and true to his word, Harry had you in a private car, pussy throbbing while your mind was running wild with everything he might have planned. You knew him well enough to know he wouldn’t half-ass it—the setting, the privacy—you knew every last detail would be accounted for. Still, he hadn’t told you a thing beyond the words, “you’re going to get what you want, just wait, love.” The car slowed to a stop in a dark alleyway somewhere on the outskirts of Berlin, and when you looked over at him, the corner of his mouth was already pulling into a grin.
“Listen, love, before we go in there, I want you to know that whatever you want—it’s yours, okay…” he started, and god, you loved this part. This was the thing that made you so willing to lay every filthy, curious thought at his feet—because he got it. He understood you.
Because in the chaos of it all, your trust in each other was unwavering. These little check-ins had always been a sense of foreplay, his consensual words working you up before he even laid a single hand on you. Your pussy was already clenching just listening to him talk, slow and sure like he had all the time in the world. You already knew everything he was going to say. You had heard it before. But you weren’t about to cut him off. You needed to hear it. Needed the warmth of it settling over you like honey before he was tearing you apart.
“You know we can stop at any time, and if you just want it to be us, that’s fine too. I’m feeling open to anything right now. That’s where my mind is at, and if that changes, I promise I’ll let you know. Just know there’s no shame or guilt in whatever you want to explore tonight, yeah?”
Excitement was coursing through you, your heart hammering so loud you could feel it in your throat. You were feeling everything all at once—the nerves, the anticipation, the want—but mostly when you got like this, you just wanted to come. “I’m open to pretty much everything,” you started, “except I don’t want anyone else’s dick inside me. Just you. I know we talked about DP a few times, but I don’t think I’m feeling that tonight—what we talked about the other day is more than enough. I’m already so horny, babe.”
“Good—whatever you want.” His hand slid to your thigh as he said it, digging into your plush flesh and squeezing. When he leaned in and kissed you, it was slow, lingering just long enough to make your breath catch as your body canted toward him.
Then he pulled back just barely, his forehead tipping toward yours. “And if you change your mind about anything, just say the words. I’m game for all of it.”
His thumb was drawing small circles against your skin, already making you spread your legs, knowing he could easily reach his hand under the short hem of your dress. That’s when he leaned back enough to look at you, something dark and wanting sitting behind his eyes. “By the way—” he said, pressing another kiss to your lips, “you really know how to feed a man’s ego.”
A breathy laugh ghosted over his lips as you returned the kiss, your hand sliding down his stomach before he could think to stop you, fingers curling at the button of his jeans. “Baby,” you whined against his mouth, “it’s more for me than for you, trust me. I’m selfish with that cock. It’s mine. I’m greedy—” Before you could work the button loose, his hand closed over yours gently, drawing it up to his mouth with a low throaty groan, and pressed your knuckles to his lips instead.
“Not yet,” he said quietly, and the way he said it, patient, like he was already on the edge, was making it worse.
You watched his pupils widen as his lips pushed into your skin, feeling his hot breath as he exhaled slowly. “Side note—real fast,” you said, trying not to fumble over your words. Because when he looked at you like that, it made you fucking stupid.
As he pulled back to reach for the door handle, he let go of your hand, and you shifted toward him, your conversation not missing a beat even though you knew it was time. “So if we ever do DP—like we’ll do DP for sure—But let’s just use the toy you made me. It’s the perfect replica. That seems completely kosher—don’t you think?”
“Such a greedy girl,” he taunted in a low voice as he slid out first and turned back to offer you his hand. The driver was already holding the door open, eyes politely fixed ahead, and Harry’s hand found your waist as you stepped out, steadying you—or that’s how he wanted it to look.
A breeze caught the hem of your dress the moment your feet hit the pavement, and his free hand moved fast, smoothing the fabric back down with an intuitive ease. Except his palm didn’t quite leave after. It lingered, curved just enough to cup your ass, his hand warm, squeezing hard, and then it was gone before anyone could notice. He tucked you against his side and leaned down close to your ear. “Good thing I packed it before Berlin. I love when one of me isn’t enough—more for the both of us that way.”
As you drew back to look him in the eye, he said, “You know how I get when I’m greedy,” only loud enough for you to hear. Just as you were about to speak, the back door swung open, casting a golden light across the ground near your feet. “Still okay?” Harry asked, grabbing your hand as the driver shut the door behind you.
“Yeah—more than okay. I’m so ready,” you told him, and you meant every word, even though you didn’t know what you were walking into. Because Harry had that look—the one that told you everything and nothing at all—and your stomach flipped as the thrill of it shot up your spine.
Before you stepped through the door, he reached into his back pocket, pulled out a matte-black card with no markings, and handed it to the man waiting without a word. Then you guys stepped through the ominous door, and as soon as it shut, the silent man closed it behind you without another pause.
The hallway was dim and quiet, still not giving anything away. Silent, Harry’s hand settled at the small of your back as you both watched the man turn a key in a heavy metal door, locking you both in. At the end of the corridor was another door; you didn’t know what was waiting on the other side. But you didn’t ask. You just went with him.
After a series of doors and hallways, and one elevator ride to the top of whatever building you were in, the doors opened to a bright white corridor, and you had to squint against the harsh light reflecting off the clinical wash of the walls.
Right before you stepped out, Harry caught your eye and leaned in close. “I’ve already checked everything out,” he rasped. “This is a legitimate business.” Which, in that moment, was either really reassuring or the least reassuring thing he could have said, depending on how you looked at it. But you stepped out anyway, falling back into step behind the man who still hadn’t spoken a single word since he collected you downstairs.
Every door you passed looked the same, except for the simple number hand-painted on each one. When he stopped in front of door ‘605,’ you squeezed Harry’s hand, your thighs clenching as adrenaline surged through you, knowing this was it. The man flashed the matte black card above the handle, and you grabbed onto Harry’s arm, pressing your nose into his bicep and breathing in his scent to calm the nerves fluttering in your belly as the door sounded with a loud beep.
“Baby…” you breathed, tugging gently at his arm, and his ear moved to your mouth. “I don’t think I’m going to last long…” You told him as the man reached for the door handle and turned. Your eyes flicked from Harry’s to the door, watching it click open with a creak.
Harry smiled down at you, “Good, babe, because you won’t have to—promise,” he reassured you, turning away.
“Thank you,” Harry told the man, already moving toward the door. The man nodded once, then stepped away, and you held onto Harry’s arm tighter as he led you into the dim room.
“Go find the bed. I’ll take care of this part,” Harry forced into your ear as he pulled you past him, grabbing your ass as he pushed you further into the room.
It was definitely a suite, a luxury hotel room with all the bells and whistles, but you didn’t linger on the details. You went straight through the French doors into a bedroom and started taking off your clothes. You knew you weren’t going to be shy about this. You had been thinking about this moment since it left your mouth, and now that he was delivering, you weren’t going to waste any time.
Your dress was over your head before you were even through the doors, your bra unhooked and gone seconds later. You were already wet—had been since the car, if you were being honest. By the time your panties hit the floor, you could feel how slick your inner thighs were, your clit throbbing with a dull, insistent ache that had been building all night, and your body was officially running out of patience.
You kicked your underwear aside and climbed onto the bed, single-mindedly moving to relieve the growing tension. “Wow, love, not wasting a moment, are we?” Harry said from somewhere behind you, amusement lacing through his tone, sending a fresh pulse straight between your legs. You smiled and kept going, because you knew he could catch up.
“Are you wet for me already, love? Think I could get a little dip between those thighs before you put me to work?”
As you turned and sank back against the pillows, Harry was already out of his shirt, moving with the same momentum as you had. You watched his abs shift and flex as he unbuttoned his pants, then hooked his thumbs into the waist of both his jeans and boxers and brought them down together, making your mouth go dry.
He was already hard as his cock sprang free, and he took himself in hand, dragging his grip slowly from base to tip, licking his lips as his eyes moved over you. That was all you needed. Then your hand was sliding down your body, to your pussy, and you spread your legs wider, granting him a better view.
He smiled, eyes fixed on your hand as you smoothed your fingers along your slick slit. But you were watching too, eyes trained on his hand as he kicked his jeans toward the pile you created, then started for the bed. “Fuck—baby—you’re so fucking hot when you’re needy for me like this,” you said as your gaze followed his to your fingers. You were moving slow circles on your clit, getting yourself ready for him, and you smoothed your wetness through your folds, more than ready for his cock to fill your greedy pussy up.
“Who’s the needy one here?” He paused on the bed, dick swinging as he came up to his knees, grabbed hold of his hard cock, and stroked down the length slower this time. “I could see your pussy glistening from over there, love. I think you might be the needy one.”
“Harry, shut up—right now, all I need is for you to shove that big cock inside me before I make myself come without you,” you demanded, reaching for his arm. He followed with a laugh, as both of you crashed back into the pillows when he lost his balance.
He pushed himself up on one arm, moving in to press a sweet kiss to your lips. With his other hand, he grabbed hold of his dick, while you adjusted under him. This was another thing you liked most about your relationship—that you were always this horny for each other. As he lined his cock up with your entrance, you spread your legs enough to give him room. When you felt his head graze your threshold, you looked up with a gasp, the two of you smiling from ear to ear.
Without warning, he was pushing in, forcing a loud whimper past your lips as he stretched you open. In seconds, he was burying himself to the fucking hilt with one solid thrust, his thick cock pulsing when he paused, letting you adjust. “Oh my god—Harry—fuck— that’s already so good.”
“God—so good,” he parroted, his mouth falling to your neck. “I’m so turned on right now. I might need a second—think I could come just like this.”
As you shifted your hips, adjusting your angle, he groaned against your skin, his lips peppering kisses up your neck. “Maybe—” you breathed through a nerve of ecstasy, “we just get the first round over—” you suggested, tilting your hips with a slow rock as the quick burn of his first thrust ebbed into the sweet delight of that familiar pleasure you had known for years.
“Wait—baby.” Harry forced with a groan, breath catching, “Maybe we shouldn’t jump the gun. Maybe we should just bring him in. It might make for a better orgasm.”
Without stilling your movements to tease, you asked, “Do you think so?”
“Yeah—” he said with a small thrust, and you both moaned with a laugh. When you nodded your head, he nodded back and pulled out with a wet gush, and you cupped a hand over your mouth, stifling any further sound.
Harry’s forehead dropped to yours, letting out a hard breath as his mouth moved to your temple, pressing a kiss to your dampening hair. “Fuck—I just almost came—that was close. Should I call for him?” he questioned, pulling back to see your face.
When you smiled up at him, teeth sinking into your bottom lip, and nodded, that was answer enough. He climbed off you and reached for the phone on the bedside table. For a long moment, it was silent. Then Harry said, “This is room 605. We’re ready for him,” and then he hung up. The whole call was ominous yet thrilling, making your pussy ache to be filled again.
To kill time, you both made out, your bodies pressing together as the tension built, both of you buzzing with the same anticipation. It was sexy, the sexiest thing you guys had done in a long time. It’s not like you guys did this a lot or even wanted to. But on this trip, you had been giving in to the curiosity more, an “anything goes” kind of energy.
When you first got to Berlin, you had brought a girl back to the hotel one night, both of you rolling your asses off on x. It had been more your idea than his. It kind of threw you when Harry decided to watch more than “touch,” which turned out to be its own kind of thing entirely. There was no ownership placed in those moments—you had been entirely free to explore. At times, there were even moments when you found yourself completely lost, in your own world somewhere, without a single tether.
Then you would find his eyes, and there was something about the way he looked at you when you were falling apart under someone else’s hands that you hadn’t been able to stop thinking about since, as if you were the greatest gift brought to this fucking earth. That’s what you wanted to give him in return—to be completely and utterly the man he wanted to be at his core, with or without you.
These were the thoughts running through your mind when two knocks sounded from the other room. You both paused with a gasping laugh, caught up in something Harry had said between your last kiss. “I’ll be right back,” he said, already climbing for the edge of the bed. On the bathroom door, there were two silk robes, and when you saw Harry moving toward them, you followed.
“You’re going to freak when you see how hot this guy is…” he told you, handing you one, then shimmying into the other and tying it loosely around his waist, just tight enough to hold, the fabric slightly tenting where his cock was still semi-hard.
Feeling antsy, you suddenly slid into the sleek material as quickly as Harry, then sat at the edge of the bed with your hands folded in your lap, taking in the gorgeous details of the room for the first time. It wasn’t until you heard the door open and the low timber of Harry’s voice carry that you actually felt yourself getting genuinely nervous, or maybe it was because you had to pee. “My love—” Harry called out.
As he came into view, the man was still a shadowy figure behind him, and Harry said, “This is Conner.” Then you saw him, eyes going wide at the sight of him, “Conner, this is my lovely partner in crime…” Harry continued, and you silently lifted your hand and waved, suddenly tongue-tied.
Harry laughed as he walked over to the bed and grabbed your hand. “See, I told you. You have that look on your face. He’s hot, right?”
For a second, you didn’t know what to make of any of it, but when Conner’s mouth tilted, eyes roaming down your body, all you could say was, “Definitely,” your own eyes surveying him from top to bottom. He looked like a movie star. Someone you pictured on a screen somewhere, not in a brothel somewhere in Berlin, if that’s what this was. Harry had outdone himself, and you laughed as you went in to shake his hand.
“I didn’t picture you picking someone so pretty,” you added, your words intended for Harry, but your eyes were still fixed on Connor.
Connor flashed you a full smile, seeming just as taken with you both, his eyes not afraid to wander from you to Harry. The chemistry was already building when you saw how excited Harry was. He seemed loose, with not an ounce of nervousness, and as Connor gently dropped your hand, Harry moved behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist. You tilted your head to give him access to your neck, but didn’t let him linger for long. When you moved away, you left the two of them facing each other. Then you said, “I’m going to freshen up in the bathroom, and maybe you guys can set whatever mood you want or whatever. Just pretend I’m not here.”
Harry sent you a soft smile, nodding, the two of them moving closer, and you turned away, heading for the bathroom. You had barely made it to the door when fingers wrapped around your wrist, gently tugging to get your attention.
“Hey.” Harry whispered, mouth moving to your ear, “You still okay?”
You smiled, glancing back at him. “Yeah,” you assured him, meaning it. “I’m good. I’ll be back soon.”
He held your gaze for a brief second, searching your eyes to see if there was any doubt, then let go, pressing a kiss to your temple, breathing the words, “I love you” into your hairline.
The bathroom was smaller than you had pictured, but the tub was decent. You used the toilet, washed your hands twice, then stared at yourself in the mirror, searching for any hint of a question, though you knew you felt none. After a while, music was bleeding through the door—an easy tempo that could fit any rhythm of movement. As you pressed your ear to the door, the sharp pop of a champagne cork sounded, making you flinch.
You were stalling, wasting time trying to make out voices, but you couldn’t get much. Just the low hum of the song and the occasional shuffle of movement. Before long, you were counting the tiles on the floor, walking back and forth in front of the mirror, wishing you had brought some Chapstick or anything at all. When the music cut out, and the room went quiet, you figured that was probably your cue.
Timidly, you eased the door open and slipped back in. Conner was stretched out on the bed in his robe, looking completely unbothered, like this was nothing to him. Harry was over by the speaker, scrolling through his phone, swapping the song out for something else without so much as looking up. Neither of them made a thing of you walking back in, which somehow made it easier.
As you drifted closer to the bed, Conner swung his legs over the side, reaching for the bottle sweating in the ice bucket on the nightstand, and poured you a glass without being asked. When he handed it to you, his face was calm, stoic, all sharp angles like it should have been plastered on the cover of a magazine, and you giggled out a silly little, “Thank you,” then shook your head, feeling like an idiot. Your eyes darted to Harry, who was crawling onto the bed with his glass of champagne, totally chill, his arm bending behind his head as he relaxed into the pillow behind him.
By the time you guys were halfway through the third bottle, you had stopped yourself. The mood was shifting entirely, you could tell—everyone was loosening up, all smiles as the alcohol crept in. Harry and Conner had been making easy conversation from the start. At some point, you learned that Conner had been briefed, which made everything else that much easier, and as the conversation flowed, so did the sexy tension growing between all of you—
“Tell me—why Leon?” Conner asked, his thick accent only making him that much cuter. Harry looked to you, smiling big and easy, his bubbles kicking in, and you felt it too.
“I told him the safe word,” he told you, and you laughed, downing the rest of your drink you had been milking since the second bottle, then stood to set it on the nightstand.
Your eyes swept to Conner, whose gaze had moved to your bare shoulder, where the sleeve of your silk robe had slipped as you climbed back onto the bed. “Leon is a ‘70s porn star. Known for his big dick—” you started.
“One of the first pornos we ever watched together. We kind of went through a phase when we first started dating,” Harry added.
You watched Conner take Harry in, his gaze moving from his eyes to his lips, then down his body, landing on the champagne glass in his hand. “What made him special besides his big dick?” Then Conner’s eyes flitted back to Harry’s.
“The way he used it,” Harry told him, licking his lips, “The way he would fuck his costars so hard that they would scream his name, but sometimes when he was fucking them really good—and you could tell they were into it—when they yelled his name, it felt more like they were screaming ‘Mercy’ —not Leon even though his name kept falling from their mouth—”
“Granted, it was ‘70s porn, and everything always seemed over-dramatized, but you could tell they were all into it,” you told him, adding your own bit.
Conner’s eyes drifted from Harry’s mouth to your face. “And you have used it?” he asked, his accent thick, as he surveyed your body stretched across the foot of the bed.
“Yeah—a couple of times…” You answered with a wide grin, eyes moving to Harry, who was biting his lower lip—Conner’s curiosity was making you shy, but the look on Harry’s face was making you giddy.
The bed shifted, and Conner reached over to the sash of Harry’s robe and pulled it slowly until it opened enough to expose the butterfly tattoo at the center of his chest. You watched Harry’s dick jump slightly, and you swallowed hard at the sight of them, your clit pulsing with the thrill rising up your spine.
It was smooth, Conner’s nonchalance only adding to the effect of his casual pass, “I can watch?” he asked like a statement, an interrogative inversion error,but you knew exactly what he meant. You watched him drag a finger down Harry’s chest, parting the rest of his robe open. Harry was getting aroused, and as you watched his cock stir, inching taller, the silky fabric slipped down his sides, fully exposing him, bringing you to your knees slowly.
Harry’s legs were outstretched before him, his cock bouncing to life as Conner’s finger rested right in the middle of the trailing hair leading to his dick. He leaned in and kissed Harry then, catching him off guard slightly. But Harry was quick to lean into the kiss, the sight of them both making your heart pick up as saliva pulled in your mouth, throat suddenly dry as if you hadn’t had water for days as you watched Conner’s hand move to Harry’s face.
You undid your robe, then crawled forward toward Harry’s hard dick that was standing hard against his lower belly. Their kiss had picked up, and as you got closer, Conner’s hand dropped back down, halting you in place as it wrapped around Harry’s girth. Harry gasped, and you fell back on your heels, closer now, front row at a show you never thought you would witness. It was fucking hot, the way Conner’s hand grazed down the length of Harry’s cock with a taunting pace that had even you begging for more.
Your eyes moved to their mouth just in time to see Harry catch the swell of Conner’s bottom lip in his teeth. A groan drifted up from Conner’s throat, and you ran a finger over your lips, imagining the humming vibration Harry must have felt. As the pace of his hand picked up, you watched more intently, fingers teasing the tips of your hard nipples as you tried to restrain yourself from jutting forward to lick the bead of precum pulling at the tip of Harry’s cock. But then Conner’s hand swiped over the salty morsel, drawing a moan from Harry’s mouth, and you knew you needed to join in.
In a few short motions, your hands were on the tops of Harry’s thighs, stealing his focus as he broke the kiss. Their eyes were on you in seconds, Conner’s hand pausing in place. Harry reached for your arm, pulling enough to motion you forward, and you began to climb into his lap. As you moved up his body, Conner’s hand slipped away, and you nestled your slick pussy against the heated length of Harry’s hard cock, drawing a sharp breath as the weight of you settled against him.
You grabbed his face, catching his breath with your mouth as he exhaled. Your mouth crashed against his, his lips wet from Conner’s mouth, the taste washing over your tongue as soon as you trailed it across his swollen lips. You were already so turned on, hips dragging forward, your pulsing clit snagging on the meat of his rock-hard dick. You both moaned, the sound drifting up between you, as the heat of your breath warmed over your faces.
Again, your hips were moving, finding a rhythm that would have his dick soaked for you in no time, but you couldn’t be patient. You lifted, pressing your mouth hard to his as your hand reached between you and guided the head of his cock to your slick entrance, and pushed him in. This time, your moans were louder, echoing in the room around you. Slowly, you eased down his length, pulling back enough to see the plea in his eyes as you took your time.
When you hit the hilt, he sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth, and they sank into his bottom lip. This was dangerous, this look, the look he always gave when he was about to ruin you. As a grin spread across his beautiful face, without warning, his hands were reaching forward, grabbing hold of your hips hard and jerking you forward on his cock—the motion was sharp and mean, but sexy and just what you needed.
A harsh whimper left your mouth, and he did it again, abs flexing as he leaned up to suck the bud of your nipple into his mouth. “Fuck—” you bit out, trying to match his rhythm.
As you began to ride him, Harry fell back on the bed, letting you set your own pace. That’s when his eyes flicked to Conner’s, who was watching the glide of your hips on Harry’s cock. “Du stehst auf Große.…” Conner spoke with his German tongue, licking his lips, then his eyes flicked to you. “The size…” He continued.
“You like big things.”
“Yeah—my sexy Size Queen…” Harry added with a crooked grin, making you laugh. “…That’s what they’re saying these days.”
You shook your head, slowing as a surge of pleasure whipped down your spine. “Okay—old man…” You laughed out, “I would say—more like practiced… when I want something I take it…” And fuck, you barely got that last line out before you felt the crest of an orgasm begin to coil deep in your belly.
When you stopped, trying to take control of the wave threatening to hit, Harry said, “Take what you want then… I can feel you gripping me. Are you already close? Can feel you, love.”
You nodded, sucking in a sharp breath and holding it. He had that look in his eyes, that knowing look, like he knew that he could steal it if he wanted to, could rut his hips, and shove his juicy cock inside you deeper and take it. That would be all it took, and you would be falling forward, body shuddering while the walls of your pussy quivered with the orgasm that was so fucking close you were gritting your teeth.
For a long burning breath, you held his gaze, his smile growing wider by the second. He had you in a holding war, and you weren’t about to let him win. Just as your pussy began to grip tighter, a desperate wave inched up the base of your spine, and you popped off his dick with a wet, wicked pop of victory, stealing the breath from his lungs. As he gasped out, he reached for you, trying to pull you back onto him, but you were already too far from his grasp.
Conner laughed, and you pushed Harry back, reaching for the tie of Conner’s robe. The thick cotton was tenting, his dick trying to press through, turned on by what he was seeing. He helped, easing out of it before you could even ask. His body was hard, muscles thick and sculpted in a way that was entirely different from Harry’s. If you thought he was pretty before, fuck, he was fucking gorgeous now. The contrast of his milky skin and the dark moles that littered his body was breathtaking. He looked like a sculpture, like a fucking calvin cline model, every hard line cutting into his body, enticing not even you, but Harry, whose eyes were feasting just as heartily as you.
Harry was propped up on his elbows now, his breathing slowing after your shared burst of pleasure. “I want to watch you guys kiss,” Harry said with a smile, tilting his chin from you to Conner.
You drew in a silent breath, nodded, then started moving toward him. Conner followed the order, rising to his knees to meet you. “Is this good for you?” he asked as your bodies moved closer. You could feel the heat radiating from his body, feel the pulse of your curiosity throbbing between your thighs.
“Yeah…” you whispered, staring up into the misty sage green of his eyes. “This is good…”
At first, you were hesitant, your mouth moving timidly against his. It had been a long time since you kissed another man. It was different from the softness of a woman’s touch, the last lips you had kissed other than Harry’s. The energy was distinct in your mind. Where Harry was fluid, Conner felt solid and anchored in his masculine energy. It wasn’t good or bad, just different, a rhythm that hummed at the surface, one you were quickly catching up to.
When he groaned softly against your lips, he exhaled a slow, agitated breath into your mouth, like he was fighting back the urge to pick up the pace. Your hands were on his face, controlling the kiss. As you tilted into the kiss, your belly pressing against his, his teeth nipped your bottom lip, making you smile as he pressed forward slightly, your nipples peaking and grazing his body. The tips of his fingers were barely pressed to your skin; he was being polite, and now you wanted more.
Your hand moved to his wrist, guiding it to the curve of your hip, and when you pressed a knee closer, the dip in the mattress pushed him flush to your body. His dick was pressing into your lower belly, and you slung an arm around his shoulders to catch yourself from falling as you lost your balance. But he didn’t miss a step, and instead of breaking the kiss, both his hands grasped your ass and held you up, drawing you closer. The kiss was good, growing better by the second now that you two were finding your rhythm, his mouth becoming more and more familiar.
In the background, you felt Harry stirring, and felt the bed indenting behind you. Conner’s grip tightened on your ass, keeping you secure while Harry settled behind you. You reached for Conner’s jaw, cupping it as you deepened the kiss, and then Harry’s hands joined, grazing the sides of your ribs before hugging your waist. You realized what was happening just before it did—Harry wanted the three of you together, not in sequence but in a current, all hands and mouths in tandem, overlapping as you moved.
A hand—Harry’s—skimmed over your spine, pushing your body closer, your lips parting, giving Conner’s tongue the opportunity to press into your mouth, his hunger finally getting the best of him. You moaned, the sound stifled by his lips, and closed your eyes, feeling one of his hands move and slip beneath the spill of your hair, tilting your head back as the possession of both men took you. You were trying to imagine this from the outside, as a spectator, watching Harry give in wholeheartedly to something he had never really considered, but inside the vortex, the feeling was nothing short of narcotic as the slow of alcohol swept through you.
You reached behind you, blindly searching for Harry’s cock, and when you started stroking him, he gasped into your neck, biting and sucking the flesh of your skin between his teeth before licking. Conner’s mouth had moved, his tongue out and dragging across your collar bone as his hand slid down your body, pinching at your nipple, then drifted to your lower belly, whispering, “You’re wet—want to feel…”
Harry let out a breathy laugh against your cheek, your head resting in the crook of his shoulder. Your hand was still working his cock, his dick hard and pressing, smearing his wet precum across your ass cheek. You nodded, squeezing your eyes shut, body already trembling with the energy spilling into you. Their hands and mouths were ravenous, groping and biting, each new touch a shock of thrill thickening the pulse of your needy clit.
When you hadn’t answered right away, Conner’s hand had moved back up your body. Now his large palm was skimming broad and warm over your skin, gliding slowly down your side, grazing the convex of your hip where Harry’s fingers splayed, and then lower, settling in the pliant dip between your hip and thigh. The hush of his knuckles tracing your skin was setting your body on fire, thumb circling the sensitive inside like he was teasing each trembling muscle. His fingers feathered the crease, hovering, then taunted you further, giving you that patient anticipation that made the pit of your stomach feel bottomless.
But he didn’t just touch, he was mapping his route. His whole hand cupped you, pressed the heel against the bone as his index finger, long and sure, rested for one moment at the top of your slit, feeling the heat rise before dipping at a slow agonizing pace, parting your pussy lips. Your eyes opened as a high whimper filled your chest. Above you, Conner grinned, gaze flicking up to Harry’s, and then Harry kissed him hard, mouths open, their hunger evident in the way their tongues moved slick and wet above your head.
In the haze between them, Conner’s finger circled and pressed, his pace the perfect tempo to keep you gasping. At some point, your hand had moved away from Harry’s cock to Conner’s, soliciting a new wave of sounds filling the space. You were so turned on, your head spinning, all of your mouths everywhere. It was all a motion-blur of noise and breath—your eyes closing and opening to a new scene taking shape every time your vision sharpened into focus.
When Conner’s thick fingers slid past your entrance, you bucked your hips into the touch, voice cutting through the air. Harry’s mouth found Conner’s again, licking into him with no pause, then grabbed a fistful of his blonde hair and pulled him closer. Below, Conner was slowly working you open, gently at first, then with more pressure, pressing his fingers into you with more promise. Your grip tightened on his dick, the other blindly grasping for anything, but found Harry’s wrist, already feeling the ripple of your orgasm building right at the surface.
“God—fuck—wait—” you gasped, half-laughing on a dizzying wave of pleasure. As everyone stilled, you sucked in a sharp breath, dropping Conner’s cock to pull his hand away from your pussy. “I’m not ready to come yet… Let me watch you guys for a little bit,” you offered, sliding from the narrow space between their hard bodies and settling onto the pillows.
Harry and Conner stared at each other, something heated picking back up and taking shape in the air between them. You watched as Harry’s gaze darted downward, his attention snagging on Conner’s fingers, on the wetness glistening across the skin that had just been inside you. Harry’s tongue flicked over his lips, chest heaving with a wanting so primal you felt it flood the space between them. They both knew what the next move was. You saw Conner’s lips twitch, the corner turning upward, but it was Harry who finally broke the silence—
“Do you want to taste her?” he asked, voice low, the question as easy as asking—Do you want more champagne?
Conner nodded, body relaxed, his tight abs hardening as he took a breath. “Badly,” he said, unflinching, and that single word landed like a match about to strike a room full of gasoline.
For a second, they just looked at each other. Then, with a patient intensity, Conner knowingly brought his wet fingers to his own mouth, extending his tongue to catch the first taste. His eyes closed, lashes fluttering as he sucked the slickness from his fingertips, slowly drawing his fingers all the way back— tasting them as if he had never tasted anything more decadent. The sight of it made you shudder, the room suddenly spiraling with the mutual hunger as you brought your knees to your chest, making room for whatever was about to take way.
Harry watched every second. Then he inched forward, crowding into Conner’s space, a hand reaching for his waist to draw him closer as a silent question stormed between them. With his free hand, Harry reached for Conner’s hand, and Conner let him, unreadable except for the stoic way he held himself. In Harry’s hand, Conner’s fingers were still slick, still sticky, and for a moment, they just held eye contact, both so fucking turned on you could practically see the waves shimmering off their bodies. You watched Harry’s face soften, eyes half-lidded as he brought Conner’s hand up to his heart-shaped lips. Without another pause, his tongue darted out, an eager pink snake, lapping first at Conner’s knuckle. Then he closed his mouth over Conner’s fingers, and the sound Harry made—fuck, you wanted to bottle it, you wanted to crawl inside it.
He sucked in gradual licks at first, drawing in your taste from Conner’s hand, lazily lapping to make a show of it, lips plush and sucking, cheeks hollowing as he worked Conner’s fingers to the back of his throat. Your toes curled, the idea of your arousal being passed from man to man was short-circuiting your fucking brain—their mouths, their bodies. This was the only logical thought you needed in that moment; this was your new fucking gospel. Both of them seemed to feel it, the shared, greedy joy of savoring you together. Conner was barely breathing as Harry held his gaze unblinking, his wet fingers still in his mouth. Harry let his gaze flick to you, almost as if to say, “This is for you. Are you watching?”
You were, obviously. Your breathing was ragged, knees pulled up so your thighs mashed to your breasts, hands gripping your knees so tight you were almost cutting off your oxygen supply. As you watched Harry drag Conner’s fingers free, lips catching on the tips, a long string of saliva trailed with them, making your mouth run dry at the thought of catching it with your tongue. Harry leaned in and kissed Conner, their mouth greedy as they clashed and pressed together. One of Conner’s hands reached for Harry’s hard cock, then Harry reached for his. For a while, you watched as they jerked each other off, the two of them passing their labored breath back and forth as the sounds of their pleasure flooded the space.
Your hand had moved to your pussy, moving the wetness gathering up and down, not really trying to get off, just touching yourself enough to satiate the ache. When Harry pulled back, choking in a breath, stopping Conner’s hand, he turned to you, “Smear yourself on his cock, I’m ready to give you what you want.” You smiled as Conner crawled onto the bed next to you, and as he adjusted, his hard cock in his hand, you came up to your knees.
As he settled, Harry pulled you in for a quick kiss, whispering, “Just knowing you’re watching has me so fucking turned on…” You felt nervous, but also something about it made you feel sexy—his words only solidifying that no matter what the situation, you would always be safe.
When you looked back at Conner, he had an arm propped behind his head, the tips of his fingers lightly grazing the head of his dick, standing tall. He and Harry were close to the same size, both of them donning beautiful cocks that felt like a feast. You already knew you weren’t going to put his dick inside you, and as you climbed toward him, his teeth sank into his bottom lip, trying to suppress his smile. Behind you, Harry smacked your ass as you moved away, the sharp sound making you jump, and you licked your lips as the sting seared into your ass cheek.
You were going to rub your pussy all over Conner’s thick dick. You were going to straddle yourself over him, and press the warm, wet center of your cunt against him and ride. So that’s exactly what you did, your eyes never leaving his as you climbed on top of him. When you grabbed hold of his cock he groaned, shoving his other arm behind his head, your space free of his hands, his body at your full control. As you adjusted him beneath you, your clit settled against the center of his meaty length, and you knew this was going to be easy. You were so fucking wet, and when you slid forward to the tip, you closed your eyes, letting your head fall back as a small whine left your mouth.
You started slow, moving your hips with a cautious roll that made your clit catch and drag up the thick, velvet length of him, your own heat adding to the sensation, making your hollow pussy clench on nothing, already ready to come. Under you, Conner let out a long exhale, his pale stomach tensing and shading his abs in stripes of shadow, jaw ticking with the effort to keep his hands planted behind his head as you worked yourself against him. The head of his cock was pulsing under the weight of your slick pussy, luring each grind forward, each stroke getting him slicker than the last.
His gaze was fixed and direct, so intense that your tongue was numb from biting it, nerves sparking at the base of your skull, and you rocked forward, your wet folds split open and dragging from the thick base to the leaking tip and back again. There was a hunger in his eyes, a want, a need so thickset and constricted it made you want to put him in your mouth just to see if you could pull the noise you were craving to hear from his chest. You rutted forward again, and this time the head slipped just under your clit and caught just above your entrance, the friction so sharp your body curled in on itself, one hand planted on his chest for balance as the sensation spiked through you.
“Holy fuck—you’re going to make me come,” you blurted, the admission a little embarrassing, especially with Conner’s mouth smiling up at you, the edges of his lips wet and parted.
“For me, I hope you do,” he said, his low voice curling through you. “You’re even better than I imagined.”
