hswriting Fic Recommendations

@hswriting is my writing page. I’m going to be reblogging fics I recommend.

[hswritingficrec]

Introduction:

(I can’t believe I haven’t done something like this yet)

Main page: @hswriting

You can call me Clover (He/Him)

Tags:

All authors/writers/blogs will have their own tag

(Ex: #hswriting)

All stories will have the title as the other tag

(Ex: The Moment I Knew)

I don’t normally tag for smut or other content labels just because the writers are usually pretty good about marking their works

[maudie-duan]

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!!!

MxF—MxFxM—MxM(blowjob)

German Sex Worker!Conner Storrie x Berlin!Harry x Girlfriend!Reader

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—

“I want you—inside me—now.”

One Shot Masterlist<-

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[gumballavocadoharry]

Sick day:

You woke up with the most awful headache. You could barely breathe through your nose and then your chest hurt whenever you coughed. You felt miserable. Your throat hurt so you put on your robe, and went downstairs to make yourself some hot tea. You didn't even notice the bags under your eyes, due to being exhausted.

You made some tea and then you sat down on the couch and rested. You turned on the TV and started binge watching SpongeBob. You fell asleep. Harry came in and saw you fast asleep on the couch.

"SpongeBob, I'm over here NOW MOVE!"

Harry heard the TV playing and so he came over to you. He bent down and kissed your head, and he could feel your head was burning up.

He felt your head with the back of his hand. When he saw that you were burning up, he ran and got the thermometer. He lightly shook you awake.

"Honey, wake up, open your mouth." He said. In a delusional state you did and he put it under your tongue. When it beeped he took it out of your mouth. "99.2! Oh that's it, I'm taking you to the emergency room!" Said Harry.

Your eyes sprung open. You hated hospitals. You begged Harry not to take you. "Harry, please I'm fine don't worry! I don't need to go to the hospital!" You pleaded.

Harry giggled a little bit. "Babe, come on I'm worried. I don't want you to have anything like meningitis or something!"

Harry was trying to pull you up but you made your body go stiff. "Fine" Harry finally said. "But can I get you anything sweetie pie?" He said softly. You shook your head. But Harry went and made you some soup and crackers and orange juice anyway.

He brought it back to you. "This will help you get better since these foods have vitamins in them."

"Thank you." you said. You ate all your Soup and crackers, and you drunk all your orange juice. You laid back down and rested. Harry turned on SpongeBob again for you.

You felt him tuck the covers around you and then softly kiss your forehead. "Mmmauh, sleep tightly yn".

When you woke up, Harry came in holding some medicine. "I went to the pharmacy and asked the pharmacist which is the best cold and flu medicine and she said this one." he said. He poured the medicine in the small cup and held it in front of you.

You shook your head. "Come on yn, drink it." Harry said firmly. You took the cup and held your breath and took a big swallow. To your surprise it didn't taste bad. Harry smiled and took the cup away. "Good job." he said. He kissed your cheek until it made a smooch sound, and then he left.

The medicine made you kinda drowsy, so you feel asleep. You heard Harry washing the dishes for you. Since your nose was congested, Harry took a bulb syringe and cleared out your nose.

"Thank you for taking care of me Harry." you said. Harry rubbed your head. "It's my pleasure." he said kissing your lips. The next morning, you felt a little better. But still not quite free from your cold. You saw where Harry rubbed some vapor rub on your chest, just in case. You blushed at that. Harry came in your room.

"How do you feel baby?" You shurgged. "I guess a little better." Harry took your temperature. "You still have a little fever but it's not as high as yesterday." he said. "So rest is best."

He tucked the covers around you and then he kissed your head. "Relax dear." he said. And with the care and attention Harry was giving you, you were very relaxed.  

[sushirrrry]

MINE, ON YOUR UPPER THIGH || a harry styles x you one shot. word count: 8,920 content warning: scare tactics, sexual humiliation, explicit sexual language, graphic sexual intercourse, sexual foreplay, touch of anal play, a lot of degradation, knife play, nonconsensual consent (she won't tell him she likes it) (?), harry having sociopathic behavior actually but in a cillian murphy in ‘red eye’ sexy way, you know?

summary: the year is 1975, halloween night. you're sitting at home, handing out candy to trick-or-treaters when the phone rings. you should have hung up, but you didn't. all you know is that voice possesses you in a way that is unlike anything imaginable.

author’s note: umm so this is straight up pornographic which is very unlike me but I don't know I just couldn't stop writing it last night & into today... so happy spooky season! this just got into my head and wouldn't leave but it's kind dark but maybe it's not dark I just don't read dark stuff LOL

here's part one of a halloween mini-series of absolute terrifying nonsense... here to make spooky season feel... spooky!

ALSO!!!!! again - a huuuuuuge thank you to 2,000 followers. this means the world, as always. you keep reading, I’ll keep writing. love that relationship we have & cherish it more than you know.

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In the hours of Halloween, words have no power to impress the mind without the exquisite horror of their reality, as Poe said it best.

The house felt too quiet once the sun slipped below the trees to give a halo of reds and orange across the faint blue sky.

Outside, the neighborhood was alive amongst the falling dead leaves—orange and red leaves scraping along the pavement with each rush of wind, clusters of costumed children darting from porch to porch wearing Superman capes and silly werewolf masks. Their voices rose in shrill, excited choruses of trick-or-treat! as jack-o’-lanterns flickered on every stoop.

The air smelled of woodsmoke and damp leaves, cool enough that the windows had fogged in patches where the warm air inside met the outside chill of a Friday in October.

You’d pulled your chair close to the front window, the record player humming in the corner with Fleetwood Mac spinning low, a bowl of candy perched on the table beside you. Every so often the doorbell rang, and you’d open it to superheroes and witches, pirates and princesses, their plastic pumpkin buckets rattling with their treasures of Snickers and Milk Duds.

You’d give your best smile, hand out chocolate bars, then retreat to the cocoon of your little upstate New York house.

But with each passing hour, the trick-or-treaters thinned, of course. Parents gathered their children, porch lights winked off one by one down the street, and the shadows between the trees grew thicker and almost ominous.

By nine o’clock, the voices outside had quieted, leaving only the sound of wind combing through the brittle branches. The jack-o’-lantern on your stoop grinned at no one now, its candle nearly burned to a stub.

You wrapped your oversized cardigan tighter and let the needle scratch softly on the record, trying to shake the sense that the night was stretching too long, that the house felt larger and emptier than it had an hour ago.

There were moments when you loved the element of surprise, but living alone had you longing for that feeling of someone else in the home—someone noticeable and able to hear the noises you heard, the floor boards rattling, the songs that the ghosts may sing in the wind.

The floor creaked with the settling heat, the refrigerator hummed steadily, but every noise felt sharp in the silence—noticeable to you, of course. But was there anything out of the ordinary?

You had moved yourself to the sofa, the bowl of candy spread out on the coffee table in front of you as you watched the reruns of The Addams Family on your TV, snickering softly to some of the ridiculous jokes that portrayed out on the screen.

It was almost in an instant, breaking you from your viewership when you heard it—the phone rang.

It’s shrill jangle cut through the stillness, making your pulse jump to a high. You glanced toward it—the burnt-orange plastic, cord curling over the counter in the kitchen as it hung gently on the wall. You weren’t expecting anyone to call. It rang twice before you managed to stand up from your spot on the sofa before you hesitated, then reached for it.

Your voice was shaky—for no reason other than your unabated fate that seemed completely unreasonable. “Hello?”

At first, only static. Then a voice, low and smooth, but with an edge of charm and suave—like someone half whispering through a grin.

“Happy Halloween.”

Your fingers tightened around the receiver, nails tapping against the plastic as you listened to the aided silence through the static. The line crackled softly, like the hiss of a record left spinning without music in your hallway.

“Who is this?” you asked, aiming for steadiness, almost a bit of a joke hidden in your voice, though the tremor in your voice betrayed you—it had to be someone you knew, of course.

There was a pause, almost like the receiver had been sliced. You swore you could hear faint breathing, slow and measured, like someone enjoying the silence as much as the sound of your voice.

“You sound nervous,” the voice drawled at last, distorted but deliberate, as though whoever it was had been practicing. “What’s the matter? Don’t like being alone in the dark?”

Your gaze darted to the living room window. Beyond the glass, the neighborhood had quieted even more—pumpkins flickered in distant yards, but the street was nearly empty; no more children, no more parents instructing their children to stay on the sidewalks. Just the occasional gust that would push leaves across the sidewalk and made the window rattle.

You realized then that the curtains were open just a bit, leaving you to be seen from the outside in.

You turned back toward the record player. The needle had slipped into the end groove, scratching steadily, adding to the unease knotting in your chest. You hadn’t noticed the music had ended fully, but you were hypersensitive to all of the noises.

“This isn’t funny,” you murmured back with a terror lacing your throat, though it wasn’t convincing, even to yourself. “Who is this?”

The ominous voice gave a low chuckle, one that made the fine hairs on your arms rise as you felt the rush of your heart, blood pumping through your veins. “Funny isn’t the point. I called to hear you,” The voice paused for a moment, “I wanted to hear you answer my questions.”

“W-What—” Your throat tightened, a shaky breath as you inhaled. “What kind of questions?”

“Simple ones,” he said, as if soothing a child from fearing the dark. “What are you wearing?” The voice started, “Did you leave a light on in your bedroom? Is the back door locked?”

Your heartbeat stuttered, picking up speed as your eyes locked in on the back door—the lock was undone. You swallowed, willing yourself not to answer, not to give him the satisfaction, not knowing who this was or what they wanted.

And yet… the thought of him watching, knowing, lingered too heavy.

As if reading your silence, the voice purred against the phone again, directly in your ear, “I can wait. I’ve got all night.”

The floor creaked behind you. You spun so fast the phone cord tangled, eyes searching the dim hallway leading toward the back door.

You pressed the receiver closer, your voice sharper now: “If this is some stupid prank—”

“Stupid?” the voice interrupted, mock-offended, raised a bit just in this sense. “No, darling. This is the best part—this is the game before the real fun starts. Don’t you feel it? Your pulse racing, your hands shaking…”

Your knees weakened, not only from fear. The words slithered under your skin, as if the caller knew something you didn’t want to admit—that part of you was excited. That being hunted, even just over the phone, carried a thrill you couldn’t quite shake.

“I—I’m calling the cops if you don’t tell me who you are.”

For a beat, silence. Then—laughter, unabated sinister laughter that made your skin run cold and clammy as you backed into the corner of your kitchen. It was low, distorted, curling through the line like smoke.

“Ohh, sweetheart,” the voice purred with a dragging the endearment out like a tease. “Call them. I’d love to watch you try. Fumbling the phone, stammering your address to them like you’ve seen a ghost… while I’m already inside.”

The words landed like ice water down your spine; it was a shiver that you’d never felt before.

Your gaze flicked to the front door, locked tight, then to the back hall, where shadows pooled thicker. The door was unlocked, your hands fumbled on the counter for anything—a pen, a knife, a tool that you could use to defend yourself.

“You’re lying,” you whispered, breath catching as you shook your head with gentle disbelief.

Another pause—long enough to make your skin crawl. Then, softer now, intimate:

“Do you think I’d lie? I like the way you clutch the phone. Left-handed but holding it with your right. Ring finger trembling against that cord you’re holding onto like a lifeline. It’s pretty.”

Your stomach dropped at the words leaving his lips—demanding and honesty dripping from them. He was describing you, now. You looked down, and your hand was trembling, just as he said. The floor creaked with that sinister high pitched wooden sound. From the hallway this time, inside.

“Turn around,” he instructed, more demanding this time, “Face the wall.”

Your throat tightened at his request, not knowing if you should comply. Slowly, with the receiver pressed so hard to your ear it ached, you pivoted until you were facing the wall where the phone hung from its cradle.

“Close your eyes, would you?”

The silence stretched out a few second that felt like minutes the longer you held your breath. The line hissed faintly, the only sound. You shut your eyes as instructed, your heartbeat the only sound for miles, you knew.

One second.

Two.

Three.

A minute, maybe more, you couldn’t know—you lost count with your pulse hammering so loud it drowned everything else out around you.

And then—a shift in the air. It’s a prickle of air across the back of your neck.

The voice was no longer in the receiver… because it was behind you.

So close you felt the word at your skin like a soft mist over you.

“Boo.”

You gasped, dropping the phone as it clattered against the wall, swinging on its cord as the line went dead. Before you could move, a gloved hand seized your shoulder, spinning you around quickly without another thought.

Your back slammed into the wall, breath torn from your lungs. And there he was.

A mask; a ghostly sight with black and white with a stark contrast of the two colors. He was tall—very tall, wearing all black to hide any of the identity around him, the crude white mask leering down at you, blank and soulless. A knife gleamed in his hand, its tip rising until it grazed beneath your chin, pressing lightly to your throat—just enough to send a shattering adrenaline rush through you.

Your chest heaved, pressing into him for a moment before you realized. You couldn’t look away from the empty black eyes of the mask that you couldn’t tell was sinister in a way that was harmful.

“You stayed on the line,” he sounded a bit surprised, adding in a bit of a purring nature, voice muffled through the mask but still low and velvety and promising. “But I knew you would.”

The blade tilted, sliding along your jaw, not cutting—just promising and threatening and aching to touch you. His body pressed close, pinning you with terrifying ease.

“You wanted me to come inside.”

The knife tilted higher, just enough that you had to lift your chin against the cold steel so it wouldn’t press into you. The point dragged gently up the column of your throat, a shiver racing after it.

“Scared?” His voice was low behind the mask, distorted the same as over the phone but intimate, almost coaxing you.

“Yes,” you whispered, though it came out thinner than you meant, trembling on your lips.

The knife’s edge traced your jaw, catching the light in a wicked gleam. His free hand slid down your arm, gloved leather rasping against your skin as though savoring the way you shook.

“You sound it,” he said earnestly. “Heart going a mile a minute… thighs pressed together. Fear does that, doesn’t it? Makes you feel everything sharper... more… cunning.”

The blade dipped lower, trailing from your throat to the hollow of your collarbone, then down between your breasts. He pressed just enough that you felt the coolness through your t-shirt, sharp but not cutting.

You gasped, pressing harder against the wall, torn between panic and something deeper—the element of shame and helplessness was eager on your thighs as you practically felt so deeply you weren’t sure why your body was reacting this way.

“P-Please, don’t,” you whispered, but your voice faltered when he leaned closer, the mask inches from your face, blank and leering and unreadable. You weren’t sure who this was and why he was getting into your head or why he wanted to be there in the first place.

“You don’t mean that,” he told you solemnly. His breath warmed your cheek—you weren’t sure how, even though the mask was pertinent. “If you did, you’d have hung up on me.”

The knife slid itself down to your waist, the tip nudging at the hem of your skirt, tracing the line of your hip. Every nerve screamed at you to shove him away, to fight, but your body refused—frozen, trembling, caught in the twisted thrill of being at his mercy.

“Say it,” he urged you softly with a carefulness, the knife tugging your skirt higher by an inch. “Say you want me to stop.”

You opened your mouth, but no sound came out which completely deceiving of what you wanted to happen. He chuckled—low and sure of you, the sound vibrating in the narrow space between your bodies.

That chuckle lingered for a moment, shaking of his head, “You can’t. That’s what I thought.”

The knife lingered, danger, at your waist, a cold line dragging slow and deliberate as if it had all the time in the world. He tilted his head, mask fixed on you, those empty black eyes devouring every shiver and pushing you further.

“You don’t have to run,” he let the words out of his mouth in a sleek attack. “Don’t even think about it. Just shut your eyes… and feel me.”

Your lips parted, breath shallow at the touch and ache and desperation that pushed your hips forward with the small amount of absolute need. Every instinct screamed to fight, but the command curled into you, tempting, poisonous.

“Do it,” he pressed, pushing the knife grazing back up your body, slow enough to make your pulse stutter—practically skip a beat. “Close them. Let go of that little voice in your head telling you it’s wrong.”

Your lashes fluttered shut, chest heaving as you tried to make your breathing go back into a solemn steadiness. The darkness behind your eyelids made every other sense sharper—the rasp of leather against your arm from the gloves, the faint scrape of the blade tracing your sternum, the heat of his body pressed close despite the chill of steel.

“That’s it,” he whispered, voice dropping low, intimate. “Now you’re mine. No one to save you, no one to hear you. Just me, and the way your body listens to my voice.”

The knife tipped your chin up again, forcing your head back against the wall.

“Good girl,” he breathed, the words laced with wicked approval. “Such a good girl.”

You gasped, the sounds of his words breaking the silence, shame and adrenaline twisting together until you didn’t know where fear ended and want began. And then—fingers seized the mask, ripping it up and away from his face and over his head.

You opened your eyes to match his directly, eyes looking into his and seeing the way that they landed over your features in a way that held you hostage.

Long hair damp with sweat, lips curved into a smirk that was equal parts triumph and desire with pupils so dilated that you could have sworn they were black. The knife still poised at your throat, but his eyes were earned, sharp, dangerous—they held you captive just as much as the threat of action.

Harry.

“Now,” he said softly, dangerously, swallowing as he did so, “do you still want me to stop?”

Your eyes locked on his, and the world seemed to narrow down to just the two of you—his weight pinning you against the wall, the knife cool and steady against your throat, and those unmistakable green eyes staring into yours. Eyes you’d caught lingering across town, in the grocery store, the bar on Main, that cigarette break outside the diner where he’d watched you over the smoke that floated from his lips like a phantom of a terrace.

You knew him. And worse, he’d been looking at you, too.

Recognition tangled with shock until your pulse stuttered so hard it hurt. Every sensible thought begged you to shove him off, to scream, to fight. But another part of you—the part you never admitted out loud—thrummed with something darker, devastatingly hot in a chamber of coals.

“H-Harry,” you rasped, the name torn out of you, half-accusation, half-exhale.

His smirk widened, though the knife never wavered—maybe even pressing just enough to jolt another reaction. “Took you long enough, doll.”

Your chest heaved, the wall hard against your spine. He was here, the boy you’d brushed past in town, the man whose gaze had always lingered one beat too long. And now—here he was in a mask, in your home, holding you exactly where he wanted you.

It should have been monstrous—it was, it was utterly terrifying to say the least. But it was also magnetic, the danger pulling at you in a way that made your skin flush and your breath stumble.

“You’ve been watching me,” you whispered, horrified at how much it sounded like a confession.

His eyes glinted with the kind of terror that only old Hollywood could display, the knife tracing the edge of your jaw again, not breaking skin but keeping you very, very still. “And you’ve been watching back, haven’t you?”

Your mouth opened to protest, to deny, but no words came—of course they didn’t. Because he was right. You had, and you had every right to protest that thought, to deny him the answers he had been looking for.

There was something utterly sinister about all of this—this game he’d played, the mask, the knife—but standing this close, the heat of his body searing through the fabric of his black shirt that hung tightly to his body with his hair gracing over his shoulder and over his face, there was no denying the way your body betrayed you.

Your pulse wasn’t only fear. And Harry knew it with every sniff, eye, and breath.

Harry’s knife didn’t move, the gleam of it shining from the small kitchen light above the stove holding your gaze as much as his eyes did. He leaned in closer, the mask gone but the trace of fear still hanging between you, heavy as a black fog.

“You’re shaking,” the words slipped from him, almost gently. His lips curved into something that might’ve passed for concern if it wasn’t sharpened by amusement. “Terrified out of your mind… but you’re not screaming for help, are you?”

You swallowed hard, the blade forcing the movement slow, deliberate in its actions to press and make you shutter with a horror. “I should.”

“But you won’t.” His voice was a low drag, certain, steady. “Because some part of you—” the knife skimmed down the line of your throat, just enough to make you flinch, “—likes this.”

Your breath snagged, lungs straining against the weight of the moment.

“I don’t—”

His eyes flashed, cutting you off.

“Don’t lie to me now, doll. You’ve been looking at me for months. In the market, in the street. Pretending you’re not staring when you are.” His smile darkened, the knife tracing the hollow at your collarbone. “And I’ve seen it. The way you hold my eyes too long before you turn away. You’ve been waiting for this moment, and here I am,” you watched his eyes darken with a nature that you could have sworn to be evil, “Giving it to you.”

Your skin burned where the blade teased as if branding you, every nerve drawn tight. You wanted to protest, to deny, to shove him off. Your brain was telling you to, but you physically were restrained.

The recognition sat like a stone in your chest. You had looked. You had wondered. And now here he was, looking at you with hunger sharpened into something dangerous.

“W-Why are you doing this?” The words escaped ragged, your hands braced against the wall at your sides. “Why?”

Harry tilted his head, studying you as though weighing how much of the truth to give. His hair fell into his eyes, catching in the sweat at his temple, but his smirk never faltered because he enjoyed this far too much.

“Because I wanted to see how long it would take,” he said at last, voice soft but biting and gritty with menacing distress. “How long before you’d let yourself admit you wanted me, too.”

Your heart pounded so hard you thought he’d hear it, feel it through the knife. You hated him for saying it. You hated yourself for the flicker of heat low in your stomach that proved him right. The moment stretched, unbearable.

Harry’s breath brushed your cheek as he leaned in just a fraction closer, the edge of the knife still kissing your skin. “Say it,” he whispered. “I want you to tell me to stop.”

You opened your mouth to completely deny all of the words that he had thrown at you—to tell him that you hadn’t been looking, you hadn’t thought of him past seeing him in the store, that you weren’t disgusted with yourself when you thought about how much you enjoyed the way that he pressed you against the wall in your kitchen, the small area that held you both now.

But, you couldn’t—of course you couldn’t. And that, more than anything, made his smirk widen like that of the cheshire cat.

The knife tilted just enough to press a warning at your skin, forcing your chin higher; Harry felt his eyes fluttering at the way that your scent bead from you like fresh flowers. Harry leaned in, brushing against you, his presence swallowing every inch of space. His smirk lingered, dangerous, but his body moved closer with a slow deliberation until you felt the unmistakable press of his hips against yours.

Your breath hitched, chest arching against the wall. The blade stayed poised, cool at your throat, even as his hips ground forward, the hard line of him undeniable.

“You feel that?” he rasped, voice low, velvet over steel to mask the ultimate desire he had. “That’s what you fucking do to me.”

Your fingers flexed uselessly against the wallpaper, searching for anything to hold on to as heat surged through your fear.

“It’s sick,” you whispered through your teeth, though your voice shook with something that wasn’t disgust.

“Is it?” His smirk deepened, knife shifting to trace down your sternum, the point dragging just enough that fabric caught beneath it. “You’re not telling me to stop. You’re standing here, letting me do it. Letting me push you against this wall.”