Behind you, Harry’s hands had moved to your hips, thumbs pressed in like anchors, bracing you as you rubbed easy fluid streaks up and down Conner’s cock. Your clit was so engorged and sensitive that every forward pitch flashed across your vision, whiting out the room until only the heating sensation of his cock remained. You swayed back and forth, greedy for more, letting Conner’s shaft smash you and spread you, the glide so smooth it felt sinful to stop for even a second. The noise of your pussy filled the gaps of sound moving around you—wet and eager. Each lap of your cunt over his dick was being punctuated by a choked gasp from you or the low, gravelly “Fuck, that’s good,” from Conner beneath you.
You wanted to stay perched just like this forever, nerves shimmering, Conner’s abs flexing under your free hand, his cock pulsing and shiny as you glossed over him. But Harry’s grip was coaxing you faster, and because it felt so good, you found yourself giving in. Each grind down was getting harder, needier, your clit catching on every perfect groove and vein, until the ache coiling deep inside you broke from urgent to unbearable, like you were finally going to let yourself come.
You didn’t stop, though. It was becoming a test. This little game you and Conner were playing. You wanted to see his composure snap, wanted to see his face while you came. You wanted to know the exact shape his mouth would make, to see his pupils widen when your pussy bowed around him. So you ground down harder, pain and pleasure surging through your sore cunt, and that’s when you felt it, the head of his fat cock catching at your entrance, just the tip, just slightly, and then—oh fuck—then the tip was inside you.
It was just a breach, a hot nudge, but it was cleaving your fucking world in half. Conner’s fingers flew to your waist and clamped down, his body going rigid under you; Harry was there too, securing your shoulders, his chin hooked over your collar. When you looked up, Harry’s eyes were hungry and transfixed—watching as you opened yourself to the head of another man’s cock, two worlds colliding, making your world tilt, making your body clamp, every muscle going hot with the shock and thrill of it all.
“Fuck,” you gasped, your whole body arching up, every centimeter of sensation collapsing to that pinched edge where Conner’s cock was stretching your entrance. Yet you held yourself suspended there—just the head, just a whisper of intrusion, the rest of him hot and slick, pressing the length of your slit. You had said, out loud and with certainty, that you didn’t want anyone else inside you tonight, just wanted the game, the fun, the push and pull of everything else. And yet, here was your cunt squeezing around the blunt, beautiful head of Conner’s cock. That’s when you felt the pulse of surrender twitch through your thighs, a wicked contradiction of consent and want—the awareness of crossing the boundary of your own expectations made you seize, made you open up, made you want him deeper.
But you had the control, or at least enough of it, but you stayed straddled like that, taking only as much as you wanted, squeezing down in slow, testing pulses, your thighs gripping him like a vice. There was a strange transfer happening in the trust of letting him in, even the smallest part of him. You barely knew this man—yet here you were, giving up the most intimate, most private part of yourself to the strange bulge of him, letting his solid body stretch you, letting his hands squeeze you as you started to fuck yourself on the tip of his cock.
“Do you want it?” Conner breathed, his eyes wide, voice strangled, his accent burning with the need in his question.
You nodded, not trusting your mouth but feeling your body open wider as you rocked down again. Just the head. Just enough for your pussy to shudder with the stretch. You whimpered, the pressure needling every nerve, the feeling pure and electric, as Harry’s hands carved up your ribs, pinning your arms, and in the crossfire of their hands and mouths, you felt fully owned, fully held.
“Fuck, she’s so tight,” Conner slurred, and you watched Harry’s jaw clench with a strange edge of desire or excitement, a look you had never seen. His mouth moved to your ear, begging you to take it as Conner’s grip tightened. You took their praise as a dare and ground down again, letting more of Conner’s cock slip inside.
You braced yourself, unsure how much of him you really wanted to take as your pussy walls clenched tight, fighting to keep him out. You were still contemplating your choices, torn between the urge of him inside you and what you had told Harry earlier that night. But the animal in you wanted everything. When Harry’s mouth met your neck, his hands were encouraging you further, as Conner’s grip on your hips stilled you, and for a shuddering heartbeat, all three of you were hanging by a thread—then he was pulling down with a gentle but unyielding insistence. With the motion, his cock dove further, bringing with it a volcanic stretch, and your cunt opened, responding like it already belonged to him. For one sharp second, you flinched at the intrusion, the heat of him splitting you, as your vision starbursted into a thousand points of white.
You started to say his name, both their names, wanted to shout and sob, but all that came out was—shit and fuck—scrambling in a mess of pleasure. The stretch, the pressure, the relief of being filled—it was a mind-fuck, an all-consuming shock that was stealing your breath. It was so much. He was so much. Beneath you, he was groaning, the wet slap of his hips echoing as he bucked up, and you realized you were taking him all the way, every inch. You pressed down, spearing yourself on him, until your ass met the roughness of his pubic hair and your clit mashed hard against the firmness at the base.
You felt yourself contracting, milking him, your pussy so greedy it was still trying to drag him deeper. Your orgasm hit in seconds, sweeping through your body as the energy of their push and pull amplified the pleasure. It was a fucking supernova, exploding into the inside of your thighs and shooting up through your core, the contractions so strong you almost folded backward. You screamed, you were sure of it, but couldn’t hear anything besides the rush of blood swelling in your ears.
Crumpling forward, every muscle was spasming, ass still locked into the saddle of Conner’s hips, while your body arched up and every inch of you clamped around him in a series of relentless, heated aftershocks. It was more intense than you had even thought possible; you were wrung out and helpless, taking and giving in ways that felt completely new and unsteady.
When your chest finally collapsed flush to his body, the tension draining out like an open faucet, you whimpered and tried to pull away, but Conner’s hands kept you there, steady and safe, letting you ride out the last few spasms. You shuddered, a little whine leaking from your lips as you forced yourself upright, then reached a hand behind to feel for Harry—who was already there, fingertips tenderly tracing along your spine, then moving down to the seam where your body met Conner’s cock.
Conner’s length was pulsing inside you while Harry kissed you, his mouth hungry as his hands roamed. You broke away and popped off Conner’s dick, pulling a loaded moan from his mouth, his first real moan that night. When you looked down, his throbbing cock was glistening. Your eyes flitted to Harry, his mouth already parting, then his tongue came out and smoothed over his bottom lip. Without hesitation, he leaned forward, grabbing the base of Conner’s dick with the same hunger they had just had for your body.
His mouth dove, tongue coming out as he made contact, Conner’s dick sliding in his hand as he tried to maneuver it to his open mouth. Already his tongue was there, flicking over the angry-red tip, greedy not even for Conner’s taste but for everything you left behind. He licked and sucked, eyes half-lidded, lips shining before he even got them around the shaft. You watched the way his fist braced against the base, and how Conner’s cock, painted in your slick, throbbed against the hollow of Harry’s cheek on the first slow draw inside his mouth. There was no time wasted, no fear—Harry had taken the head, and all the mess you left smeared across his tongue in one filthy, wet gulp.
If you had thought watching them kiss was hot, this was heat beyond bearing. Harry nursed at the cockhead like he was going for a record, lips cinched, cheeks sinking with each suck, and when he pulled off, the shaft glistened even more. Harry’s hand was already stroking, finding a rhythm that had Conner curling up and resting his hands on Harry’s head while he gritted his teeth. You watched, slack-jawed and chest fluttering, as Harry owned Conner’s cock with a manic focus, like he had something to prove, like he had been thinking about tasting this one specific dick for a lifetime and now he had it. You knew he wasn’t going to let a single drop of you go to waste.
He was insatiable, yes, but there was adoration in the way his tongue swirled under the crown, collecting every bit of slick you had left behind, working the glans until the head shone pearly in the lamplight. His lips pressed tight, pulling at the shaft as if he could pump your wetness from every vein inside it. You stared, mesmerized, following the bob of his head and the play of muscles in his neck as he deep-throated, taking the cock in one messy slide and holding there. Every time his dick hit the back of his throat, his nose would bury in the dark blonde thatch at the base, his nostrils flaring as he breathed in the raw, animal tang of you and Conner mixing.
Harry never blinked, never faltered, every muscle in his jaw and throat flexing. Every sound he made was quiet and guttural, animalistic in the way his eyes found you. Each time the cockhead punched at the back of his throat, the noise was wet and messy, and every time, your mouth would fill with saliva. Conner had transformed in the pleasure, his hand now gripping the back of Harry’s head, tangling in the dark curls as he muttered something low, his English going out the window as his breathless German filled the space. His face was twisted, every muscle tight, as if he was pained. Every time Harry slowed, his eyes would flutter shut, Harry’s syrupy suck taking him under. Then they would open just to catch yours and hold it, like he wanted to let you see him fall apart for you.
You were so wet watching it that your thighs were sticky. It felt like you were living outside your own skin, every nerve ending strung tight and aching, like maybe if you came again, your own orgasm would just loop in the background, never quite fading but always right up against the edge. Harry’s hands were mirroring each other, Conner up on one elbow, watching. When Harry took him deep, the hand that was resting on his head pushed him deeper, Harry letting out a gasp but taking it. You thought he would suffocate him, the way Conner’s hips were slightly rutting up into his throat. It was the hottest thing you had ever seen, not even sure if you could get throat fucked like that yourself, but Harry was a fucking pro.
When Harry tapped out, Conner released him. Harry came up for a gasping breath, a hand still stroking, and he smirked. They were in their own world, and when Harry’s eyes cut to Conner, he nodded, then dove back down. This time, Conner didn’t hold back as they repeated the move, and you knew Conner was close, could tell by his surrender, the way he muttered, “fuck—” and fell back on the bed, eyes squeezing shut, letting the pleasure take him completely. Harry opened his mouth, tongue out to hollow out more space at the back of his throat. He moved his hands away, and both of Conner’s hands rested on his head. “I’m close—” Conner bit out, making Harry grunt, and Conner moaned again, the sound clipped short as he lifted his head to peek at Harry.
Chest heaving, his head fell back against the bed again, and he pushed Harry’s head back down, then bucked into his throat harder this time. Your hands were white-knuckling the blankets as a storm of emotion hit—terror and excitement—the wonder of everything happening all at once before your eyes, making your whole body go numb. Then Conner’s hips stuttered to a stop, pumping slightly as he came. All that filled the room was the grunting force of Conner’s orgasm, and the sharp inhale that Harry was dragging through his nose fast, and you watched his throat work as he swallowed the salty cum hitting the back of his throat.
As every muscle in Conner’s body tightened, you took him in, wishing you had dragged your tongue over every rigid plane of his sculpted body. When he released Harry this time, Harry’s eyes were wild, his animal drive still coming down as he wiped his mouth with his forearm, his gaze trained on you. That’s when you leaned forward and closed the distance between you and Harry, Conner below you both, as your mouths crashed together. His mouth was sloppy and wet, all of your tastes mixing. You licked across his mouth, then pushed it past his parting lips, moaning, ready to have his dick inside you again. That’s when you pulled back and said—
PLEASE WRITE CEORRY!! Maybe y/n is his personal assistant or secretary and he’s mean to everyone in the building expect her🥺
Ok let’s maybe see how this goes 👀👀 if you want me to continue, let me know
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———-
When you heard the name Harry Styles, there were a few emotions that would pass you by. Awe because of how successful he was. Lust, because undoubtably the man was one of the sexiest bachelors out there. Pictures of him and his famous stone cold face but handsome face covered news outlets when he went to charity events or galas. There was curiosity, because little was known about him. And then… fear.
He was scary. Intimidating. He wasn’t warm and fuzzy, he wasn’t one too mess with and he was known to fire at will. His employees knew that, and he theorized that perhaps that’s why he was so successful. There were minimal mistakes because, simply put, no one survived one too many mistakes. His face was cold and unmoving and he didn’t entertain fools. At his age and with his experience he learned to read people and ultimately, never give blind trust because it always led to someone being burned.
The people who worked for Harry knew boundaries right away. Knocking first and waiting for an answer. Waiting to be addressed. He wanted to be addressed as Mr.Styles and he never looked a hair out of place. Keeping eye contact with him was hard because it seemed like he looked into your soul. It wasn’t something that a lot of people could do.
That is, until Y/N entered.
The bubbly, sweet girl listened to the warnings. But she didn’t heed them. When she had been given a leg up by her father’s friend and got the role of assistant for him, she had been ecstatic. Of course there were the warnings that he barely kept assistants for a month. The horror stories had been how he fired someone for giving him his coffee at 8:15 instead of 8 on the dot. Or how he fired someone for their shirt being an obnoxious shade of pink. She merely scoffed, thinking that he was obviously an entitled man baby if he actually did those things.
Y/N burst into Harry’s life like a hurricane of color, chaos, and caramel coffee.
Her first day, she knocked and went right in without being addressed. His hackles raised as he was immediately angered, face raising to yell at whoever it was finger the fuck out, but he was interrupted far too quickly.
“Hello, Mr.Styles. I’m Y/N and I’m your assistant, I think we are going to get along very well. I know you usually have black coffee and one sugar but that’s a bit boring. I got you an iced caramel. It always perks me up, and the cup was cute.” She placed it in front of his shocked form, though his face was still stony.
Who was this girl? And who the hell did she think she was, flouncing into his office in her pretty dress and slightly chipped nail polish and the smell of lavender surrounding the air around her? Wirh bright eyes and slightly crooked smile that had him doing a double take?
It turned out, she turned out to be Y/N.
The girl he had an awful, juvenile, all encompassing, dirty, filthy and mushy crush on.
Harry was older than her. He was well educated and high up in the business field with the world at his fingertips, and yet he found himself dreaming about taking her hand into his and kissing her knuckles as he drove her places. He was pathetic. His bubbly assistant that often reminded him of fairies or princesses in those tall tales was the one to make him lose his grip, after working so hard for years and years to get himself to this place. He was the boss, this was his company for fucks sake! And he lets this bunny like woman walk all over him.
Y/N never really saw the attitude that Mr.Styles have to other people directed at herself. It was grumpy, sure. But he seemed… softer with her. He only scowled when she got into his personal space to fix his hair, never smacked her away or stepped out of the line of touch. He would nod and try any coffee concoction she would bring him, got used to her letting herself in after a warning knock, and never told her to shut up when she drabbles on about the new book she read or record she bought.
Harry was like… a puppy. Scary to some but to her, he let her see the glimpse of the true softy under it all. Especially that time where she had been in tears because she had ruined her favorite blouse with printer ink.
Harry had felt the most panic he had felt in a while when he had walked out to hear some sniffling. Her beautiful cream colored blouse she had just been going on about being proud of, covered in a deadly ink stain that wouldn’t possibly come out. He knew she had saved up for it. That she had been waiting for it. Her tears broke his damn heart, made him want to reach out and grab her cheeks, wipe them clean and buy her the blouse in every single color.
Instead he was somewhat reasonable.
He placed a hand on her back and handed her his black credit card.
“Go take some time n’buy a new one. Please. Don’t fight me on it, s’my fault for not warning you the machine wasn’t working properly today. Buy a few more if you’d like. I’d like to see at least a few hundred gone from the statement.” He spoke softly, though his voice was still gruff. Never had he done such an act in plain sight- his charity or good deeds were hidden. While he was actually a good person, people didn’t need to know the details. Theyd ask for hand outs, he dealt with it already.
Beautiful, sweet Y/N, however, bought his coffee on her own card despite his protests. She would research new food around them and grab him what she thinks he would like, 99.9% of the time nailing it right on the head. She was slightly abrasive to his normal taste, but he was a sucker for her. Had him wrapped around her resin ring clad fingers, just didn’t know it yet.
Summary: He's heard every vulnerable word you've written, but tonight Harry wants to hear the sounds you make when he's buried deep inside you, breaking every professional boundary in the process.
Warnings: fingering, oral (f!receiving), sex in a recording studio, surprise at the end
Word Count: 2,867
...
The overhead lights in the studio are dimmed to a warm amber glow, casting soft shadows across the dark woord panels and the endless tangle of cables snaking across the floor. It smells faintly of stale coffee from the half-empty mugs on the console and the cherry-scented candle you'd lit hours ago to cut through the recycled air.
It's just past two in the morning now. The rest of the team had trickled out one by one: engineers with families, producers citing early calls, mumbled goodnights and promises to pick it up tomorrow fading down the hallway until only the two of you remained.
Outside the thick soundproof glass, New York City flickers far below, indifferent to whatever is about to happen up here on the eighth floor.
You've been curled up in the corner of the couch for the last forty minutes, notebook balanced on your knees, pen tapping an absent rhythm against the page. The lyrics you scribbled earlier feel half-formed, vulnerable in a way that makes your stomach twist every time you reread them. This is only your third official session with Harry, but it already feels different from the polished, professional co-writes you've done with others. He has a way of... pulling things out of you.
Harry sits at the mixing board, one leg bouncing lightly, headphones pulled off one ear so he can hear you when you speak. His curls are messy; he's pushed them back more often than you can count. A simple white t-shirt stretches across his shoulders, the fabric soft and slightly worn, and a pair of loose beige sweatpants sits low on his hips. A silver cross necklace catches the dim lamplight whenever he moves.
He looks unfairly good for someone who's been in this room since noon.
You remember the first time you met Harry vividly. A sleek studio in Los Angeles much like this one, but brighter, full of people. You'd walked in clutching your laptop and a coffee that had gone cold, nerves buzzing under your skin. Harry had glanced up from his guitar, a dimpled smile on his face that somehow made the entire room feel smaller, and said, ''Heard your stuff on that Phoebe Bridgers track. It's good. Really good.''
From there it's been easy, surprisingly so.
Hours of trading melodies, him humming low in his throat while you scribble adjustments, the kind of creative back-and-forth that leaves you buzzing even after you get home. But lately the air between you has thickened. Lingering looks when one of you nails a line. His fingers brushing yours when he passes you the notebook. The way his voice drops a little when he praises something you write.
Tonight that tension feels heavier.
''Play it again,'' you say softly, setting your notebook aside.
Harry glances over his shoulder at you, green eyes catching the glow of the screen. A small smirk tugs at his lips. ''Bossy tonight, aren't we?''
You roll your eyes, but heat creeps up your neck anyway. ''It's past two a.m. and we're still stuck on the bridge. Play it.''
He chuckles and turns back to the board to hit play. The track fills the room, moody, atmospheric, the kind of late-night sound that quietens any restless thoughts. His voice is layered in, raspy and intimate, singing the lines you workshopped together earlier.
You get up and walk over, pushing your sleeves up to your elbows. You changed into something more comfortable hours ago: soft black lounge shorts and an oversized lilac sweater that slips off one shoulder.
Harry leans back in his chair as the song plays, one arm draped casually over the back. When you stop beside him, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from his body, he tilts his head to look up at you.
''See? Right there,'' he murmurs, pointing at the waveform. ''Your harmony on that last line... We should definitely keep that.''
Your heart stutters. You lean in a little to see the screen better, your arm brushing his. ''Yeah?''
''Mhm.'' His voice is quieter now. ''You've got this way of writing that gets under the skin.''
The song loops into the bridge again. The overhead lights cast shadows across his cheekbones and the stubble along his jaw, and his cologne, something earthy and expensive, lingers in the air like smoke.
You swallow. ''I started songwriting because I was shit at saying things out loud,'' you admit, the words slipping out before you can stop them. ''Still am, sometimes. Easier to hide behind metaphors and melodies.''
Harry's gaze lingers on your face, tracing the curve of your cheek, the way your lips part slightly. ''I get that.'' He reaches up slowly, almost absentmindedly, and tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His fingertips graze the shell of your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. ''That's why this works so well. Our partnership. You hear what I'm trying to say even when I don't quite know how to say it yet.''
The song plays on, but neither of you is really listening anymore. His hand lingers near your jaw for a second longer than necessary before dropping, but his eyes don't leave yours.
''You should sing it with me,'' he says, voice rougher. ''Just once. I want to hear how it sounds when we're both in it.''
You hesitate, pulse hammering. Being this close to him, alone, in the middle of the night, with the rest of the world shut out, feels dangerous. Thrilling. Like taking a step off the edge you won't be able to take back.
Harry stands up slowly, towering over you in the small space between the chair and the console. The movement brings your bodies nearly flush. You can see the faint freckles across his nose, the way his t-shirt clings to his chest with the slight sheen of studio warmth.
''Harry...'' you start, not sure if it's a warning or an invitation.
He tilts his head, that crooked smile returning, but challenging this time. ''C'mon, love. Just us. We sound so good together, don't we?''
You're not sure he's talking about the song anymore.
The tension snaps taut between you like a live wire. His hand comes up again, this time resting lightly at your waist, thumb brushing the sliver of skin where your sweater had ridden up. The touch burns.
You're both breathing a little heavier now, the low music still swirling around you, making the moment feel even more intimate. His eyes drop to your lips for a beat, then back up, dark and questioning.
Your back presses lightly against the edge of the mixing board as he steps closer, caging you in without fully trapping you. The heat of him, the scent of him, the way he's looking at you like he's been waiting for this exact second for weeks, it's overwhelming.
For one suspended heartbeat, you both hold your breath. Then Harry's other hand lands on your waist, fingers pressing into the soft give of your skin beneath the hem of your sweater, and he pulls you in.
His mouth meets yours like he's been starving for it. The kiss is slow at first, almost disbelieving. Warm lips, the faint scratch of stubble, the taste of black coffee and the gum he'd chewed hours earlier... But hunger quickly overtakes restraint. A low sound rumbles in his chest as you open for him, tongues sliding, breaths mingling hot and urgent.
Your back presses harder against the mixing console, the edge digging into your spine, yet all you feel is the solid heat of him crowding you, consuming you. You shouldn't, the thought flickers somewhere distant in your mind. You work together. This could ruin everything.
Still, you kiss him harder.
His hands roam. One slides up your back beneath the oversized sweater, palm warm and possessive against your bare skin, while the other cups the side of your neck, thumb stroking along your jaw as he tilts your head to deepen the kiss. You swallow the groan he lets out when your fingers twist into his curls, tugging lightly.
''Fuck, you've no idea how long I've wanted this,'' Harry murmurs against your lips, voice raspy and low. He nips at your bottom lip, then soothes it with his tongue. ''Every night in this room... watching you bite your pen when you're thinking, the way your voice gets all soft and shy when you propose something. Fuck. You drive me insane, love.''
His words send heat pooling low in your belly. You arch into him, feeling the hard line of his cock already pressing against your thigh through his sweatpants. The realization that you did this to him makes you dizzy.
Harry's mouth trails down your neck, sucking lightly at the sensitive spot just below your ear until your knees weaken. ''Tell me to stop,'' he breathes against your skin, even as his hand slips under your sweater to cup your breast, thumb circling your nipple. ''Tell me and I will.''
You don't. Instead you pull him closer, whispering, ''Don't you dare.''
A dark, satisfied sound leaves him. In one fluid motion he tugs your sweater over your head and drops it to the floor. Cool studio air kisses your skin, but his hands are everywhere, warm, slightly calloused from years of guitar strings, mapping every inch like he's memorizing you. He lifts you effortlessly onto the edge of the console, stepping between your spread thighs. The new angle lets him grind against you, slow and deliberate, the friction pulling a broken moan from your throat.
''God, listen to you,'' he groans, forehead pressed to yours. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide. ''You sound so pretty, baby.''
You reach down and palm him through the soft fabric of his sweatpants. He's thick, hot, already leaking. The way his hips jerk into your touch makes pride flare hot in your chest. Harry curses under his breath and captures your mouth again, kissing you deeply.
Clothes disappear in a haze. Your shorts and underwear are tugged down together. His t-shirt joins the growing pile on the rug. When he's finally bare, you can't help but stare: the ink covering his torso, the cut of his hips, the way his cock curves up heavy and flushed against his stomach. He's beautiful in the low amber and blue light, curls wild, lips kiss-swollen, chest rising and falling rapidly.
He drops to his knees.
The first swipe of his tongue through your folds rips a gasp from you. Harry hums in pleasure, the vibration shooting straight through your core. He eats you out like a man possessed, two thick fingers curling inside you, stroking that spot that makes your vision spark white.
One of your hands grips the edge of the console, the other fists his hair as your thighs tremble around his shoulders.
''That's it,'' he murmurs between your legs, voice muffled and filthy. ''Let me hear you. No one else is here, baby. Just us. Let it out.''
You come hard on his tongue, back arching, a broken cry echoing through the studio. He doesn't stop until you're shaking, oversensitive and gasping his name like a prayer.
When he rises, his chin glistens. The look in his eyes is almost feral. He kisses you again, letting you taste yourself on his tongue, and lines himself up at your entrance.
''Been thinking about this for weeks,'' he confesses, voice strained as he pushes in slowly, inch by thick inch. The stretch burns so good you forget how to breathe for a second. ''Wondering how tight you'd feel. How wet. Fuck, you're perfect.''
He bottoms out with a choked moan. For a moment you both stay still, foreheads pressed together, breathing each other in.
The weight of it all, colleagues, late night at the studio, crossing every professional boundary, only makes it feel that much hotter.
Then he starts to move. His deep, rolling thrusts drag against every sensitive spot inside you, the console creaking in protest beneath you. Your nails dig into his back, leaving red trails across the skin there.
Harry buries his face in your neck, sucking marks you'll have to hide tomorrow, whispering the dirtiest praise between thrusts.
''So fucking good for me... taking my cock like you were made for it... been so patient, haven't you, love?''
You wrap your legs around his waist, heels digging into his lower back, urging him deeper. Pleasure sparks with the new angle, and another orgasm builds fast and overwhelming. Harry feels it, reaches between you to circle your clit with his thumb, and you shatter again, clenching around him so tightly he curses, pace turning erratic.
''Where do you want me?'' he rasps, voice wrecked.
''Inside,'' you gasp. ''Please, Harry—''
He comes with a deep groan, hips stuttering as he spills inside you, face buried in your neck. ''Fuck, you're incredible,'' he mumbles into your skin. The two of you stay locked together, trembling, breathing hard.
Eventually Harry pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes soft and hazy. He presses a slow, tender kiss to your lips, then another to your forehead. Gentle fingers brush damp strands of hair from your face as he helps you down from the console on shaky legs. You both dress in quiet, sharing glances and small smiles, the kind that say more than either of you are ready to voice yet. The red light on the console is blinking, but in the haze of afterglow, neither of you notices.
You leave the studio together just before sunrise, his hand brushing yours in the hallway before you part ways into the cool NYC morning.
...
The next morning you walk back into the studio with a coffee in hand. Sleep had been restless, your body still carrying the memory of Harry's hands, his mouth, the way he had sounded falling apart inside you.
You're wearing a loose black turtleneck to hide the faint marks along your neck and a pair of wide-leg jeans, trying to look casual even though your heart races every time you think about last night.
A couple of the other engineers are already there, Marcus at the console and Lena lounging on the couch with her laptop. The room smells like fresh coffee and the same warm electronics as always, but everything feels different, charged, after what you did here.
''Morning,'' you greet, forcing your voice to sound normal as you drop into your usual spot on the couch.
''Morning,'' Marcus replies without looking up, already clicking through files. ''Harry's running a few minutes late. He texted he got stuck in traffic. Let's catch up on where you two left off last night. I'll pull up the latest draft so we can all be on the same page.''
The moody instrumental you and Harry had been perfecting fills the studio first. Atmospheric synths, the low thrum of bass, Harry's layered vocals on the verses you'd worked on together. It sounds good. Really good. For a few blissful seconds you almost relax.
Then the bridge hits. Instead of the clean harmony you'd been workshopping, the speakers fill with the unmistakable wet sounds of kissing. A low, needy moan, unmistakably yours, cuts through the track, followed by Harry's rough, breathless voice:
''Fuck, you've no idea how long I've wanted this...''
Your blood turns to ice. Heat floods your face so fast you feel dizzy. Lena coughs. Marcus freezes, finger hovering uselessly over the mouse.
The audio continues mercilessly. The wet slide of tongues. Your broken whimpers. The unmistakable creak of the console. Harry's filthy groan as he tells you how tight you feel, how perfect you are for him.
''Oh my god—'' you whisper, mortified.
The studio door swings open right as the sounds grow louder, Harry stepping in with his sunglasses still on and a half-eaten bagel in hand. He takes one look at everyone's faces, hears his own voice groaning ''That's it, let me hear you'' through the speakers, and his eyes widen.
In one chaotic movement he practically vaults over the mixing console, nearly knocking over a coffee cup as he slams his hand down on the spacebar to pause it.
''Jesus, okay, that's enough of that,'' he blurts, voice cracking slightly. He clears his throat, running a hand through his messy curls. ''That was... uh, a rough draft. I was messing around with some... backing vocal ideas. Got a bit experimental. Bad idea. Terrible, actually.''
The silence that follows is deafening.
Harry's gaze finally finds yours across the room. His cheeks are flushed, but there's something else in his eyes. A spark of heat, a secret smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. The same look he gave you last night right before he dropped to his knees.
You feel that same pull low in your belly. The forbidden thrill hasn't disappeared. If anything, it's more exciting now. You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling and simply raise an eyebrow at him, letting the shared secret hang thick in the air between you.
Harry coughs again, rubbing the back of his neck. ''Right. So... should we, uh, start from the top?''
...
thank you so much for reading! i appreciate any and all support so remember to like, comment and reblog. requests are open! 💕
cruising altitude (a sequel to ''cabin pressure'')
Summary: Professionalism takes a nosedive while mutual tension hits cruising altitude.
Warnings: teasing, fingering, oral (f!receiving), post-show sex, overstimulation, some degradation, slight praise kink, choking, dom!Harry, just generally really filthy honestly
A/N: ahhh it's finally here! i wanted it to be perfect for you guys. i've linked the first part of this in the title in case you missed it :) let me know if i've forgotten any warnings, i have a tendency for that, oops. hope it lives up to your expectations!
Word Count: 3,892
...
The Lisbon venue is buzzing with electricity. Crew members are scattered across the stage, marking spots, checking cables, adjusting lighting cues. You're sitting beside Harry in the nosebleed seats in the back of the stadium, clipboard in hand, walking him through the final pre-show rundown as he scopes out the venue before the show, but your mind is nowhere near the itinerary.
Not when he looks like that, black embroidered trousers clinging to his muscular thighs, sheer blouse half unbuttoned, showing off the tattooed swallows adorning his collarbone, hair a mess of curls from running his hands through them over and over again (much to the dismay of his hair stylist). And not when he hasn't stopped glancing at you with that look in his eyes all day.
Not long after your activities on the jet on the way here, the team had woken up to eat the (crappy) airline breakfast. You'd picked up the menu, and Harry had leaned over discreetly and lowly whispered in your ear something sinful. ''Gonna make you wait for it today.'' You hadn't realized he'd meant all day.
...
Soundcheck is unbearable. His voice is angelic, almost distracting you from the way he blatantly stares at you, undressing you with his eyes. His hands run up and down the microphone stand seemingly innocent, but you know better. It's sinful. You never thought you'd be jealous of an inanimate object, but here you are. Just terrific.
You're walking around the stage with Lloyd, showing him a few angles in which you'd like photos taken that'd be good for press. You catch the ghost of a smirk when Harry struts across the stage during Little Freak, mouthing, ''That's you, love.''
You barely make it to lunch.
The green room smells like him. Even before he arrives, there's something in the air, the vague presence of his warm cologne, expensive and woody, mixed with leather and citrus and a hint of vanilla. You take a seat, pretending to scroll through your phone, but really you're just breathing him in. It's stupid, you know. Pathetic. But he smells like comfort, like home.
You've worked with Harry long enough to know things about him no one else does. Not the fans. Not the press. Not the crew. You know that when he gets anxious before a show, he paces, not fast, but with a sort of steady rhythm, like he's trying to match his breathing to the beat of his footsteps. He rolls his shoulders four times before going on stage, left, right, left, right. Always in that exact order. It's not for posture, it's superstition. He never skips it.
You've seen him unravel in quiet ways. He doesn't talk about being homesick, but when he gets that faraway look in his eyes, you can tell he's thinking of his mum's kitchen, or the flower garden behind his childhood home. He's never mentioned it out loud, but you've noticed how he keeps a folded photo of his family tucked into a pocket inside his backpack. On the really hard days, with long travel, cancelled plans, and exhaustion written into the lines under his eyes, you've caught him pulling it out, just for a second. Just long enough to be able to breathe.
You know his habits like they're etched into you. The way he bites the inside of his cheek when he's overthinking. How he taps the edge of his rings against a table when he's bored, or how he hums under his breath when he's in a good mood, usually something old, something soulful. You know that he loves quiet mornings and hot tea with too much honey, that he hates waking up to alarms, and that he writes little ideas down on scraps of paper because the apps on his phone make him feel ''too digital.'' You've found those notes around the tour bus, crumpled and forgotten, full of half-finished songs and poetry that make your chest ache.
The media paints him in broad strokes: the rockstar, the fashion icon, the flirt. But you know the smaller, softer truths. The way he's careful with people's feelings. The way he listens, really listens, when someone talks to him. You've seen him sit backstage with a crying crew member, hand rubbing comforting circles on their back, voice low and soothing. You've seen him spend twenty minutes helping a lighting tech with a busted cable because he ''just likes to understand how things work.'' You've seen him come alive when the crowd sings his lyrics back to him, and dim a little when he walks off stage and the noise stops.
And you… you read him like no one else. You know when his smile is real and when it's a mask. You know when his laughter comes from his stomach and when it's just a polite response. You can tell when he's carrying something heavy he doesn't want to talk about. You see it in the slope of his shoulders, the way his fingers twitch against his thigh. You see it in the way he exhales, shallow and short instead of long and full. You see him, even when he doesn't want to be seen. Especially then.
That's what makes this complicated. The fact that you're not just his assistant or his friend or even his secret hook-up. You're the one who knows him. The real him. And even when he's in full showman mode, belting obscene lyrics, swinging his mic, thrusting into the air like sex personified, you can still feel the pulse beneath the surface. The tension in his hands. The flicker of something unspoken in his gaze. You catch it all. Every goddamn time.
And sometimes… when he looks at you across the room, when he smiles at you so brightly his dimples pop out, like there's an inside joke lingering in the air that only the two of you are in on, you wonder if maybe he knows you just as well.
...
Not much later, the long table is crowded with crew, conversations blending into a white noise you can't focus on. Harry slides into the seat next to you and rests his large palm on your thigh under the table. No one sees. He's careful, maddeningly so. His thumb lazily strokes slow circles… then dips between your legs.
You jolt, barely managing to cover it up by taking a quick sip of your water. He leans closer, face stoic like you're discussing stage cues.
''You're so warm,'' he murmurs. ''So wet. Poor thing.''