His hips pressed harder into yours, his breath hot against your cheek through the maskless closeness. The edge of the knife slid lower, as it did, there was a slight slip of the tip of the knife which caught the cotton of your t-shirt as he drug it down just a bit. It slowly revealed opened against the taut of your chest.

Your heart was thrashing, your body trembling—but not only from fear. Every nerve was alive, lit from within. You looked down at where the knife cut your t-shirt—directly between your breasts as you watched Harry’s eyes linger for a moment before you watched the way that his lips moved to spit directly on them.

Right where he cut through the white t-shirt.

You gasped a bit in disgust, but you felt your knees weakening, though you didn’t move away. Couldn’t. Because he was right. Because being pushed this far to the edge made your body hum in ways you couldn’t fight.

It felt like the devil had come to drag you through the depths of hell, but you enjoyed every burn, every nip, every fundamental sin that you were faced with.

“You like it,” he said again, grinding his hips in a way that made you bite back a moan. “Being scared—being mine to play with. Admit it.”

But you couldn’t. So instead, you stayed silent. And your silence gave him everything he needed while allowing him to feed off of the pulse that exhilarated through your chest and deepened within the inner mechanisms of your soul.

His chuckle rumbled low in his chest, dark satisfaction spilling into the space between you. “Thought so.”

The knife lingered at your waist, gleaming in the lamplight as Harry’s body caged you in. His hips ground harder into yours, the rough pressure making your breath hitch despite yourself as you felt the way that he outlined the black denim; you felt him in every way you could only imagine in your dirtiest fantasies.

You turned your face away, as if that would hide the heat rushing under your skin. “You think you’ve got me figured out?” you bit out, your voice thin but sharp as you kept your eyes away from him. “You don’t.”

Harry’s laugh was low and cutting, his eyes glinting with dark amusement, narrowing slightly. “Don’t I?”

The knife slid lower, teasing at the hem of your skirt. Your body practically froze at the feeling. His hips rolled against yours again, slow, unrelenting to push you even further

“Your mouth is so pretty when you tell me you don’t want it,” he murmured, pressing the blade higher along your thigh, “but your body,” his voice roughened, vulgar now, “It’s grinding on me like you’re begging to be fucked.”

Heat flooded your cheeks, fury and desire twisting so tight it made you dizzy as you turned your head quickly to look at him; you eyes were caught with bated breath as you spat at him, “Shut up.”

He tilted the knife higher, forcing the fabric of your skirt up another inch. His smirk sharpened at those words.

“Feisty devil,” he drawled. “I like that. But we won’t pretend you’re in control here. I can feel the way your hips chase mine every time they move—” he thrust harder this time, making you gasp, “And you hate that I know you better than you know yourself.”

You clenched your fists at your sides, nails digging into your palms as though you could anchor yourself in the denial. But then his knife traced dangerously close to the edge of your panties, and your body betrayed you again—your hips arching toward him, chasing the friction you swore you didn’t want.

Harry’s eyes lit with wicked triumph.

“There it is,” he rasped, winning with every movement your body defied of you. “That little pulse between your legs you can’t hide. You want it filthy—you want it rough,” He practically laughed in your face, “You fucking loathe me.”

You turned your face away from him as tears prickled in your eyes at the way that you wanted to deny him but physically couldn’t—your mind had you wrapped into Stockholm syndrome to the point of anger, lips parting in defiance, refusing to give him the words.

But your hips moved again, grinding against him, desperate, hungry for what he wanted to give you and what you were willing to take.

Harry’s smirk widened. The knife pressed firmer against your thigh, dangerous but controlled.

“Yeah,” he said, voice thick with satisfaction. “Your body’s already saying it for you.”

The knife’s cold edge skimmed higher along your thigh, nudging fabric aside, forcing your skirt up inch by inch. You bit your lip hard, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a sound—that’s what he wanted from you.

Harry’s gaze was locked on yours, sharp and taunting, his hips grinding into you with slow, ruthless precision. “Still pretending you don’t want this?” his voice sounded crawling with desire and need, almost shaking. “Even while you’re soaking through those little panties?”

“Fuck you,” you spat, your voice shaking more than you wanted it to.

His grin was dark, feral with the weight of Hell dripping off of it. The knife traced upward, pressing lightly at the soft inside of your thigh. “That’s the plan, sweetheart.”

You jolted when he thrust harder against you, the knife steady in one hand while his other pinned your wrist against the wall. He ground into you rougher, making your body arch against your will.

“Say you don’t want it,” he hissed, his mouth close enough to graze your ear almost like a fresh breath, “Say it, and I’ll stop. Promise I’ll stop playing with you, kitten. Promise I’ll,” He swallowed, almost letting out his own whimper, “Stop pressing the length of my cock against your upper thigh, right there.”

Your lips parted, ready to force the denial, but instead—a sound slipped out. A soft, helpless moan that completely devoid your inner brain, letting your eyes shut on their own. Your body had deceived you, and that completely undid him.

The blade stilled instantly, the world narrowing to his sharp intake of breath and the wicked curl of his smirk.

“Ohh,” Harry drawled, his tone dripping with dark triumph. “What was that? Sweet little whimper?”

You shook your head desperately, heat flooding your face as you tried to deny the feeling. “No—”

“Don’t fucking lie to me.” He pushed his hips into you again, grinding until your body betrayed you with another broken gasp.

His eyes blazed, knife glinting as he angled it higher, sliding the flat of the blade against your stomach now, letting slow and deliberate lengths of it shiver across your skin that felt sticky to the touch with sweat. With every inch, the blade rose all the way to your throat before he pressed—just enough to elicit an eerie amount of pain that only let your eyes shut in pleasure.

And it happened… again.

“That’s it,” he murmured, vulgar and merciless. “Moaning like a slut with a knife at your throat. Can practically feel you’re dripping for me, aren’t you? God, you like this more than you want to admit.”

His hand tightened around your wrist, pinning you harder, his smirk widening as your body writhed against his, pressing your hand next to your head as he pressed his forehead against yours.

“Look at you,” he taunted, pressing the knife higher until it kissed just beneath your breast. “I could ruin you right here, tear you completely open with this blade—or bend you over and fuck you until you forget your own name. And you’d take it. You’d beg for it.”

You turned your face away, shame and arousal colliding until you couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.

Harry angled the knife back to your throat, his lips brushing your ear. “Say you don’t want it,” he whispered again, low and cruel. “Or keep proving me right.”

The knife lingered at your throat, cold and merciless with an edge that only pushed your boundaries further, while his hips ground into yours with unrelenting pressure. Your chest rose and fell in shallow bursts, each breath catching on the blade’s edge.

Then, with a deliberate slowness, Harry eased the knife away. He didn’t drop it, just let the flat of it trail down your chest one last time before tucking it into the waistband of his denim. His now-free hand replaced the steel at your throat, fingers rough as they curled around the delicate column of your neck, thumb pressing just under your jaw.

His eyes darkened at the ability to touch you so freely—like his hand couldn’t process how your skin felt against his. The underside of your throat eliciting a response to that of a wolf meeting prey.

“There,” he rasped, his grip firm but not crushing, forcing your head back against the wall. “Better than a blade, isn’t it? You can feel what I want in the way I hold you.”

His other hand released your wrist only to slam it back against the wall, holding you pinned as his body pressed harder into yours. His hips rolled, rough and unforgiving, and this time the friction tore a sound from your lips that you couldn’t smother.

Harry’s eyes darkened. “That’s it. That’s the truth I’ve been waiting to hear.”

His hand on your throat slid lower, grazing the swell of your breast before squeezing hard enough to make you gasp. His palm molded to you, thumb brushing over your nipple through fabric, and your body betrayed you with another choked whimper.

He growled, leaning in so close his lips dragged along your jaw, not kissing, just taunting.

You tried to twist away, tried to bite back the noises clawing up your throat, but his hand clamped harder on your breast, his hips grinding until you cried out again—louder this time.

Harry’s laugh was dark and hungry with something that he couldn’t even describe.

 “There she is,” he whispered, low and cruel against your ear. “The dirty little thing hiding under all that fear. Can’t hide her from me anymore.”

He let go of your wrist, only to shove his hand beneath your skirt, fingers digging into the softness of your thigh before sliding higher. The roughness of his touch was deliberate, claiming, unrelenting.

“But you know I’ve known this whole time, hm?” he said, voice vulgar, pressing against you harder. “Seen those handcuffs, the play toys in your drawers next to your bed.”

An ache of a chill fell down your spine at the realization that he’d been watching you—he’d been here, in your bedroom. He’d been watching you and taunting you and knowingly seeing every vulnerable portion of you for who knows how long.

Each heartbeat of yours now was his as he memorized the way that your chest pressed the open keyhole he’d created with the knife.

His hand shoved higher under your skirt, fingers spreading rough over the heat between your thighs. The shock of it made your body jolt, but your mouth moved faster than your breath.

“You’ll never satisfy me,” you snapped, words sharp but cracking at the edges.

Harry’s smirk deepened, his fingers pressing harder, deliberate and slow against the damp fabric of your panties—the challenge had been accepted.

“Never painted you as a liar,” he drawled, “but listen to you—breathing like you’re already about to come for me.”

You bit your lip, furious at the betrayal of your own body, at how wet you were against his hand.

“Going to sit here and pretend you don’t have fucking tears running down your thighs,” he murmured, pushing the thin cotton aside with no patience, the tips of his fingers dragging over slick skin. “Christ—feel that? You’re soaked.”

You hissed out, “You’re a sick motherfu—”

But the words broke into a sharp gasp when he pushed two fingers inside you without warning, rough and deep—they fell into you quickly at your slickness which only inhibited your swollen cunt to register pleasure. Your head hit the wall with the force of it, a ragged sound tearing out of you before you could bite it back.

Harry stilled, eyes blazing with an amber light of pleasure with cruel satisfaction.

“There it is,” he said, his tone dark with triumph. “Couldn’t hold it in, could you? Sweet little moan for me. You don’t even know how fucking good you sound when you’re lying through your teeth.”

You tried again, breathless, weak as you fell into his touch, practically unable to fight back: “I don’t—want—”

His fingers thrust hard, rough, making you cry out again, the sound breaking into something needy. His laugh rumbled against your skin as his mouth brushed your ear.

“Don’t want me?” he taunted, curling his fingers just right, making your legs tremble as your body moved down, searching for more of him. “Then why’s your cunt gripping me like she’s starving for it? Why are you fucking yourself down on my hand?”

Your eyes squeezed shut, shame and arousal tangling until you couldn’t separate them.

“Pathetic,” Harry rasped, driving into you rougher, his thumb circling your clit with punishing precision. “Look at you—moaning for me, soaking my damn fingers, begging without saying the words. You love this. You love me using you like this.”

Another broken whimper spilled from your lips, louder this time, and Harry seized on it like a victory.

“That’s it,” he snarled, hips grinding into yours as his fingers worked you mercilessly. “Keep moaning like a filthy little slut. I want everyone in this neighborhood to know exactly what I’m doing to you.”

You tried to twist away, but your body only pressed closer, chasing the rough rhythm he forced on you. And Harry’s grin turned crueler still.

“Yeah,” he whispered, breath hot against your cheek as you smelled the cologne that only made your eyes roll back in your head with a pleasure so deep you weren’t entirely sure that this wasn’t paranormal. “You hate how much you need it. Hate that I’m right, hm?”

His two fingers drove into you hard, the heel of his palm grinding mercilessly against your clit when he’d pump them in and out. Each thrust made your knees buckle, your back scrape the wall, your voice spill sounds you couldn’t hold in no matter how hard you tried.

“Tell me you don’t want it,” Harry’s voice rasped, low and guttural like he was practically hanging on by a thread. His eyes burned with hunger, with cruel amusement. “Say it. Right now.”

You shook your head wildly, lips trembling as you tried to push yourself to deny yourself of the pleasure you sought. “I—I don’t—”

Another hard thrust, curling his fingers just right, made your body seize and betray you with a desperate moan.

“Liar,” he hissed, smirking as he watched your face crumble. “Your cunt’s drowning my hand, and you’re still pretending? Pathetic.”

Tears of frustration pricked your eyes, your body betraying you with every thrust. Your hands scrabbled uselessly against his shoulders, caught between pushing him away and pulling him closer.

“Aw, look at you,” Harry went on, his voice sharpening with a mockery of your need. “Grinding down on me like a desperate little whore, all while that filthy mouth of yours keeps trying to say no. Do you know how stupid you sound? How fucking dirty you really are?”

You whimpered, the sound breaking, humiliating, as your hips jerked against his hand for more friction—your eyes darkening then as you opened them to look at him with complete and utter dismay.

Harry’s grin widened. “That’s it.”

The pressure built too fast, white-hot and unbearable. You could feel the edge approaching, your body tightening around him, desperate for release. But just as you teetered there—Harry stilled his hand.

Your cry ripped out of you, strangled with need as your chest thrust with breaths, “N-No—no.”

“Beg,” he demanded, pulling his fingers out just enough to leave you clenching around nothing. His wet hand slapped your thigh once, rough and sharp when you didn’t respond. “Beg me for it, dammit.”

You wriggled in his grip, knowing how badly you wanted him to keep going—you were right there— biting your lip so hard it hurt.

Harry leaned closer, his mouth at your ear, his breath ragged. “Say you want it. Say you like being used like this. Or I’ll leave you shaking on the floor, dripping and aching, and you’ll never forget how I denied you.”

The humiliation burned, every nerve screaming for release, every ounce of pride keeping your mouth shut. Until his fingers slid just barely against your swollen clit, taunting, circling without pressure, and a broken sob escaped you.

“C’mon, baby, say it,” his voice softened, unlike it had before, almost taunting your needs. “Don’t make me the bad guy, hm?”

“I—” your voice cracked, your body trembling. “I want it.”

His chuckle was low, triumphant, cruel. “Louder.”

“I want it,” you gasped, shame and need twisting so hot you could hardly breathe between you. “I—fuck—I need it. Make me cum.”

“What a good fucking girl you are,” Harry growled, shoving his fingers back inside you with ruthless force, his thumb grinding at your clit until you screamed, your body giving in completely.

“Dirty little slut,” he taunted, his mouth curling against your ear. “Couldn’t even hold out. Knew you’d break for me.”

Your orgasm hit hard, rough and humiliating, your body writhing against the wall as Harry kept his grip firm, making sure you had no choice but to ride it out on his hand.

And through it all, his voice never let up with a victorious triumph. “Moan for me, baby. Let them all hear what you really are.”

You were still trembling, your body collapsing against the wall when Harry pulled his hand away—you already missed the feeling of being full, which made your eyes prickle with tears. Slick glistened on his fingers, and he brought them to his lips without breaking eye contact, sucking them clean with a guttural sound that made heat flash through your already-ruined body.

“Sweet,” he rasped, smirk curling wider. “But not enough. Not nearly enough for me.”

Before you could catch your breath, he grabbed your thighs, spreading them apart with ruthless strength. The knife clattered to the floor at last, forgotten, as he yanked your skirt higher, fabric tearing under his grip.

Harry didn’t give you a moment to catch your breath. With a growl, he spun you around, shoving your chest to the wall so your cheek scraped against the cool plaster and wallpaper alike. His hands were everywhere—grabbing, pushing, forcing you into place to the perfect position.

“Bend over,” he barked, yanking your skirt up to your waist. You stumbled forward, palms flat against the wall, ass pushed back against him in a deliberate action on your end.

“Harry—” you tried, but the plea broke into a gasp when he spread your legs wide with his knee.

“Be quiet,” he snapped, pressing his cock against your slick folds before slamming into you in one brutal thrust. You cried out, your body arching against the wall, the stretch burning and intoxicating all at once. His cock stretched you out in a way that felt undeniably pleasure-filled.

“God, that’s it,” Harry snarled, hips slamming into yours with punishing force. “So fucking tight around me—like your body was made for my cock.”

Tears blurred your vision, from the force, the humiliation, the sheer overwhelming pleasure clawing through you. And still, your hips met his, desperate, betraying you again.

Harry’s laugh was ragged, edged with a growl as his hips eased but he still felt you pushing back to meet him. He angled his hips just right, the head of his cock hitting deep, grinding against that spot that made your cry break into a moan of desperate pleasure.

The sound of skin slapping filled the room, filthy and raw. He wasn’t gentle—not for a second. Each thrust was rough, calculated to humiliate as much as it was to wreck you.

“Pathetic,” he growled into your ear, hips snapping against your ass before his hand slapped it red. “Pushed up against your own wall, begging for cock. Bet you’ll never look at this spot the same again.”

Your legs shook, threatening to give out, until Harry grabbed one thigh and hauled it up onto the counter beside you, forcing you open wider. The angle made you groan in a frenzy of pleasure like you couldn’t believe, his cock hitting deep, his thrusts sharper now, faster.

“Fuck, there it is,” he panted, his grip bruising at your thighs as he pounded into you, the wall thudding with each slam. “Taking me so good. You’ll remember this every time you close your eyes.”

Your moans spilled unchecked now, loud and desperate, echoing through the little house. And Harry fed on them, his lips curling into a feral grin as he fucked you harder.

“Louder,” he snarled, snapping his hips into you mercilessly. “I want the whole goddamn neighborhood to know who’s splitting you open tonight.”

You sobbed his name, finally, broken and undone, and his answering groan was filthy, guttural, like he’d been waiting to hear it all along.

A fresh wave of shame and arousal washed through you when his hand slid lower on your back, down your ass, his thumb pressing deliberately at your tightest spot. Not enough to enter—just enough to circle, tease, remind you of how utterly he owned you in this moment.

You gasped, jerking against him, the humiliation searing with vengeance.

“Ohhh,” Harry rasped, his smirk audible in his voice. “You like that? ‘Course you do. Filthy little thing—taking my cock in one hole and begging with the other. Desperate for anything I’ll give you.”

“Shut the fuck up,” you cried, though your body betrayed you with another shudder, clenching tight around him. His thumb pressed firmer at your words, not breaching, just enough to send a bolt of need through you so intense you moaned, long and shameless.

Harry’s laugh was cruel, triumphant. “Knew it. Knew you’d be a greedy little slut for me everywhere. Look at you—bent over, spread wide, whimpering like you can’t get enough. You fucking love this.”

His thrusts turned savage, punishing, his cock slamming into you harder now, your body giving way to the brutal pace. The counter dug into your thigh, the wallpaper had never looked this way close up, but you didn’t care—you were lost in the filth of it, in the way he stripped you down to nothing but need.

“Moan for me,” Harry ordered, his voice a growl in your ear. And you did—your cries echoing through the little house as he used you, his thumb taunting, his cock filling you rough and fast until you thought you’d break.

“Listen to you,” he panted, pulling out suddenly, leaving you empty, his cock fully hard and aching at the view. You whined, the sound breaking without your permission. He laughed, cruel and delighted. “You can’t stand it, can you? Your cunt’s clenching like she’s begging for me back.”

He shoved back into you hard, making you cry out, then pulled out again, slow, just to watch. You sobbed at the loss, at the burn of need.

“God,” Harry groaned, dragging his cock through your slick folds without giving you the relief you needed. “Look at her—pulsing for me. Hungry little thing.” He slapped your ass, rough, making you jolt against the counter. “Beg for it. Beg to be filled.”

“I—” The words tore out of you, broken, shameless and unsure of how to make sense anymore. “Please… don’t stop, Harry, please—I-I need—"

He groaned deep in his chest, his hand gripping your hair to yank your head back, so it rested next to his face as you felt the length of his hair against your cheek.

“I know, baby,” he snarled into your ear. “Knew you’d beg sooner or later.”

He slammed into you again, rougher, deeper, each thrust calculated to make you scream. His thumb pressed back at your ass, teasing, humiliating, making your whole-body quake with overstimulation.

“Say it,” he demanded, voice demanding and practiced. “Say you want me to come inside you.”

You gasped, nails clawing the wall. “I—I want it—”

“Scream it.”

“I want you to come in me!” The admission ripped out of you, humiliating, raw. “I need it, Harry—fuck!”

Harry groaned, filthy and feral with a snapping of his hips against yours until the sound of his cock slamming into you echoed through the little house.

Your body broke around him, pulsing hard as your orgasm tore through you, your scream muffled against the wall as you pressed yourself into it. And Harry didn’t let up—he thrust through it, holding your leg higher on the counter, watching you tremble and fall apart.

“God, look at you,” he panted, pulling out just enough to watch your cunt spasm around nothing. “Clenching, dripping, begging me back in.”

He slammed back into you, one brutal thrust after another until his breath caught, his body stiffened. He groaned your name as he spilled inside you, hot and thick and slow and so entirely soothing in a way that made you choke a sob; it made your body quake around him as he filled you deep.

Harry stayed buried for a moment, grinding slow, making sure you felt every drop as his breathing slowed; his hands gripping your hips so tightly he knew you’d be left with bruises that resembled a fantasy. Then he pulled out again, watching the mess he left inside you drip down your thighs, slowly and without dismay. His smirk was wicked, cruel, unbearably sexy in a crooked way.

“Fuck me,” he rasped, voice hoarse with triumph almost at no one but himself. “Mine. Every time you walk past this wall, you’ll remember how I fucked you against it and filled you.”

You whimpered, your body shaking as you tried so hard to catch your breath but your body shook with something you weren’t sure, and his grin widened.

“Say thank you.”

Humiliation burned through you—but your voice broke anyway. “Thank you.”

Harry groaned again, dark and satisfied, tucking himself back into his pants with a lazy smirk. “You are a good girl, aren’t you?”

Your legs threatened to give out the moment Harry pulled back fully, but his hand clamped hard on your hip, steadying you only long enough to snarl in your ear:

“Don’t move.”

The command froze you in place, your cheek still against the wall to help you stay still, your leg trembling on the counter, skirt bunched around your waist. You could feel his release sliding down your thigh like a tear down a face, the humiliating evidence of what he’d just done to you, and it made your whole-body flush with heat.

You shifted, instinctively trying to close your legs, to reach for your skirt, but Harry slapped your ass—hard.

“I said don’t move,” he growled, nasty this time with the sound so sharp and commanding it rooted you there, dripping and ruined, hands flat against the wall.

The room was quiet except for your ragged breathing. Then—

The phone rang.

The shrill sound cut through the thick silence, making you flinch as it hang from the wall then. Harry’s smirk curved, wicked and unhurried, as he adjusted himself, zipped his jeans, and casually picked it up from the dangling cord.

He picked it up, his voice still rough, still thick with what he’d just done to you.

“Yeah?”

Static crackled. Then a low, distorted chuckle answered him back, all knowing who was picking it up.

Harry’s eyes flicked back to you—bent over, trembling, dripping down your thighs. His grin darkened as the voice on the line said, smooth and mocking:

“Good work, Harry. She sounds perfect when she begs.”