You try to breathe normally, try to keep your hand steady as you cut into your salad, but it's impossible when he's pressing two fingers against your panties, applying a gentle pressure. He doesn't slip beneath them, not yet. You've noticed he likes the build-up. The denial. He rubs slow, firm circles until your thighs tremble and your fork clatters against the plate.
''You gonna be a good girl and stay quiet, Y/N?'' he asks lowly, eyes zeroed in on your lips like it's taking everything in him not to kiss you right in front of the entire team.
You nod quickly, but it's humiliating how quickly your body betrays you. You can't focus on anything but his hand. His fingers move lower, dragging down the soaked cotton just enough to brush bare skin, making your breath hitch.
Then suddenly, he pulls away.
You're breathless. Empty.
''See you after the show,'' he says lightly, and he's gone before you can even protest.
...
The concert is torture.
He performs like a sin in velvet and glitter, hips rolling with obscene precision. You're near the wings with your headset on, pretending to be focused on the crew chatter, but every time he growls into the mic or grips it like you imagine he would your throat, you're subconsciously pressing your thighs together.
And he knows it. He glances over mid-set and catches your eye; it's not the usual glimmer of showmanship or crowd-charming sparkle, but that burn of intensity that he saves just for you, the same one he'd given you on the jet, and you know you're in for it tonight.
When the end of his set nears and the intro to Kiwi starts, he steps to the edge of the stage, curls clinging to his forehead, shirt clinging to his chest, and he pins you in place with a look that makes your knees buckle. It's not subtle. Not even close. His brows twitch just slightly as he sings the filthiest lines while making direct eye contact, daring you to keep watching.
The way he slinks across the stage, hips loose, shoulders rolling, one hand gripping the mic while the other runs through his hair, is pure sex. He throws his head back at the bridge like he's losing himself in it, and you know damn well it's calculated. Everything is. Every thrust of his hips, every stomp of his shoes, every teasing smirk. He doesn't just perform the song, he weaponizes it.
When the crowd enthusiastically douses him in water, he's soaked, his shirt clinging to his chest like a second skin, completely see-through, the fabric stretched tight across his torso. You can see the outlines of his abs, the ink swirling over his body, the faint rise and fall of his chest as he catches his breath between lines. His curls drip over his forehead, lips parted around heavy breaths. The crowd roars at the sight of him. He looks wild. Ferocious. And so fuckable.
He finishes the encore drenched in sweat and water, chest heaving, curls dripping on the floor. As soon as the lights drop and the crowd screams, he sprints off stage, straight to you.
You barely get a word out before he grips your wrist and drags you down the corridor.
The green room is empty now. Quiet. And as soon as the door shuts behind you, you're shoved back against it, mouth claimed in a rough, desperate kiss.
''You've been such a good girl today,'' he whispers against your lips, voice low, husky. ''Didn't even touch yourself, did you?''
You shake your head, breathless. ''No, Harry.''
''Need me that bad, don't you?''
Your knees nearly buckle when he grins. His teeth sink into your bottom lip, tugging on it lightly before releasing you with a low chuckle that makes your stomach flip.
His hand finds your throat, thumb brushing over your pulse as he walks you backwards toward the dressing table. Lights flicker in the mirror behind you, harsh, glowing, bathing you both in a golden haze.
''Get on the table,'' he orders softly. ''Hands behind you. Legs open.''
You scramble to obey, heart pounding, perching yourself on the cool marble with your knees separating for him. The air hits your thighs, making you shiver. The dress you'd chosen to wear this morning is modest enough to be professional and practical enough to allow you to move freely despite the heat here in Lisbon, but you've seen the way Harry has been eyeing your bare legs all day, and you'd be lying if you said that wasn't part of your motivation behind the choice of clothing. He steps between your legs, tongue flicking over his bottom lip like he's already tasting you in his mind.
''Look at yourself, Y/N,'' he says, hand returning to your throat. He presses, gently. Dominant. It's subtle enough to not be particularly constricting of your airflow yet, instead making you feel deliciously light-headed. ''Look how fucking desperate you are.''
His hand trails down your body and slides your dress up your thighs, before pushing your soaked panties to the side with two fingers, making a vulgar sound when he taps at your drenched slit.
''You've made a mess,'' he mutters. ''Think you need to be punished for it.''
He grips your thighs to push them further apart, then drops to his knees on the floor, deliberately slow, maintaining eye contact.
The first lick makes your vision go white.
You gasp, hands uselessly gripping the edge of the vanity as he devours you like a man starved. His tongue is ruthless, lapping, circling, sucking your clit until your knuckles turn white. He groans into you, the vibrations sending jolts of almost unbearable pleasure through your core.
''Keep your legs open,'' he growls. ''Or I'll tie them open for you.''
You nod, choking on a moan as his fingers push into you, two at once, rough and cruelly deep. He crooks them just right, licking your clit in sync with the the thrusts of his fingers, building your high up so fast you're panting his name like a prayer. The slick sounds, the obscene way he groans into you, it's filthy, raw, addictive.
''Fuck, Harry, please—''
''You don't come until I say.''
But it's too much.
His tongue flicks faster against your clit, his fingers drive deeper, and your orgasm slams into you before you can stop it. You cry out, thighs clenching around his head, but he doesn't relent. Doesn't even slow down until you're whining pathetically in overstimulation.
He smirks.
''Guess you do need to be punished.''
You're ruined. He keeps going.
He brings you to the edge again, fingers and tongue unrelenting, dragging every last sound out of your throat as he whispers filth against your core.
''You taste like heaven,'' he pants, pulling back for breath only to spit on your clit and start again. ''So fucking sweet, love. Gonna eat you every night if you keep being this good for me.''
Your thighs are twitching, your hand burying in his hair as he devours you, makes you cry into the curve of your elbow, desperate to stay quiet even as he eats you out mercilessly. Some of the curls on his forehead are soaked with your slick. You whine at the obsene sight.
He kisses the inside of your trembling thigh when he's finally done, lips soft and wet, the tendernes of it a stark contrast to what he was doing to you just seconds earlier.
''You ready, baby?'' he asks deceivingly sweet, grinning up at you.
You're still trembling on the dressing table, thighs sticky and shaking from orgasm after orgasm, when Harry rises to his feet. His lips are glossy, his cheeks flushed, and his pupils are blown wide with hunger. He doesn't give you time to catch your breath. Doesn't say a word.
The veins in his arms stand out as he yanks his shirt over his head, exposing every taut, glistening muscle. He's a fucking masterpiece. Cut from marble, bronzed by the sun, inked like a sinner.
You'd seen him shirtless before. Too many times, if you were honest with yourself. Quick, stolen seconds you weren't supposed to linger on. Like the time you'd walked into his dressing room door to update him on a last-minute setlist change and caught him mid-change, pants slung low and unbuttoned on his hips, chest bare and glistening with sweat from soundcheck.
Or worse, the time you'd passed the training room and caught a glimpse of him pulling himself out of an ice bath, water cascading down his body in rivulets, tracing every cut line of his abs, dripping from his tattoos like holy water. His muscles flexed with the effort, every inch of him flushed pink from the cold, breathing hard, eyes scrunched shut, and you'd had to physically force yourself to keep walking despite your knees feeling weak, to swallow the desperate little noise that almost escaped your throat.
But back then, you were just his assistant. Invisible. Untouchable. You'd trained yourself to look away, to keep your hands steady, even when all you wanted was to touch him, to trace the ink of the ferns hung low on his hips, to kiss the sparrows perched beneath his collarbones, to worship the body you weren't allowed to want.
Now, with his abs flexing, chest heaving, water from the show still dripping down the delicate black lines of his tattoos, he's standing right here in front of you, looking at you like he's starved for you, and you don't have to pretend anymore.
You don't even realize you're reaching for him until he catches your wrists midair and pins them behind your back with one hand. His eyes flash with dominance.
''Desperate little thing,'' he murmurs, stepping between your spread thighs again. ''Already wrecked and you're still begging for it.''
''I need you,'' you beg softly, your voice hoarse from moaning. ''Please, Harry. Need all of you.''
His free hand undoes his belt with one quick, sharp snap.
''You're gonna take all of it,'' he growls as he shoves his pants and briefs down just far enough to free himself. ''Every inch. Keep your hands behind you, or I'll tie them.''
You nod frantically, mouth watering at the sight of him. He's thick, heavy, flushed an angry red at the tip, veins running up the shaft. Your walls flutter in anticipation when you glance down, wide-eyed, dazed. You can see the way he's leaking for you, how painfully hard he is, and you realize he's just as desperate for you as you are for him.
You used to think he held all the cards, that he was this larger-than-life figure who was unbothered while you struggled with wanting something you could never have. But now, pressed against his bare chest, feeling his heart pounding like a war drum against your skin, seeing the raw need etched into his face, you realize he's just as wrecked as you are. Every twitch of his aching cock, every shudder of his body, every ragged breath he takes, it's for you. It knocks something loose in your chest, a quiet, aching insecurity you hadn't even known you were carrying, because it's not just you losing control tonight. It's him, too. And he's not hiding it anymore.
When he strokes himself once and presses the head against your entrance, dragging it slow and teasing over your soaked folds, it jolts you out of your epiphany.
''You want this?''
''Yes, fuck, yes—''
He slams into you in one sharp thrust.
Your head falls back against the mirror with a loud thud, mouth open in a silent scream. He doesn't give you time to adjust, just grips your hips and fucks into you, deep and rough, his cock stretching you so good you can't think.
The table rattles violently with every ruthless snap of his hips.
''Look at yourself,'' he pants, glancing down at where you're connected, where your slick coats his cock. ''So fucking wet for me. You hear that?''
You can. It's obscene, the sound of him driving into you, your soaked cunt sucking him back in every time he draws out.
He grabs your jaw, turning your head at an uncomfortable angle to face the mirror.
''Watch.''
It's filthy. Your mouth is parted, eyes dazed, tits bouncing with every thrust. You're a mess: smeared lipstick, flushed skin streaked with mascara stains, a few bite marks already blooming on your neck. He watches too, groaning at the sight.
''Fuckin' made for me,'' he grunts, one hand sliding up to wrap around your throat again, squeezing just hard enough to make you dizzy. ''You like this, don't you? Being fucked like a good little toy?''
''Yes, Harry, please, harder—''
He growls, snapping his hips faster, harder, sweat dripping down his temples. The sound of your skin slapping together echoes off the walls.
And then... he pulls out.
You gasp at the loss, the sudden emptiness, aching, clenching around nothing.
''Bend over the vanity,'' he commands.
You scramble off the table, barely steady on your legs. He manhandles you into position, pressing your face into the cool marble, your ass high in the air.
The mirror in front of you reflects it all, your ruined expression, the curve of your back, the dark look in his eyes as he slides back inside your cunt from behind.
He grabs your hips, surely leaving bruises, and starts to fuck you again, deep and punishing, every stroke angled perfectly to wreck you. You cry out, eyes fluttering shut as your body jolts forward with every harsh thrust.
''I could watch you like this forever,'' he grunts, snapping his hips. ''Split open and begging.''
One hand tangles in your hair, yanking your head back so you can see yourself in the mirror again. His other hand slides between your legs, rubbing ruthless circles over your clit. When you let out a choked moan, the hand in your hair moves to wrap around your throat again, pulling you back slightly so you're upright, your back against his chest. Your eyes meet in the mirror.
''You're mine now,'' he growls in your ear, voice gravelly and dark, his cock driving into you so deep you don't even realize you've been holding your breath. ''No one else gets to see you like this. No one else gets to touch you.''
''I'm yours,'' you cry, voice breaking. ''Only yours.''
''That's right, baby,'' he whispers. ''All fucking mine.''
He keeps driving into you, each thrust harder than the last, the sound of your skin slapping obscene.
''You gonna come for me again, Y/N?''
''Yes, yes, please, fuck, I'm gonna—''
He slams into you harder, biting down on your shoulder as your orgasm rips through you and you shatter around him with a scream, convulsing, clenching hard around his cock.
He works you through it, his thrusts growing sloppy before he spills inside you with a deep, guttural moan, heat flooding you as he buries his face in your neck, panting, hips jerking against your ass.
You're both silent for a long moment.
He stays buried inside you, hand stroking your thigh soothingly, lips pressing gentle kisses to your spine. His breaths come heavy and uneven against your skin, but even now, everything about his touch is so careful, so heartbreakingly loving. It's jarring, how gentle he is, after fucking you like that. But of course he is. It's Harry.
Your whimper softly.
Finally, he pulls out with a low, reluctant sound, hands steadying you as your legs threaten to give out. Without a word, he slowly spins you around, lifts you onto the dressing table, and presses his forehead against your shoulder. He clutches you like he needs you to breathe, like he's terrified you'll slip away if he lets go for even a second, one hand stroking lazy, tender patterns along your back.
''You good, love?'' he murmurs against your skin, voice hoarse but so, so sweet. ''Wasn't too much, was I? Tell me you're good.''
You hum your answer, too blissed out and overwhelmed to find the words, but he hears it anyway, feels it in the way you melt against him, your arms wrapping around his neck as you hold him closer. He presses a kiss to your shoulder, then another to your cheek, another to your jaw. Like he can't stop. Like he doesn't ever want to.
And when you finally glance up at him, drunk on him, dizzy from it all, he smiles, soft and a little shaky.
''This was always gonna happen, you know,'' he says softly, pressing his forehead against yours.
Like it was inevitable. Like it's just the beginning of something neither of you will ever be able to walk away from.
...
thank you so much for reading! i appreciate any and all support so remember to like, comment and reblog. requests are open! 💕
Summary: He's your boss. You're his assistant. But 30,000 feet in the air, it's not exactly tour logistics he's asking you to handle.
Warnings: fingering, handjob, public sex, slight praise kink, a little bit of dom!Harry
A/N: thanks for the love on my first fic! this is the first smutty fic i've written, so you know the drill; don't take it too seriously. let me know if i've forgotten any warnings or if you'd like a part two because i've got some ideas ;) enjoy x
Word Count: 3,329
...
The cabin rumbles with a soft, steady vibration beneath your feet, the kind that settles in your bones after a while, a quiet reminder that you're thirty-thousand feet in the air with nothing but a view of the top of the clouds outside the window.
You've gotten so used to plane rides that they feel like buses now.
Life on the road tended to blur together after a while. Cities changed, skies shifted, but the routine stayed mostly the same: wake, work, soundcheck, show, sleep. Rinse and repeat. But somewhere in that loop, magic lived. The sound of a crowd screaming in the moments before Harry took the stage. The quiet backstage hum of instruments being tuned. The weird little moments, like brushing your teeth next to Harry in the bathroom of a green room or eating post-show ramen in sweatpants with the crew at 2 a.m. It wasn't glamorous, not always. But it was real. And weirdly beautiful.
But right now, there's no excited chatter echoing off the polished surfaces, no quiet strumming of an instrument, no 5-minute calls. Just the soft roaring of the engine and the occasional shuffle of someone shifting in their sleep behind a curtain. It's late and you're flying somewhere above the Atlantic, everyone tucked away for the red-eye haul to Lisbon.
Except you.
And Harry.
You're curled up beside him in the plush leather seat, a warm blanket draped over the both of you, your laptop balanced on your thighs, the screen casting a faint glow across your face. The soft click of the trackpad is the only sound between you as you scroll through the updated tour logistics: merch drop schedules, radio interviews, VIP timetables, revised set list cues...
You're focused. Professional. And painfully aware of how close Harry's knee is to yours.
''Alright,'' you speak up softly, not looking at him. ''I just need your input on the new Paris VIP plan. They want to add a backstage Q&A before soundcheck, only thirty minutes, but it overlaps with your press block. I told them I'd check with you first.''
Harry's quiet for a beat. You can feel his gaze on the side of your face, even though you're pretending not to.
''What do you think I should do?'' he asks eventually, voice low, almost sleepy.
Your stomach tightens. He does that often. Asks for your thoughts, your judgement, like he actually values your opinion. You try to ignore the way it makes your stomach churn and remind yourself that this is in your job description.
''I think we should move the press slot,'' you say, typing a note quickly. ''You'll have more time to reset before soundcheck that way. And you like talking to the fans. You always leave in a better mood.''
He huffs a quiet laugh. ''You pay attention to my mood, do you?''
Shit.
You blink at your screen, then glance over at him. He's leaning against the armrest, hoodie sleeves pushed up, tattoos half-hidden in the soft light. One rogue curl has graciously fallen above his brow and his lips are tilted in the barest smirk.
''Comes with the territory,'' you say quickly, like it's no big deal. ''I need to know when to avoid you.''
That makes him laugh, low and raspy, making you bite the inside of your cheek as you look back at your screen. It's fine. You're fine.
You've been his personal assistant for over a year now. You've memorized his schedule, his allergies, his coffee order and the name of the plushie he brings on tour, despite vehemently denying it. You know when he's tense, when he needs quiet, when he needs to be left alone. You're loyal, always. Unshakable.
And hopelessly, stupidly, quietly in love with him.
But he doesn't know that. Can't know that. You're too good at your job for that kind of mistake.
And you love your job. There was something electric about being on tour: the long nights, the endless movement, the rush of showtime. You loved the chaos of it all, how no two days were the same. You loved the adrenaline that kicked in when a last-minute change had to be made, and you were the one everyone looked to for the fix. It gave you purpose, grounding. And honestly, you thrived in it.
Even in the exhausting moments, the jet lag, the back-to-back shows, the late-night emails... you never once regretted taking this job. Being around music, around the team, around him, made everything worth it.
You'd slipped into the rhythm of the tour crew like you'd been part of it for years. There was something comforting about the way everyone moved together, the shared glances, the inside jokes, the group breakfasts in hotel lobbies.
You were the youngest on the team, but nobody made you feel small. They trusted you, and more importantly, they liked you. Jeff always brought you coffee when you looked like hell. Pauli made you laugh when you were wound too tight. It felt like family. Loud, messy, and wildly dysfunctional, but it was yours.
And Harry's an incredible boss, to nobody's surprise. He was thoughtful. Kind. A little quiet in meetings, but always listening. Always noticing. He never barked orders, he asked, genuinely. And when he thanked you for something, it wasn't in that empty, offhanded way people often do. He meant it. You could feel it in the way he said your name. It made you want to work harder, not out of obligation, but because he deserved that kind of loyalty.
''I should finish this before we land,'' you murmur, starting to scroll again. ''Still need to go through wardrobe notes for Madrid.''
You don't notice the way he watches you, how his gaze trails from focused eyes down to your parted lips, how he swallows when your fingers twitch on the keyboard.
''You never let me help,'' he points out softly, drawing your attention back to him.
You blink. ''Help with…?''
''Any of this,'' he gestures toward your screen. ''You do everything. Handle everything. I don't know how you're not burnt out yet.''
''I'm your assistant. It's kind of my job, Harry,'' you say with a soft chuckle and a slight tilt of your head, confused.
''You're the best assistant I've ever had,'' he hums, eyes dark.
Something about the way he says it makes your heart stutter.
You weren't sure when it happened exactly, when your feelings shifted, digging deeper into your skin than just a work relationship. Maybe it was the night in Atlanta when he stayed behind after everyone left the venue just to help you find your clipboard, calming you with hushed reassurances as you spiraled.
Or maybe it was how he never let anyone talk over you in meetings, always circling back to your points, asking what you thought. It was slow, creeping, this ache in your chest every time he smiled at you like he knew you, really knew you. You told yourself it would pass.
But that night in Austin you'd known. You'll never forget the way your breath had caught in your throat.
The setlist had already been printed, laminated, sent to every team lead. Your favorite song, a deep cut he rarely performed, wasn't on it. It never was. But during the encore, he looked over his shoulder at you backstage, smirked, and softly said into the mic, ''Think I'll do one more.'' And just like that, he launched into it.
When he sang the bridge, his eyes finding yours for a split second in the wings, it had felt like a secret. Like he was saying, I see you. I know, and you'd known you'd never be the same after that.
''Don't say things like that,'' you say quietly, forcing a smile. ''I might start thinking you actually like me,'' you joke, a futile attempt to lighten the tension that's suddenly growing between you.
There's a pause. Too long. You risk a glance at him, only to find him already looking at you.
''I do,'' he says.
Just that. Without a teasing lilt to his tone, or the shit-eating grin he usually wears that tells you he's just messing with you.
Your breath catches. Your fingers freeze on the keyboard. ''Harry…''
''I know.'' He looks away quickly, tongue flicking out to wet his bottom lip. ''I shouldn't have said that. You're… important. To me. To the crew. I can't mess that up.''
The silence that follows is loud. You can hear your heart pounding. Feel the ache in your chest, years of unspoken want stretching tight between you.
You glance up at him. And for the first time in months, you let yourself see it. The flushed pink at the tips of his ears. The subtle quickening of his breathing. The way his hand flexes on his thigh like he's stopping himself from reaching for you.
His gaze drops to your lips.
''You don't know how long I've wanted to kiss you,'' he says suddenly, voice barely a whisper, like he doesn't even realize he's saying it out loud.
Your mouth goes dry.
''So why haven't you?'', you whisper. He blinks like he hadn't expected the question.
Then, quietly, he says, ''Because I can't lose you. I reckon the team would fall apart without you. You're too good at your job for me to screw it up... just so I could finally have you.''
You can't breathe. Not when he's looking at you like that. And still, even now, you almost chicken out. Almost.
But then your voice breaks through the thick silence, soft and unsteady.
''What if I said I wanted you to?''
His jaw tenses.
You feel it before you see it, the moment he snaps. Quietly, calmly, but undeniably.
His hand slides over your laptop, closes it, and sets it aside.
''Then come here,'' he says, voice low and dark. ''And let me show you how long I've been waiting.''
And suddenly, you're not just sitting beside your boss anymore. You're alone (well, you're shielded from the rest of the cabin by only a curtain, but close enough) with the man who's been undressing you with his eyes for months. Who knows what you look like on two hours of sleep. Who knows your parents' birthdays, your calendar, the way your lips part when you're concentrating too hard.
And now, you swear he knows the exact second your thighs press together under the blanket.
You hesitate.
Not because you don't want him. God, you want him. But the rest of the crew is right there, just past the curtain. His manager's asleep two rows in front of you. Someone else stirs faintly behind you.
''Harry,'' you whisper, panic tugging at your voice. ''There are people.''
''I know,'' he murmurs, shifting closer. His thigh presses against yours, thick and warm beneath the blanket. ''We'll be quiet. Won't we, sweetheart?''
Sweetheart.
It wrecks you.
His fingers slip beneath the edge of the plush blanket. Nothing scandalous, just resting on your leg, but the promise in the gesture sends heat rocketing through you. You feel like you've been lit from the inside out.
''You can stop me anytime,'' he whispers, lips ghosting your ear. ''But if you let me keep going…'' A pause. A low, shaky breath. ''I'm not gonna be sweet about it.''
You breathe in too fast. Your lungs are full of him: his cologne, his warmth, the tension radiating off him like a second skin.
And you nod.
One small nod.
That’s all it takes.
His hand slides higher.
Slips under the waistband of your shorts. Over your bare thigh. Slow, reverent strokes, like he's committing your skin to memory. You try to stay still. Normal. But your breath is already shaking, and his hand is so sure. Confident. Dangerous.
''You've been wearing these shorts on purpose, haven't you?'' he whispers, breath tickling your neck. ''Walking in front of me. Bending over at every venue. Teasing me. Torturing me.''
You shake your head, a weak protest, but he just chuckles, dark and low.
''Liar,'' he murmurs.
And then his fingers brush the edge of your panties.
You jump. Just a little. But his hand steadies you, palm flat on your thigh, thumb brushing soft circles against your skin.
''Easy,'' he breathes. ''Let me touch you. Please, Y/N. Let me feel how wet you are for me.''
The sound your throat makes is borderline embarrassing, a choked gasp you barely catch in time. You grip the blanket tighter. Focus on breathing, on staying quiet.
''Shh, darling,'' he breathes, voice cracked and needy. ''You're gonna get us caught.''
He doesn't rush.
He slides two fingers over your clothed center, slow and deliberate. Feels the damp heat there and groans, quiet and low, like he's physically in pain.
''Fuck, baby,'' he whispers under his breath. ''You're soaked.''
You bury your face in your hand, heat crawling up your neck at the filthy words coming from your boss' mouth. ''Harry—''
''You've been like this the whole flight?'' he hisses, fingers pressing harder, rubbing circles through the fabric. ''Sitting beside me like a perfect little assistant, meanwhile your cunt's fucking throbbing under that laptop of yours?''
You nod, throat too tight to answer. His fingers trace over the damp fabric, slow and teasing, his touch maddeningly gentle; not enough to satisfy, just enough to torture. He keeps his eyes locked on yours like he wants to watch the moment your self-control snaps.
You squeeze your thighs together involuntarily. His hand is caught there now, stuck between them, exactly where he wants to be.
''Don't do that,'' he warns, voice tight. ''Don't hide from me.''
He presses down harder, fingers deliberately rubbing you through the soaked fabric. To anyone watching, it might not even look all that suspicious. But under the blanket, he's drawing filthy, lazy circles over your clit, just soft enough to make you squirm.
''You like bein' good for me, yeah?'' he murmurs against your temple, breath hot. ''Such a good assistant. Always do what you're told.''
You nod desperately, your hips rolling into his touch before you can stop them. He slides your underwear to the side with a practiced flick of his fingers, making you jolt again, whimpering in your throat. His fingers are on your bare pussy now, hot, thick, and teasing as he parts you slowly, lazily.
''You're gonna make me come in my fucking pants,'' he grits, barely moving his wrist as he slides a finger between your folds. ''You have no idea what you do to me.''
You're shaking.
You've fantasized about this on hotel beds, in green rooms, on long drives while he slept beside you in the tour bus. But nothing could've prepared you for the way he touches you. The way he whispers filth in your ear like it's poetry. Like every word comes straight from his heart.
''Open your legs for me, love,'' he says. ''Let me in.''
You do.
Without hesitation.
You shift, knees falling apart just enough under the blanket, and he rewards you by sliding one thick finger inside.
You gasp, one hand flying to cover your mouth and the other gripping his thigh under the blanket, nails digging in, as he pumps his finger slowly, gently, curling it right against your spot, like he's known your body for years without ever having touched you.
''There she is,'' he murmurs. ''That's my good girl.''
Your eyes roll back.
You grip the seat, try to breathe through your nose and bite your lip so hard you taste blood, your entire body trembling from the effort of staying silent. But he's not being merciful. He's savoring it. Twisting his wrist, adding a second finger, fucking you slow and deep under the cover of that soft blanket while the rest of the crew sleeps just feet away. He scissors you open, making you gasp out softly behind your hand, pressing his thumb to your clit with just enough pressure.
''You're so tight,'' he groans softly. ''Gonna take my cock so fucking well.''
You squeeze your eyes shut and bite your hand to stay silent. When you flutter them open slightly, you notice it.
His other hand is moving.
You blink through the dim light.
He's gripping himself under the blanket.
''Harry—''
''Shh,'' he whispers. ''I'm not gonna fuck you yet. Just need your hand. Need to feel you, baby, please.''
You stare at him, dazed. He's got your cunt stretched on two fingers and now he's hard too, thick and flushed and leaking against his fist, the stupid blanket draped over you blocking most of your view.
This shouldn't be happening.
You're his assistant. His team is right there.
And yet your hand is already moving before you can think twice, already wrapping around the base of his cock, warm and slick and heavy in your palm.
''Fucking hell,'' he breathes, his eyes squeezing shut as his head falls back. ''Y/N…'' he pants softly, his chest rising and falling hypnotically.
You stroke him slowly, in rhythm with the way he's fucking your cunt with his fingers. It's a miracle no one's noticed, everyone either asleep or wearing noise-cancelling headphones, the lighting dim, the blanket mercifully thick.
''You feel so good,'' he whispers, leaning closer. ''So warm and wet and perfect. Fuck, I've thought about this every night, getting myself off in the bathroom of every fucking venue while the whole team's waiting for me. I see you watching me every show, looking at me with those doe eyes, practically begging to be fucked, aren't you, baby?''
You whimper, pace quickening. His hips stutter into your hand, his fingers curling hard inside you.
You let out a soft, pained moan into your palm, thighs shaking as he pumps into you faster now, fingers slick and relentless. Your orgasm slams into you, sudden and all-consuming, and your body goes tight, locked up against the seat as he works you through it. Tears sting your eyes as the pleasure tears through you in silent, pulsing waves, Harry whispering praises against your ear as you shake through it.
He groans softly, barely audible, lips brushing your ear as you come undone in his hand.
''That's it. That's my girl. So quiet. So fucking good.''
You stroke him faster now, emboldened. He thrusts into your hand, sharp and desperate.
''I'm gonna come,'' he warns, voice breaking. ''Fuck. Gonna come all over your hand, sweetheart.''
You grip him tighter.
His breath catches, and then he's spilling in your hand, hips jerking, quiet curses hissing through clenched teeth. You feel it coat your skin, warm and messy beneath the blanket.
Neither of you moves for a long moment.
Just panting.
Reeling.
Your hand is still under the blanket, sticky and warm. His hand is still between your thighs, thumb brushing soft circles against your skin as you try to recover.
It takes a full minute before you can breathe again, and when he finally pulls his fingers from you slowly, your body shudders at the loss of connection. He brings them to his lips, sucks them clean without shame, eyes locked on yours the entire time.
''Taste even better than I imagined.''
You stare at him, wide-eyed, wrecked. Boneless. He just smirks, brushing your hair back like nothing happened.
''Next time,'' he murmurs softly, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, your collarbone, your neck, your jaw. ''I'm fucking you.''
You shiver.
A curtain rustles behind you, someone getting up to grab a water, and you both quickly pull back, sitting up straight.
Like nothing happened.
Like you're just two co-workers sitting beside one another, watching the clouds.
But under the blanket, your hearts are still racing, your cunt still pulsing, the remnants of his release still coating your hand.
And the line between boss and assistant?
Officially obliterated.
''Now,'' he clears his throat, settling back in his seat with a soft smile like he didn't just ruin you, ''about that Dublin setlist.''
...
thank you so much for reading! i appreciate any and all support so remember to like, comment and reblog. requests are open! 💕
Summary: Opening gifts on your six-month anniversary opens old wounds.
Warnings: sugardaddy arrangement turned relationship, old insecurities, oral (f!receiving), unprotected sex (unspecified so might be on the pill), use of handcuffs, mix of domestic fluff and hot, steamy smut you're welcome
A/N: lovelies!!! i'm so incredibly excited to share this with you after working on it for a month. doing harry and y/n's story justice was really important to me, so i hope i've done right by them as well as you guys. let me know your thoughts, it's my favorite thing in the world x
Word Count: 7,180
...
Six months.
It still feels a little unreal sometimes, how drastically everything has shifted since that night on the rooftop. Since Harry stood there under the string lights with his heart in his throat and told you he was in love with you. Since the rules he'd clung to so desperately finally snapped.
The last six months definitely haven't been perfect.
Nothing about the two of you has ever been simple, and love didn't magically erase the sharp edges you started with. But God, they've been good. Messy and beautiful and yours.
You wake up in the morning to the smell of coffee now instead of the cold silence of your old flat, Harry's side of the bed still warm. When you're lucky he's still there, shirtless, hair messy, watching you with that soft, half-lidded look he's grown more comfortable wearing.
You've learned the small things about each other that no contract could ever cover. He hates when you forget to put the cap on the toothpaste or leave used mugs on the counter; your messiness has caused more arguments than you care to admit (Harry's a neat freak, really). You've discovered he sings when he thinks you're not listening, voice rich and raspy in the shower. You fight over the thermostat like an old married couple, and he lets you win more often than he probably should.
Of course, not every day has been filled with laughter.
There was the night he came home from a long meeting and found you stressing over bills you refused to let him touch. His jaw tightened, that familiar authoritative tone creeping back in as he offered to ''handle it''. The argument that followed was ugly. You accused him of still seeing you as someone who needed fixing with money. He got defensive, retreating behind that wall he used to hide behind so easily. You slept on the couch that night. He came to find you at 3 a.m., eyes tired and guilty, pulling you into his chest with a quiet ''I'm sorry, baby.''
Sex has changed, too. The old dynamic hasn't disappeared, and you wouldn't want it to, but it has... evolved. The nights his hand finds your throat and his words become filthier still leave you breathless, but now they end differently, with slow kisses and whispered praises and I love yous instead of tears and early morning departures.
You moved in with him three weeks ago. It was a big step, one that made your chest feel tight with both excitement and nerves. His house is beautiful, of course, with high ceilings and soft lighting and art he doesn't care about, but it's the little changes that you love most. Your books on his shelves. Your favorite mug next to his in the cupboard. The way he clears space in his closet without having to be asked.
He's trying so hard to be a normal boyfriend. He asks about your day. He kisses your temple in the morning. He attends your work events.
You've had ups and downs, but you're happier than you've ever been.
And now, here you are.
The sleek black car pulls up the long gravel driveway of the private villa Harry booked for the six-month anniversary of the night of the rooftop confession, the night you both decided counted as the real beginning. The countryside stretches out around you, golden and peaceful under the late afternoon sun. Rolling hills, lavender fields in the distance, and this stunning stone villa waiting like something out of a dream.
Harry's been buzzing with excitement the entire drive, though he's tried (and failed) to play it cool. His hand hasn't left your thigh for the last twenty minutes, his thumb tracing absent circles against your skin. Every so often he glances over at you, uncharacteristically on edge.
As the driver stops and pops the trunk, Harry dips his head, pressing a slow kiss just below your ear.
''Welcome to our little getaway, honey,'' he murmurs, voice warm. ''I wanted to do something special for us.''
He looks almost boyish as he helps you out of the car, one hand on the small of your back, the other reaching for your suitcase before you can beat him to the punch. You can feel the anticipation rolling off him.
You have no idea yet what he has planned inside, but something in your chest flutters, equal parts love and that old, familiar wariness you can never quite shake when he spends money on you.
The villa is even more breathtaking inside: warm stone walls, high wooden beams, and soft golden light pouring through the tall windows. Harry's hand stays at the small of your back as he guides you through the entrance, his touch gentle but undeniably possessive, the way it always is when he's proud of something he's done for you.
''Let me show you around,'' he murmurs, pressing a brief kiss to your temple before steering you toward the master bedroom. The moment he pushes the heavy wooden doors open, your stomach drops.
The closet doors are slid wide open, and inside hangs an entire new wardrobe. Carefully curated, screaming of his taste, and undoubtedly expensive. Silk dresses in soft creams and deep emeralds, cashmere sweaters, delicate lace pieces that make your cheeks burn just looking at them. Every hanger is perfectly spaced. Every piece chosen with the kind of intimate knowledge of your body that only he possesses.
Your breath catches.
Harry watches you closely, green eyes bright with hope and a touch of nerves. When you don't speak right away, he steps forward and opens the top drawer of the built-in island. An oblong velvet box rests inside.
He picks it up, thumb brushing over the soft fabric almost reverently before turning to you.
''I saw this a few weeks ago and couldn't stop thinking about it,'' he murmurs. ''It reminded me of us.''
He opens the box.
A delicate gold necklace lies inside: a thin chain, almost weightless, with a small, elegant pendant shaped like a fountain pen nib. On the back, in the tiniest engraving, are the words: Rules are meant to be broken.
Your throat tightens.
Harry steps behind you, gently sweeping your hair over one shoulder. His fingers are warm as he clasps the necklace around your neck, the metal cool against your skin. His lips brush the shell of your ear as he whispers, ''My world was black and white before I met you, Y/N. I never knew life could be as beautiful as it is every day I'm with you.''
You try to smile. You really do.
His words are unbearably romantic, so unlike the man he was when you first met him, and the gesture is so sweet you want to burst into tears.
But dread settles in your chest at this lavish display of money and expensive gifts, and old insecurities flare up rapidly. To make matters worse, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out one more thing.
A sleek black card. Matte finish. Your name embossed in silver on the front.
He presses it into your palm, closing your fingers around it with both of his hands.
''No limit,'' he says softly, eyes searching yours. ''It's yours. The arrangement is behind us, I know that and— and I'm glad it is, but you deserve the world, baby, and I want to give it to you.''
The silence that follows is deafening.
You stare down at the card, feeling its weight even though it's featherlight. The familiar panic rises fast and vicious, the same cold wave that used to crash over you in the early days when he'd slide thick envelopes across marble tables. Your chest constricts. The beautiful clothes suddenly feel like costumes. The necklace, while thoughtful, sits heavy against your collarbone, making it harder to breathe.
Is your relationship slipping backwards? Does he miss it? The power? The control? The version of you that didn't argue when he opened his wallet? Has he been pretending this whole time that he's okay with how things have changed? What if he regrets letting the rules go?
You force a smile that doesn't reach your eyes. ''It's... it's beautiful, Harry. Really. Thank you.''
But your voice comes out smaller than you want it to. Quieter. The kind of quiet he knows too well.
Harry's brows pull together the tiniest bit, that little crease appearing between them. He studies you for a long moment, reading the tension in your shoulders, the way your fingers have tightened around the black card like it might burn you. He swallows once.
Then he nods, almost to himself.
''Alright,'' he says gently, stepping back to give you space. His voice is careful now, measured. ''I'll let you freshen up. We've got a dinner reservation in a couple hours.''
He leans in, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead, soft, reassuring, but you can feel the uncertainty behind it. His hand lingers on your waist a second longer than necessary before he pulls away and leaves the room, closing the door quietly behind him.
The second he's gone, your thoughts swallow you whole.
You sink down onto the edge of the massive bed, the black card still clutched in your hand. Your eyes burn.
Is he pulling away because this version of you isn't enough for him anymore? What if tonight isn't a celebration, but one last hurrah before he ditches you for someone more... submissive?
Your fingers rise to touch the delicate pendant at your throat. Rules are meant to be broken. The words mock you now.
You stare at your reflection in the full-length mirror across the room, wearing the necklace he picked, sitting in the beautiful room he booked, holding the card he just gave you, and for the first time in months, you feel painfully, terrifyingly small again.
...
The early evening light has softened the sky into something warmer and golden by the time you stand in front of the floor-length mirror. The dress you chose from the new wardrobe clings to your body, a deep, forest green silk that slips over your curves, the neckline dipping just enough to catch the delicate gold pendant resting against your sternum. It presses into your skin like a brand.
You stare at your reflection longer than you should.
Your fingers trace the cool metal of the necklace, then drop to smooth nonexistent wrinkles at your hips. The girl looking back at you is beautiful. Expensive dress, expensive man, expensive life. But something inside you keeps flinching away from the image, like touching a wound you thought had already healed.
The soft click of his shoes on the hardwood floor announces him before his voice does. Harry appears in the doorway behind you, sleeves of his black button-down rolled to his forearms, the top few buttons undone in that effortlessly devastating way of his.
His eyes find yours in the mirror, dark and searching, before they drag slowly down the length of your body. For a moment, something hungry flickers across his face, that old possessive glint that used to make your knees weak and your thoughts scatter.
Then he frowns.
''You don't like it,'' he says, voice low and a touch rough. He steps into the room, hands sliding into his pockets as if to stop himself from instinctively reaching for you. ''The dress. I chose wrong, didn't I?''
You watch the way his jaw tightens slightly, the twitch of muscle that betrays just how much he wants this night to be perfect.
You shake your head quickly, the movement a little too sharp. ''No, it's not that. The dress is beautiful, Harry. Really. Everything is.''
The corners of your lips twitch in a poor attempt at a convincing smile, but it never quite lands. Instead, your gaze drops back to your own reflection, fingers curling tighter around the silk at your sides.
He doesn't let it go.
Harry moves closer until he's standing just behind you, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating from his chest. He doesn't touch you yet. He simply watches you in the mirror with those intense green eyes that have always seen straight through you.
''Talk to me, honey,'' he murmurs, patient but still firm. There's that gentle insistence in his tone, the one that used to command obedience but now asks for honesty instead. ''You've been quiet since we got here. I know that look. Don't shut me out, baby, I'm begging you.''
The silence stretches between you, thick and trembling.
Your chest feels tight, breath coming shallower as the spiral you'd tried to bury claws its way back up your throat. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes before you can stop them. When you finally speak, your voice is small, shy, but laced with months of quietly carried fear.
''I'm scared,'' you whisper, the confession cracking open something raw inside you. ''It feels like... before. The clothes waiting for me. The black card with my name on it. The way you looked at me when you gave it, like you were trying to pay for my time the way you used to. And I just kept thinking... what if you miss it? The old us. When I just let you give and give because that's what the arrangement was for. What if this—'' your hand gestures vaguely between the two of you, voice trembling, ''—what if this isn't enough for you anymore? What if you're only doing all of this because you think you have to prove something?''
Harry's expression shifts instantly.
For a second, defensiveness flashes hot across his face, that old wall slamming into place, jaw locking, shoulders squaring like he's preparing for battle. His mouth opens, probably ready to argue that he's trying, that he's changed, that you're being unfair.
But then he stops.
You see the exact moment he catches himself. The way his lashes lower, the subtle exhale through his nose, the way his hands flex at his sides before he forces them to relax. The growth is quiet, but it's there, hard-won and still a little clumsy, but real.
He steps forward until his chest brushes your back. This time, he doesn't hesitate. One arm slides carefully around your waist, the other hand coming up to gently turn your chin so you're looking at him in the mirror. ''Oh, honey,'' he breathes, voice rough with emotion. ''I'm sorry.''
His forehead drops until it rests against the side of your head, eyes closing for a long moment.
''I love spoiling you,'' he admits, the words coming out quieter than usual, almost shy. ''Not because of the old shit. Not because I want to buy your love. But because I look at you and I think... you deserve the entire fucking world, baby. I want to shower you in gifts and worship you at your feet because that's what a woman like you deserves.''
Your heart clenches painfully at the vulnerability in his voice, this intensely brooding man who used to hide behind control and cash, now laying his undying devotion bare for you.
You turn slowly in his arms until you're facing him, your hands coming up to rest against his chest. His heartbeat is fast under your palm.
''I do want your gifts,'' you tell him softly, thumb brushing over the fabric of his shirt. ''But I want them from you. The man who dances with me while I cook dinner and wakes me up at 2 a.m. to tell me that he's dreamt of me. Not the one who gets his way by opening his wallet.''
Harry's eyes search yours for a long, heavy moment. Then something in him seems to settle, the tension bleeding out of his shoulders as he pulls you closer, wrapping both arms fully around you.
''I hear you,'' he whispers against your hair, lips brushing your temple. ''No more overcompensating with money when what you really need is me. I'm still learning, baby. But I'm in this. All of it.''
He pulls back just enough to cup your face with both hands, thumbs gently wiping away the tears you didn't even realize had slipped free. His gaze is dark, intense, and so full of love it almost hurts to look at.
''I love you,'' he says, simple and reverent. ''Not the arrangement. Not the version of you that was mine on paper. Just you. My stubborn, beautiful girl.''
You press your forehead to his. ''I love you too,'' you breathe, the words settling warm between your bodies like a promise renewed.
Now that the heavy weight in your chest is lifted, replaced by something lighter, warmer, you both decide to still go to dinner.
Harry watches you intently as you touch up your makeup, his gaze tracing the delicate line of the necklace against your skin. He doesn't push. He simply waits, pensive in that way only he can be, until you slip your hand into his and murmur, ''Let's go.''
The restaurant is everything you've come to expect from Harry's taste: intimate, luxurious, and just secluded enough to feel like the world outside doesn't exist. Nestled in the heart of the nearby town, the old stone building has been transformed into something almost ethereal. Low golden chandeliers drip soft light over dark wood tables dressed in crisp white linens. Candles flicker inside glass hurricanes, casting dancing shadows across exposed brick walls adorned with climbing ivy.
The air carries the rich scent of truffle oil, aged wine, and something floral from the fresh arrangements at every table. Soft jazz hums in the background, saxophone curling lazily through the space like smoke.
Harry's hand rests possessively at the small of your back as the host leads you to a quiet corner table. His fingers press just enough through the silk of your dress to remind you he's there, grounding and claiming all at once. He pulls your chair out for you like a gentleman, but the way his eyes darken when you sit, the way his tongue briefly wets his lower lip, betrays the hunger simmering just beneath the surface.
You talk easily at first, the kind of conversation that has become more natural over the last six months, even if Harry still arches his eyebrow when you ask him personal questions... before remembering you're his girlfriend now and are allowed to ask him these things.
He tells you about a ridiculous meeting he had last week, voice low and dripping with a hint of irritation as he recounts how one of his executives nearly spilled coffee all over important contracts. You laugh softly, chin resting on your hand, watching the way the candlelight catches the sharp line of his jaw and the subtle curl of his hair at the nape of his neck. He looks devastating tonight, in a black tailored suit, the shirt unbuttoned just enough to tease the ink on his chest.
There's a comfortability between you now. You tease him gently about how he scowls at his phone when emails come in after hours, and he shoots you a smirk, eyes gleaming with something dangerously fond.
''Old habits,'' he murmurs, reaching across the table to brush his thumb over your knuckles. ''Can't have everyone thinking I've gone completely soft just because I'm stupidly in love with you.''
Your cheeks warm at the casual admission. Even after six months, hearing him say it so openly still makes you flushed, an embarrassing giddiness blooming in your chest.
The main courses arrive, Italian pasta for you, a rich steak for him, and the conversation drifts into more playful territory. You're taking a sip of wine when Harry leans back in his chair, watching you with that intense, half-lidded stare that always makes you press your thighs together.
He swirls the deep red liquid in his glass once before speaking, his voice dropping.
''Have you decided if you want to try them? The handcuffs?'' His lips curve into a slow, wicked smile, though his eyes stay serious, searching. ''You got all shy on me and changed the subject. Still thinking about it?''
You nearly choke on your wine, heat flooding your face. You think of his low voice in bed one night, murmuring filthy promises about restraints and complete surrender while his fingers traced lazy patterns on your stomach. You had blushed furiously and buried your face in his neck, too overwhelmed by the idea and too turned on to admit it.
''I wasn't that shy,'' you protest softly, though the way your voice wavers gives you away completely. You bite your lip, glancing around to make sure no one is listening before leaning in a little. ''I was just... surprised. You know I trust you. But the idea of not being able to use my hands, of not being able to... touch you? Are you sure that's what you want?''
Harry's gaze darkens noticeably. He leans closer, elbow on the table, voice a hushed rasp meant only for you.
''Yes. And that's exactly why I want it,'' he murmurs. ''Watching you fall apart when you can't guide where my mouth is going next. Hearing those pretty little sounds you make when you're desperate for me.'' His eyes flick down to your lips for a beat. ''You'd look so fucking good handcuffed to the headboard for me, baby. Trembling... just waiting helplessly for me to make you come so hard you forget your own name.''
You squirm in your seat, heat pooling low in your belly. Nerves clash with the quiet thrill that runs through you at his words. The spark is still there, bright and electric, even after everything you've been through. You love this version of him: still intensely brooding, still carrying that dominant edge, but now it's wrapped in love instead of transaction.
You tilt your head, giving him a cheeky little smile that surprises even you. ''Only if you promise not to be too mean about it. I know how much you like making me beg.''
Harry's low chuckle is dark and pleased. ''Wouldn't dream of it, honey. I like hearing you beg... but I like hearing you scream even more.''
The tension between you simmers, warm and familiar, until it's sharply interrupted.
A few tables away, a well-dressed man, probably in his mid-thirties, charming in that polished, slightly arrogant way, catches your eye as you laugh. He raises his glass toward you with a bold, flirtatious smile, clearly undeterred by the fact that you're sitting across from one of the most intimidatingly beautiful men in the room.
''Beautiful smile,'' he calls over, loud enough to be heard. ''You should let me buy you a drink sometime.''
You feel the shift in Harry instantly, the way his jaw ticks hard, the subtle flare of his nostrils, the dangerous glint that enters his eyes. The old Harry would have been across the room in seconds. The old Harry would have made a scene, voice cold and cutting, marking his territory with sharp words and darker promises for later.
But this Harry... his hand finds your thigh under the heavy tablecloth, sliding up slowly, possessively, fingers digging into the silk-covered flesh with just enough pressure to make your breath hitch. He doesn't even glance at the man. His eyes stay locked on you, dark and burning.
Leaning in until his lips brush the shell of your ear, he speaks in a low, filthy murmur that sends shivers racing down your spine.
''You're mine, baby,'' he promises, voice thick with restrained need. ''Only I get to see you when you're falling apart on my cock. Only I get to hear the way you whimper my name when I'm buried so deep inside you that you walk funny for days.''
His fingers creep higher, brushing teasingly against the apex of your thighs. Your pulse thunders.
''Take your panties off,'' he whispers, the command quiet but absolute. ''Right now. Hand them to me.''
Your heart stutters. Heat floods your face as you glance around the elegant restaurant, cheeks burning. But the command, paired with the firm grip on your thigh and the dark promise in his voice, makes you dizzy with want. With slightly trembling hands, you manage to slip them off beneath the table, delicate black lace that still carries the warmth of your body. You fold them discreetly and pass them under the table into his waiting palm.
Harry pockets them smoothly, the movement so controlled it looks effortless. A satisfied, predatory glint flashes in his eyes as he leans back just enough to look at you properly.
''Good girl,'' he breathes, so quietly only you can hear it. ''Now be patient for me.''
The rest of dinner becomes unbearable in the most delicious way. Every bite of food tastes like nothing compared to the heavy, aching tension between your legs. Harry keeps his hand on your thigh the entire time, occasionally squeezing, occasionally tracing maddening little circles that make you want to whine. His conversation stays deceptively calm on the surface, but his eyes keep promising ruin.
By the time the waiter asks about dessert, you're both vibrating with need.
Harry declines for both of you, voice perfectly polite even as his thumb strokes dangerously close to where you need him most.
''We'll take the check,'' he says smoothly. ''Something's come up.''
The drive back is thick with silence and anticipation. His hand never leaves your thigh, gripping tighter every time you shift in your seat. By the time the car pulls up the long driveway, you're practically trembling.
The moment the villa door clicks shut behind you, the air shifts, thick, electric, and Harry doesn't give you a second to think.
You stumble backward as he presses you against the nearest wall, his body crowding yours until you feel nothing but heat and the hard lines of his body. His mouth crashes into yours with a hunger that steals the air from your lungs. It's not gentle. It's nothing like the soft, reverent kiss on the rooftop six months ago today.
Your hands fly up, fisting in the front of his black shirt as his tongue sweeps into your mouth, deep and claiming. A low, guttural sound vibrates from his chest when you moan into him.
You knock into a side table on the way down the hallway. Something ceramic clatters dangerously but neither of you cares enough to stop. Harry's hands are everywhere, gripping your waist, sliding down to palm your ass, lifting you just enough that your toes barely brush the floor as he walks you further inside. Your back hits another wall. A framed picture tilts precariously. His mouth never leaves yours for longer than a gasp.
''Fuck, baby,'' he groans against your lips, the sound almost pained, biting the bottom one before soothing it with his tongue. ''Been painfully fucking hard since you handed me those panties under the table. You have no idea what you do to me.''
You can't even form words. All you manage is a broken whimper as he lifts you suddenly, setting you on the edge of the console table in the hallway. The silk of your dress rides up your thighs as he steps between them, grinding his clothed cock against your bare, already soaked center. The friction pulls a sharp cry from your throat.
You can't stop touching him. Your fingers push through his curls, tugging hard enough to make him hiss, then slide down to yank at his shirt buttons. One pops off completely and skitters across the floor. Harry chuckles darkly into your mouth, but the sound is ragged, desperate.
Neither of you can stand to be separated even long enough to walk properly to the bedroom.
By the time you reach the threshold of the master suite, your dress is already halfway unzipped, one strap hanging off your shoulder, and Harry's shirt is completely open, revealing the firm, inked expanse of his chest: the butterfly, the swallows, the delicate ferns that disappear teasingly beneath his waistband... His trousers hang low on his hips, the bulge obvious and straining.
He kicks the bedroom door shut with his foot and finally lifts you properly, your legs wrapping instinctively around his waist as he carries you to the bed. You land on the soft mattress with him following right after, bodies still fused together, mouths hungry and breathless.
For a moment, you just kiss, slow, deep, devouring kisses that taste like red wine and relief and six months of choosing each other every single day. Your hands roam over his bare chest, tracing every ridge of muscle, every line of ink you've come to know by heart. Harry groans when your nails drag down his back, hips rolling into yours with barely contained need.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, green eyes dark and wild, pupils blown wide with lust and something far deeper.
''Want to see all of you,'' he rasps.
His hands are reverent yet urgent as he peels the silk dress from your body, kissing every inch of newly exposed skin: your collarbones, the valley between your breasts, the soft curve of your stomach. You arch into him, shy but burning, the way you've always been with him.
When he stands to finish undressing, you can't look away.
Harry shrugs the black shirt off his broad shoulders, letting it drop to the floor. The low lamplight kisses every defined line of his torso, every tattoo that tells stories you're still learning. His fingers move to his belt, the metallic clink loud in the quiet room. He pushes his trousers and boxers down in one smooth motion, and his cock springs free. Thick, heavy, already leaking at the tip. God. The sight of him fully naked, hard, and wanting you never fails to make your breath catch.
You reach for him, but he's already crawling back over you, caging you in with his arms.
Another heated make-out session consumes you both. Tongues sliding, teeth nipping, breaths mingling until you're dizzy with it. Then Harry begins his descent.
He kisses down your body with devastating patience, sucking marks into your neck, tongue flicking over your nipples until they pebble under his attention, teeth grazing the sensitive skin just below your ribs. When he finally settles between your thighs, he doesn't tease for long.
He spreads you open with strong hands, smirking devilishly up at you before disappearing beneath the sheets completely.
The sight is obscene and intoxicating, the white linen tenting over his broad shoulders and dark curls as his mouth finds your dripping center. The first broad stroke of his tongue pulls a broken moan from your throat. He eats you like a man starved, like he's trying to memorize the taste. His shoulders shift under the fabric as he works you deeper, tongue circling your clit before dipping inside you, over and over.
Your head falls back against the pillows, one hand flying down to grip the sheets while the other searches blindly for him. When his large hand slides up your body from beneath the sheets, warm and possessive, you instinctively thread your fingers through his. He squeezes once, grounding and tender, before palming your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple as his mouth continues its relentless assault.
The sensation of his tongue buried between your legs while his hand gropes and claims your breast, fingers intertwined with yours, sends you spiraling. You can't see his face, only feel the devastating pleasure and the intimate connection of your joined hands. It feels filthy and sacred all at once.
When you're trembling on the edge, whimpering his name like a prayer, Harry finally emerges from under the sheets, lips glossy and eyes feral.
He crawls back up your body, kissing you so you can taste yourself on his tongue. Then his voice drops into that low, raspy register you love.
''Been thinking about this for weeks,'' he murmurs against your mouth, grinding his bare cock against your slick folds. ''Handcuffing you. Keeping you completely at my mercy while I fuck you slow and deep. You trust me, don't you, honey?''
Your heart stutters. The old fear flickers, the memory of refusing this exact thing months ago, when everything between you was still a power play. But this is different. He is different.
You swallow, shy but aching with need, and nod.
''Okay,'' you whisper. ''I want to try.''
Harry's eyes flash with gratitude, hunger and love. He reaches into the bedside drawer (he must have planned this) and pulls out a pair of sleek, padded handcuffs. His movements are careful as he guides your wrists above your head and clicks the cuffs into place around the headboard.
The cool metal against your skin sends a shiver through you. Vulnerability floods your chest, but so does trust. You're completely exposed to him now, arms stretched, body open, heart bare.
Harry groans at the sight, his cock twitching against your thigh.
''Look at you,'' he breathes, voice thick with awe and filth. ''My beautiful girl. All mine. Finally letting me have you like this.''
He doesn't rush.
He kisses you senseless again before sliding into you in one slow, deep thrust. The stretch is exquisite, his thickness filling you completely. Once he bottoms out, he stays there, forehead pressed to yours, breathing hard.
Then he starts moving, with deep, rolling strokes that make the headboard creak softly. One hand wraps loosely around your throat, not squeezing hard, just enough pressure to remind you who's in control while his thumb strokes your pulse point tenderly.
''Such a good girl for me,'' he rasps, hips snapping harder. ''Taking my cock so fucking well even when you're tied up for me. This pussy was made for me, wasn't it? Only me.''
Your moans grow louder, helpless under the onslaught of pleasure and the overwhelming feeling of being completely his. The handcuffs bite into your wrists every time you tug instinctively, heightening every sensation.
Harry fucks you with raw desperation and aching reverence, whispering filthy praises between kisses, telling you how perfect you feel, how much he loves you, how he'll never let you go.
When you come, it crashes over you like a wave, vision whitening out as you cry his name. Harry follows moments later, burying himself deep and moaning your name like a prayer, hips stuttering as he fills you.
Afterwards, the room is quiet except for your ragged breathing.
Harry carefully unlocks the cuffs, rubbing your wrists with gentle thumbs before pulling you into his chest. His lips press softly to your forehead, your temple, your swollen lips.
''You did so good, honey,'' he whispers, voice hoarse but warm. ''Such a good fucking girl.''
Then he collapses beside you with a heavy, satisfied groan, his body slick with sweat and flushed from exertion. For a long moment, the only sounds in the villa are your mingled breathing and the distant chirping of crickets outside the open windows. Then he shifts, curling into you in a way that still makes your heart stutter every single time.
He settles his head on your chest, cheek pressed against your skin, one arm slung across your waist. It had taken him weeks after you first started dating to admit this was his favorite way to fall asleep; this big, brooding man who used to fuck you and leave envelopes on the nightstand, now seeking the steady comfort of your heartbeat like it was the only thing that could quiet the noise in his head.
Your fingers find his curls immediately, carding through them in slow, soothing strokes. Your other hand trails gently down the warm expanse of his back, tracing the raised lines of scratches you'd left there minutes earlier. Harry lets out a contented hum, nuzzling deeper into your chest.
''I love you,'' he mumbles sleepily against your skin, voice rough and low. ''I'm so grateful you decide to put up with me.''
You laugh softly, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. ''I love you, idiot.''
As his breathing evens out and his body grows heavier against yours, your mind drifts over the past six months like pages in a book.
The quiet mornings where he brings you breakfast in bed, still learning exactly how you like it. The way he scowls at his laptop during work calls but softens the second you walk into the room. The ridiculous arguments over whose turn it is to pick the movie, ending with both of you tangled on the couch anyway. The nights you cry over silly things and he holds you for hours, murmuring apologies for every time he used to make you feel small. The spontaneous Sunday market trips where he lets you drag him around by the hand, buying random trinkets and mismatched flowers just because you like the way they smell.
Then there are the times he tries to solve your stress with his wallet, the nights you pull away because the ghost of the arrangement still haunts you... the quiet fear that maybe this kind of love, born from something so transactional, can never be entirely clean.
But you had chosen each other through all of it.
And tonight had felt like another quiet vow. Not perfect. Not without old shadows. But real. Yours.
With that warmth settling deep in your chest, and Harry's soft snores ghosting across your skin, you finally drift off, fingers still tangled in his hair.
...
The next morning, soft golden sunlight filters through the sheer curtains, painting the room in gentle hues. Harry stirs slowly, reaching out with a sleepy groan only to find empty sheets where your body should be. He cracks one eye open, then the other, a small frown tugging at his brows.
The faint sound of music drifts in from the kitchen, something soft and upbeat, the kind of song you always hum when you think no one's listening. A slow smile spreads across his face.
He stretches languidly, muscles deliciously sore in all the right places. When he stands, he catches his reflection in the full-length mirror across the room and turns slightly, glancing over his shoulder. Red scratches decorate his back and shoulders, evidence of last night's passion. His smirk deepens, dark and satisfied.
He wears them proudly: badges of honor from the woman who owns every piece of his body and heart.
Pulling on a pair of black boxers, he pads barefoot toward the kitchen, following both the music and the delicious scent of cooked eggs.
There you are.
Wearing nothing but one of his oversized button-downs, sleeves rolled up to your elbows, hips swaying gently to the rhythm as you flip an egg. Your hair is still messy from sleep, and you're humming under your breath, completely lost in the moment. The sight hits him square in the chest. Warm, domestic, and so beautifully you.
He leans against the doorway for a moment, just watching, that secret, down-bad softness he only ever lets you see blooming across his face.
Then he steps forward.
You startle when his arms suddenly wrap around you from behind, a little gasp escaping as he pulls your back flush against his chest.
''Harry!'' you laugh, nearly dropping the spatula.
''Dance with me,'' he murmurs, voice still rough with sleep but warm with affection. He doesn't wait for an answer, simply spins you in his arms until you're facing him, one hand settling on the small of your back while the other holds yours.
You let out a delighted squeal as he starts swaying you around the spacious kitchen, the music guiding your lazy, playful movements. He dips you dramatically, making you laugh in surprise, then pulls you back up and presses a kiss to your temple, your nose, and finally your lips, slow and sweet.
The moment is perfect.
Until the unmistakable smell of burning hits you both.
''Shit. The eggs!'' you gasp, pulling away.
Harry glances over at the stove where dark smoke is curling up from the pan and lets out a low, amused chuckle. ''Worth it,'' he declares, reaching over to turn off the burner with one hand while keeping the other firmly around your waist.
He looks down at the charred remains with a soft, almost boyish expression. ''I'll order something. That place in town does incredible pastries and they deliver—''
You cut him off gently, placing your hands on his chest.
''Or...'' you say, smiling up at him shyly but surely, ''we could go into town together? Walk around a bit, find a little café. Like normal people.''
Harry pauses. He feels the quick desire to take care of everything, to make it easy and perfect with a single phone call. But he catches it this time. His eyes soften, and that proud, loving smile returns as he brushes a strand of hair behind your ear.
''Yeah,'' he murmurs, thumb stroking your cheek with unbearable tenderness. ''Sounds good, baby.''
He leans down and kisses you again, slow, deep, full of promise and gratitude. When he pulls back, there's a familiar teasing glint in his eyes.
''Though I can't promise I won't buy you something ridiculous while we're out,'' he says, voice low and playful, as his gaze drifts briefly toward the window, toward the direction of the town.
You laugh softly, shaking your head as you loop your arms around his neck. ''As long as it comes from you... I think I can live with that,'' you murmur fondly, completely unaware of the weight behind his words.
But Harry feels it settle deep in his chest as he looks at you, standing here in his shirt, flushed from sleep and last night's... activities, smiling up at him like he's the best thing in your world. The same girl who he once fought with in the rain outside a club now sways barefoot in his kitchen, humming to music and burning pancakes with him.
Last night, on the drive to dinner, he spotted a small jewelry shop tucked between the old stone buildings. The thought had flickered through his mind then, quiet but persistent. And now, holding you in the morning light, it suddenly becomes crystal clear.
Yes.
This is what he wants. You. This life. Waking up to your humming and your burnt eggs and your shy little smiles for the rest of his life.
Harry presses a kiss to your forehead, letting the decision settle warmly inside him.
While you're distracted in one of the little shops, maybe tasting coffee or admiring the lavender fields in the square, he'll slip away for a few minutes, murmuring something about taking a quick business call.
He doesn't know exactly when he'll drop to one knee; it won't be rushed, not with everything you've both been through. You deserve the kind of proposal that erases every shadow of how you started.
But he knows, with a certainty that feels almost overwhelming, that he's going to buy the ring today.
...
thank you so much for reading! i appreciate any and all support so remember to like, comment and reblog. requests are open! 💕
Warnings: sugardaddy arrangement, mentions of past sex, fingering, protected sex (we cheer), praise kink if you squint, lots of feels
A/N: brb i'm gonna go cry about the series ending. somebody send me requests for bonus parts/check-ins asap!!! i can't believe it's finally here, wow :,) i'm really happy with where the story went though, and i'm so honored so many of you have stuck around this long. enjoy lovelies, let me know what you think x
Word Count: 7,154 (you're welcome)
...
The words hang between you like smoke lingering after a wildfire. I'm in love with you. You blink. It's the only thing your body remembers how to do. Everything else, breathing, thinking, speaking, collapses under the weight of those five words. I'm in love with you.
Harry stares at you, eyes glassy under the rooftop lights, jaw tight, fists trembling at his sides like he wants to reach out to you but fights the urge. Like he's afraid you'll shatter if he dares to move.
For once, there's no trace of confidence or arrogance. No trace of the man who always had the upper hand. He looks... terrified. And gut-wrenchingly sincere.
''I don't expect you to say anything,'' he says quietly, the tremor in his voice so vulnerable and defeated that it nearly knocks you over. ''I just needed you to know.''
For a long, suffocating moment, you don't say anything. You can't. Not because you don't have anything to say, but because you don't know where to start. Your heart is screaming too loud for you to so much as hear yourself think.
You're flooded with disbelief, distrust, with all the reasons you should walk away right now. But you're anchored in the ground.
''You hurt me,'' you say, gaze hardening as you stare at him, your voice low but steady. ''So many times.''
He looks injured, like you've ripped out his heart and set fire to the shredded parts. But you don't take it back. You can't. Because this is what he always does, he takes whatever he wants, whenever he wants, and you're the one left behind to pick up the pieces.
But he just nods. No defense. No excuses. Just pain behind his eyes.
''I know,'' he murmurs, swallowing hard. ''I thought if I kept you at a distance… I could control it. But I couldn't. I never could. You were under my skin before I even realized I'd let you in.''
You look down for a second, jaw clenched, trying to fight the sting in your chest. ''You were cruel, Harry.''
''I know.''
''You used your money like a leash.''
''I know.''
''You made me feel like I wasn't good enough unless I followed your rules. You treated me like an object, like a toy you could play with and throw away when it was convenient for you.''
His voice cracks. ''I know. And I hate myself for it.''
''You kicked me out like I meant nothing. And now, what, you say... that, and I'm supposed to jump into your arms?''
''I know, Y/N,'' he repeats, louder now, voice laced with desperation. ''I know I fucked up. I know I hurt you. I know I don't deserve your forgiveness. But I swear to God, if I could take it back, if I could undo what I said that night, I would. A thousand times over.''
You want to look away. It's easier, when you can't see the way he's looking at you. Like you're some kind of lifeline.
But you don't. You hold his gaze. Because he needs to see that you're not tolerating the way he's been treating you, not anymore.
There's a silence that follows, heavy with unspoken thoughts, unnamed feelings. He runs a hand through his hair like it's the only thing keeping him grounded.
''I wanted safety,'' he blurts, eyes locking with yours. ''Because I never got that. Not growing up. Not ever. Love was always transactional to me. If I was good, I'd get affection. If I failed, it'd be taken away. So I learned to control everything. To be the person with the power to take things away, so it couldn't be done to me.''
You stare at him, heart clenching.
''But you…'' he continues, ''you got past all of that. And I didn't know how to handle it. So I pushed you away before you could do it first.''
He takes a careful step forward, testing the waters. You don't stop him, but you don't move toward him either.
''I miss you,'' he says. ''I miss your voice. Your laugh. The stain of your lipstick on my coffee mugs. The way you always steal the pizza crusts off my plate. The way you look at art like it's telling you a story. I miss you. Everywhere, all the time. I miss us, whatever we were.''
You close your eyes. It hurts. So much.
''I've been a coward,'' he admits, voice breaking. ''But I'm not scared anymore. So if you want me to beg, I will. I'll do whatever it takes to earn your trust again. Want me to get on my knees? I'll get on my fuckin' knees, Y/N. Want me to apologize every day for the rest of my life, spend the rest of my time proving to you that I'll never hurt you again? I'll do it. I'll do anything. You name it and it's yours.''
You don't answer. You just stare at him, taking him in. His voice trembles with every plea, with the effort of lowering his walls, of revealing everything he's hidden behind them, bare and awaiting your judgment. He's bleeding honesty, messy, raw, real.
The rooftop feels too quiet, too still, like the city's holding its breath, too, bowing down to the weight of the moment.
He takes one last step, barely a breath away from you. ''Please,'' he begs softly, barely audible.
You finally whisper, ''Why now?''
''Because... I lost you. And it's the worst thing that's ever happened to me.''
That does it.
Something breaks, relents, and you crash your lips to his before you can think it through. He lets out a choked gasp against your mouth like he was suffocating and you're a breath of fresh air.
Months of miscommunication, longing, heartbreak, it all crashes to the surface like a tidal wave. You press against him, fingers tangling in the soft fabric of his shirt. It's desperate, urgent, but the way his hands come up to delicately brush a strand of hair behind your ear and cradle your face is the exact opposite.
It's gentle. Testing. A question mark. You can feel the tension in his muscles, the way his shoulders are still slightly slumped, a heavy, deep-rooted guilt that seems to be pulling him down.
You wind your fingers through his hair, and he pulls you close like he doesn't care if the world ends right here, right now, as long as you're in his arms. There's a soft frown on his face, a deep crease between his eyebrows you used to press kisses to until he smiled, even if it was forced, even if it was just for a second, just for you.