Harry’s gaze lingered on you with a possessiveness that should have scared you but held you down in his grip as he traced his empty hand, a lazy finger down your spine. He leaned lazily against the counter, phone pressed to his ear, his smirk cutting deep.

“Yeah,” he murmured, eyes never leaving you as if possession took place. “I’d say she is.”

The line crackled again, the laughter lingering.

And Harry let you stand there with the humiliation marked against you as the phone went dead.

Harry finally set the receiver back in its cradle with a deliberate click, the sound echoing louder than it should have. The silence after was heavy, suffocating in the air between you both.

You stayed pressed to the wall, your body aching, your pulse racing at the wonder. The haze of arousal still clung to you, but underneath it—fear seeped back in when your eyes tore down to see the knife glinting on the floor beneath you. The way he’d spoken on the phone, as if you weren’t just his, but theirs.

As if this was a game.

Your voice was raw when you finally managed to speak, barely more than a whisper.

“H-Harry…” you swallowed, voice shaky, “Are you going to kill me?”

His smirk twitched, just enough to make your stomach drop when you turned your eyes to follow him. He pushed off the counter, stalking toward you with a slow, measured step, eyes still locked on yours.

And then, low and dangerous with a chuckle almost mocking your silly question, almost tender in its cruelty, he said: “Kill you? No,” he shook his head, “Killing you would be too easy.”

There it was—that sound again. The sound of the phone ringing beside your head that made you jump; your humiliation standing out as you looked at the wallpaper before you.

This time, it was followed by a knock—a sinister knock that flooded your heart with a pounding so desperate that you felt your throat constrict.

"H-Harry," you shook your head, "Please—Harry."

Your leg desperate to fall against the floor but you pleaded to dart away and leave out the unlocked door. Your eyes fixated on it before you heard Harry walk towards the front door.

“Oh,” Harry was out of sight now with a chuckle in his voice that haunted you, “That must be them now."

A shaky breath as you stared at the wall in front of you. A leap and a prayer set you on a prowl towards the back door instantly, you hoped that you'd be so quick that you'd get away.

You'd hoped.

[1d1195]

Pucking Rookie - Extra IV

Read Pucking Rookie here | ~4.7k words

From me/warnings: I've had this in mind since last year 🥰 Jealous Harry, a little angsty, and a LOT of Callie. I also wanted to do a birthday special for our favorite guy 💕 also, I wrote a good chunk of this on my phone so please don’t mind any spelling or grammatical errors.

Summary: Harry thought he could handle her being friends with Callie But maybe he can't. She just loves Harry a lot.

Harry was jealous. Just plain, old, green-monster jealousy. Tried and true.

It took him a lot to admit that but, in the end, he knew that’s what it was and there was no getting around it. It wasn’t her fault. She was simply his favorite person in the world, and he just didn’t want to share her with anyone. He had waited so very long to have someone like her in his life. Someone who knew all the bad parts of him and loved him anyway.

He was selfish and wanted her all to himself.

Selfish and jealous.

But the worst part, the absolute worst part of being jealous…

He was jealous of Kian Calloway of all people.

The way she giggled at Callie made his stomach knot. When he smiled at her while she spoke (like he was actually listening and not just picturing her naked) he felt his blood pressure spike. If Harry even thought about him actually picturing her naked then he might have already “accidentally” killed one of his best friends.

She warned him. That he would feel this way. And he knew she’d be right. She was right about everything. All the time. It wasn’t even irritating. It was a calming constant to know that his sweet, lovely Rookie just had it all together. Like she was true north on a compass. Always pointing where to go and he didn’t have to worry about anything else.

But he really hated that she was right this time around.

“Rookie?” He called. She was entranced by her phone. Completely preoccupied. He was almost jealous of the piece of plastic, metal, and glass just as much. But it wasn’t just the phone. He was jealous of who was at the other end of her enchantment with her cell. He turned on his stool in front of the kitchen island where he was eating an English muffin with avocado that she made him. She stood across the island nibbling at her toast with jam. There was a clementine that Harry peeled for her and she bit into a slice while she ignored him while smiling at whatever dumb fucking thing his best friend said. He didn’t even have to ask who she was texting. He already knew. Because they had been texting more and more frequently. For hours at a time.

God, Harry hated Callie. “Kitten, love?” He called a little louder.

“Oh, sorry baby,” she put her phone aside and turned to him with a sweet smile so unbelievably beautiful he couldn’t stay mad at her even if he wanted to—and he wasn’t mad at her, not even a little. He just didn’t want her to be happy without him in her life. And if Callie could make her happy…“I was just checking with Callie if he wanted to hang out tomorrow. Is that alright with you?”

And what was he supposed to do? Say no? She already talked about how she had no friends. How Kael isolated her from her friends and family and everything under the sun that was so awful he couldn’t put it into words. If he said no, how would he be any different than her ex? Because he was jealous? He wasn’t even remotely worried about Callie taking her from him, he just wanted to shower her with love and attention. He didn’t want someone like Callie, who didn’t have the reputation with women that Harry had, to remind her of just that.

So, Harry swallowed his pride and ignored the green monster invading his head and bloodstream. “Yeah, course. Y’don’t have t’ask, Rookie.”

Because she didn’t. She was allowed to do whatever she wanted. As long as she was happy. Harry just really hated that her happiness included spending time with Callie for any length of time. “Harry,” her voice was gentle. Like she was going to talk someone out of a fight. Maybe Harry was thinking of it. He looked up at her and smiled encouragingly.

“Mm?” He hummed.

“I don’t have to hang out with him if you don’t want me to,” she held his gaze confidently. Like she could see the little monster that was infecting him as if he was coming down with the flu.

“Y’can hang out with him,” he knew he sounded stiffer than he wanted to. “Y’really don’t’ have t’ask, kitten.”

She nodded, still disbelieving. Clear on her face.

“Well tomorrow after I get home, we can go to dinner, or watch a movie, I’ll make dessert if you want,” she offered. She moved around the island and slid between him and the counter gently pushing his plate away so she wouldn’t get hair in his food. It warmed Harry a bit more because she was locked between Harry and his seat. He wasn’t sure there was anything prettier than her being this close to him.

He was trying. But his smile definitely wasn’t as bright as he hoped because she still had a (pretty) slight pout on her lips. “You mean you’ll be dessert?” He asked cutely. He wrapped his hands around her back and slid them into her pockets. He pulled her closer between his thighs, and she dropped her forehead to his.

Her cheeks turned a soft shade of pink. “If you think I’m dessert worthy,” she smirked.

He chuckled and pressed his lips softly over hers. His whole body tingled and he thought he couldn’t love someone so much. “You’re the sweetest, Bunny. I could eat you up every day.”

*

“Sweetheart, you hung out with Callie yesterday?” Niall asked. She was standing off ice looking at her camera but checking the lighting with random shots for the new posters that needed to be made for the team.

She nodded almost sullenly. Harry felt his chest tighten a bit. She was gone for a good number of hours, but it felt like weeks while he waited for her to return. “Yeah… we got mani-pedis.”

“What color did you get?” Lang rolled his eyes.

“I didn’t get a color obviously, dickhead,” Callie rolled his eyes. “You guys should try it. It felt like magic. I might go back again next week.”

Asher snorted. “Are you taking her with you or are you going alone?”

“I don’t know; do you want to go again, Sweetheart?” Callie asked.

Harry skated to the other end of the ice and tried to slap the puck into the back of the net as hard as he could. Fortunately for him, it missed. It reverberated off the boards so loudly. It made a piece of the tightness in Harry’s chest crack with the anger he felt as it ricocheted off the wall.

“I usually keep my manicure for more than a week,” she shook her head with an eye roll. Her gaze turned to number eleven at the other end, and she watched him collect the pucks and send them back in the direction of the rest of the team. Niall stopped a few and glanced at her with a knowing smile.

She sucked her lip into her mouth and placed her camera on the bench and slid onto the ice on her skates and headed toward Harry. “Hi,” she skidded to a stop unsteadily. Harry caught her arm instinctively and she smiled kindly. “Nice catch.”

“You are,” he mumbled with a smirk.

She felt her stomach flutter. Harry flirted with her openly for months before they actually started dating and somehow the tiny little compliment, (not even an innuendo that he used to give her or still said when he wanted to make her horny), made her cheeks warm.  “Are you okay?”

“M’fine. Is it my turn?” He asked.

“Baby,” she pouted.

“M’fine Rookie. Jus’ a little tired. Want to go home.”

She nodded. She had a shift at The Locker Room. So, Harry would be alone. That didn’t bode well for him. She could tell he was upset. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, kitten.”

“Okay, baby,” she bit the inside of her lip. “Do you want a kiss?” She asked.

He dropped his stick and yanked his helmet off. His hair curled around his face with sweat, and he was a little red from the cold. He was so pretty it made her stomach twist. “If I ever say no t’kissing you, Bunny, put me out of m’misery.” He tugged a glove off with his teeth and let it fall beside his stick. He quickly put his hand at the back of her neck and pulled her in to kiss her.

She giggled while he kissed her, which made him smile against her lips. It felt more genuine and normal right then than it had over the last week. If he could just get her to stop hanging out with Calloway for a while, he’d feel even better.

“Styles, if you don’t get your filthy hands off my niece I’m benching you for the rest of the season!”

Harry pulled away slowly, pecked her lips two more times and he winked at her. “Worth it,” he grabbed his glove to put it back on.

“It’s my fault Uncle Charlie. He’s just so cute, you know?”

“No. I don’t. Aren’t you supposed to be taking pictures?”

She pouted. “You’re not supposed to pick on me! Pick less hotter players!” She grabbed Harry’s gloved hand so he could help her skate back to the rest of the team.

“Did you hear that, Coach? She thinks I’m hot,” Callie grinned excitedly at her uncle. Harry felt his blood boil once more and before he realized he reacted, she was putting her other hand over his where he squeezed too tight.

“Must be where I get my good taste in men, huh, Uncle Charlie?” She giggled and grabbed her camera and then returned to the ice. She moved Harry to the center of the ice and positioned him just so. “You’re my favorite though, don’t tell the others.”

“I think they know, Rookie,” he chuckled as she snapped photos of him.

“That I’m obsessed with you?”

His smile grew a hair, and he shook his head as he moved his stick around back and forth hoping it looked natural to her. “Yeah,” he hummed. He liked that. That she was obsessed with him. Liked that she said it. Because he was obsessed with her.

“I love you, Harry Styles,” she reminded him as she skated closer, kissed him quickly, and then blinded him with a flash of her camera one more time. She giggled cutely and Harry rolled his eyes as he shoved her gently but never released her from his arms since he couldn’t see where he was shoving her.

“Do we all get to kiss you?” Asher asked.

“Not if you value your life,” Charlie grumbled.

“Agreed,” Harry smirked and kissed the side of her head once more before swapping his position with Niall.

*

She knew Harry was jealous. Really jealous. She appreciated him trying to pretend he wasn’t, but she wasn’t fooled by how he was feeling.

I’ll be home soon 😘

Okay

I love you Harry Styles 🥰

I love you too Rookie xo

She pouted at her phone and looked at Callie. “The poor thing is so jealous of you,” she sighed and stuffed her phone in her pocket.

Callie chuckled. “Good, I’m jealous of him.”

“Shut up,” she rolled her eyes.

“Don’t worry, Sweetheart, I’m beyond trying to steal you from him.”

“Callie, that was literally never an option.”

“No need to break my heart,” he flicked her cheek. They were sitting at a high-top counter eating lunch next to each other. Callie had a hat on, and he hoped no one would notice him. She couldn’t imagine what the magazines and paparazzi would have to say about Harry’s girlfriend getting lunch with his best friend.

They’d gone to the party store, the bakery, and the restaurant where they would have the party. Harry had no idea. He assumed they were just hanging out like they had been over the last few days so as not to give anything away. Unfortunately, it made him very grumpy and frustrated. Therefore, she tried to keep their hanging out to a minimum. The mani-pedis they got the other day was the longest length of time and she wasn’t convinced Harry would forgive her.

“I love Harry so much Callie, it’s disgusting.”

“It is disgusting.”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re disgusting.”

“Good one,” he scoffed and bit into his sandwich.

“He doesn’t have any idea?”

“I don’t think so. I think he’s actually feeling really bad about us hanging out so much,” she pursed her lips as she sipped her lemonade. Callie sighed.

“He’s not really used to this whole girlfriend thing.”

“I don’t think it helps I dated his mortal enemy for a while.”

“Yeah, what did you see in that guy, Sweetheart? Like Harry’s bad enough,” he joked. She shoved his arm.

“You’re friends with Harry.”

“I know,” he shrugged.

She rolled her eyes. “You guys are ridiculous about one another. You wouldn’t even know you like each other.”

He chuckled and snagged one of her fries from her plate. “He’s really in love with you,” Callie smiled knowingly. She grinned to herself, feeling a little warm and embarrassed.

“I know.”

“I know you had some reservations about Harry, but you have nothing to worry about,” he smirked.

She smiled a little brighter. “I know.”

“Now you just have to help me find someone,” he winked. “Maybe if you have a friend who is just like you,” he suggested.

She laughed and shook her head. “I don’t have friends,” she shook her head. Callie frowned, draped an arm around the back of her chair and sighed.

“Well, you have me. Until Harry kills me anyway.”

“I won’t let him kill you.”

“I don’t know, Sweetheart. I don’t think you realize exactly what Harry would do for you.”

She smiled again and sipped her drink while ignoring Callie’s teasing once more. I’m heading to the store; do you need anything?

No, just you 😘

You already have that, Bunny.

“Ahh, I’ve been gone too long he’s calling me bunny,” she smirked.

“Ugh, he’s sickening. I swear I barely know him anymore. In the best way. You’re the best, Sweetheart,” he kissed the top of her head chastely. “Do we need anything else before I bring you home? I know you were worried about the away trip getting in the way of planning.”

“I think we’re good,” she consulted the list on her phone once more to double check she and Callie had gotten to everything. Niall was in charge of getting Harry’s mother and sister from the airport. She was very nervous about the day of—worried getting Harry to the restaurant without blowing the secret was going to be next to impossible.

“Then let’s get you home to your boyfriend,” he grabbed her bags with one hand and placed a hand on her lower back to guide her out of the restaurant. “You’re the coolest girlfriend for doing this by the way. He’s very lucky to have you.”

“The feeling is really very mutual,” she smiled knowingly.

*

On the plane ride home, she and Callie were having a giggle fit. Every time it seemed to stop, it restarted because neither of them could hold it in. One of them would think about whatever it was that was so funny, but they wouldn’t share what it was. She had a hand over her mouth, tears in her eyes, and she was shaking as she tried to stop. Harry couldn’t get a straight answer as to why it was happening.

Callie kept snickering, clapping like a seal, hiccupping, and restarting the laughter all over again every time she snorted. She tucked her face into Harry’s chest, and he felt absolutely miserable as they had their inside joke between them.

“My cheeks hurt,” she gasped and pressed her hands to her face to quell the pain. Had she ever laughed that hard because of Harry? He wasn’t sure. God, it really felt like he was losing her and it was so ridiculous of his mind to play such an evil trick on him. She fanned her eyes. “Sorry, baby,” she giggled softly once more.

“Sweetheart—” Callie began, his breath mostly laughter and air.

“I’m not speaking to you for the rest of the flight,” she shook her head and looked at Harry as he faced forward stoically. His hand rested on her lap; his eyes fixated on the little screen on the back of the seat in front of him with some movie he didn’t see the beginning of and hadn’t a clue what was going on.

“Did they stop?” Asher called.

“Oh, don’t make them start again,” Niall groaned.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I’m not speaking to Kian for the rest of the trip.”

“Who?” Almost everyone on the plane answered instinctively. She shook her head and looked up at Harry’s stoic expression. “You alright there, baby?” She whispered quietly.

He nodded, slipped on his headphones, and tilted his head back against the seat. She frowned, squeezed his hand in her lap and glanced out the window.

“Sweetheart, do you have snacks?” Lang asked. She nodded, reached beneath her seat for her carry on and dug out the snacks she had buried beneath her spare outfit in case of an emergency. Harry exhaled loudly and she pouted more.

“Baby?” She asked.

“M’fine, kitten. Jus’ tired.”

She nodded, grabbed the plane blanket in her bag that she used for travel and draped it over herself and she looked at Harry expectantly. “Do you want to share my blanket?” She asked.

Harry sighed heavily. Almost like he was irritated with her. Maybe he was. She felt terrible, but she really hoped all her secrets would be worth it. She tucked herself toward Harry; rested her head against his chest. “I love you, Harry Styles,” she reminded him quietly.

He didn’t say anything for a moment; his hand rubbed along her hip bone. Then he kissed the top of her head, his lips rested against her temple. “I love you too, Rookie.”

*

Everyone is here.

Niall sent the text about half an hour ago and she was planning to leave in the next few minutes. Harry was quiet and sour. He felt terrible and she knew it was her fault but she really hoped it would be worth it and that he wouldn’t be upset.

But she was very wrong.

“Kitten… I don’t… I don’t really feel like going out tonight,” he was already dressed, he was sitting on the sofa and rubbing his hands on his thighs.

“Oh, please Harry! It’s your birthday! It will be fun!” She smiled hoping she didn’t sound too eager or excited to leave. The last thing she wanted to do was spoil the surprise. Just a few small fibs to make his day special. “Just the two of us you know? A quick dinner. I promise.”

“But s’my birthday and if s’jus’ the two of us, can’t we stay here? I feel like ‘ve not even seen you lately,” he reminded her with a mumbled, forlorn look.

She frowned. “I was with you almost exclusively for the last seventy-two hours.”

“Yeah, but it was a whirlwind and… I don’t know. I missed you. S’hard on an away trip. When we were home y’were busy working and busy with Callie…” His friend’s name tasted like vinegar in his mouth.

She blinked, took a deep breath, hoping for the best. “Harry, I’d really like to take you out to eat and spoil you. You spoil me all the time I just really want to return the favor.”

“Well… can’t we do it another night? I’d really rather jus’ be spoiled with a movie and kisses,” he muttered.

She stared at him for a moment. He swore he saw her swallow hard, like she was trying to keep from crying—he’d seen it before. But Harry couldn’t possibly understand why. All he wanted was to lay in bed and hold her close until it was too warm. Before he could read into her saddened look, she replaced it with her pretty, genuine, lovely smile that warmed him to his core. “Of course, baby. It’s your birthday,” she took a deep breath. “Just let me get changed into something comfy. You pick a movie,” she leaned down to press a kiss on his cheek and then she headed to the bedroom.

Harry was still a little upset and uncomfortable. He didn’t know why she didn’t want to spend the night in. They loved their nights in together. It was so much fun to make out with her until his lips hurt and giggle over silly movies. It just seemed so unfair she wasn’t happy with him.

Within minutes of her exit, Harry was scrolling to find a rom-com, and his phone started to ring and of course, of course, it was Callie. “I was wondering if y’were going t’call t’wish me a happy birthday or if y’were jus’ going t’ask m’girlfriend t’relay the message,” he mumbled, irritation thick in his voice.

“Why aren’t you going out to eat with her? She was really looking forward to it,” he said instead of saying happy birthday to his so-called best friend.

Harry felt his blood bubble in his veins. Somehow all his blood felt like ice and hot lava was coursing through him at the same time. “She called you?” In the mere three minutes she left the room? Was it that unbearable, that insufferable to spend time with Harry suddenly that she had to call Kian Calloway to complain about it?

What the fuck?

“Yeah, because—”

“What the fuck is your problem Calloway?” He snapped. He stood up and paced. If they were on the ice, Harry would have had a hard time keeping himself in check. Asher would have probably intervened and shoved them apart. Niall would have held him back too.

“My problem? Harry you’re—”

“You’ve been all over her for over a week. She’s been texting you nonstop and talking ‘bout you nonstop. What is that? She’s my girlfriend and m’sick of it. She won’t leave me for you if s’what you’re thinking and I’d sooner kill you than let that happen. She seems t’think she can’t do better than the likes of your friendship but do me a fucking favor as your friend and jus’ back off.”

“Jesus Christ Harry, you’re so fucking stupid it’s a miracle she’s with you in the first place,” he growled over the phone. “Did you think that maybe, just maybe your angelic, perfect, sweet, girlfriend that you claim to love so much is throwing you a fucking surprise party to celebrate you?”

It was like all the pieces of a puzzle Harry didn’t know he was putting together slammed into place. Of course. Of course.

God he was an idiot. Harry closed his eyes so hard he thought his eyelids might burst open from the sheer force. His stomach dropped like he was on a roller coaster. He sat almost immediately on the arm of the couch and took a deep breath. The pugnacious feeling he had seconds before dissipated into nothingness. He glanced down the hall to see if she was still in the bedroom and, or, if she had heard him talking at all. “No…” he shook his head. “Fuck,” he whispered. “No, I didn’t think of that at all.”

“You have some fucking nerve, Styles. I would never do that to her. While I do love her, more importantly, I love her for you. And even though you clearly are going through it, you’re my best friend. Even if you’re a fucking dick.”

“Ah…” he winced and pinched between his eyes wondering how he could have been so blinded by jealousy to not see it coming. Of course it made sense. So much more sense than Callie trying to weasel his way into their relationship. “Yeah…” now he had a headache for an entirely new reason, and it was his own bloody fault.

“Will you just get fucking down here please? And acting fucking surprised, asshole.”

“Yeah… yeah, be there soon,” he mumbled and rubbed his hand over his face again. He hung up the phone and hurried down the hall to the bedroom. He knocked on the door and tried to think fast on his feet how he could get the evening back on track. “Kitten, y’okay?”

She cleared her throat. “Yeah… just a second.”

“Rookie,” he tried to open the door, but it was locked. “I was thinking it over and I was kinda rude. If y’still want t’go out, I’d really like to.”

There was a sniffle behind the door and Harry thought that maybe he should just leave the house and walk straight into oncoming traffic. Who needed a birthday when he upset the love of his life? “We don’t have to,” she said softly.

“Bunny, open the door, please,” he begged jiggling the handle slightly. It was very quiet for a second and then the metallic click of the lock echoed loudly between the walls. Harry pushed the door out of the way and he frowned. The poor thing looked distraught. “Oh Bunny, m’sorry,” he frowned and wrapped her up in his arms quick.

“No, it’s okay,” she sniffled and tried her hardest to keep the tears at bay, but Harry knew it was hurting her more than she could describe. “I should have asked what you wanted to do. It wasn’t fair of me—”

“No, no s’not okay, kitten,” he murmured and kissed the side of her head. “Y’were trying t’do a nice thing for me and I ruined it. M’being a proper idiot. Y’look so pretty all dressed up and m’being selfish,” he rubbed up and down her back. “And now I made y’upset, s’jus’ not nice,” he cupped behind her neck and kissed her temple again. “M’really sorry, Bunny. I hope y’can forgive me.”