You know what it means. He's worried. He's worried you're kissing him for one last time, for closure, a silent goodbye. He's worried the moment will end before he's committed it to memory.
He's terrified of being relieved, of being happy, because it's fragile. It never lasts. Because you can take it away, and he couldn't stop you if you did. He's powerless in this situation.
Your heart aches, your arms wrapping around his neck to pull him impossibly closer, wanting him to feel your presence, your affection, your love. A wordless ''I'm not going anywhere''.
But just as your hands brush down his arms, as your pulse starts to race with something deeper, something needier, he stops.
His hands come to your waist, pushing you back and holding you there, his forehead dropping to rest against yours. ''Wait.''
You freeze, tilting your head in confusion, squeezing his biceps in an attempt at getting him to look at you. ''What's wrong?''
''I can't,'' he whispers. ''Not here. Not yet.''
''What?'' You blink once, twice. He's never denied any of your sexual advances before. Your stomach drops, but he seems to know exactly what you're thinking, because he's quick to reassure you.
''Hey, I want you. Christ, I want you so bad it physically hurts.'' He presses his palm flat against your cheek, breathing hard. ''But not like... like this. I want to do it right.''
He looks at you like he's trying to memorize you. Like he still believes that you're going to turn around at any given moment and this will be the last time he ever sees you. ''I don't want the next time I have you to be like this. Not rushed. Not because it's a habit,'' he continues, fingers affectionately brushing against your jaw.
Your brows pull together, heart pounding. ''Harry…''
''I want to take you on a date,'' he says with conviction, voice steady. ''A real one. Just us. No strings, no games. I want to hold your hand and show you off and not worry if someone sees. I want to walk you home and kiss you on your porch. And when we… if we make love, I want it to be something we both remember. I want to give you the love story you deserve. I want to be the man you deserve, Y/N.''
You stare at him for a long moment.
''You've never turned me down before,'' you huff out a quiet laugh in disbelief.
A small, almost pained smile tugs at his lips. ''I've never been in love with you before, either.''
Something cracks open inside you, not in pain this time, but in awe. This isn't the man who bought your time and your body and called it business. This is someone else entirely.
Someone who wants you to choose him because you want to, not because it's expected of you. Not because you're getting paid.
Someone who's in love, maybe for the first time ever, and doesn't shut you out or run scared. Someone who stays.
So you nod. ''Okay. Take me out, Styles.''
He laughs, breathless and stunned and almost disbelieving. His mouth opens and closes, like he'd had this all planned out up until your inevitable rejection, and now you've flipped the script and given him a second chance he never thought he'd get, and he's speechless, his heart taking a moment to catch up.
You smirk, already walking back toward the elevator. He follows you, his fingers brushing yours like he can't help it.
You don't pull away.
...
You've never been on a date with him before. Not really.
Sure, you've spent evenings wrapped around him in the velvet shadows of his penthouse, tasted expensive wine from the edge of his lips, worn dresses he bought you to glittering galas just because he liked the color against your skin, but never like this.
Never with the intention to impress you, to please you.
It's a museum, of all places. Quiet and sunlit. Not a flashy one either. There's no red carpet grand opening, no boring CEO's or politicians cutting ribbons, no pretentious auction.
Just a local gallery hidden in a narrow street in your neighborhood, with squeaky floors and handwritten placards. It smells faintly of old paper and lemon wood polish. Harry meets you outside the entrance, hands in his pockets, wearing soft brown trousers and a button-up that gives a glimpse of his tattoos, making your stomach flutter.
He doesn't touch you at first. Just greets you with a crooked little smile, like he can't believe you actually showed.
You walk through the first exhibit in comfortable silence. He stays close, not crowding, but present. Your shoulder brushes his once or twice, and the air shifts each time.
You watch the art. He watches you.
It takes you longer than it should to realize he hasn't looked at a single painting.
''Harry,'' you say sternly, tilting your head as you eye him suspiciously, ''do you actually like museums?''
His mouth twitches. ''I like this one.''
You arch a brow.
He shrugs. ''I like how your nose scrunches when you read something interesting. And how you get this little crease between your brows when you're trying to understand something abstract. You're the most interesting thing in this building.''
You roll your eyes, but your bashful smile gives away the butterflies in your stomach. ''So you invited me here just to stare at me?''
He looks at you, and for once, there's no teasing in his tone. ''Yeah. Kinda.''
You forget how to breathe. He's trying.
There's a moment, later, when you're standing in front of a moody oil painting of a forest, observing the black shadows and eerie stillness, that he suddenly says, voice hushed in the quiet museum, ''I used to be scared of the woods when I was little.''
You blink up at him. ''Really?''
''Yeah. My dad used to take me camping. Said it would toughen me up. I hated it. The sounds, the dark... It made me uneasy. Still does.''
You nod softly, but say nothing, just let him share. He keeps going, in small pieces, as if testing how much you'll let him unravel before you realize he's more than you can handle.
He tells you he used to draw, when he was a kid. He stopped because he feels like he lost the imagination to do anything creative, like he lost the privilege to pick up a pencil because he knows it won't be good. You encourage him to try again, without the pressure.
He shyly reveals that he loved watching 2000s romcoms and once cried during 13 Going on 30. His dad had scolded him for it. ''Boys don't cry'', he'd said, and that Harry should ''grow a pair and toughen up''. He never watched it again. You suggest a movie night for your next date, and he smiles in relief when you look away.
Next date.
He tells you that he can't listen to Springsteen without thinking of his mum humming along to the radio in the car. He misses her. You frown and ask him if she's gone. He shakes his head. She's not, but he doesn't elaborate, and you don't push.
He tells you that he has a small scar on his left hip from falling off a bike at thirteen and never telling anyone because he didn't want to look weak. You mention you noticed it once, in bed together.
All of it seems ordinary. But to you, it's everything. Because he's never talked like this before. Talked at all, really.
Afterwards, you wander into a tiny market tucked between cobblestone alleys, all pastel awnings and mismatched booths packed with scattered trinkets. It smells like roasted almonds and sun-dried fruit and lavenders. There are hand-painted postcards, rows of cheap rings in velvet trays, someone selling resin earrings shaped like various fruits, someone else selling pocket-sized poetry books with uneven bindings and ribbon bookmarks.
It's chaotic and colorful and bizarre, and you love every second of it.
Harry lets you lead. Watches you point out porcelain dishes with intricate flower details and antique mosaic lamps and glass candle holders he wouldn't even have noticed if it wasn't for you. He smiles fondly at your taste. You're the polar opposite of him. Where he only sees flaws, you see beauty. Just like you do with him.
''You should redecorate the apartment when you move in,'' he says thoughtfully, his eyes widening when his brain finally catches up with his mouth, blood rushing to his cheeks in record speed.
''When I move in?'' Your eyebrows raise, a smile tugging at your lips.
He's an idiot. You've given him a second chance he didn't deserve to begin with, and now he's already gone and screwed it up. He didn't mean to say it, he didn't even mean to think it. But you were walking around the market in that sundress, a skip in your step, and his mind just wandered to a future where this could be his regular Tuesday, where he could wake up next to you and press soft kisses to your skin and suggest going on a spontaneous date just to see you smile.
It's the first date. He shouldn't be thinking of this yet. He's in love, and he's doing it all wrong. God, he sucks at this. He's terrible at it.
His stomach tightens like he's bracing himself for your disgust, for the moment you realize he's new to this and he has absolutely no idea what he's doing, and running the other way.
He wouldn't blame you if you did.
He frowns, eyes flitting over your face, memorizing every feature while he still can. This is it.
''Harry,'' you say pointedly, snapping him out of his spiral. ''I'd like that. Decorating the apartment, I mean,'' you say soothingly, brushing your fingers against his and intertwining them slowly, tentatively.
''Yeah?'' he sighs in relief, releasing a deep breath he didn't realize he was holding, studying your face to make sure you're not just lying in a futile attempt to let him down easy.
''Yeah. C'mon, let's keep walking,'' you smile reassuringly, hoping to get his mind off his slip-up.
He nods, letting you tug him to another booth. The tension dissipates quickly when you spot a stuffed animal, discarded on the table in a way that tugs at your heartstrings painfully.
Carelessly tossed into a corner is a turtle plushie, colors slightly faded, a comically grumpy frown on its face.
''Holy shit, I'm in love with him,'' you pout, picking up the stuffed animal and holding him out with both arms to show Harry, who's leaning against a pole and watching you with a dopey smile.
''That thing?'' he scoffs in disbelief when his gaze drops to the scruffy turtle. It's wearing a pink tutu, yellow rainboots, and holding a purple umbrella, clearly moping over the imaginary rain.
''Hey, he might hear you!'' you defend him passionately, covering the space where his ears would be.
''Of course you would get attached to something like that.''
''What's that supposed to mean?'' You squint at him when he takes a step closer, almost daring him to say something that'll offend you.
''You take pity on the ugly ones, baby.''
''Probably why I agreed to this date.''
He snorts at that, shaking his head in exaggerated disappointment, before tugging his wallet out of his pocket and lifting up the turtle's foot to read the scribbled price tag on the underside of its boot.
He hands the vendor five pounds and tells him to keep the change. When he turns back to you, you're grinning from ear to ear, overjoyed you get to keep this worn piece of fabric you call a plushie.
''Thank you, thank you, thank you. I'm going to name him Greg and keep him forever,'' you press a firm kiss to Harry's cheek.
He blushes. ''It was only two pounds, love. No big deal.''
''It's a big deal to me. Thank you, Harry,'' you smile gratefully, clutching Greg to your chest and grabbing his hand again.
He grins, and God, it's so easy right now. He's not the man who took his frustrations out on you and slammed the door in your face. Who dragged you out of bars by your arm in fits of jealousy, who treated you like nothing more than territory to mark.
He's just Harry, the guy who smiles nervously when you hold his hand a little tighter in public, who smells like cedar and orange peel and whose face is full of reluctant hope.
You stop for drinks at a stand in the shadows beneath a weeping willow. Lemon soda for you, black iced coffee for him. He insists on paying, and for once, it's not a power play. Just a gesture. Small. Thoughtful. He doesn't offer to buy you anything else, no bags of gifts, no diamonds, no showy purchases to stake a claim.
It's weirdly perfect.
You sit beneath the tree for a while, just talking. About anything and everything that comes to mind. Books, music, life. Sometimes about nothing at all, just quietly enjoying eachother's company.
It's when you're both getting up to leave, brushing off your hands and grabbing your empty cups, that he turns to you with a soft voice.
''I used to hate silence.''
You glance at him.
He looks at the ground. ''Grew up in a house where silence meant someone was mad. Or something bad was about to happen. So I learned to fill it. With noise. Music. Sex. Anything.''
You stay still. Let him keep going.
''But with you…'' He looks up, vulnerable. ''It never feels scary. It just feels... normal. Safe.''
You don't know what to say to that, so you just wordlessly slip your hand back into his.
He walks you home as the sun sinks low. The streets are bathed in that glowy haze of the golden hour, and your fingers are still loosely laced together, even through the bustling crowds. Everyone can see that you're together now, and it makes your heart skip a beat.
Women usually ogle Harry. You don't blame them, but your stomach still dropped every time. Your arrangement had been exclusive, but that didn't stop him from smirking when women practically fell at his feet. He'd politely decline them if they actually made any advances, which you respected. But it killed you nonetheless.
Now, women eye him and smile giddily at you, almost like saying ''you go, girl'', before looking away respectfully. You squeeze his hand softly, and he squeezes back, a little shaky.
When you reach your building, he stops at the steps leading to your door. Doesn't assume. Doesn't push.
''I had a really nice time,'' he says, smiling, his eyes soft and content. ''Thank you for coming.''
You smile back. ''Of course.''
There's an awkward silence.
He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, like he's gathering his courage, and clears his throat. ''Would it be okay if I kissed you?''
The question is so gentle, so hopeful, it nearly breaks you.
You nod once, and he leans in like he's afraid you'll vanish if he moves too fast. The kiss is slow, sweet. He kisses you like you're the most precious thing he's ever been trusted with.
When you part, you lean your forehead against his and whisper, ''Do you want to come up?''
His breath catches, eyes searching yours. ''Are you sure?''
You step back and smile, swallowing nervously. ''Yeah.''
And that's how he follows you through your front door, his fingers brushing yours, both of you silent but pulsing with something warm and electric. You're not thinking about rules anymore. Not about contracts or fine print or keeping your heart in a box.
You're thinking about him.
And he can't think of anything besides you.
...
You lead him through the narrow hallway of your apartment, past your shoes kicked off by the door and the coat rack that leans slightly to one side. It's dim inside, because one of your ceiling lights has been out for weeks and you haven't cared enough to replace it.
You watch him take it all in, how small it is, how cluttered. There's a pile of laundry you forgot to fold in a basket on the table, a blanket your friend knitted as a Christmas gift strewn across the couch, a mug from this morning's tea still sitting on the coffee table.
The walls are littered with mismatched frames: photos, postcards, dried flowers flattened behind glass. It smells like your favorite candle, half-burnt and sweet, and maybe something faintly citrusy from the cleaner you used earlier.
It's not curated like his place. It's not neat or sleek or polished.
It's not just a space someone has lived in, it's a space someone has loved.
And he looks like he might cry.
His fingers brush the edge of a bookshelf that bows under the weight of your books and various knick-knacks. Lingers on a chipped pot with a small plant on your windowsill. Runs across a Polaroid tacked to the wall, one where you're posing with a group of people, big smiles on your faces, blurry but joyful.
He follows you into your bedroom with a reverent slowness. It's chaotic, full of color and soft textures. Your bed isn't made, and there's a pile of clothes on the chair in the corner. One of your posters is curling at the edges where the tape has loosened.
But his eyes don't scan the chaos with judgment. He absorbs it like he's learning about you for the first time all over again.
It's the opposite of his pristine penthouse, the opposite of the control and dominance that seems to be etched into the walls there. Maybe that's why he doesn't quite know what to do with himself now, more intrigued by your room than the museum you were in earlier.
Then he turns to you.
''It's cozy,'' he points out.
''Messy, you mean,'' you tease, kicking off your shoes by the bed and tossing your jacket over your desk chair. You carefully place Greg onto the crumpled blankets on your bed.
''Like you,'' he grins playfully, taking in the space with a curious glint in his eyes. ''Do you live alone?''
You nod. ''For a couple of years now.''
He hums, still looking around. ''Your place is so...''
You smile. ''The complete opposite of yours?''
''Yeah,'' he says, almost sheepish. ''Mine never felt like a home. Except for when you were there.''
That settles deep inside you. But you don't say anything, just step closer and put your hands on his chest, making him look down at you. And when he does, it feels like the whole world fades away, and it's just the two of you in your tiny apartment.
Instead of pouncing like he usually would, he waits. You nod, breathing out ''Come here,'' soft as a breeze.
When he presses his lips to yours, it's tentative at first, a hesitance lingering between you, a fear of ruining the second chance you've given him. He holds your face with both hands, delicately cradling your skin like he's afraid you'll break otherwise. His thumbs stroke the apples of your cheeks, slow and reverent.
You lean into him, pressing your palms to his chest a little firmer and sliding them up around his neck. He groans, low and pained, like he's coming undone just from being so close to you. He doesn't hesitate then, kissing you like the tension of everything that's ever passed between you is finally, finally, melting away.
He's warm. Solid beneath your hands. He smells like bergamot and linen and something darker, something that's so him, it nearly makes you want to burst into tears.
You kiss him harder.
And he lets you. He matches you.
Your fingers tangle in the hair at the nape of his neck. His mouth opens under yours, sighing against your lips, and everything deepens, slows. It's no longer hesitant. It's want. It's need.
Your hands fumble with the buttons of his jacket, both of you huffing out a laugh between the kisses when you struggle to tug it off, until it finally slips off his shoulders like silk.
He blindly walks you backwards toward your bed, bumping his knee into your desk chair, letting out a low, startled ''Fuck,'' and you giggle into his mouth, grabbing onto his biceps to steady him.
''Sorry,'' you breathe against his lips.
''Should've worn shin guards,'' he mutters, lips brushing your neck.
Then you're undoing the buttons of his pants slowly, carefully, like it's an ancient ritual. His fingers ghost over your waist, the curve of your hips. You move back toward the bed, tripping over your own bag in the process, and he catches you with a quiet ''Gotcha,'' pulling you closer with both hands splayed against your lower back.
''Jesus. Is this a hazard zone?'' he chuckles against your skin. You simply kiss him again to shut him up.
Your bedroom is barely big enough for the two of you. The bed is small and the sheets are rumpled and your bedside table is cluttered with lip balm and receipts and a cheap alarm clock that never works.
When you finally collapse onto your bed together, it lets out a loud, groaning creak that makes both of you freeze.
''Oh my God,'' you whisper, mortified.
Harry stares at you, deadpan, but his lips are twitching. ''That the sound it always makes?''
''It has… character.''
He snorts, and the sound turns into a surprised belly laugh when your mismatched bedsheets get tangled around his ankle, causing him to frantically try to kick them off, but to no avail.
''Jesus, this bed is a fuckin' death trap,'' he curses.
''Want me to call a cab?'' you tease, breathless and grinning.
He presses his forehead to yours. ''No. I want this. Want you.''
Then you're kissing again, slower this time, your fingers sliding up under the fabric of his shirt. He lifts it off with a practiced ease, baring all the skin you've missed so terribly, the smooth planes of his chest, the ink etched over his ribs. His cross necklace brushes your collarbone as he leans in, and when his lips drag down your throat, you sigh and let your head fall back. You've missed him.
It's not smooth, not like it always was at his place. He's taller than your bed is long, and one of your pillows gets knocked to the floor when you move. He tries to shift his weight without sinking the whole mattress, and the frame creaks dramatically again under the weight of him, tall and broad and out of place in your little world.
You throw your head back in laughter, his nose crinkling as he laughs along with you. But he just kisses you again, deep and passionate, like he's chasing a high he can only get from your lips.
He's gentle when he undresses you. Reaches under your shirt like it's a science. His fingers skim your ribs, your hips, your spine. He kisses every inch he uncovers, worshipping you, and murmurs things you can barely make out. ''You're so soft…'' ''I missed this, missed you. You have no idea, baby.'' ''Never letting you go again.''
When your shirt falls away, he pauses.
You hold your breath.
He brushes a hand over your bare chest, thumb hesitantly tracing a smooth line across your sternum. His gaze is adoring. No jealousy. No possessiveness. Just awe.
He watches your face the whole time, taking you in with the softest expression, other hand brushing up to cup you, thumb grazing the swell of your breast. He leans down to kiss your skin.
''You okay, love?'' he whispers against your jaw, pressing kisses to every stretch of your skin like he's making amends, voice low.
''More than okay,'' you reassure him quickly.
''Tell me if I do anything wrong, anything you don't like. I mean it.''
You look at him, heart nearly bursting out from behind your ribs. His curls are falling onto his face, cheeks flushed, chest rising and falling fast. And yet, in his eyes, there's patience. A gentleness and intimacy you've never quite seen from him before.
''I will,'' you say, and mean it.
''Can I?'' he asks, vaguely gesturing to your body.
You nod. ''Please.''
He dives in and kisses down your neck, your collarbone, your chest, your stomach, careful and slow. Every touch feels like a confession. Every sigh is a promise.
''You're so beautiful,'' he whispers, voice wrecked.
You drag him down to kiss you again, moaning into his mouth as he presses you into the squeaking mattress. His hand slides lower, fingertips dipping beneath the waistband of your pants.
''Off,'' you request softly. ''Want them off.''
He gets the message. He helps you, pulling and kicking and shifting until your clothes are in a pile on the floor, your body bare beneath him. He sits back on his knees, mouth slightly parted as his eyes trace over every inch of you, like he still can't believe this is real.
Then he stands, toeing off his boots and undoing his belt. Your heart stutters as he drags his trousers and boxers down, thick cock already hard and flushed, resting against his stomach. You bite your lip, thighs rubbing together involuntarily at the sight.
He notices.
''You want me?'' he asks, low and hoarse, but it isn't a demand for an answer. He's asking, secretly insecure, needing the confirmation.
You nod, determined. ''I do. I want you.''
He leans over you again, bracing on his forearms as he kisses your cheek, your jaw, your neck. You gasp when his hand finds its way between your thighs, fingers parting your folds, collecting slick.
''So fuckin' wet for me already,'' he whispers. ''You're so perfect.''
You whimper as he rubs slow circles over your clit, back arching. ''Harry, please.''
''I've got you. Gonna make it good, baby. Gonna take my time.''
He slides a finger into you, and you keen, hips lifting. Then a second. His mouth finds your nipple, sucking gently as he works you open, curling his fingers just right. He knows your body better than you do. It trembles under him, hips rocking, thighs beginning to shake.
''Fuck, I'm gonna come,'' you gasp, head thrown back onto the pillows, your hair sticking to your skin.
He pulls his fingers out, smirking when you whimper. ''Not yet, love,'' he says soothingly. ''Wanna feel you around me.''
When he crawls back onto you, you take your time. Run your hands over the familiar lines of his body, the softness of his stomach, the freckles you love so much, the little scar on his left hip he told you about earlier today. You kiss him hungrily. He sighs deeply.
You reach for the nightstand, fumbling for the top drawer to grab a condom, but he catches your wrist and brings it up to his lips to press soft kisses to the sensitive skin there.
''Let me.''
You blink up at him. ''Okay.''
He rolls it on, slow and careful. Then he looks down at you, hovering above, his arms caging you in but not pinning you down.
''Are you sure?'' he asks.
''Yes,'' you breathe. ''Are you?''
He leans in, face softening, and kisses your nose. ''More than I've ever been.''
When he sinks into you, it's not like before. There's no rush, no game. Just intimacy. His hand finds yours, intertwining your fingers, and presses it to the mattress as he puts his weight on his arm.
You gasp, fingers digging into his shoulders as he stretches you slowly, gently. Inch by inch. It's overwhelming, the feel of him, thick and hot. He groans low in his throat, head dropping to your neck.
Your legs curl around him like you never want to let go. He curses softly under his breath, rests his forehead against yours, and stays there. Doesn't move. Just feels. Lets you adjust.
Your free hand finds his back, his shoulders, the curls behind his ears, breath stuttering as he bottoms out with a shudder. And he breathes, deep, like he's letting himself exhale for the first time in months.
It's not frantic. Not greedy. It's not about release or dominance or performance. It's about love, about two individuals coming together and sharing something intimate.
''You feel so good,'' he rasps. ''So fuckin' good, love. Don't ever leave me again, fuck.''
His words make your chest twist, your hand tightening in his hair. ''Then don't push me away again.''
He stills for a moment, temple pressed against your cheek, as if the weight of your words just crashed into him. Then he kisses you again, deep and remorseful, but grateful. A silent promise.
He starts to move slowly, carefully, like he's worried that you'll break. Or that he'll break. But it'd be worth it. He'd die a happy man.
The bed creaks loudly beneath you both, springs groaning under the weight. You both freeze for a second, then burst into quiet laughter. It makes something twist in his chest. You're laughing in his arms. Naked. Wrapped around him. You're his. And he's yours.
He moves again, languid, deep thrusts that make your toes curl, make your walls flutter around him. His hips roll against yours, finding a rhythm that has you gasping his name.
Every drag of him inside you is like poetry, like punctuation to every word he never knew how to say to you before now.
''You feel so good,'' you whisper, kissing his shoulder, his jaw, his lips. ''So fucking good, Harry. You're so good to me. So perfect''
He moans when you praise him, heart bursting at the seams, picking up the pace slightly, still controlled, still taking his time. He kisses you like he means it, like he's pouring all his feelings for you into it.
He whispers things into your neck between thrusts, soft and shaky. ''I'm not going anywhere.'' ''I'm so in love with you.'' ''You changed my life.'' ''You're my whole world.''
You almost cry at his words, so heartbreakingly genuine, falling from his lips without a second thought, walls tore down.
For once, he's not calculating his every move, not carefully picking out his words. He's not focused on you surrendering control to him. Instead, he's devoting himself to you, whispering ''I'm yours,'' into your skin over and over again like a broken confession.
Your bed squeaks with every movement, the mattress dipping and shifting beneath his weight. It's too small for both of you, but you make it fit anyway by puling your bodies closer to eachother. Neither of you are complaining, legs tangled, hearts pressed close.
His pace stutters when you moan his name, soft and breathless. He grips your hips tighter. His eyes close.
''I love you,'' he chokes out. ''I love you, Y/N. I love you so much.''
You crash your lips to his, love flowing between the two of you, whispering a soft ''I love you, Harry'' into his mouth.
His hand slips between your bodies again, fingers circling your clit while he fucks you, murmuring praise into your skin.
''You're doing so good for me,'' he pants. ''So pretty. So perfect. Can't believe you're mine. I'm the luckiest man alive.''
You cling to him, nails digging into his back as the pressure builds, your body spiraling. He's so deep. So thick. You're so full. His body clinging to yours. His breaths of pleasure in your ear. The way he looks at you like you're everything to him.
It's too much.
''Harry, I'm gonna—''
''I know, love. I got you,'' he whispers. ''Come for me. Let me feel you.''
And you do.
You unravel with a content sigh, clenching around him as your orgasm crashes through you, thighs trembling. There's no theatrics. No screaming. Just a slow, building pressure that crests in your chest and spills out with a soft cry against his mouth. He groans, fucking you through it, thrusts growing erratic.
''Fuck, I'm gonna come,'' he growls.
''Come for me, Harry,'' you whisper, dazed and desperate. ''You're so beautiful. God, I love you so much.''
That's all it takes.
He spills into the condom with a broken sound, gently biting your shoulder to muffle his moans, body shaking. You feel every pulse of him, warm and thick, your bodies joined and your hearts racing. His broad frame collapses on top of you, a grunted 'oomph' leaving you, his arms shaking from the exertion.
He doesn't move. Just wraps his arms around you and buries his face in your neck. The room is quiet. Still. For a moment, you just breathe. Wrapped up in each other. Quiet. Content.
You're the one who whispers, a breathless chuckle escaping your lips, ''This bed's gonna collapse if you roll over.''
He laughs heartily, twisting his neck to press a quick kiss to your temple. ''Then I won't.''
You go quiet at that. Bury your face in his hair.
And when your heartbeat starts to settle and the warmth lulls you into a sleepy daze, he shifts slightly with a contorted face, groaning as he reaches for something under his hip.
''Ow, what the hell—''
You blink as he pulls something out from under him, and you have to slap a hand over your mouth to keep from giggling.
Greg.
The shabby secondhand stuffed animal he got you at the market this afternoon.
Harry holds him up by one leg, squinting at him. ''No fuckin' way.''
''Greg,'' you say solemnly. ''The horrors you've witnessed. I'm so sorry. I'm a terrible mother.''
Harry snorts softly, which quickly turns into full-blown laughter that shakes his shoulders and makes him drop his face into the crook of your neck. He kisses your bare shoulder. ''This is ridiculous.''
''Better get used to it.''
He doesn't answer right away. Just looks at you, eyes soft, kissing you again. You've never kissed in a way that wasn't followed by him ripping off your clothes. You've never kissed, not out of lust, but just to kiss. It was a nicety, a thing people do before they have sex.
But now, he does it just to make sure his affection for you sinks deep into your bones and settles there.
You pull the blankets further over both of you from where it pooled around his hips. He pulls you close, his head resting on your chest, and lets out a long, quiet breath.
There's no satin sheets, no floor-to-ceiling windows. Just you. Your way too tiny bed, your colorful sheets, your mismatched pillows, and a turtle named Greg. He's certain it's the best night of his life.
Besides, of course, your wedding day, sometime in the near future. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to rid himself of the thought. Don't get ahead of yourself, Harry. God, he's smitten.
He never would've guessed that meeting you would've flipped his life upside down. He's not sure if he would recognize the man he was before he met you. And he's not sure if that guy would recognize the person he is now, because of you.
He strokes your hip gently. ''I meant it, you know.''
You pull back a little to look down at his face.
''All of it,'' he says. ''The date. The sex. This. You... Loving you. I don't want to control you or own you, not anymore. I just want to know you. Be with you. However you'll have me.''
You press a kiss to the top of his head, inhaling the scent of his favorite shampoo clinging to his curls. ''Okay.''
His sighs in relief.
And in the dim glow of your room, on a bed that creaks every time you shift, with love soaked into the sheets, you finally believe him.
It's just you and him now. Raw and real and brand new.
And for the first time in his life, he thinks that maybe love doesn't have to be a transaction. That it can be unconditional.
And messy, and complicated, and absolutely terrifying.
And perfect.
...
thank you so much for reading! i appreciate any and all support so remember to like, comment and reblog. requests are open! 💕
Summary: You give him silence. He gives you the truth.
Warnings: sugardaddy arrangement, mentions of past sex, lots of feels, that's it really
A/N: hi lovelies! a lot of you had a lot of different opinions on how this part should go. i wrote it in a way that feels natural to harry and y/n, and to me as the author. i hope you guys love it as much as i do!!! a song that really helped me while writing is ''back to december (taylor's version)'' by taylor swift which captures this part perfectly imo, definitely recommend listening to it as you read this x
Word Count: 3,531
...
The gallery is bathed in a soft light, the kind that glazes over skin and oil paint alike, smearing everything in gold. The room is warm with conversation, the low chatter of art lovers sipping cheap wine and throwing around words like ''contrast'' and ''intent''.
You stand somewhere near the center, smiling softly for the camera, one arm thrown around your friend's shoulder as she beams proudly in front of the exhibit wall.
You're in one of the photos. Well, you are the photo. Printed large, mounted on white canvas, your silhouette lit with honeyed shadows and smoke. You helped out with the shoot weeks ago, before everything fell apart. Before Harry stopped asking you to come over. Before you stopped waiting for him to ask.
Your friend had begged to take your photo when one of her models canceled last-minute. Something about an accident on the highway causing ''an impossible traffic jam, Y/N''. Despite your initial reluctance, you agreed. It was mortifying, being in front of the camera. You had felt your cheeks heat up in embarrassment when you recalled the events to Harry later that same night.
He'd said he would come. Said it so casually, in passing, fingers brushing your hip absentmindedly in bed. You didn't really believe him then, and you definitely don't now.
You wear something new tonight. Bought with your own money. A slip dress in a color that makes your skin glow and your eyes sharper than usual. You didn't put on much makeup, didn't fuss with your hair, prioritizing your own comfort. It'll be a long night, after all.
You don't see him at first.
But he sees you.
Harry walks in through the side entrance, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his dark wool coat. His hair is pushed back haphazardly, his jaw unshaven, like he hasn't really slept in a few days. He hasn't. Not properly, not since you walked out. The air in the gallery is cooler than he expected, but the moment he sees you there, speaking animately to a cluster of strangers, lit softly by gallery lights like the portrait of you on the wall, his skin heats from the inside.
He had worried he would never see your face again. He was sure you wouldn't hear him out if he asked, and he wouldn't know what to say to you even if you did. But then he remembered you mentioning it, offhandedly, weeks ago. Laying in his bed, bare-legged and sleepy, lips sticky from wine and your marshmellow lip balm. You had laughed bashfully, said something like, "She's showing her exhibition next month. I think she's using one of the shots I'm in. Can you believe it, Harry? Me? Hanging in an art gallery?"
He'd told you he would come. He wasn't sure if he would. Hadn't cared at the time. Or pretended not to.
But now he's here.
And there you are. Fucking radiant.
You're laughing, head tipped back, a glass of wine dangling from your fingers. There's a group of people around you, friends of your friend, probably. One of the guys leans in a bit too close when he talks, not quite flirting, but not just being friendly either.
Harry doesn't blink. Just watches.
Jealousy washes over his body like a current, but he doesn't move. Doesn't stomp over and drag you by the wrist like that night at the bar. He stays near the back, one hand clenched around a drink that's too weak for he's liking. He's not even sure how he got here. It's like he's been sleepwalking for weeks, just going through the motions, only snapping out of it when he saw you just now.
He doesn't belong here. Not in this state, wrinkled blouse, hair curled messily over his ears, a tiredness under his eyes that's deeper than just insomnia. It's regret. Resignation. But he's not leaving either.
And then you feel it.
That prickle at the base of your neck. The weight of his gaze.
You don't turn immediately, don't give in to the urge to search the room for that presence, looming in a dark corner like a storm cloud. But something in you stills. Anchors. When you finally glance over your shoulder, when your eyes land on the tall figure standing at the far edge of the gallery, spine straight against a wall, you know.
He came.
His eyes meet yours across the room. He doesn't look away.
Your stomach drops.
He looks out of place, like he didn't mean to be here but couldn't stay away. Dark trousers, open collar, silver rings glinting as he tugs his hand through his hair. He looks like he hasn't slept in days. Like he's been unraveling by the hour.
His jaw is set. You know that look. That rigid line of his jaw, clenched so tightly it could shatter teeth. You've seen it in bars and on planes, in arguments that left you breathless and silent treatments that lasted days. It's his tell, his dead giveaway. That he's spiraling. That he's seconds from doing something he'll regret.
And yet tonight, he stays rooted. One hand loose at his side, the other clutching his drink. Breathing through it. Usually he would have stalked over immediately, pulled you by the wrist, caused a scene. But he's not approaching, and that's the strangest part.
Harry Styles doesn't do restraint. Or at least, he didn't. Especially not when it came to you, when it came to his belongings. Every emotion he felt was something he let devour him, let spill onto you like a heavy rainfall: jealousy, fury, lust.
But now, standing across the gallery floor, you see the restraint in every inch of his body. The way he doesn't interrupt. Doesn't insert himself. Doesn't act like he owns you. And that quiet refusal to unravel says more than any apology ever could.
You're not sure why it matters so much, this one, subtle thing. The way he just stands there and watches. The way he lets you laugh and drink and exist without immediately laying claim. But it does matter. It matters because for once, you don't feel like a possession being policed. You feel like a person. Like someone he sees as separate from him. And God, that shouldn't feel revolutionary… but it does.
Your heart kicks up, but you don't let it show. Instead, you lift your chin and hold your ground as you approach him, deliberately, taking your time. And you're surprised he lets you. Doesn't try to assert dominance by beating you to it. Doesn't move to meet you halfway. For once, he just... watches you come to him on your own terms.
''Didn't think you'd come,'' you say, voice light.
His eyes flick toward the man not far behind you, the one who's already engaged in another conversation but keeps shooting you discreet glances, checking you out. He doesn't comment on it.
''You look good,'' he says instead, eyeing you up and down. His face is indifferent, but his voice is soft, vulnerable. You wouldn't have been able to tell if you didn't know him as well as you do.