She snorted. “You don’t have to be forgiven, Harry… it’s just…” she swallowed. “I just thought that we could—”

He didn’t want to spoil that he knew about the surprise. “Rookie, m’sorry. Please let me jus’ fix it. Let’s go out.”

“Kian called you, didn’t he?”

How she didn’t hear him screaming at his friend on the phone was a mystery. He pressed his lips together and was silent for a minute. She didn’t speak either. After he paused, he pulled her away from him and held her at arm’s length. He smiled gently at her, cupped the sides of her face and kissed her softly. He slid his thumbs across her cheeks brushing the tears out of the way. “I don’t know who that is,” he murmured. She giggled, a little tearily, but definitely happier. “Jus’ take your time t’fix your pretty make up that I ruined and we’ll go, yeah?” He asked.

She nodded. “You’re sure?”

“I shouldn’t have been so selfish, kitten. M’sorry.”

She shook her head. “I just wanted to surprise—”

“Shh, baby. I’m sorry. I was a jealous, hot-headed mess. M’jus’…” he sighed. “I think you’re the best thing s’ever happened t’me and I’ve done a lot of not-so-great things in relationships. I need t’be better. Y’mean everything t’me and I’d be lost without you, kitten.”

She smiled. “It’s your birthday, I’m supposed to compliment you a lot.”

“Rookie, y’have no idea how special you are t’me. I never need a compliment as long as I live.”

“Well,” she shrugged and headed back into the bathroom. “I’m still going to give you a million today.”

He smirked. Relieved she wasn’t in love with his friend. Relieved that the jealous little monster inside him realized how ridiculous he was being so he could celebrate his birthday with the prettiest, perfect woman he loved so much. “That’s why you are the best part of me, Rookie.”

--

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[1d1195]

NYE

~3.3k words

From me/warnings: almost entirely fluff (but probs a bit of angst) but meant to be fluff

Summary: NYE is her least favorite holiday. But at least Harry is her favorite guy.

“Sweetheart, it’s so nice to see you!”

Gloria and Tom were all smiles as she knocked and opened the door. “You came to hang out with us old folks on New Year’s Eve?” Tom asked, giving her a big hug.

Her parents were chatting with another pair of neighbors in the corner and gave her a wave. It had been a while since she’d been home for New Year’s Eve. She was hit with nostalgia the moment she walked through the door of that fancy garage; she smelled the familiar appetizers, heard the music that her neighbors loved, and saw all the people that watched her grow up. It was stepping into the past and she felt more at home than she had in many years. It was wonderful.

New Year’s Eve was never her favorite holiday. As a college student it felt sacrilegious to say such. But she was home for the holidays after missing her parents for long stretches of time (as crazy as they made her somedays, it was good to be home). She missed her mom’s cooking and her dad’s dumb jokes (that made her smile even though they were really dumb). She missed the small twin bed in her old room and how the pillow fit her head just right. Maybe she should have just brought it to her apartment and got rid of one of her pillows, but it seemed too late now and the thought of it not living in her bed was almost as sad as her not living there.

She liked how things didn’t change back home. How everything still felt normal and right. Life seemed to be moving a little too fast, a little too slow, and just not quite what she wanted. It was good but something was missing. Coming home and staying for a while was supposed to help.

She waved to her other neighbors, scanned around the room and was grateful that everyone still looked the same. That everything still felt good and right.

There were more people, some of her neighborhood’s kids’ kids who were younger than her by about seven or so years. They looked a little bored but were entertaining themselves with card games and board games. She hoped they knew how lucky they were to be here. She felt lucky to be there.

But it was the other side of the room where a group of people her age circled up cozily near the fireplace. Everyone was holding a drink. That in itself still had to be jarring for the older neighbors to see. All the small kids they once kept an eye on during bike rides and on Halloween, the ones that htye helped patch up scrapes on skinned knees and so on, were drinking where they used to play Twister and made-up dances to perform in front of everyone.

She paused along her way to the circle of her old friends to greet other neighbors. The party seemed to be in full swing since. She was a bit later as she had to finish out her workday from home. She had seen a lot of her neighbors since she’d been around since Christmas, but this was different. It really felt official being home for a while. Like when she was in college and coming home for her month-long break—but there were only four of those breaks and she only made it home for one before she had an apartment with friends from school.

Her group of friends from the neighborhood was a bit boy heavy. That’s why there were so many bike rides and touch football games in the street back in the day. The girls were outnumbered three-to-one or something like that. Not every boy was back in town for the holiday, but the circle of her friends still seemed to maintain the three-to-one ratio.

“Oh my gosh! You’re here!” Kathrine exclaimed.

“Look what the cat dragged in,” Julian chuckled sipping his drink.

Grant gave her a wave and Rowan hugged her quickly. Soon everyone was catching up, laughing over all the things they’d missed in the last few years. It had been ages since she was home that first semester of college. At least home like this. Now she lived in the city with three roommates in a small room that was cold in the winter from the drafty old windows. Her job was good and exactly what she wanted but she was missing something she couldn’t name.

Her friends were doing well, also moved out but visited home a lot more. Her siblings were older than her, they had moved out long before she had. They visited with her nieces and nephews often (except not on New Year’s Eve). She figured that maybe that’s why it was so easy to leave. Her parents were used to a quieter house. By the time she went off to college, she had been alone with her parents for four or so years.

As lovely as the party was, she was a bit overwhelmed. It seemed like everyone that was present was irritated with being here. Like it was just a final offer, a plead from their parents to come see Gloria and Tom, a guilt trip in some cases (they wouldn’t be around forever, didn’t you know?), and they were acting like it was the last place they wanted to be.

“I don’t know it’s fun,” she shrugged. “I like how at home it feels.”

“That’s easy for you to say, you’re hardly home anymore,” Nina snorted.

Guilt filled her chest again. It wasn’t meant to sound so mean she was sure, but they were right. She wasn’t home a lot. She wasn’t watching things change slowly. The gray in Tom’s and Gloria’s hair was drastic. Her mom getting tired earlier in the evening didn’t happen overnight.

Tom and Gloria didn’t have kids, but they treated every single one of them in the neighborhood like their own.

The sense of belonging and missing something ached deep in her chest and at the pit of her stomach. She just wanted to belong somewhere and right now that felt like nowhere at all.

“Excuse me,” she offered quietly to her group. She just needed a minute to herself to collect her mind, and everything would be fine. It was overwhelming to miss everything so much, be present in all she missed, and still feel like she was missing something. Like she was still missing home.

She headed to the bottom floor where the coolers lined up against the back wall. Tom was showing off his new gadget he got for Christmas to some of the dads in the neighborhood. She gave a smile and wave and stepped out into the cold December-almost-January air. It was quiet outside, other than the muffled sound of the party going on behind her. She turned toward the side of the party venue and paused the moment her eyes met the darkened silhouette of the one person she never expected she’d see.

“Hey kitten.”

Her heart jumped. Joy filled her. Unadulterated, pure joy replaced all the inadequacy, all the guilt she felt. Happiness thrummed in her veins at the sight of her very lovely ex-boyfriend. “What are you doing here?!”

“I should ask you the same thing,” he chuckled he stood on one of the steps leading up to a deck near the second floor. But they never sat on the deck, they always hid, just barely out of sight about halfway up the steps where no one braved the cold.

Seeing Harry (even if she wasn’t getting more than his shadowy figure at the moment) felt like whatever piece of her that was missing and droning on about uneasiness just a minute ago, snapped into place. It took everything out of her not to run the small space between them. For her to get to each step and not just skip two at a time.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face in the front of his coat. “Hi,” she whispered, overwhelmed once more with how much she missed it here.

“Hi kitten,” he answered brushing his lips against her temple. “How are you?”

How was she? She was exhausted, overwhelmed, and felt utterly incomplete. “I’m good, how are you?”

“I’d be a lot better if y’didn’t lie t’me,” he mumbled and kissed her hair again. He pulled away but kept her hand and tugged her down to the step alongside him.

“How do you do that?” She smiled. “How do you always know what I’m feeling? It’s been… years and you still know.”

“I jus’ know you,” he shrugged, sticking his hands in his pockets. “What are y’doing here?” He took something out of his pocket and handed it to her. It was a small hand warmer; one that was kept in coat pockets. Ones that they used in the very spot they sat. Ones that they used that felt like hundreds of times. Every late-night fall party that got too chilly with the autumn air, every cold Halloween long after the trick-or-treaters left, every icy Christmas and New Year’s Eve, or even just shoveling snow off every neighbor’s driveway.

“I came home.”

He chuckled. “S’bout time,” he nudged her knee with his. He sipped his drink. She grabbed it from his hand as he started to set it back down and she inspected the label.

“I saw you chugging a beer on Instagram at a frat party,” she reminded him. “You hate beer.”

He snorted. “S’one of those things.”

“Yeah, I guess. I laughed a lot watching it.”

“Y’keeping tabs on me?” He smiled.

She swallowed hard and shrugged. “No, just like to make sure my friends are doing okay.”

“Who checks on you?” He asked.

She didn’t answer at first, took a swig of his drink instead. Maybe the alcohol would keep her warmer. The drink was fruity, sweet, and hardly tasted bitter. Beer would never do that. How he got himself to do it seemed a little crazy. “That’s nice you had a frat to be friends with. Even if you had to pay them to be your friend.”

He laughed softly, shook his head, and took his drink back from her. “They’re good people.”

“I bet,” she nodded. “You have a pretty good radar for good people.”

“Some of the best, actually,” he said pointedly staring at her. The moon was bright enough that she could make out the white of his eyes, but nothing shined as brightly as that pretty smile of his—even as dark as it was, she could see the curve of those lips she kissed hundreds of times.

“What are you doing out here?” She asked.

“S’a little… overwhelming in there. What are you doing out here?”

She shrugged. “It’s a little overwhelming in there,” she repeated quietly.

For a few moments they stared at the sky, the moon, the stars, they just let the sound of their breath mix with the muffled music and laughter of the party be their soundtrack. “You haven’t been home in a while,” Harry mumbled.

She nodded, swallowed hard. Guiltiness clawed it’s way up from her stomach, up her throat, and into the back of her eyes. “Yeah.”

“I missed you,” he said softly.

“I missed you, too,” her voice cracked. He chuckled.

“Hey, don’t cry, kitten. S’not a big deal. S’what y’supposed t’do. You’re supposed t’go out in the world and do what y’need t’do. Home is where you are,” he promised and wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her into his side. “Don’t cry,” he murmured and kissed the side of her head once more. Like it had been days since he’d seen her last, not years. She sniffled and shook her head. “Y’tears will freeze on your face. S’fucking cold out,” he reminded her. Laughing she swiped away the tears that made icy tracks on her cheeks. “Y’did nothing wrong,” he promised.

“You come back.”

He shrugged. “Well, I’ve been waiting for you,” he said simply. She didn’t need the hand warmer. Harry made her feel warm all over. Always. “Tell me ‘bout everything,” he hummed gently. “Tell me everything.”

So she did. She told him about school, her friends, her job, her apartment, her coworkers and roommates. She told him about the cat that she fed at the windowsill of her room right beside the fire escape. She named it Mooch since he only appeared when she ate on the fire escape for the first time. Now she was certain he only came back because she fed him.