You nod once. ''Thanks. I bought the dress myself.''
The words land like a knife. A silence stretches between you, taut and sparkling with tension. You don't offer him comfort. He doesn't reach for you. It's the first time you feel like you're equals.
''Well, it looks beautiful on you. You're beautiful,'' he tells you sincerely, offering you a small nod.
You quirk a brow in suspicion and meet his gaze, steady and unflinching. "Why are you really here, Harry?"
He swallows, hesitating. You don't say ''You weren't supposed to come''. Because he knows that. You don't say ''I didn't want to see you''. Because it would be a lie.
He says nothing for a moment. Then, quietly, "I said I'd come."
You stare at him. ''That was before.''
He nods. ''Still meant it.''
You don't know what to say to that. You blink.
Your mouth opens, then closes. He watches you carefully, as if memorizing your reaction. You can tell he wants to say more, it's clear in the way his lips part, the way his hands fidget subtly at his sides, but he stops himself. You notice it.
You glance back at your friends, who are entertaining a group of visitors that has just arrived while sending you looks that scream ''help!''. You're the one who's supposed to be showing people around the gallery, a task you didn't sign up for, but surprisingly haven't minded doing as much as you thought you would.
''They're waiting for me,'' you say quietly.
''I can wait too.''
That makes you pause.
Harry Styles. Waiting. He's been doing a lot of that today. Waiting for you to come to him, for you to speak. Let's see how long he's willing to wait before he loses his patience.
You nod slowly. ''Okay. Then wait.''
You walk away.
...
Harry doesn't know what he expected, showing up like this. All he knows is that when he opened that last box and saw the necklace, the one he'd put so much thought into, just imagining about how it would rest beneath your collarbone, something cracked. And the silence since then has been loud in a way money can't fix.
You had sent everything back. And yet, he still smells you in his apartment. Still hears your soft laughter in the way the air feels at night. Still wakes up reaching for something that isn't there.
He hadn't planned on coming. Not really. But his car pulled up to the gallery anyway, and he was already halfway through the doors before he realized what he was doing. Something about that damn necklace. The cold finality of it. The way it curled around itself in the box like it understood the weight of the gesture.
And now he's here. And he can't stop looking at you.
You're alive in a way he hasn't seen in days. Weeks, maybe. Your lips shine under the gallery lights, and your dress fits you like a glove, accentuating all your features.
Every second you don't look at him slices clean through the center of his chest.
He tells himself this is fine. You're allowed to live your own life. To have your own space. That's what he's supposed to do, right? Give you space? That's what a better man would do. And after that night, after the way he had let himself take out his anger on you, then discarded you like he couldn't even stand to be around you, he knows he doesn't get to decide anything anymore.
Still, his hands curl into fists every time someone leans in too close to whisper something in your ear.
Especially the guy in the grey blazer, who's had his hand on your waist for a beat too long. Harry swears the floor tilts beneath him.
He wants you to know he's here. Wants you to feel his presence, even if you won't touch him.
He wouldn't blame you if this was what you wanted. If that dress, that laugh, that softness you're wrapping the room in isn't meant for him anymore. Because maybe he really did ruin it. Maybe all the years of being wanted for what he could give, not who he was, have made it impossible for him to understand when someone chooses to stay. Maybe he wouldn't believe you ever would.
But he can't stop thinking about the way you curled into his side after he fucked you. The way your fingertips would brush his wrist when you were trying to say something you weren't sure he was ready to hear. The way you always bite the inside of your cheek when you try to stifle a giggle at one of his dumb jokes.
He can't stop thinking about that night in Paris. Not about the sex. Not about the view. Just the way you both stayed up talking long after the room went quiet, wine glasses half-full on the nightstand, your eyes sparkling in the dim light when you told him he wasn't as unreadable as he liked to think. That you saw through him. And that maybe that didn't have to be such a bad thing.
That was the moment he started to lose.
No, started to fall.
He doesn't want to admit it, not even now. He's not sure he's ready. But he's never been able to forget it.
And that necklace? He doesn't want it in a box. He wants it where it belongs, around your neck, where everybody can see it. Not to claim you. But to remind himself that not everything has to be bought to be cherished. That you chose him.
You glance in his direction, your eyes meeting across the room. You've been waiting. Not out of cruelty or revenge. Well, revenge is definitely a bonus. But mainly because you want to know what he'll do if you don't come running to him for once.
The look in your eyes does something to him. Because when you finally look at him, it's not cold. It's not kind, either. It's something in between. Something that tells him you're still deciding.
He straightens.
Because if you're still deciding… he still has a chance.
He takes a step forward. Your facial expression doesn't change. You don't stop him, but you don't turn toward him either.
So he waits. Just one more second. One more breath. If you want him to come to you, you'll make it clear. And if not… he'll stay here. He'll wait all night.
But if you give him the signal, any signal, he'll cross the fucking floor like he's reaching for salvation. He's not sure when it happened, but somewhere between the first payment and the last goodbye, he stopped wanting to own you.
And started wanting to deserve you.
You nod.
A small, almost imperceptible movement, but he catches it like a bullet to the chest. That tiny gesture is all the permission he's been holding out for. His limbs uncoil, and he moves, slow, cautious, like you're a flame he's afraid to smother. Or be burned by.
You excuse yourself from your group, ignoring the teasing grin your friend throws over her shoulder. Your heels click softly against the gallery's marble floors, the sound steady despite the unstable pounding in your chest. You don't wait to see if he follows.
You already know he will.
The elevator ride is silent. You press the button for the rooftop, never turning to look at him. You can feel his presence like a pull on your skin, taut and tense, straining between want and hesitance. The metal doors close and it's just you two now, caught in that strange in-between where anything could happen and nothing might.
When the doors slide open, you're the first to step out into the cool air. The rooftop is empty, just like you hoped. Everyone else is still inside, drinking, mingling, discussing art. The afterparty isn't for a few hours, so it's quiet here, the hum of the bustling city below you like a soft lullaby. String lights cast a faint golden glow overhead, softening the edges of everything.
But not him.
He's all sharp lines and shadows when he steps up beside you. Hands tucked into his coat pockets, jaw clenched, curls ruffled from the wind and repeatedly running his hand through them.
You stand with your arms crossed over your chest, pretending to admire the skyline while your pulse thunders under your skin. He lingers a few feet behind, just close enough for you to feel him. The heat of his body. The heaviness of his stare.
You can tell he's working something out in his head, because he's quiet, but you don't speak right away. Let the silence stretch, let it test him. Because the last time he opened his mouth, you walked out of his apartment with shaking hands and mascara-stained cheeks.
He breaks first.
''I didn't know if I'd ever see you again.''
You inhale slowly. ''And yet you came.''
His eyes flicker to yours. ''Said I would.''
''You said a lot of things, Harry.''
You hear the shift in his breath, a sharp inhale like he's bracing himself. ''You're angry.''
''No,'' you say. ''I'm tired.''
The words hit heavier than they should. He takes a tentative step closer, like he's afraid of startling you over the edge. ''Look, I didn't come here to fight—''
''Then why are you here?” You face him fully now, arms still folded as if to shield yourself from the upcoming conflict. ''Because if you're looking for a reason to punish me again, I'm fresh out.''
He flinches. ''I'm not. I'm not... Fuck. That night, I wasn't trying to—''
''You were angry,'' you cut in. ''And I was convenient. That's the whole point of the arrangement, isn't it?''
''No. It's not.'' His voice sharpens. ''It wasn't supposed to go like this.''
''But it did.''
He looks at you then, and you know he sees it, the shift in you. How this version of you doesn't cry, doesn't beg. You're not trying to change his mind or shrink yourself down just to fit into whatever space he was willing to make for you.
He runs a hand through his hair. ''You think I don't know I fucked up? That night... I wasn't angry at you. I was angry at myself. For letting it get that far. For wanting more. I lashed out. Because that's what I do, isn't it? I ruin things before they can ruin me.''
You look at him then, really look at him. And what you see isn't the controlled, calculated man who drew up contracts and handed you credit cards like they were shackles physically bounding you to him.
What you see is a man who's unraveling in front of you, who's scared, who's hurting, who doesn't know how to ask to be loved without bleeding out.
''You didn't just ruin things,'' you say softly. ''You ruined me, Harry.''
He looks like he might fall apart.
Your voice is steadier than you feel when you continue. ''I spent weeks wondering what I did wrong. What I could've said, or done, to make you want to keep me around. When I didn't hear from you after that night, I told myself that was it. That I needed to be strong. That if this was going to end, I'd end it with dignity.''
That shuts him up.
For a moment, all you can hear is the faint thump of music through the floor, the whistle of the wind around the rooftop. You glance over and find him staring at you like he's never seen you before. Or maybe like he's finally seeing you clearly.
''I got the boxes,'' he says suddenly.
Your stomach tightens. You look away, suddenly fascinated by a crack in the concrete beneath your feet. ''Good.''
Something cracks in his chest then. You see it, the way his jaw clenches, how he presses his tongue to the inside of his cheek like he's trying not to say something stupid.
''You returned everything,'' he says softly. ''Your dresses. Your perfume. That fucking necklace.''
Your fingers instinctively curl around the necklace you're wearing now. It doesn't mean nearly as much to you as that fucking daisy does. You miss it. The comfort of it, the reminder of Harry.
''You returned everything but the memories.''
You blink. ''What?''
''I've been going insane, Y/N,'' he chokes out, tugging on his hair in frustration. No, desperation. ''I've been moving through my apartment like a fucking zombie. I can't walk into my kitchen without seeing your coffee mug. I can't open my closet without thinking of you in my hoodie. You're not there, but it's like you never left.''
You watch him struggle. Watch him grip the railing before him like it's the only thing holding him upright, before continuing.
''Everything still smells like you. Your shampoo's in the shower. I find your hair ties everywhere. I can't throw out that fucking flower. And those boxes... Those boxes gutted me. Because you didn't just return my money. You returned everything that connected us. Every single thing I used to not lose the privilege of calling you mine.''
You swallow thickly, caught between wanting to scream and wanting to kiss him. ''It was in the contract,'' you say evenly.
''To hell with the contract,'' he spits, voice cracking. ''I'm fucking in love with you.''
The rooftop goes still.
Your heart slams into your ribs like it's trying to claw out of your chest. His eyes widen, terrified of what he just admitted, but there's a strange sense of relief in his expression too, like he just came up for a deep breath after nearly drowning.
You stare at him, lips parted, frozen in place. You don't move. Don't blink. The words hang between you like a match, suspended and burning. Harry stares at you, chest rising and falling heavily, like confessing the truth is the hardest thing he's ever done.
And maybe it is.
...
thank you so much for reading! i appreciate any and all support so remember to like, comment and reblog. requests are open! 💕
Summary: You left the boxes, but you never really leave.
Warnings: sugardaddy arrangement, mentions of past sex, Harry's drunk, this isn't very smutty, sorry if that's what you're here for!
A/N: music has helped me tremendously while writing this part, especially ''the archer'' by taylor swift, which captures harry's inner turmoil perfectly, while ''my tears ricochet'' (also by taylor) represents y/n to a tee. both are a must-listen while reading this imo, i couldn't recommend it more!!! i hope you like it lovelies x
Word Count: 3,134
...
The city is still asleep when Harry stumbles out of the sleek black cab, the sky above him bleeding into a pale gray with the promise of morning and soul-crushing melancholy. The street lights flicker in sync with the pounding in his head, and his boots echo hollowly against the pavement as he makes his way toward his building.
He hadn't meant to stay out all night. Or drink that much. But lately, nothing felt intentional. Everything was senseless. Aimless. He hasn't slept in his bed since you left, not really, just collapsed onto the couch when the liquor dulled his mind enough to let him.
This morning, though, the ache is louder than usual. Maybe because the night before, he dreamt of you. Of your laugh. Your lips parting for him. The heat of your mouth. Your hands pulling him closer. Of the way you had looked at him when he'd told you to leave.
He nearly trips over the boxes on his doorstep.
At first he thinks they're deliveries. Something from his stylist, maybe, another line of designer clothes he won't wear. But then he sees the writing on the labels. You always write your ones with a little line at the bottom. Just weeks ago he'd jokingly called it pretentious and kissed your shoulder. Now, he just stared.
Two large boxes. One smaller. Taped shut, but not tightly. Like you couldn't care enough to secure them properly. Or like you couldn't bear to really seal them closed.
He stands there for a full minute, the back of his neck prickling with the sick, sinking understanding of what this means. You weren't just pulling away from him. This wasn't a temporary rough patch. You were returning everything. This was goodbye.
The elevator ride is unbearable. The boxes sit at his feet like the materialization of his guilt, heavy and silent. He drops his keys twice fumbling to get the door open, and when he finally does, he bumps the door open with his hips, carrying the boxes in, the weight similar to the one he's been carrying on his shoulders.
He drops the keys in the bowl, lets his coat slip from his shoulders, and shoves the largest box onto the floor in front of the coffee table. He sits down on the rug and starts cutting through the tape.
Perfume is the first thing that hits him. Your scent. Sweet and warm, a little citrusy. It blooms from the open cardboard like a ghost.
The top layer is fabric: folded, neatly arranged. A black silk nightgown he'd bought you at a boutique in Paris when you'd joked about needing something ''ridiculously fancy'' to sleep in. You wore it that night in the hotel, standing barefoot on the balcony while he held you from behind and the Eiffel Tower glittered before you, so close you giddily told him ''It's like I can touch it, Harry!''
Days before, when he'd first seen the excitement on your face at the prospect of going to Paris and seeing the Eiffel Tower sparkle, he had made some calls, voice hushed so as not to spoil the surprise, securing you two the hotel with the best view.
He remembers watching you and thinking he'd never seen anything so painfully beautiful, the golden lights reflecting in your eyes. You had no idea how much it wrecked him, how much he would sacrifice to just stay in that moment forever. He lifts the fabric to his nose and nearly flinches. It still smells like the expensive red wine you'd spilled on it when he had impulsively pressed your back against the balcony railing and kissed you, making you smile against his lips.
He puts the dress down like it can rid him of the reminiscence.
Next is a pair of Louboutins. Red soles barely scuffed. You'd worn them on his birthday, matching the red lipstick that would leave imprints on his skin when you worshipped him just hours later.
You'd complained for days leading up to it, insisting on throwing him a party. ''It's your birthday, Harry. You deserve to be celebrated,'' you'd said adamantly, wrapping your arms around his neck, a pout on your lips. He told you he wasn't ''a party person''. He didn't have the heart to tell you nobody would've showed up.
He swallows and sets the heels aside, gently, fragile like the memory of you in them. He works through the rest with methodical silence. Each item slices him open a little more.
The floral sundress he'd brought home after he saw you eyeing something similar in a magazine. You laughed when he surprised you with it and teased him relentlessly about ''knowing trends now.'' Which he didn't. He had asked his stylist for advice.
The bottle of your favorite perfume is on the bottom of the box, half-empty. He turns it over in his hand and stares at the gold label. He remembers sitting in a shop with you for over an hour while you sniffed sample after sample and asked for his opinion repeatedly, only to go back to the first one you'd tried. ''You like it, right?'' you'd asked, a little shy. He had, and he told you so. Now, the scent clings to everything in the box. His chest feels tight.
Then come the little things. A silk eye mask he got you for the flight to Tokyo. A tiny tub of lip balm in that ridiculous flavor you always used. Marshmallow. He always hungrily watched you dragging it across your lips, then leaning in and asking, "Wanna taste?" like you didn't already know the answer. He swears he can still taste your lips, even after all these days without your kisses.
His hoodie, one he didn't even realize was missing. He reaches out and curls the fabric in his fingers. You used to sleep in it when he was away. Once, he caught you wearing it with nothing underneath, strutting into the kitchen, legs bare, hair messy, eyes soft with sleep. It undid him. He'd fucked you until the sunset that day.
And then, in the smallest box, wrapped in tissue like you'd been afraid he'd shatter it like he did your heart: the necklace.
It was simple. A fine gold chain with a tiny charm, an enamel daisy. You'd told him one night daisies were your favorite because they always looked happy and reminded you of simpler times. ''Everything changes. Daisies don't. They're the same ones I used to pluck as a kid. It's like a time capsule,'' you'd whispered, absentmindedly drawing the flowers on his bare chest with your fingers.
It stuck with him. He found the charm a few weeks later in a shop in Notting Hill and had it made into a necklace. He didn't give it to you on a special occasion. No grand gesture. Just left it on your pillow with a note that said ''My daisy''. You wore it every day.
He holds it now like it might burn him. You gave this back. You gave this back. His gift to you.
Harry feels his throat close. He stands abruptly, needing air, needing to escape, and forces his feet to move to the kitchen. The overhead light is too bright, worsening his hangover, so he snaps it off and leans against the counter in the dimness, still holding the necklace. It feels so small in his hand. Useless. Pretty and pointless.
He should have known. Should've known from the moment he pulled back when you hugged him that night that it would come to this. But he thought, selfishly, naively, that maybe you'd keep the things he gave you. That maybe they had meant something.
That maybe he had meant something.
Apparently, not enough.
He wanders back into the living room. The boxes stare at him. The scent of you, faint and persistent, clung to the air, to his clothes, to his goddamn skin. It was like you were everywhere and nowhere at once. His apartment hadn't changed, but it felt hollow now. Like you'd taken something with you when you left that he couldn't name.
He sinks down onto the edge of the couch and lets the necklace dangle from his fingers. It spins gently, catching light from the streetlamp outside. He doesn't cry. Just lets the silence pile up in the room like snow, cold and heavy. The kind that buries things.
You returned everything.
But the cruelest part, the part he couldn't just box up and send away, is that his apartment still smells like you. Still looks like you'd just been there. Like you never left in the first place.
It hits him strongest in the bedroom, where the air is thick with warmth and ghosted memories. Even after opening every window, even after lighting a cigarette just to drown it out with something acrid and biting, it clings to him. Your perfume, like flowers pressed into the pages of a book, has settled into his sheets, the curtains, the collar of the hoodie he instinctively pulled over his head this morning, only to realize halfway through the sleeves that it's the one you wore to brunch a few days ago. Your scent is stitched into the seams now.
He moves through the space like a man haunted. Maybe he is. Maybe that's what you get when you open yourself to someone just enough to let them settle into the cracks.
The shower still holds your shampoo. A tall bottle with a pearly label and one of those unnecessarily complex French names you'd once made him pronounce, laughing when he butchered it. He'd picked up the pronunciation eventually, just to see you smile when he got it right. Now it stands like a monument in the corner of the tiled stall, half-full and untouched since the last time you used it. He should throw it away. It doesn't make sense to keep it. When he tried, his hand lingered over the bottle, then dropped to his side again.
On the floor next to his bed is one of your hair ties. Black, thin, stretched nearly to its breaking point. He'd found another one wrapped around the knob of the closet door. Another tucked into the pocket of his sweatpants. You were always losing them. Now he has a dozen, and not a single one matters.
In the living room, there's a single flower in a glass vase on the table by the window. He bought it on impulse. He'd seen it in a florist's window on the way home from an exhausting meeting and stepped inside before he could think twice, it was the last one. He'd watched her light up when she saw it, throwing her arms around him and accusing him of being soft, a romantic. He'd vehemently denied it, obviously. Helianthus. You'd taught him that word, too.
''Just call them sunflowers, baby,'' he'd said with a chuckle and a shake of his head. ''They're majestic, Harry. Helianthus suits them better,'' you'd argued passionately, face drop-dead serious, which only made his amusement grow. But he never referred to them as ''just sunflowers'' again.
The petals have started to curl in on themselves. Losing their brightness. He can't bring himself throw it out.
Your toothbrush is missing from the holder. The space where it used to sit is stark and empty. Your favorite mug is gone, the one with the cracked handle and a faded design of a dancing avocado. You must've taken it while he was at work.
The throw blanket is still draped over the couch from your last movie night. He drops into the cushions and buries his face in it, just for a second. Maybe longer than a second. Maybe long enough to feel pathetic and wallow in self-pity. Maybe long enough to remember how you looked wrapped up in it, curled into his side with your bare legs tangled in his lap and your voice low and sleepy.
There's a forgotten earring on the nightstand. A small hoop, nothing flashy, but he remembers watching you put them on in the mirror, remembers unhooking them with careful fingers before he laid you on the pillows. He doesn't know what to do with it.
His throat tightens with something sharp and sour. It's not just that you're gone. It's how thoroughly you were here.
You made this space feel like a home, like something more than walls and furniture and soft-close drawers. He let you in without meaning to, and now that you're out, he can't scrub you from the corners.
His phone buzzes on the table. He glances over, more out of instinct than anything else. Maybe delusional hope. Just a work notification. He throws it face-down and leans back into the couch.
He knows he should stop checking his phone. Knows you won't text, not first. Maybe not at all. But he can't help it.
Even silence feels loud now. It echoes. And in that silence, he hears you, your laughter bouncing off the walls, your bare feet padding across the floor in the morning, the sleepy hums you make when you stretch. The way you whispered his name sometimes, like it was a secret. Like you were afraid of breaking it.
He drags a hand through his hair. The strands are still damp from the light drizzle outside, and he catches a faint whiff of your shampoo again. Fuck.
He's not used to missing people. He doesn't make a habit of letting them stay long enough to be missed.
The couch dips under his weight as he sinks deeper into it. He drags a hand down his face, eyes gritty from the lack of sleep and too much thinking. He hasn't been out of his head in days. He's always done this. He shuts down, shuts out.
He's used to earning love by being quiet. That was the unspoken rule growing up. Don't speak unless spoken to. Don't cry unless you're bleeding. Don't ask for anything unless you're prepared to owe something in return. There was always a weight to every act of kindness in his childhood home, like affection came with a receipt. He learned early to stop wanting what he couldn't afford.
He remembers once, he must've been around nine or ten, when he'd won some regional spelling competition. For some reason, it was a big deal where he lived. The children winning those were referred to as ''the bright ones''. Their parents always seemed so proud, he'd seen their families hollering and cheering them on. He'd figured that if he won, maybe his family would be proud of him, too.
Every day leading up to the competition, he spent hours on end in the library, reading the dictionary and quizzing himself on words like ''fiduciary'' and ''eudaemonic'', which was way above the reading level of a nine-year-old, but he liked to be prepared. He always has.
And he'd won, impressing students and teachers alike, but he hadn't cared about any of them. He ran home, clutching the shiny laminated certificate with shaky fingers, beaming. His mum looked up from her laptop just long enough to say, "Put it on the fridge, if you want."
No one came to the ceremony. That was the last time he brought something home hoping to be praised for it.
He's always lived in transactions. Give this, get that. Be good, be useful, be what they want, and maybe you'll be wanted too.
He doesn't think about those years often, it's easier not to. The past feels like something heavy in the water, always threatening to drag him under if he swims too close. But now, alone in the apartment with the ghost of you, it all comes rushing back. The empty dinner table. The silence that rang louder than any argument. The way he used stay awake at night dreaming of growing up just so he could finally be in control of his own life.
He'd told you from the beginning; nothing was yours to keep. Every dress, every dinner, every luxury, bought by him, belonging to him. He built the arrangement around ownership. Around control.
He's turned into his parents. He's replicating the patterns that once hurt him, and calling it safety. Because if everything is defined, then nothing can be taken without warning.
You'll never be left disappointed, suffocating in the aching emptiness where something you once called yours used to be.
He slumps back into the couch, fingers pressed to his temples. And for a brief, unguarded second, he considers going to your apartment and dropping to his knees and confessing his feelings, even though he's not sure what they are exactly. But then it leaks in again.
The thing he still carries, this quiet, aching fear that love only stretches so far before it snaps.
When he got sick as a kid, he used to fake being better faster than he was. He didn't like how it made his mum sigh, how she'd move around the house more angrily when he was home from school. He'd lay there, feverish and aching, but tell her he felt fine, insisting on going to school with a tight-lipped smile. He didn't want to be a burden. Didn't want to be more than she could handle.
There were no bedtime stories. No tucking in. No gentle hands brushing hair off his forehead. Instead, there were closed doors and flickering hallway lights, his own small fingers tracing shapes into the walls, waiting for silence to settle enough that he could sleep. Love, in his house, was a presence you had to earn. It had to be invited in, performed for, clung to. Maybe that's why now, even grown, he keeps things transactional. It's what he knows. It's what he can control.
He reaches for his phone to shake off the feeling, his thumbs hovering above the screen. There's so much he wants to say to you. ''I'm sorry.'' ''I miss you.'' ''Please forgive me.''
For a moment, he thinks about deleting your number. Blocking it. Pretending none of this happened.
But the truth is, it did. And it's eating him alive, consuming his every waking thought, and, as of last night, his dreams. He stares down at his phone for a long time before he types.
Are we done?
There's a long pause. Long enough for him to regret sending it, for his heart to drop to his stomach and his hand to wander toward the half-empty vodka bottle still on the coffee table.
But then your reply blinks onto the screen.
Were we anything to begin with?
It knocks the breath out of him. If whatever the two of you were is already broken, what's left to protect?
What's left to lose?
...
thank you so much for reading! i appreciate any and all support so remember to like, comment and reblog. requests are open! 💕
Summary: He takes what he wants. You give what's left.
Warnings: sugardaddy arrangement, fingering, oral (m!receiving), unprotected sex, degradation, slutshaming, mild discomfort/pain, Harry's really mean, this is an angsty one i'm sorry
A/N: i'm lowkey very proud of this one but oh boy you guys are going to hateee me. i listened to ''i wanna be yours'' by arctic monkeys on repeat while writing this part so i'd 100% recommend listening to that while reading this if you'd enjoy that. let me know your thoughts when you're finished. enjoy (and good luck) x
Word Count: 3,585
...
You know something's wrong the second your phone buzzes.
Come over. Now.
Not because the message itself says it, but because of everything it doesn't say. No teasing command. No filthy promise. Not even the ghost of a smiley face, like he sometimes uses when he's feeling particularly cruel. Just three words. Brutal. Unforgiving. Final.
You haven't heard from him in days, and this is how he chooses to reach out?
You shouldn't be this easy. Shouldn't feel your pulse quicken at the first sharp order he throws your way. But you're already tugging on the tightest, prettiest dress you own, already slipping into the shoes you know he likes for some reason, already rushing out the door like he's got a leash around your throat and a hand fisted in it.
You're already thinking about what you can give him, what you can do for him, to make whatever anger is coiled tight in his chest a little easier to bear.
When he opens the door, he barely looks at you.
No greeting. No dragging gaze over your body the way he usually does, savoring the little effort you make just for him. He just steps aside without a word, or even a simple acknowledgement, letting you pass like your presence is something he merely tolerates.
Your stomach drops, but you bite it down. You can handle this. You want to handle this.
Inside, the air feels electric, charged with something hot and volatile. His jacket is already off, thrown carelessly over a chair, like he hadn't even had the patience to put it away properly.
You frown. If there's anything you've learned about Harry since your arrangement started (which isn't much, honestly), it's that he's a very neat person. Never once have you seen his shirts wrinkled, or his tie crooked, or yesterday's clothes still on the floor. Never once have you seen dirty dishes in the sink, or crumbs on the kitchen counter, or even so much as a crinkle in his satin bedsheets.
His sleeves are shoved up to his elbows, veins bulging along the strong lines of his tattooed forearms. His jaw ticks once, twice, when he shuts the door behind you with a sharp, echoing click.
You turn to him instinctively, waiting for instruction, heart hammering against your ribs. But he doesn't say anything. He just stalks toward you with a hunger that's almost violent, yanks the strap of your dress down your shoulder, watches it slip halfway off your chest without even a flicker of appreciation.
It's not about how you look tonight. It's not about playing games. It's about need. About taking. About burning something off before it destroys him from the inside out.
You shiver under his hands but don't resist when he manhandles you backwards, walking you clumsily through the apartment toward the bedroom. You nearly trip over yourself, but he doesn't let you fall, just catches your hips in a bruising grip and drags you after him like he can't bear to waste a second more.
Still, you're so good. So desperate to soothe whatever anger he won't name. You don't even speak, just let yourself be pushed down onto the bed, legs falling open when he shoves at your thighs.
You want him to use you. You want to give him something real to anchor himself to.
Even if tonight, he's not reaching for you like a man reaching for salvation. Tonight, he's reaching like he wants to destroy something.
And the worst part is, you want to let him.
You don't get a chance to breathe before he's crowding you on the mattress, pulling your dress up to your hips, baring your soaked underwear to his furious gaze.
''Course you're fucking wet,'' he mutters darkly, more to himself than to you, voice a low snarl. ''Knew you'd like being treated like this.''
Your breath hitches, but you stay still for him, let him strip you without so much as a whimper, watch your panties join the discarded pile of clothing on the floor. You spread your thighs wider when he forces your knees apart, giving him whatever he wants to take.
He doesn't even bother teasing you.
Two thick fingers shove inside you, rough and unforgiving, a guttural noise ripping from his throat when he feels how tight you clench down around him. You jolt with a soft cry, hips trying to squirm back from the abrupt stretch, but he's already got a bruising grip on your thigh, holding you down, open, forcing you to take it.
"Stay fucking still," he growls, curling his fingers viciously, seeking out that devastating spot inside you without an ounce of tenderness.
It hurts. It burns. But you take it, tears welling at the corners of your eyes from the overwhelming intensity, the sheer need to give him what he needs. Your hands clutch at the sheets, but you don't make a sound except the broken little gasps that slip from your throat when he pumps his hand faster, meaner, grinding the heel of his palm into your clit like he's trying to knock something loose inside you.
"You like that?" he sneers, watching your pretty face contort in helpless pleasure. "Like when I use you like a fuckin' toy?"
"Yes." You take a shaky breath, blinking up at him like he's the only thing that matters.
Something flashes behind his eyes, something sharp and vulnerable, but it's gone before you can catch it.
He pulls his fingers out roughly, shoving them into your mouth without warning, smearing your own slick over your tongue.
"You taste that?" he snaps. "That's what you're good for. The only thing you're good for."
The words land like a punch to the gut. You flinch, just barely, but he sees it. Sees the way your lashes flutter, the way hurt flashes in your eyes before you try to tamp it down.
He knows you don't like being talked to like that. He remembers. Knows exactly how much the insult must burn, sharp and humiliating on your tongue alongside the taste of yourself.
He wants it to hurt. Wants you to push him away, to finally shove him off and tell him to go fuck himself. Wants you to be angry with him, to look at him like he's the piece of shit he feels like tonight. It would be easier if you hated him. It would be safer.
But you don't.
You just suck his fingers obediently into your mouth, wide-eyed and willing, even as your throat tightens against the sting of his words. You take it, not because you don't feel it, but because you choose to stay anyway.
And that... that ruins him in a way he isn't prepared for.
Something almost like shame sparks behind his ribs, fast and unwelcome, but he smothers it down with the same furious instinct that made him lash out in the first place.
You don't fight him. You don't pull away, even when he fists your hair and drags you down to your knees on the floor at the edge of the bed.
"Open up," he orders, shrugging his pants and briefs off and tapping the thick head of his cock against your lips.
You do, without hesitation.
He groans brokenly under his breath as he drives himself into your mouth, too deep, too fast. Your throat strains around him, gagging, tears spilling hot and immediate down your cheeks, but you don't fight him. You dig your nails into his thighs and take it, blinking up at him through the wet haze clouding your vision, hollowing your cheeks even when you're fighting not to choke.
"Fuckin' perfect," he grits out, hips snapping hard enough to make you whimper around him. "Good little slut, lettin' me ruin you however I want. Aren't you, hm?"
The word slut cracks across your mind like a whip. You feel it hit, low and sharp, like scraping across an old bruise he promised he wouldn't touch. You'd told him. That night at the bar, when you first met, so many lifetimes ago, you'd told him that you don't like to be called names. That you take offense to it.
It makes something in your chest lurch, a bitter twist of hurt, betrayal, humiliation, and for one savage second you genuinely consider violently sinking your teeth into him.
You don't.
You dig your nails into your own palms instead, grounding yourself in the sting. You keep your jaw slack, let him fuck your throat, let him call you names you hate, because some wounded, stubborn part of you knows that's what he's trying to make you do. Trying to make you angry enough to leave. Trying to push you away.
He's picking a fight you refuse to give him.
And the longer you stay, the softer you look at him, tears slipping from your lashes, tongue still willing under the ugly words, the harder he fucks into you, like he can beat the tenderness out of you.
It hurts. It's messy and unrelenting and mean, but still, you look up at him with glassy, adoring eyes. You want him to know that you're here. That he can show you this side of himself. That you can be whatever outlet he needs you to be tonight.
You reach up, fingers mindlessly rubbing slow circles on the skin of his thighs, something to ground yourself, and him, while he uses your mouth like it's nothing but a hole to fuck.
And he feels it, the softness, the care threading through every touch. He jerks away suddenly, pulling out of your mouth with a wet, brutal pop, staring down at you like he doesn't understand you at all.
Then he's hauling you back onto the bed, shoving you down on your back so hard the air punches from your lungs. You barely catch your breath before he's wedging himself between your thighs, lining himself up, no teasing now, no patience.
"You want it?" he rasps, voice low and raw.
"Yes," you whisper, wrapping your arms around his neck instinctively, letting your legs fall open wider to invite him in.
He snarls under his breath like he hates how sweet you are to him. Then he drives into you with one savage thrust.
You cry out, back arching off the bed, hands clinging to him for dear life. He's huge, stretching you painfully wide, filling every inch like he wants to break you in half. He doesn't give you time to adjust, just sets a brutal pace immediately, hips snapping into you again and again, every thrust shoving you further up the mattress.
You cling to him anyway, one hand splaying against the sweaty plane of his back, feeling the muscles there bunch and flex with every furious movement.
You whisper to him between gasps, between whimpers. "It's okay, Harry. You can let go. I've got you. I'm here."
He groans low and vicious in your ear, fucking you harder to shut you up, but you swear you feel the tiniest shudder run through him.
You cradle his head to your shoulder, scratching your nails lightly over the short hair at the nape of his neck, murmuring soft praises between each wrecked moan.
"So good to me," you pant, kissing the shell of his ear, tightening your thighs around his hips. "You're perfect. Always so perfect."
His rhythm stutters.
Just for a second. Just a beat of hesitation. But you feel it. He buries his face in your neck like he can hide from it, from you, like if he just fucks you harder, he can fuck the weakness out of himself.
But it's too late.
You feel the anger melt into something messier, something achingly close to desperation, to want. You don't comment on it.
He slams into you harder, rougher, chasing his own release now, trying to outrun the gnawing ache swelling in his chest.
You don't stop touching him.
You don't stop whispering sweet nothings in his ear.
You just hold him, even when it hurts, even when your body is shaking from the force of his thrusts, even when you're barely holding yourself together at the seams.
And maybe that's what finally breaks him.
Because when he comes, buried deep inside you with a feral, broken sound, he doesn't even look at you.
And it stings.
It stings more than the bruising grip he's left on your hips, more than the ache between your legs where he's used you so carelessly.
Because Harry is always big on eye contact, he demands it. "Look at me, baby. Need to see you." "Eyes on me when you come." ''Show me those pretty eyes. There you are.''
He always wants you look at him. Needs you to, like the tether between you would snap otherwise.
But now, when you're lying underneath him trembling and cracked open, when you've given him every piece of yourself, he twists his head away, toward the wall, eyes screwed tight like he can't even stand the sight of you.
It guts you. Leaves you hollow and shaking, your orgasm wilting quietly inside you.
And somewhere, deep down, though he won't let himself feel it, it guts him too. Because he knows if he looks, if he really looks at the way you're still holding him, still whispering broken little praises under your breath despite your own pleasure fading, still caressing his skin like something sacred despite your own body tensing up.
So he looks away.
And it feels like the cruelest thing he's ever done to you.
He pulls out while you're still gasping for breath, yanks his pants up without a word, and disappears into the bathroom with the door slamming shut behind him.
The emptiness he leaves behind feels colder than any punishment he's ever given you. You blink up at the ceiling, heart splintering slowly in your chest, the mess between your thighs a humiliating, aching reminder that whatever has cracked open between you, he wants no part of it.
...
When he comes back, he doesn't say a word.
The bathroom light is still on behind him, casting a clinical glow across the floorboards, and his hair is a mess, cheeks blotchy from scrubbing. He won't meet your eyes.
He walks back into the bedroom like it doesn't belong to either of you, like it's a hotel room he's just checked into and you're the unfortunate occupant they forgot to remove first.
The air goes stiff.
You sit up slowly, the sheets pooling around your waist, heart thudding unevenly. You're not sure what you were expecting. Maybe a quiet, reluctant, apology, maybe an awkward attempt at a joke, maybe just for him to lie back down and act like it never happened, but none of it comes.
Instead, he leans down to grab his phone off the nightstand. His screen lights up his face in a wash of cold blue, making him look even more unreadable, if that's possible. You watch the way his jaw tightens. His shoulders twitch like he's chewing back something awful. He doesn't look at you once.
''Are you coming back to bed?'' you ask, voice hesitant and small, and you immediately hate yourself for how it sounds. Like you're begging.
The silence that follows is thick and sour. It curls between your ribs and settles there, anchoring itself to your shame. He doesn't even glance at you. Doesn't ask if he hurt you, physically or otherwise, doesn't acknowledge the way your hands tremble slightly as you pull the blanket up to your chest, covering yourself like you can shield yourself from whatever's happening between you right now.
''Did I do something wrong?'' you whisper nervously. You wish you didn't care. You wish you could swing your legs out of bed and leave first, say fuck you and mean it. But instead you just sit there, quiet and insecure and hurting.
He finally looks at you, just a flicker, a glance, eyes dark and unreadable.
''No,'' he says after a beat, and it's somehow worse than if he'd said yes.
Because if you'd done something wrong, at least there'd be a reason. A fix. A way back.
''No,'' he repeats, turning away, ''You were perfect.''
It should be comforting, but it sounds like an accusation.
You watch him tug on a hoodie from the floor, and you notice his fingers are shaking slightly, though he hides it well. Everything about him is tight, movements too stiff, face too blank, like he's holding himself together by force.
''Harry…''
''I think you should go,'' he says, and it's sharp. Clipped. Dismissive. And it hurts. So much.
You blink. ''What?''
He doesn't repeat it. Just tosses your clothes at you, like throwing you out after fucking you raw is part of the routine. Like your heart isn't currently trying to crawl out of your chest and disappear under the floorboards.
''You said I should stay,'' you remind him, because that's all you can cling to now, his own words, said so easily just days ago when his hands were still gentle and his voice was still kind. ''You said I should always stay after a night together. That it's the respectable thing to do. That you don't want to worry about me out alone at night.''
''I changed my mind.''
He still won't look at you. Like looking at you would make this real. Like your presence is something he has to ignore completely to make this easier on himself. Like he's already rehearsed this moment and now he's just waiting for it to be over.
You try again, your voice cracking, soft. ''Harry, please—''
''I'm not in the mood,'' he cuts in, leaving no room for discussion. ''Just go. I got you an Uber. Don't make this harder than it has to be.''
Panic flares under your skin. Instinct more than reason, you move without thinking, pulling your dress up your body in hurried motions, struggling to zip yourself up. It's something Harry usually does for you, always making a show of it, always making sure to kiss your shoulder before stepping away.
You give up on the zipper halfway. You just want to fix this, want to make it better, the way you always do.
Before he can tell you to leave again, you step forward, reaching for him, sliding your arms gently around his waist from behind. You press your cheek to the broad curve of his back, kiss the spot between his shoulder blades the way you always do when he's upset, when he's stressed, when he's somewhere you can't reach with words alone.
For a second, you think he might let you. But then his body stiffens under your touch, breath hitching, shallow in his chest.
And he flinches.
He jerks away from you like you've burned him, shoulder twisting sharply out of your grasp, shrugging you off like you're something repulsive he can't stand to have near him. You stumble back a step, arms falling uselessly to your sides, blinking at him in shock.
''Don't,'' he says, voice low and vicious. ''Just... don't touch me.''
The words taste like blood in his mouth. Everything inside him screams at him to take them back, to reach for you, to apologize, to fall into your arms the way he always, always, wants to when it's you. But his walls are up now, higher than ever, and he doesn't know how to tear them down without destroying himself in the process.
So he stands there, rigid and silent, forcing himself to feel nothing as he watches the hurt bloom raw across your face.
It's not just the words. It's the way he spits them out, like your touch is something filthy. Like you're some desperate, clingy thing he can't shake fast enough.
Your chest caves in on itself. You nod, even though it feels like your heart is physically tearing apart. You don't try again. You don't say anything at all.
He doesn't either.
There's something feral in his eyes. Not anger exactly, more like desperate frustration. Like he's trying to get you to hate him. Like he needs to burn this bridge before you get any closer to the parts of him he can't control.
He sees the heartbreak behind your eyes. You know he does. You see the flicker of guilt, tiny, barely there, before he crushes it down and tosses another dagger instead.
''You should be used to this by now,'' he mutters. ''Not like this is anything serious.''
It's the worst thing he could've said. And you know he knows it. You know because he still doesn't look at you. Because he throws the words like knives and doesn't wait to see where they land.
You swallow around the lump in your throat, nod slowly, eyes burning. Your body still aches, slick between your thighs, bruises blooming from where he held you down, and now he's pretending you're no one. Like none of it mattered. Like you didn't try to hold him together while he was falling apart inside of you.
You grab your phone without another word.
Your look for your bag, but you don't ask for help, don't let him see you search for it. You keep your head up. Refuse to cry in front of him. Not now. Not after this.
And when you walk out, heart in your throat, clutching your bag, you don't look back.
He doesn't either.
...
thank you so much for reading! i appreciate any and all support so remember to like, comment and reblog. requests are open! 💕
Summary: Jealousy brought him to the bar. Possession dragged you into his lap.
Warnings: sugardaddy arrangement, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), kind of a size kink, choking kink, some light stalking, jealous and possessive behavior, slutshaming, lots of feels
A/N: thank you guys so much for the love on the series so far! i've gotten a lot of requests to be added to the tag list, so if i've accidentally overlooked yours, just let me know :) hope you like this one. don't cheer too soon. good luck x
Word Count: 4,851
...
He sees you before you see him.
The bar is crowded, low amber lighting pressing warm against your sweaty skin and hazy music rattling deeply in your ribs. You're loosely cradling a drink, something pink and sweet, wrapped in an emerald green dress with iridescent sequins, so short it barely clings to your thighs, cinched at the waist and hugging every inch of your body like it was poured onto your skin.
It's a new dress, bought two days ago with the little black card that Harry had tossed in front of you on the bed one night, like it meant nothing. ''Just use it'', he'd said. ''Buy whatever you want.''
And that you did. You've always been so obedient, so eager to please. It's one of the reasons your arrangement works so well. But lately, the transactions have started to blur into something... different. It's not just groceries and bus tickets and rent anymore. Not just the careful, predictable spending of someone just taking what they need.
Now it's glossy department store visits, spontaneous dinners for one at upscale restaurants, even spa days and yoga retreats. Designer perfume that clings to your skin. Heels that cost more than your rent. Dresses that shimmer in the dark.
He'd noticed the changes in you. All the little shifts.
Your perfume was the first thing that changed. Sweet, like you, expensive in a way that clings, notes of vanilla and jasmine, and something more adventurous he can't quite name.
It lingers in his car after he drops you off. Lingers even longer in his sheets. The first time it happened, he caught himself burrowing into the pillow you had laid on, inhaling so deeply it left him light-headed. He changed the linens the next morning with a scowl, told himself it was distracting. Unprofessional.
He tried to blame this momentary lapse of judgment on the perfume, on its tenacity, its price tag. But he knew. It wasn't about the perfume. It was you.
The way your voice softens when you say his name, a tone you save just for him. The way your smile twitches when you try not to laugh at the noises of complaint he makes when you leave the bed. The way you're always so kind to him, even when he's cold or harsh or difficult. He doesn't know what to do with that kind of softness. That kind of grace. Especially when it's directed at him.
You've changed, he can see it in the way you carry yourself, the way you walk into a room with your chin up a little higher. But you're still the same at your core. Still shy when he mentions sex outside the bedroom, just a passing comment, really, a teasing whisper in your ear when you're cooking or reading a book. Still thanking him every time he buys you something as simple as a coffee, even though he always rolls his eyes and mutters ''it's part of the deal, baby''. Still too gentle for this world. Still too good for him.
And the lingerie... fuck. He's seen the credit card charges. Little things that cost hundreds, maybe thousands, of pounds. And he knows it's for him. You never say it, but you only wear them when you know he'll be the one undressing you.
He fucking loves it.
The timid smile on your face when he tugs off your hoodie, revealing the sheer, shimmering little things that look painted onto your skin like he's unwrapping a present. Pearlescent mesh that cups your tits like a second skin, thin garters that dig into the plush curve of your thighs, delicate embroidery right where his mouth loves to be. You never say much when he peels it off, just blush and look up at him like you're waiting for his approval. He always grins. ''Fuckin' love that you wear my money like this.''
You moan when he tells you how gorgeous you look. You shiver when he mutters how good it feels knowing no one else gets to see you like this. Sometimes, when he's buried between your thighs, he thinks about snapping photos, keeping a private collection, but he reckons you wouldn't allow him.
After all, even after all these weeks of tangled limbs and messy sheets, you still won't let him fuck you, not properly. Not the way he wants to. Needs to. You'd always politely stopped him when things started to slip too far, and he'd respected that, without question, without pressure. Never asked why.
Until one night, after you'd melted beneath his mouth, trying to catch your breath, when he'd propped up his face on one hand, stroking your arm in slow, lazy circles with the other. He'd asked, quiet and curious, ''Why d'you always stop me, baby?'' Not accusing, not frustrated, just genuinely wondering.
You'd been shy about it. Said it softly, hesitantly. That you just wanted to get to know him better before doing something that intimate. That it wasn't about him, not at all. That it just meant more to you. He'd never thought of sex as anything but a release, as friction and sweat and a way to shut off his brain, and he'd felt something odd curl in his chest at your words. Not annoyance. Not rejection. Just… respect. Maybe even admiration. You saw sex as special, sacred, and for once, he wanted to deserve that. Deserve you.
God, what was he turning into?
The question lingers in the back of his mind as he watches you from his shadowed corner near the back of the bar, hidden by the low-hanging bulbs and velvet curtains, eyes tracking you like a sniper with his jaw set and his knuckles white.
You're blissfully unaware. You sip your cocktail, lips glossed and sticky around the rim, smiling at something on your phone as if you don't feel the heat of a dozen gazes trained on your body. You don't even seem to notice the way all the men in the bar study your every movement. You don't hear the way the women whisper in jealousy about your dress, your confidence. A girl who could get anything she wants with just a bat of her eyelashes.
He hadn't planned to come. You hadn't even told him where you'd be. You hadn't needed to. He always finds out.
The moment he saw the tag from your new dress in the trash and the ridiculously high charge made to his credit card, he knew. You were out. Without him. In that dress, on his dime.
You laugh at something the barista says, the sound bright and genuine, and his throat tightens. God, you're pretty. That's the worst part. You're pretty and kind and so stupidly innocent about it all, like you don't realize what you do to people when you walk into a room. Like you don't realize what you do to him.
He ducks into the men's bathroom quickly, just to splash cold water in his face, just to try to snap himself out of whatever trance you've seemed to put him in. Get it together, Harry.
He swiftly slides back into his booth when he returns, and for a second he debates going up to you, making sure that everyone sees that he's the one taking you home at the end of the night.
Then the guy approaches.
He's tall. Closer to your age than Harry is. Clean-shaven and grinning like he actually believes he has a chance. Harry leans forward slightly, eyes narrowing as he watches the stranger slide into your space, hand braced casually on the bar beside your elbow.
''Hey,'' he says, voice cocky but smooth, sounding charming enough to hide the hint of arrogance. ''I was gonna wait for your boyfriend to come back from the bathroom, but… I figured, screw it. Mind if I buy your next drink?''
You blink up at him, a little surprised, but you smile sweetly at him nonetheless. ''Actually, I'm here alone.''
That goes straight to Harry's gut. Alone. You're here alone, looking like that. Wearing his money. Sitting pretty on a barstool like a trophy someone forgot to take home and worship. His jaw ticks.
''Damn,'' the guy says, clearly pleased. ''Lucky me, then. You're so hot, I can't believe no one's snatched you up yet.''
You smile politely, but Harry can see the offense etching its way into your skin, a delicate frown sitting on your pretty face. That's my girl, he thinks. He'd learned early on into your arrangement that you didn't appreciate being degraded or objectified, and he'd nearly lost his family jewels the first time he called you ''hot''. ''I'm not a cup of tea, Harry'', you'd told him defiantly.
''No, I mean it,'' the guy presses, inching closer. ''It's like you walked in and I forgot what I was doing. I've been watching you the whole time, just couldn't take my eyes off you.''
Your smile falters just slightly. Harry sees it. The way your fingers tighten around your glass. The way you glance away, uncertain, uncomfortable. But the guy keeps going.
''Listen, I know this is forward, but do you wanna get out of here? Maybe hit another place with better music? Or straight to my place, if you'd prefer,'' he asks confidently.
Harry's up before he realizes it, drink forgotten on the table behind him. The blood in his veins is cold, electric, every muscle in his body pulled taut like a wire. He's on autopilot as he cuts through the bar, ignoring the brush of shoulders, the flicker of stares.
His only focus is you. His girl and a stranger who clearly has no idea what he's playing with.
He stops just behind you, hand curling around your waist, fingers splaying possessively across the curve of your side.
''She's taken.''
His voice is low. Rough. Measured, but only just. A breath away from breaking this man's nose.
You go stiff in his grip. Your eyes snap to his, wide, caught somewhere between shock and relief. The guy blinks, taking a step back with his hands raised.
''Look, man, she said she was alone—''
''And now she's not. Move.'' His eyebrows raise, the look on his face saying ''try me. I dare you.''
The guy swallows and stammers something, but he's already turning to retreat. You open your mouth, debating whether to strangle Harry for following you here or kiss him for saving you from that creep.
But Harry doesn't give you the chance to speak. His hand clamps around your wrist, not hard enough to hurt, but with enough pressure to make it clear; you're leaving.
''Harry—'' you start, but he's already dragging you through the crowd, jaw locked, pace fast. You trip slightly in your heels, breath catching as you stumble after him.
The door slams open with a sharp crack, rain sweeping in around you both like it's part of his fury. He storms out first, and you stumble after him, heels clicking sharply against the wet pavement, glittering dress clinging tighter to your skin with each second.
The streetlights blur with water, casting gold halos onto the slick pavement. He doesn't let go of you even as the rain soaks your clothes. He doesn't even look at you. Just paces a few feet away, running a hand through his damp hair like it might somehow tame the chaos boiling inside him.
''What the fuck were you thinking?'' His voice is thunderous, splitting the air like the lightning that's blocks away from you. He finally turns to face you, jaw clenched, lips curled in a frustrated snarl. ''Out. Alone. Dressed like that? Do you have any idea what kind of creeps hang around places like this?''
Your heart is racing, not just from the cold or the scolding, but from the abruptness of it all, how you'd gone from laughing over a cocktail to being dragged out like a misbehaving child.
''Excuse me?'' You blink against the rain, glaring at him through your soaked lashes. ''I was having a drink. I was fine.''
He scoffs, taking a step closer. ''You call that fine? That guy was three seconds away from dragging you into a fucking alley. And you were smiling at him. Entertaining his delusions. You're a woman, for God's sake. Don't you know better than to engage with men like that?''
You huff out a bitter laugh. ''Men like what, Harry? Men who find my location, who watch me from dark corners?''
''I was keeping an eye on you!''
''You were stalking me.''
''Well, apparently I have to, because you don't seem to have any survival instincts whatsoever.''
''I was being polite!''
''You were flirting.''
You throw your hands up in exasperation. He's behaving like a petulant child. ''And what if I was? It's not like you're my boyfriend.''
That hits him like a slap in the face. He smiles tight-lipped, bitter. ''Right. Not like I have a say, right? Because I'm just the guy funding your new lifestyle, paying for your little wardrobe, all those fucking slutty dresses—''
''Are you seriously throwing that in my face right now?'' You spit back at him, offense settling deeper in your bones than the cold.
He doesn't say anything. He knows that comment was low, even for him, but he doesn't take it back. He can't, he's too deep in it now.
You take a shaky breath, fists curled at your sides. ''I didn't ask for any of that. You offered. You set the rules. The boundaries. Yet here you are, dragging me into the street like a jealous ex.''
His eyes widen slightly, running his hand through his soaked hair in frustration. ''I'm not jealous,'' he says defensively, but his voice lacks the conviction it usually carries.
''Bullshit.''
''I'm not.''
You tilt your head at him, voice growing quieter, the exhaustion seeping in. ''Then why are you out here? Why were you in there, Harry? Don't lie to me. I'll know.''
He flinches like you hit him, and for a second, he doesn't have an answer. Just stares at you, rain dripping down his temples as his drenched curls stick to his skin, his jaw tight.
You know you've hit the nail right on the head. There's no use pretending anymore. He can't stand the idea of someone else touching you, looking at you, even if he's the one who keeps you at arm's length. Even if he swore he didn't want anything more.
''I didn't like the way he was looking at you,'' he finally mutters under his breath, a hint of shame crawling up his neck.
You bite back the lump in your throat. ''Why?''
He opens his mouth to answer, then closes it again. His hands twitch at his sides, like he doesn't know whether to reach for you or push you away. He looks back at you, and the fury in his eyes is morphs into something softer as his gaze drops briefly to your dress, soaked through and clinging to every curve.
You're shivering now, teeth chattering every few seconds, hair sticking to your cheeks, mascara probably halfway down your face. You're trying so hard not to cry, not to shake, not to break in half in front of him. But he sees it.
''Fuck—'' he breathes, almost to himself. Like he can't believe he let it get this far. Let himself get this far. Setting boundaries and breaking them. Pushing you away but still kissing your skin.
Shoving his feelings so far down until it was too late to realize they'd consumed him.
He shrugs off his coat in one swift motion and steps forward before you can say a word. He drapes it around your shoulders and tugs it closed in the front, hands lingering a beat too long on the lapels. You stare at him, stunned, lips parted.
His hand lifts, almost hesitant, and brushes your soaked hair gently out of your face. The contact is soft, so impossibly soft after all that screaming. His palm lingers against your cheek, warm, even now.
He swallows hard, Adam's apple bobbing, and he's staring at you like he doesn't know what the hell to do with everything building behind his eyes. You nuzzle into his hand, pressing a soft kiss to his wrist.
You don't know who leans in first. Maybe you both do. Maybe it's instinct. Maybe it's fate.
Your lips crash into his like a dam breaking, weeks of tension and questions and all pouring out in one desperate collision. He freezes for a split second, like he hadn't considered this outcome, like he didn't know he was drowning until your lips pulled him to the surface. But then he's kissing you back with every ounce of heat and anger and longing he's buried beneath his rules.
One hand fists in your hair, the other at the small of your back, pressing you into him like he's terrified you'll vanish if there's even a sliver of distance between you. It's messy, wet, a little frantic, but it's real. Your arms slide around his neck, trembling hands clinging to the soaked collar of his shirt.
You've never done this before. Never kissed. Never crossed that invisible line. But now that it's happening, it feels inevitable. Like everything else was just leading up to this moment.
When he finally pulls back, you're both breathless. His chest is heaving. Your lips are swollen. His hands are still on you, fingers twitching like they don't want to let go. You look at him and see it in his eyes. The want. The fear. The guilt. The hope.
Neither of you says a word. You just stand there, shaking under his coat in the pouring rain, while your heart beats loud enough to drown out the thunder.
He doesn't speak as he suddenly pulls you through the downpour. Just stalks toward his car while you try to match his pace, your heels slipping on the slick asphalt, but he doesn't slow down. His hand is locked around your wrist like he's afraid you'll vanish if he lets go.
He tugs the door to the driver's seat open impatiently and practically throws himself in, dragging you with him, wet limbs tangling, your body landing hard against his in the cramped front seat.
The door slams shut behind you, muting the sound of the rain to a steady percussion against the roof, the storm now caged outside while another builds in the tight, humid air between you. You're both drenched, clothes sticking to your bodies like a second skin, breaths ragged, chests heaving.
Your knees hit either side of his hips, thighs sliding against his jeans as you straddle him awkwardly in the seat. His hands are already under your dress, bunching the fabric up to your waist with zero finesse, just raw impatience. ''Wore this to tease me?'' he hisses, jaw clenched, eyes dark as sin. ''Parading around in this tiny fucking dress like you don't belong to someone?''
''I don't belong to anyone,'' you retort defiantly, hating it when you're treated like an object, like a possession.
But right now, you're breathless, and you don't sound so convinced anymore. Not when you're rutting your hips down against the hard line of his cock in his jeans, not when your panties are clinging to you, wet from both the rain and your own arousal.
He barks out a laugh that's all raging jealousy and lust. ''Bullshit. You belong to me. This cunt belongs to me.''
You whimper at his vulgarity, grinding down harder. The windows start fogging up around the edges as his hands grip your ass, dragging your body against his. ''You're such a desperate little thing,'' he mutters, cock thick and straining beneath you. ''Bet you'd let me fuck you raw right now, wouldn't you? Right here in my fucking car. Don't care if people walk past and see, do you?''
You shake your head, drunk off him, dizzy from the filth in his voice, nuzzling your face into his shoulder.
''You're so fucked up for me, baby. Look at you. Letting me do this to you. Wish that fucking creep from the bar was here to see how you behave when it's just you and me. Fuckin' filthy, baby.''
Your hands shake pathetically as you work open his jeans. He helps, yanking the zipper down, pulling himself out with a hiss. And then… Jesus Christ.
Your mouth goes dry. You'd nearly forgotten how massive he is. Thick and veiny and already leaking at the tip, twitching against your thigh. You stare like you've never seen him before. How the hell is that going to fit inside of you?
He must see the flicker of nerves in your eyes because his voice softens just slightly, only for a second. ''You sure?'' he asks sternly, his hand skimming your thigh, eyes watching you like a hawk.
You nod. ''I want to. I just... Fuck, Harry, you're big.''
His jaw flexes with pride, but he doesn't comment on it. Instead, you feel him reach under your dress again, curling his fingers into the waistband of your panties and starts to drag them down.
''Up,'' he murmurs. ''Need these off you.''
You shift your weight onto your knees to help, thighs bracketing his hips as he tugs the soaked fabric down your legs. But as you sit up, spine straightening in the cramped car, your head smacks hard into the roof.
''Ow—fuck!'' you hiss, dropping back down on his lap instantly and grabbing the crown of your head with both hands.
Harry freezes. Then his lips twitch. Then he laughs.
''Shit, are you okay?'' he asks between chuckles, clearly trying and failing to stifle them, swatting your hands away to cradle the back of your head and inspect the damage.
You glare at him, shoving his shoulder when he presses a finger into the bruise that's surely forming on your scalp. ''Do I look okay?''
''You look like you just lost a fight with the ceiling, baby,'' he says, grinning now, voice warm with amusement.
You swat his chest, trying to look mad, but the corner of your mouth quirks too. ''Don't laugh, it hurts like a bitch.''
''Aw, c'mere.'' He pulls you forward into a kiss, soft and smiling. ''You're alright. I've got you.''
The lingering tension from your fight earlier melts away, and you let him take your panties the rest of the way off. Let him hold you steady again. Let yourself breathe.
His fingers brush through your soaked folds like he's checking how ready you are, and he hums in approval, almost smug. ''So wet for me already, baby. I barely even touched you.''
Your thighs twitch. He lines himself up with you, holds your hips, and begins to guide you down slowly. ''Just breathe, baby. Gonna go slow. Let me stretch you.''
You sink an inch. Then two. Then stop with a sharp inhale, your nails digging into his shoulders.
''Fuck, too much?''
You shake your head. Your walls are fluttering around him, pulsing tight as your body struggles to accommodate his size. But God, you want to. You want to take all of him. You want to be ruined by him.
''Just... give me a second,'' you whisper, barely able to speak.
And he does. He leans up, wraps one arm around you to pull you impossibly close, forcing your back to arch into him. He kisses your jaw. Your cheek. Your collarbone. Your shoulder. ''You're doing so good,'' he murmurs. ''So fucking good for me. My pretty girl.''
The praise knocks something loose in you. You grip the back of his neck, burying your face in his wet curls at the top of his head as you slowly start to sink down further, inch by inch. It burns, but it's good, thick and overwhelming, your slick easing the way.
''God, I can feel you squeezing me,'' he growls, forehead dropping to rest on your chest. ''Tight little cunt's choking me, baby. Fuck.''
By the time you've taken all of him, you feel split open, fuller than you ever thought possible. You both freeze there, chests heaving, soaking wet and panting. You clench around him instinctively and he moans, moans, like he's losing control.
''I've never let anyone ride me before,'' he pants, dragging his hands up your sides as you adjust. ''You know that?''
Your brows twitch up, surprised, your hand combing through his wet curls, his face still pressed against your boobs. ''Why?''
''Don't like giving up control,'' he admits. ''But fuck...You, I'd let you do anything. Look at you. Look at how pretty you are on my cock.''
Your lips part, stunned by the confession, by the way his voice strains at the edges, the hunger in his eyes when he pulls back up, looking at you like he's unraveling beneath you.
He rocks his hips up just slightly, and the friction sends sparks through your stomach. You brace your palms against his chest and start moving, slow at first, lifting your hips and dropping back down. He hisses between his teeth.
''Fuck, yes. That's it. Ride me, baby. Show me how bad you need it.''
You moan as you begin to find a rhythm, the tight squeeze and drag of him making your head spin. Every time you drop down, it feels like he's deeper, thicker, rubbing that spot that makes your vision blur.
One hand shoots to your throat, squeezing gently as his hips thrust up into you sharply. ''This what you wanted, huh?” he snarls, grip tight enough to make your breath catch. ''Wanted to tease me all night just so I'd fuck you like this?''
You nod desperately, moaning as his fingers flex at your neck. ''Harry, please.''
''You're mine,'' he growls, thrusting up into you harder now, no longer letting you lead. ''Mine to look at. Mine to touch. Mine to fuck.''
His possessiveness makes you clench hard around him, the struggle to breathe making you feel dizzy and depraved and his. You're barely keeping up anymore, your thighs burning, body trembling, but he's got you, one hand guiding your hips while the other keeps you tethered to him by the throat.
Your head falls back and he takes the opportunity to mark your neck, tongue dragging over your skin before he bites down and groans, ''Gonna come inside you, baby. Gonna fill you up so good. Let everyone know who you belong to.''
You cry out, slamming your hips down on his, his cock punching deep as he fucks up into you, harder now, rough and punishing.
''Tell me you're mine,'' he demands. ''Say it.''
''I'm yours,'' you sob. ''Harry, fuck, yours—''
That's all it takes.
He lets go, growling as he snaps his hips up again, again, again. You feel him spill inside you with a strangled curse, hot and endless, his entire body trembling beneath yours. He groans your name into your shoulder, arms wrapped tight around your back as if he could fuse your bodies together and keep you there.
His release spurs on your own, and he lets out a choked moan when you squeeze him, riding out the high, milking him of every last drop, as the coil in your stomach snaps.
You're shaking, both of you breathing heavy in the steamed-up car, rain pattering against the windows, your soaked dress still bunched around your waist.
And when you finally open your eyes and see the way he's still looking at you, jaw clenched, lashes wet, hand stroking your thigh possessively, you breath hitches.
He lets you linger against him for a second too long. You can feel the rapid thrum of his heart under your palm, the slight tremble in his fingers where they rest on your thigh. But then, just as you're starting to think this might mean something, he pulls away.
He gently nudges you off his lap, tucking himself back into his jeans, like the moment never even happened, and your stomach drops. He leans over the console to tug your crumpled dress down and fasten your seatbelt, avoiding your eyes the entire time.
''Hey... Are you okay?'' you ask, voice soft, dipping your head lower to get him to look at you, or at least catch a glimpse of his face, of what the hell he's thinking right now.
He pulls back, slumping into his seat and staring straight ahead, his eyes unreadable. ''Yeah. I'm fine. Let's just go.''
It stings more than it should. Not cruel, not dismissive exactly, just... closed off. As if something cracked open between you two, only for him to slam it shut again just as quickly.
And you wait. For a look, a soft smile, a brush of his fingers. Any kind of reassurance to soothe the ache of the subtle hint of regret in his voice. But nothing comes.
You nod slowly, swallowing the lump rising in your throat as he turns the key in the ignition, the air between you thick with everything left unsaid. ''Okay.''
...
thank you so much for reading! i appreciate any and all support so remember to like, comment and reblog. requests are open! 💕
Summary: Before he can break you in, he needs to know exactly where you break.
Warnings: sugardaddy arrangement, fingering, oral (f!receiving), use of vibrator, mention of handcuffs, blindfolding, a panic attack, repeated use of safe words, a ton of ''good girl'' (oops), dom!Harry, it just gets kind of intense guys
A/N: i had so much fun writing this and i've got sooo much still in store for the series! i have no idea how this ended up being almost 5k words cause it feels shorter than anything else i've written but yk what i'll take it. let me know if you like this x
Word Count: 4,870
...
The morning after that first night with Harry, you wake up to the shrill buzz of your phone, a new notification lighting up the cracked screen. Bleary-eyed, you swipe it open and freeze. Your stomach drops. You blink once. Twice. But the number doesn't change.
Ten thousand dollars.
Deposited directly into your checking account at six o'clock in the morning. For a moment, all you can do is sit there, fingers trembling slightly where they clutch the device, heart hammering against your ribs like it's trying to punch its way free. It feels unreal, like a glitch in the system, like some impossibly generous mistake you should scramble to correct.
Before you can spiral too far, another notification rolls in.
Harry: For your trouble. Don't get any ideas, it won't always be this generous.
You don't know if he's joking.
Still in your pajamas, still half-numb, you stumble over to the kitchen table and open your laptop. In a daze, you pay off two months' rent in advance. Clear the electricity bill that's been relentlessly stacking up with threatening red letters. Kill the last of your credit card debt, the looming, gnawing anxiety that's been a permanent fixture in your life for as long as you can remember. With one click, it all vanishes. Just like that. You release a breath you didn't know you were holding.
You sit back in the wobbly wooden chair and stare at the zeros. No debts to pay off. Rent covered for months. You blink slowly, feeling weightless and heavy all at once.
You should cry. You'd expected you would. But no tears come. Only a heavy, eerie kind of calm. Like you were standing on the edge of something vast and bottomless and have just taken your first step backwards, away from the deep end.
Later that afternoon, your phone pings again.
Harry: Quit the fucking cafe. Waste of time.
You stare at the message, thumb hovering over the screen. It would be so easy. To type out a resignation email, walk out of that dingy little shop with its sticky counters and fluorescent lights that make your head ache, and never look back. To let Harry sweep you up and off your feet and stay at home, maybe pursue a hobby.
But you don't. You type out a short, almost defiant reply.
Can't. I like it.
You don't explain that working keeps you tethered to yourself. That hard work isn't just something you do; it's part of who you are. You've never had anything handed to you before. You've worked for every scrap, every small victory, every breath of air above water. Walking away from that would feel too much like walking away from yourself, even if a selfish, aching part of you wants to.
You wonder if your answer will piss him off. You wonder why a wicked little part of you wants it to.
When he doesn't reply, you expect to be iced out. Canceled. Game over before it even begins. It makes your stomach churn in fear. But the next day, after a particularly exhausting shift, a message comes through, curt and demanding:
Harry: Come to mine tonight. 9PM. Need to finalize terms.
His tone is sharp and professional, but something about it makes a subtle anticipation bloom between your legs anyway. You spend an hour picking out an outfit, second-guessing yourself the whole time. In the end, you settle on something simple. Comfortable, but soft. Easy to take off. You tell yourself it's practicality, but the fluttering in your stomach calls you a liar.
You take the bus to his place, cringing at the cost of a ticket until you remember that you've got more than enough money now. Hell, you could've ordered a limousine if you'd liked.
You never visit this part of the city. The people here wear designer sunglasses that cost more than a year's worth of your salary (besides, what's the point of wearing sunglasses when it's nearly pitch-black outside?), peering over them at you like they can sense that you're not like them. That you don't belong here.
When you knock on his door, Harry answers immediately, like he's been standing just behind it, waiting. His lingers in the doorway, broad shoulders framed in a loose black hoodie, sweatpants hanging low on his hips, his curls damp like he's just stepped out of the shower. The faint smell of vanilla and mint clings to his skin, warm and heady in the cool night air.
He leans against the doorframe, appraising you silently for a moment with those unreadable green eyes, and something tightens inside your chest. You wonder if he notices the dark circles under your eyes you've tried covering up, exhaustion having clawed its way into your skin, unrelenting. You wonder if he resents it, a reminder that you aren't fully his yet. That you still belong, even a little, to a life outside of what he's trying to build around you.
''Come in,'' he says finally, voice low and gravelly. It's not a request.
You step inside, heart hammering.
"You're late," he says without looking at you, voice dry, turning his back on you and walking back into the apartment like he already knows you'll follow.
Your breath stutters. "Five minutes."
He only shrugs, like it doesn't matter, like you don't matter, and maybe you don't, but something in the way he leaves the door open, wide and waiting, soothes the sting a little. An invitation, even if it's a sharp-edged one.
The apartment smells like expensive cologne and the faintest trace of smoke, like he aired it out but not quite enough. The lighting is low, casting long, moody shadows across the heavy furniture: sleek, cold, and obscenely rich. Dark leather sofas. A steel-and-glass coffee table. No rugs, no paintings, no photos. No personal touches at all. You take a few cautious steps inside, pulse thrumming, letting your eyes roam while he moves into the kitchen.
The place feels like a model home. It's sterile. Hollow. Like a space meant to impress but never to be lived in. There are no family portraits, no framed snapshots of drunken nights with friends, no messy piles of mail or keys on the counters. Just the necessities. Barely even that. You wonder what kind of person chooses to live like this. You wonder if he even notices the loneliness curling in the corners of the room, or if he's too used to it by now to care.
You hear the clink of glass behind you; Harry fixing himself a drink. Something amber and expensive sloshes into a crystal tumbler. Without asking, he pours a second drink, slightly lighter, and sets it down on the counter with a muted tap.
Decided for you, like everything else. You take a small sip. It's good. He knows you better than you think.
When he finally turns back to face you, he's cradling his drink lazily in one hand, the other tucked into the pocket of his sweatpants. He cocks his head, surveying you like you're something he's bought and isn't quite sure he's satisfied with yet.
"Clothes off,'' he orders without ceremony, without even offering the barest pretense of conversation or kindness.
You blink, caught off-guard by the bluntness of it, the complete lack of foreplay, not sexual, but social. No small talk. No polite lies to smooth the way. Just a command.
Your fingers twitch at your sides, the blood in your veins boiling unpleasantly with offense. It's not like you didn't know what this was (you agreed to it, after all), but still, something about the way he dismisses any human interaction and social norms you're used to stings a little more than you're prepared for. Like you're less a person, more an object now. A thing he's purchased fair and square, and can use however he sees fit.
For a split second, you hesitate. The frown that flickers across your face is small, barely there, but it flashes quick and instinctive before you can school your features.
And Harry sees it. Of course he does. His eyes sharpen, a glint of something unreadable flickering behind the casual facade. He lifts the tumbler to his mouth, sips slowly, never breaking eye contact.
But he doesn't apologize. Doesn't explain himself. Doesn't soften the command. He just lets the silence stretch, heavy and deliberate, until the only thing you can hear is the faint hum of the busy bustling outside and the sound of your own breathing.
Still, something shifts almost imperceptibly in the air between you. Like he's offering you a choice, even if it's silent. Testing you. Waiting to see if you'll push back or fold.
Your fingers reluctantly move to the zipper of your dress, fumbling slightly. The fabric feels heavier than it should, thick and stubborn under your touch. Your cheeks flame with heat as you let it pool around your ankles, the air cool against your bare skin. You don't dare meet his eyes. Your panties come next, sliding down your legs in a slow, humiliating crawl.
You stand there, naked and flushed, heart jackhammering, feeling less like a goddess offered up on a velvet throne and more like a product left bare on a shelf for inspection.
Harry finishes his drink in one long swallow, sets the glass down with a sharp clink. Then he moves, slow, deliberate, until he's standing right in front of you, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his body. Two fingers tilt your chin up until your gaze locks with his.
"Color?" he asks quietly, almost gently, surprising you.
The simple question unravels something in you. You swallow hard. "Green," you whisper, the word catching slightly in your throat.
His mouth curves, not a smile, exactly, but something close. Satisfaction. Approval. Good girl.
You don't know if you're trembling from the cold or from the way he's looking at you like a man starved.
"On the bed," he orders, voice lowering, rougher this time.
You hesitantly walk toward the bed, your nerves buzzing like an electric current, your skin prickling under his watchful gaze. He follows behind at a leisurely pace, his steps deliberate, as though he owns every inch of the space between you two.
When you sit, knees pressed together tightly, a nervous instinct, you can feel his eyes on you, sharp and calculating. He doesn't say a word, but his stare is almost suffocating, like he's dissecting every tiny twitch of your body. You think you're hiding it, the tension coiling in your gut, the sharp breath you can't quite control, but Harry notices. He always notices.
"Spread."
You hesitate, just for a second, but that's enough. A flicker of amusement passes over his features, the kind that tightens your chest even more. You obey, reluctantly, the cool sheets beneath you feeling too uncomfortable, too foreign, your breath stuttering as you do what he says. He slowly kneels before you, like he's got all the time in the world, his hand casually holding something you hadn't even seen him grab: a slim, black vibrator, sleek and intimidating.
Your stomach flips. You open your mouth, but the words get stuck somewhere between wanting to beg him to stop and wanting to prove yourself.
"We're gonna test your limits," he says simply, his tone darker, more serious now. "Gotta know what you like. What you don't."
You swallow. "I thought we were... going to talk about the arrangement. Finalize the terms?"
He smirks, slow and cruel. "We are, baby. This is part of it."
Your heart races as he rolls the vibrator between his fingers, eyes glinting as he examines you. He's studying your every reaction, every subtle change in your body language.
You shift uncomfortably. Your hands are trembling, but you try to control it. You're not good at this, not good at admitting when you're not okay, not good at showing your hesitance.
The vibrator hums to life with a quiet buzz, low at first. He starts slow, teasing the inside of your thighs, moving closer to your hips, barely brushing against where you need him. Your body clenches, straining towards it instinctively. He watches you, eyes focused, reading every tiny twitch in your expression, every sharp intake of breath, every subtle, desperate movement of your body.
"No lying," he says, voice serious now. "I'll know."
You nod shakily.
His fingers hover near your skin, just enough to make you ache for his touch, but not enough to relieve the pressure building inside you.
"Beg."
"Please," you whisper, barely audible.
"Please, what?"
"Please touch me."
His smile deepens, satisfied, and he presses the vibrator firmly against your clit. Your hips jerk violently at the sensation. You need more, so much more, but it's too much at the same time. Your body can't decide what it wants.
"Good girl," he murmurs, his voice low and guttural.
He keeps the vibrations steady at first, gentle pulses that send waves of heat and discomfort through your body, your breath ragged, eyes shut tight. But then he turns it up, gradually increasing the intensity, and you feel like you're losing your mind.
Your body is already sensitive, already overstimulated from a long day at work dealing with insufferable customers, and the more he pushes, the more your thoughts scatter.
When the toy brushes lower, teasing your entrance, your body tightens reflexively. You flinch. You can't help it. The discomfort, the anxiety, it all hits at once.
He immediately pulls back, eyes narrowing as he watches you, still calm, still in control.
Your breath is shallow, your chest rising and falling too quickly, too erratically. You're embarrassed. This is not the reaction he was hoping for. He's watching you, scrutinizing you.
"That's a no, then?" he asks, voice still cool, but there's a hint of something else, a hint of curiosity.
You blink quickly, nodding hesitantly as you try to steady your breathing. Your chest is tight. Your hands are still fisted in the sheets, trying to ground yourself, but it's hard.
He clicks the vibrator off, the absence of the buzzing almost as deafening as the silence between you. He moves up the bed toward you, his gaze softening just a little, but the dominance in his posture remains.
"You should tell me when you don't like something," he tells you, voice low, almost like he's lecturing you, but there's no harshness in it. ''It's not my job to guess what you want. You've gotta speak up when things aren't okay."
Your throat tightens. "I didn't want to... disappoint you."
He laughs softly, not unkind but with an edge of exasperation. ''You're not a fucking robot, baby. Don't play me for one. I'm not paying for you to pretend.''
His bluntness cuts through the shame, leaving you raw, exposed.
"Let's continue," he announces, the smirk tugging at his lips. You nod, dazed, unable to think clearly.
He presses his lips to your neck, nipping at the skin with sharp little bites, and you gasp, your whole body reacting to him.
He doesn't give you time to recover before his hand disappears under the bed, pulling out a pair of handcuffs. The cold metal glints in the dim light, and your stomach plummets, dread pooling at the pit of your stomach. Your eyes flick to the cuffs, to him, to the way he's watching you, waiting. You don't want to seem weak. But the panic is rising, bubbling just under the surface.
He sees it. That flicker of fear. And to your shock, he tosses the cuffs aside without a second thought.
"No?" he says, arching a brow, the coolness of his voice making your heart beat faster. ''That's alright.''
You don't know whether you're relieved or disappointed. But you're grateful, more than anything, that he noticed. That he cared.
He shifts you, gently but firmly, positioning you on your stomach, ass up. He pins your hands behind your back, his grip firm but not painful, his fingers like iron. You can't move, can't escape, but it doesn't feel like punishment.
"This," he mutters, low and dark with satisfaction, his voice laced with something rough and possessive. "This I know you like."
You can't help the soft whimper that escapes your lips as his body presses against yours, grinding slow and punishing, drawing out each movement. Your mind starts to unravel as he moves over you, your body arching into him automatically, desperate for more.
Harry's hands let go of your hands and stroke slow along your arms, down your sides, grounding you in the bed's soft sheets. His touch is almost tender, but his voice stays steady, purposeful, like he's still holding back, still working toward something darker.
''Wanna try something,'' he mutters, his mouth brushing over your ear. ''Think you can handle that, baby?''
You hesitate, heart jumping a little too fast in your chest. But you nod, eager to please, eager not to disappoint him, even if there's a pit opening up inside your gut.
He notices the slight delay in your answer, a flash of reassurance passing over his face before he pushes up from the bed and retrieves something from one of the drawers in the nighstand beside his bed: a long strip of black silk. Smooth, intimidating.
You tell yourself you're fine. You tell yourself you can handle it.
He straddles your hips, pinning you lightly to the mattress with the weight of his body, and your breath catches when he brings the silk to your face, letting it ghost across your cheeks. He watches you, studying every twitch of discomfort, every tiny tremble of your lips, but when you don't say anything, he smiles, slow and satisfied.
"Good girl," he breathes, tying the blindfold tight around your eyes.
Darkness falls immediately. Your world narrows to the sound of your breathing, too loud in your ears, and the rough scrape of Harry's sweatpants against your bare skin.
You feel his hand trail down your side, but you can't see it coming, can't prepare for the way it jolts through your body, can't anticipate where he'll touch next. The loss of control makes your heart hammer faster, panic starting to simmer under the surface.
It's fine. It's fine.
Except it's not.
You can't see him. You can't read him. You can't breathe.
The air in the room feels too thick, too heavy. Your chest tightens, your hands gripping at the sheets helplessly, your body locking up beneath him. You try to stay quiet, you try not to ruin it, but your breathing gives you away, short, ragged little gasps that stutter out of you uncontrollably. The harder you try to stop it, the worse it gets.
At first, Harry doesn't notice. His hands are moving, teasing, rough and unrelenting, dragging noises out of your mouth you don't even recognize. But when you whimper softly, not in pleasure, but in fear, you feel him freeze above you. His body goes stiff. You realize, even through the roaring of your rapid heartbeat in your ears, that he's gone completely silent.
''Take the blindfold off,'' he commands sharply.
You struggle to move, shakily reaching up, but he swats your hands away and rips it off himself, tossing the silk onto the floor. His face is right there, inches from yours, his brow furrowed, his mouth drawn into a hard line.
''What the fuck do you think you're doing?'' he demands, voice low and cold and furious.
You flinch, shrinking down into the bed, heat flooding your cheeks in shame. You don't know what to say. You don't know how to fix it.
He sees the panic still written all over you, the way your hands are still trembling, the way you're practically vibrating with anxiety. His mouth curves into something crueler, something sharper, the fire of burning frustration clear in his eyes.
He's disappointed. You've responded poorly to nearly everything he's into. You bet he's offended. You bet he regrets picking you.
"You think I'm mad you're uncomfortable?" he growls, voice harsh enough to make your stomach drop, like he knows exactly what you were thinking and he doesn't like it. "I'm not mad you didn't like it. I'm mad you didn't fucking say so."
Your throat closes up, tears stinging behind your eyes, but Harry doesn't let up. He grabs your chin roughly in his hand, forcing your gaze up to meet his.
''You have a mouth. Use it. I'm very fucking strict about my safe words. You hear me?''
You nod quickly, shame burning through you, but it's not enough for him. Not nearly enough. He sits back on his heels, looming over you, voice cool and clinical like he's disciplining a disobedient pet.
"You're gonna sit there and answer me properly," he says, voice sharp enough to cut. "And you're gonna think about what you say. Understand?"
You nod, small and desperate.
"Use your fucking words."
"Yes, Harry."
"Good," he mutters, eyes narrowing.
He leans in a little, his hand wrapping around your throat, not squeezing, just holding. His thumb strokes lazily over your pulse, feeling it race.
"What do you say," he begins, voice low, "if I've got my hand around your throat... just like this... and I'm fucking you slow, deep, making you feel so full you think you're gonna split apart... and it feels good, but my pace is leaving bruises? Hm?"
You blink up at him, breathing shaky. "Yellow." Slow down.
His mouth twitches, the ghost of a smile. "Good girl."
"What do you say if I'm making you suck me off, not letting you breathe, holding your head down, spit and tears dripping off your chin, and it starts feeling like too much at once?"
You shiver, heat flooding through your body at the image, even as shame creeps higher up your throat. "Yellow," you whisper.
"Louder."
"Yellow, Harry."
He nods, satisfied, squeezing your jaw in his hand.
"And what if I decide to cuff you to the bed," he murmurs, "and leave you there for hours. Touch you, tease you, never let you come. What then, hm? What if you realize you fucking hate it?"
Your breath stutters. "Red." Stop.
"Say it like you mean it."
"Red!"
"Good girl."
He shifts closer, his knees spreading your legs wider, his hand sliding dangerously low along your stomach, stopping just before your core.
"What if," he growls, "I'm slapping your clit, making you sob for it, and you're struggling to breathe?"
You flush so hard your vision blurs.
"Yellow," you stammer.
"Good girl," he praises darkly, the words sliding over your skin like a brand. "Now, what if I'm spanking you... so hard you can't tell if you love it or hate it... and you panic? What do you say?"
"Red!"
"And if you want to fucking leave?"
"Red, Harry, red!"
He pulls back finally, still watching you, chest rising and falling in slow, measured breaths.
"You don't ever sit there like a dumb little doll and hope I notice," he says, voice cold and cutting. "If you feel it, anything, you say it. If you even think about feeling it, you say it. Got it?"
"Yes, Harry," you breathe.
His hand cups your cheek roughly, thumb pressing into the corner of your mouth until you open obediently for him. His face softens, barely, the smallest flicker of reassurance in his gaze.
"Good girl," he mutters. "That's better."
He doesn't touch you right away, just sits there, watching you through hooded eyes, the heat of his body wrapping around you like a heavy blanket. Your chest is still heaving, nerves buzzing just under your skin, but you force yourself to stay still, to breathe. You've earned that tiny nod of approval, the glint of something warmer in his expression. You don't want to lose it now.
"Lie back," he says finally, voice low but not sharp anymore. You obey immediately, heart hammering, limbs trembling a little with the aftershocks of your panic and the brutal interrogation that followed. But he doesn't punish you for it. He doesn't mock you or push. Instead, his hands slide over your thighs, slow and steady, coaxing them apart with a patience that makes your breath hitch.
The first touch of his fingers is almost unbearably gentle, just the barest ghost of contact over your folds, tracing the wetness there like he's reacquainting himself with you. His thumb brushes your clit so lightly you barely feel it, and a broken sound escapes your throat.
"Shh," he murmurs, voice soothing. "We go slow. Yeah?"
You nod, desperate to be good, to show him you can handle it, and he rewards you by pressing a little more firmly, circling your clit in those slow, devastating spirals that make your hips twitch off the bed. His free hand anchors your thigh down, keeping you open, keeping you grounded.
He works you open with maddening care, two fingers sliding in eventually, curling shallowly inside you, his palm keeping constant pressure against your clit. Every movement feels deliberate, measured, for you, not for him. There's none of the bruising pace from before, none of the overwhelming force. Just the steady building of heat, the way your body starts to bloom under his touch.
At one point, you feel his mouth replace his hand, the scrape of his stubble against your inner thigh, the warm flick of his tongue over your clit making you whimper. He's thorough, almost clinical about it, not showy or indulgent, just focused, relentless, coaxing you higher and higher until your body locks up, shuddering through a release so gentle it almost feels like floating. He licks you through it, slow and steady, until you're gasping and twitching under him, pushing weakly at his shoulder.
He pulls back then, finally, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and looks at you, really looks at you, like he's checking that you're still whole.
"You did good," he says quietly as your eyes flutter closed. You feel the mattress shift when he gets up.
You barely register him moving around the room, but when you blink open your heavy eyes, there's a cold bottle of water being pressed into your hand. You clutch it gratefully, gulping it down while he disappears into the ensuite. A few minutes later, he comes back, tosses a towel onto the bed without a word, and jerks his chin toward the open bathroom door.
"Shower's yours."
You stumble toward it on shaky legs, grateful for the excuse to hide your face. His bathroom is ridiculously luxurious, heated floors, fluffy towels, expensive soaps that smell like cedarwood and spice. You take your time, letting the water wash away the sticky remnants of your anxiety, trying to piece yourself back together.
When you return to the bedroom, he's already under the covers, scrolling lazily through his phone like he hasn't just shattered you and stitched you back together in the same hour.
You hesitate for a moment, but he flicks the blanket up wordlessly, making room for you. Your heart swells a little, and you slip in beside him, careful not to touch him unless he invites it.
For a long moment, there's only the soft sounds coming from his phone, the quiet hum of the city outside his window.
But you can't help yourself. The questions bubble up, tentative and trembling, before you can think better of it.
"Harry?" you whisper.
"Hm?"
You pick at the edge of the blanket, voice barely audible. "Are you... seeing other people?"
He doesn't look at you. Just scrolls once more, then locks his phone and sets it on the nightstand. He turns his head toward you.
"No, baby," he says simply. "I told you this arrangement is exclusive. You're the only one."
Your breath catches.
"And... and how often would I... I mean, how often would you want to... see me?"
"Couple times a week. More, if you're okay with that."
"And... the payment?"
He smirks slightly. "We'll work that out. Money. Gifts. You can have whatever you like."
You chew your lip, heart pounding. "And if I... if there's something I can't do? Or I... I can't—"
"You say no," he interrupts bluntly. His voice is firm, leaving no room for misinterpretation. "You use your fucking words. I don't want your obedience unless you're giving it to me freely. Understand?"
You nod quickly, throat tight.
He watches you for a long moment, something shifting in his expression, almost imperceptible. And then, so quietly you almost miss it, he says:
"Don't like when people fake things with me. Had enough of that for a lifetime."
Your heart squeezes painfully in your chest. You don't know the story behind those words. But you know it's not a conversation you're meant to push. Not tonight.
So you just murmur a soft "Okay", and burrow a little closer under the covers.
He doesn't touch you. But he stays close, close enough that the heat of him soaks into your skin, close enough that when you finally drift off, you swear you feel the edge of his pinky finger brush against yours, the smallest, secret tether.
...
thank you so much for reading! i appreciate any and all support so remember to like, comment and reblog. requests are open! 💕
Summary: He pays in cash. You pay in obedience. a sugardaddy!harry styles x reader au series
Warnings: sugardaddy arrangement, oral (f!receiving), overstimulation, kind of a corruption kink, power play, dom!Harry
A/N: i'm planning on making this a series, so excited for you guys to read it! btw i usually write in the present tense, but this is more of a prologue to the series, so that's why this first part is in the past tense. if you've got any requests for the series, feel free to drop them in the ask box on my profile ;) have fun x
Word Count: 2,984
...
You weren't supposed to be here.
The bar was tucked into the corner of a luxury hotel, the kind where the floors didn't creak and the waiters never made eye contact. Everything shimmered. Gold fixtures, iridescent chandeliers, crystal glasses. In the air was an unsettling sort of quiet that felt expensive. You smoothed your hands over your thighs, trying to hide the fact that your dress was thrifted and your heels pinched at the sides. You didn't belong, and you knew it, but still, you were here.
You'd told yourself you were just curious. Just meeting with him. Just... hearing him out.
But then he walked in.
Harry.
He didn't look like someone who needed to pay for anything. Not sex, not attention, not anything at all. But he wasn't here for any of that, not really. He was here for control.
He looked like the kind of man you'd trust with your secrets, and the worst kind to actually give them to.
He found you immediately, his steps smooth and slow, like he had nowhere to be except in front of you. He wore a dark navy suit, shirt unbuttoned at the collar, tattoos peeking through his chest. His curls were slightly damp, like he'd come straight from the shower, and he smelled expensive: clean, musky, sharp. His eyes dragged over you in a way that wasn't quite polite, but wasn't necessarily crude either. It was... calculating. A man who liked knowing what was his, and it looked like you were going to be his next victim.
He slid into the booth across from you, leaning one arm on the table, and didn't speak for a long moment, just taking you in.
Then, finally, he spoke. ''You're prettier than in your photo.'' His voice was deep, heavy with power and influence.
Your cheeks heated, the words surprisingly genuine from his lips, but there was no warmth. Like he was stating a mere fact rather than actually complimenting you. You swallowed. ''Thank you.''
''You nervous?'' he asked.
You nodded. There was no point in lying. You knew he could read your body language well.
''Good,'' he said. ''You should be.''
He ordered you a drink without asking what you wanted. You didn't argue. When it arrived, you took a sip. Burnt sugar and something bitter settled hot in your throat.
''So,'' he said, eyes flicking over you like he was taking inventory. ''You know why you're here.''
You nodded again. ''I do.''
''You've read the terms?''
''I have.''
''No kissing in public. No relationships. You're mine while you're with me. No one else. And I own everything I give you. You leave? You give it all back.''
You licked your lips. ''I understand.''
He leaned in slightly. ''Understand what?'' he prompted.
You blinked. ''I understand I'm yours when I'm with you.''
He smiled.
It wasn't a sweet smile.
The contract was tucked into a leather folder. It wasn't long. Two pages, most of it simple language, with a few bolded phrases that made your stomach twist. Sexual availability. Physical submission. Discretion required. At the bottom of the last page was a little blank box, awaiting your signature.
Before you could pick up the pen, his hand landed on your wrist. Gentle, but firm.
''Let's talk about your limits first,'' he said. ''Your rules. Tell me what you won't do.''
Your breath caught. You'd read stories like this. You'd watched the porn. But sitting here, across from a man who had all the power, it felt different. It felt real. You didn't know how to handle it, how to respond to a question that intimate.
''I, um... No blood. No sharing. Nothing… painful.''
He tilted his head, the corner of his mouth curling upwards just slightly. ''Define painful.''
''I don't know, like… hitting. Or degrading. I don't want to be called names. I take offense to that.''
He chuckled softly at your fieriness, his fingers trailing lightly down your forearm, just a touch, but it made your skin break out in chills.
''But you'll take orders?''
You nodded.
''You'll let me use toys on you?''
''Yes.''
''Let me tie you up?''
''…yes.''
His voice lowered. ''You'll beg?''
You hesitated, breath catching. ''…yes.''
''Good girl.''
Your thighs pressed together under the table, the praise hitting you deep in your belly. Shame curled around the heat there, but you didn't pull away.
''You'll have a safe word,'' he said, like it was the most casual topic to be discussed over a bar table. ''You say it once, I stop everything. You say it twice, I take you home. That clear?''
You nodded again, too fast. ''Yes.''
''Pick your word.''
Your brain scrambled. ''Um… red?''
He quirked a brow. It told him all he needed to know; you were very, very new at this. He almost smiled at that. He couldn't wait to teach you, to take you apart and put you back together to ruin you for every other man you'd ever meet.
He handed you the pen. Your fingers trembled as you signed. He flipped the folder closed without looking at it again. Like it was done now. You belonged to him.
...
The ride to his penthouse was quiet. He didn't touch you. He didn't even speak. He just scrolled through his phone, legs wide in the backseat of the sleek car, occasionally glancing at you like he was already imagining what he'd do to you when you got to his place.
You kept your hands in your lap, your thighs clenched, trying to act like you weren't already soaked.
You hadn't gone looking for this kind of job, it found you. A friend of a friend, a girl who had worked one discreet night and came back with rent paid six months in advance and a vacant stare that spoke of something darker than just money.
She'd never given you a name, only a phone number and a whispered ''a friend of my guy is looking''. Looking. That's all she told you. And maybe that should've been enough to walk away. But curiosity has sharp teeth. And money, even sharper.
You'd stared at the number for three days before finally texting it.
You'd gotten a second notice for your overdue rent that month. You were broke. Tuition was bleeding you dry, your electricity and gas bills were stacking up, and your job at the cafe barely covered groceries. So after a long, wine-heavy night and one unpaid phone bill too many, you'd sent a message:
Hi. I was given your number by a friend. I was told you're looking?
The reply had come within the hour. Polite, direct, and unsettlingly composed.
Yes. I offer a paid sexual arrangement. Exclusive. Intimate. You'll be compensated generously for your time, discretion, and obedience. If that interests you, we'll continue.
You'd have sworn you could almost hear his calm, grounded voice through the words on your screen. Like he had already you pegged as the type to give in.
You'd texted for a few days. He'd asked questions, not the ones you'd expected, like your measurements or your preferences, but things like, How do you respond to authority? Are you good at keeping secrets? What are you looking to get out of this arrangement? It had felt very formal, almost like a job interview.
You'd asked him questions too, though far fewer. Mostly, you'd tried to figure out if this man who texted like a lawyer and spoke like a therapist was actually offering what he claimed, if he wasn't just wasting your time for fun.
He'd sent a photo of himself per your request (you wanted to know if he was at least attractive, could anyone blame you?). It was a mirror selfie, shirtless, grey sweatpants riding low, tattoos on show and his deep V-line peeking out promisingly above his waistband. It wasn't sleazy. It was deliberate. Classy, even.
You'd stared at it for way too long.
You had sent one back. Nothing too revealing, just a casual, slightly provocative photo of you in your favorite little black dress. He hadn't commented on your body. Instead, he'd replied with, You'll do nicely. When can we meet to discuss terms?
That was the moment something had shifted in you. You'd been hesitant, cautious, ready to back out at any moment. But that text, cold, possessive, confident... it made something spark deep in you.
Your love life was a ghost town, your sex life practically non-existent. No one had made you feel desirable or wanted in months, let alone claimed. And there was something dangerously appealing about this beautiful stranger who didn't beg, didn't chase, just chose you. And suddenly, all you could think was: Fuck it.
...
His building had a private elevator. No doorman. No check-in. Just a sleek black keycard and the quiet hum of wealth.
The penthouse was stunning. Floor-to-ceiling windows, cold marble floors, warm lighting that made everything glow. You didn't get time to look around. As soon as the door shut behind you, his voice dropped into a calm command.
''Strip.''
You froze. ''Here? Now?''
He tilted his head. ''That's what you signed up for, isn't it?''
Your face burned as you just nodded, your hands reaching behind you to fumble with the zipper at the top of your spine. It was stubborn, just out of reach, and you twisted awkwardly, tugging, struggling in silence.
You could feel his eyes on you, the weight of them making your skin prickle and crawl. He huffed out a soft laugh, and then you heard his heavy, unhurried footsteps approach from behind until he was so close you could feel the heat radiating off his chest.
His ring-adorned fingers, slow and sure, brushed your hand away. ''Let me,'' he murmured, so soft it barely kissed your ear.
The zipper slid down with one slow, long tug, the sound slicing through the silence like a sigh. You shivered as cool air licked across the newly exposed skin of your back. His palm ghosted up your spine, not quite touching, hovering. Teasing. His breath was warm when he leaned in, and his mouth met your shoulder with a kiss that felt far too gentle for a man who'd promised to ruin you.
''Good girl,'' he whispered, lips grazing your skin, voice molten. ''Didn't think you'd need help getting naked for me. You're cute.''
Your lungs forgot how to take in air. The dress hangs loose now, your hand instinctively coming up to keep the fabric pressed to your chest before it slid further down.
He didn't touch it. Just waited. Lingered behind you like a storm on the edge of breaking, letting the anticipation sink into your bones.
''Go on, then,'' he murmured in your ear, standing tall again. ''Show me what I paid for.''
You hesitantly let your dress drop to the floor, standing there in just your bra and panties.
He stepped closer, his eyes dragging over your body like a slow stroke. He didn't touch. He didn't speak.
The first thing he did was unhook your bra. Slowly. Like he was unwrapping something fragile. It slid off your shoulders and pooled on the floor between you, his eyes tracking the motion with a hunger that made your knees weak. His hand came up, broad, warm, heavily ringed, and cupped one breast, thumb brushing over your nipple until it stiffened under his touch.
You gasped, already on edge, your cunt already throbbing.
''You're a sensitive little thing, aren't you?'' he said, voice calm. Observational. ''Might be fun to toy with you just a little.''
Then his hand dropped to your waist.
''Come on, sweetheart. Be good for me. On the bed.''
The bed was massive. All black linens, plush and soft, and you sank into it as you crawled across. You heard the rustle of his suit jacket being slipped off, the clink of a belt being undone. But you didn't dare look back at him. Not until he gave you permission.
You stayed there, on your hands and knees, waiting.
He spoke up from behind you, his voice thick with authority. ''On your back. Legs open.''
Your body obeyed before your brain caught up. You spread your thighs wide, baring yourself completely. You were already wet, embarrassingly so. The air hit your soaked folds and made you shiver, your nipples pebbling under the warm light.
He walked to the edge of the bed and just looked at you. Silent. Intense. Like he was committing this exact moment to memory.
''Beautiful,'' he said softly. ''So fuckin' beautiful like this. Spread out for me, already dripping.''
You whimpered as he knelt between your legs, rings cold against your thighs as he pushed them wider, thumbs parting your folds.
Then he spit.
Right on your pussy.
The slick warmth landed on your clit and made you jolt. He rubbed it in with two fingers, slow circles that had your toes curling instantly.
''Gotta loosen you up,'' he muttered. ''Gotta make you nice and dumb before I fuck you. Can't have my sugar baby thinking too much, can I?''
You didn't have time to answer before he slipped one thick finger inside. It made you clench instinctively, your hips arching up, a moan breaking from your throat.
''Fuck, you're tight,'' he groaned. ''All this for me?''
You nodded, helpless. ''Yes, all for you.''
His grin turned wicked. ''Good girl.''
He added a second finger without warning.
You gasped, hips twitching, overwhelmed by the stretch. He curled them deep, hitting a spot that made your back arch off the bed, your hands clutching at the sheets.
''There it is,'' he said, almost smug. ''There's that little spot. Gonna work it until you cry for me.''
And he did.
He kept those fingers buried deep, thrusting them slow but firm, curling just right. His thumb pressed to your clit, rubbing circles, just enough pressure to make you squirm, not enough to give you what you needed and craved so badly.
Your moans turned into whines. Pleading sounds.
He didn't stop.
''Say it,'' he murmured. ''Tell me whose pussy this is.''
''Yours,'' you gasped, barely able to speak. ''Yours, Harry, please—''
''Say it like you fuckin' mean it.''
''Yours! It's yours, Harry, please, fuck, please let me come—”
He leaned in, breath hot against your neck. ''You'll come when I say so. Not a second before.''
You sobbed, your body trembling with the need to let go. His fingers never stopped. They fucked up into you mercilessly, slick and loud and obscene. Your whole body was buzzing, flushed and twitching under him.
And then suddenly he pulled out.
You whined at the loss, blinking up at him in shock, but before you could protest, he grabbed your thighs and buried his face between them.
The first lick was broad and slow, his tongue flat, dragging from your entrance up to your clit. You cried out, thighs jerking, but he held you down. His arms hooked under your thighs, keeping you pinned open as he devoured you like a man starved.
He licked and sucked and groaned into your pussy, like the taste of you was everything he'd ever wanted.
''So fuckin' sweet,'' he murmured, lips brushing your clit. ''Y'taste sweet as fuckin' sugar, baby.''
The way he said that line is something that would stay with you later, something you'd hold onto for months to come. When you were alone in bed, when you were trying not to touch yourself, when you were trying to remember that this was just an arrangement. Just money. It wasn't supposed to feel like this.
But God, it felt like something already.
Your legs were shaking. Your body was soaked. He sucked on your clit just right, tongue flicking in quick patterns, your hips bucking helplessly against his face.
''Please, please, Harry, please, need to come—'' you babbled.
He pulled back just far enough to growl, ''Then fuckin' come. Come for me, sugar.''
And you did.
Your orgasm hit you like a freight train. You screamed, legs locking around his head, your pussy clenching wildly. You couldn't breathe, couldn't think, mind numbed by the white-hot, pulsing pleasure ripping through you in waves.
But he didn't stop.
Even as your body convulsed, even as you sobbed from the intensity, he kept going. Licking you through it, into the next one, tongue relentless on your swollen clit until you were thrashing under him, hands pushing at his head weakly.
''Harry, please, it's too much—''
He lifted his head sharply. ''You'll come again. You'll come until I'm satisfied,'' he barked out, his intense gaze locked onto you.
And then he dove back in.
Your second orgasm was quicker, rougher, more painful in its sweetness. You sobbed through it, thighs twitching, whole body slick with sweat. Your vision blurred, pleasure blinding and brutal.
When you came again, you screamed.
Tears rolled down your cheeks, your pussy clenching hard around nothing as your whole body shook with overstimulation. Your clit throbbed, too sensitive, too much... but he didn't stop until you were begging.
''Red, Harry, please''
That's what finally made him stop.
He pulled back, his lips wet with your slick, face flushed. He looked like a man who'd just eaten dessert and wanted another course.
He crawled up over your body, pressed a soft kiss to your lips.
''You did so good, baby,'' he whispered, peppering kisses to your shoulder. ''So obedient.''
You couldn't speak. Couldn't even think. The muscles in your thighs were still twitching, your chest rising and falling in sharp, shallow breaths.
''I'm gonna train you so well,'' he murmured against your mouth. ''You'll be begging to be used. Crying if I don't touch you.''
Your eyes fluttered closed, your brain melting into the sheets.
He kissed your temple. ''And this?'' he whispered lowly in your ear like it was a secret.
He smirked.
''This was nothing.''
...
thank you so much for reading! i appreciate any and all support so remember to like, comment and reblog. requests are open! 💕