Harry repeated similar stories. His frat, his job, his mum, Gemma and the cute niece that she kept seeing pictures of, admiring the likeness of Harry that pretty little girl looked.

“Do you think about us?” She asked quietly.

“Do I think ‘bout us, what?”

Every time Harry came home he thought about her. He thought about this stairwell and their shared secrets and wine coolers. He thought about the way she tasted like summer in the dead of winter. There were very few moments when he wasn’t thinking about her. So yeah, he thought about them a lot. It was next to impossible not to dream.

“Do you wish we stayed together?” She asked quietly.

How could they have stayed together? There were thousands of miles and kilometers between their colleges. She was the jealous type. It wasn’t Harry she worried about; it was everyone else around him. He was hot as hell. It wasn’t fair to anyone involved.

He didn’t deserve to worry the same way either. It just made more sense to end it. “Yeah,” he nodded. “Course I do.”

She frowned. “Are you seeing someone?” She wondered.

He sighed heavily. Leaned back against the step behind him and looked up at the sky. He thought back on all those parties they had spent talking about the future. From when they were young and they wanted to open a restaurant and only make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches (it was the only thing they were allowed to make at the time). All those summer nights they spent hiding from their friends who wanted to play manhunt, and they hid in the stairwell whispering quietly about how much they didn’t want to grow up. Where he told her he had a crush on someone in their class for the first time. Where she insisted that he kiss her for the first time. She needed to get her first kiss out of the way, or she was going to die alone.

Where he asked her to be his girlfriend.

Where he kissed her goodbye for the last time before they left for school.

“So that’s a yes,” she nodded to herself.

“No,” he shook his head. “S’complicated.”

“Oh, come on, Harry. Do you have a girlfriend or not?”

He took the drink back from her and she noted once more just how jealous she was. Harry’s lips touched that bottle and all she wanted was the same luxury. There was a Romeo and Juliet quote somewhere in the recess of her mind. Her freshman English class, something she never really understood; who yearned like that at fifteen? Harry was already her boyfriend she didn’t have to want. To her it just sounded like some silly rhyme.

But now? Now, she understood Romeo. Hell, she’d be Harry’s toothbrush if she could.

“We’re not dating.”

She nodded, her heart hammered with hope. “But you want to?” She hedged.

He shook his head. “It was jus’ a date, kitten.”

She felt her heart crack and she nodded. “That’s nice,” she mumbled.

“My sweet, pretty, jealous little monster,” he practically laughed at her. He turned to look at her head on. “If y’want t’be with me, all y’have t’do is ask.”

Harry would follow her to the end of the earth. End of the universe. All he needed was for her to ask. He’d stop seeing the girl, he’d move across the country, he’d quit his job. He just wanted to love the girl sitting beside him on this step for the rest of his life.

She stared at him. “Harry, we were kids when we were together.”

“M’pretty sure kids have a better understanding of love than most adults,” he reminded her. “D’you remember when we were seven and Nina had just fallen off her bike going down the hill and Julian was freaking out and you were jus’ so calm?”

There had been a ton of bike injuries growing up. All of them had taken a tumble or five. It was impossible to know which one he was talking about. “Maybe,” she shrugged.

“Y’told Nina not to look and y’jus’ sat in front of her and watched her cry while Julian and I went for help. Nina’s mum said that you were very brave and you jus’ said, ‘I didn’t do anything.’” She stared at him silently wondering why he was telling this story. “I fell in love with you.”

“At seven?” She smiled, her cheeks turning red.

“Yeah, when everyone in the neighborhood had cooties, I fell in love with you because t’you, you hadn’t done anything. But t’me, and probably Nina, y’were this calm, wonderful energy that was just going to do whatever y’needed t’help her. Y’were exactly what we all needed and y’didn’t even know.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“I knew when I was seven. I know now. I’ve never fallen out of love with you. Not even when y’broke m’heart and we moved away and split apart. Because even then I knew you were right. It would never work and we needed to be ourselves as adults or whatever you call a twenty-ish year old trying t’figure out life. M’here every holiday and every summer waiting for you t’come home. T’jus’ give it a chance. I’ll wait for forever for you. But you don’t have t’wait, kitten.”

“Harry,” she whispered. “You… you can’t do that.”

Harry could read her mind, hear it in her voice. She felt selfish. But she didn’t need to. Harry’s heart was hers. She could have it back whenever she wanted. He’d been keeping it safe for her all this time. He nudged her with his shoulder. “Why’d y’run for so long?” He asked.

She swallowed. “Everyone else left,” she whispered. “I felt really alone in my house.”

“Y’couldn’t have told me,” he shrugged.

“I just… wanted to prove I could do it myself,” she explained.

He nodded. “I know,” he smiled. “You did it,” he nudged her again.

She shrugged. “Not really.”

“No, you did,” he sounded sure.

“Harry, I am still lonely and I’m never home.”

“You’re home now,” he reminded her. “Home is wherever you are, kitten. I mean it.”

“Ten…! Nine…!” The voices were loud through the wall, making her jump.

Harry smirked, cupped the side of her cheek and brought her in close to his face. “Happy New Year,” he whispered across her face.

“Happy New—”

It was so much better than being the bottle he was drinking and the toothbrush she imagined. His lips felt familiar but new.

She was home, tasted like his drink, and the magical potion that was individually her. She was so warm in his arms and he didn’t think about the goodbye kiss any longer. It was merely see you later.

“—Year,” she gasped once Harry pulled away.

He chuckled, kissed her forehead and pulled her into his body to keep her closer. “Y’want t’go in?” He asked.

She shook her head. “I’d live on this stairwell if I could,” she whispered.

“Whatever you say, kitten,” he chuckled. Harry noticed she tucked herself further into his chest. He kissed the top of her head. “Jus’ as long as I get t’kiss you at midnight from now on.”

--

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I'm sorry if I missed anyone in the taglist. Please let me know if you'd like to join, if it didn't work, if you no longer want to be included, etc. :)

If you like this, check out my masterlist here

[hswriting]

Hello everyone! I just wanted to make a note for my fic rec page as well. I will no longer be updating the list of fic recs with the links. I will now just be reblogging them to the fic recs page ( @hswritingficrec ) because I can never remember what I’ve put the link up for or not. I will keep the old list up, but all future fic recs will only be reblogged.

Thank you!

[ellewritesx]

focus on me

Summary: Loving Harry comes easy. Focusing on him sometimes doesn't.

Warnings: neurodivergent reader (adhd specifically but fun read for everyone imo), mention of anticonception methods (condoms, birth control pills, plan b), make-out sesh, hickeys, surprise at the end

A/N: adhd girlies rise!!! this is one of my favorite pieces i've ever written, though i might be biased. i just think it's important to highlight that everyone deserves a partner who tries to understand and adapt to their mental health situation to the best of their abilities. you are never too much, and always enough, say it with me! enjoy lovelies x

Word Count: 2,122

Playlist: Little Things- One Direction, Easy- Camila Cabello

...

You and Harry had been together for just over a month when you finally told him about your ADHD. You'd mentioned it casually before, half-joking about your distractibility or the way your mind races at the most inconvenient times. But one night, you sat cross-legged on his couch, blanket tucked under your chin, and said it properly.

You explained what it actually meant for you.

The way you'd forget important things and spiral about it later, the way emotional regulation wasn't your strong suit, the way rejection sensitivity could hit like a punch to the gut even when nothing was really wrong. And the way intimacy, both emotional and physical, could be complicated, because your mind didn't always stay quiet long enough to fully be in the moment.

Harry had just listened, elbows on his knees, soft expression on his face. He didn't interrupt or try to brush it off. He really listened. When you were done, you'd laughed awkwardly, brushing a hand through your hair and mumbling, ''I understand if I'm not the kind of girl you have time for. The mood swings, the restlessness... It's a lot.''

He'd only smiled and said, ''I fell in love with you, exactly how you are.''

It had been a relief. And it had also been terrifying, because you'd been here before, with people who found your quirks ''cute'' for about a week or two, then started to pull away when they realized they'd underestimated how much of an inconvenience your wiring was. They'd gotten frustrated when you'd fidget too much, or zone out mid-conversation, or left their texts unanswered a day too long.

But Harry never changed. He adjusted. He learned that sometimes, when your attention drifted, it didn't mean you weren't interested. He learned that you didn't mean to interrupt him mid-story, that you just had to blurt out your thought before it vanished forever.

He also learned that you were endlessly, beautifully curious. That you'd go on ten-minute tangents about the weirdest topics. That your energy was contagious, and your heart huge.

Sex had been another chapter of learning altogether. You'd warned him early on that sometimes your mind wandered even when you didn't want it to, that you could get distracted by the smallest things, a flickering candle, the texture of the sheets, a noise from outside.

Instead of taking it personally, like most of your ex-boyfriends, Harry had spent months figuring out what worked for you. He'd learned how to keep you engaged, how to talk you through things, how to ask questions, how to help you stay grounded without making it feel forced. He'd made you feel safe enough to be honest about what you needed, even when you were embarrassed by it.

Now, a year later, he'd become the most unexpected kind of expert, someone who knew when to give you space, when to redirect you, when to make you laugh. And when to set a reminder on his phone that said, Y/N's pill 💊 , because he'd noticed you kept forgetting.

Which brings you to this morning.

You're rummaging through your drawers when you realize with a sinking feeling: you've done it again.

''Shit.''

You freeze, hand buried in a pile of clothes, mentally counting back the days and trying to remember if you took your birth control at any point the past three days.

You stand there for a moment in silence.

''Love, d'you lose your phone again or are we hunting treasure this time?'' Harry's voice calls from the doorway.

You turn to see him leaning against the frame, mug of tea in hand, hair still messy from sleep. He's got that small, knowing smile on his face, the one that says he's equal parts amused and endeared.

''Don't laugh at me,'' you warn, pointing an accusing finger at him. ''I forgot again. I think I might've put it in my bag. No, wait, the other bag. Or... maybe in one of the drawers in the bathroom.''

Harry tries not to laugh, but fails spectacularly. ''Didn't you say that was the one thing you were going to keep in the same place from now on?''

You glare at him half-heartedly, rummaging deeper. ''Not helping.''

He crosses the room and starts poking through the drawer beside you. ''You know, love, I could just put your pills in my nightstand, next to the condoms and Plan B. A contraception drawer, it'll be fun.''

''It won't help me remember to take them.'' Finally, you spot the little silver packet wedged between your makeup wipes. ''Aha!'' You snatch it triumphantly, though the victory quickly deflates when you check the back. ''I did forget. I should probably take a Plan B to be safe.''

Harry's face softens. ''Alright. We're out of those, but I'll run to the chemist.''

You start to protest, but he cuts you off with a grin. ''Don't argue. You'd only get distracted on the way there and come back with snacks and a magazine about animals in costumes.''

You pause. ''That happened once.''

He raises a brow. ''Twice.''

''Fine. Twice.''

He chuckles, pressing a quick kiss to your temple before grabbing his jacket. ''Back in ten, yeah?''

You can't help but smile. He has this way of diffusing your spirals before they start, turning moments of chaos and frustration into something almost funny, something manageable.

''I already set a new reminder,'' he announces as he slips on his jacket. ''On my phone. I'll remind you from now on.''

You roll your eyes, smiling despite yourself. ''You're too good to me.''

He shrugs lightly. ''I love you.''

''I love you.''

And then he's out the door.

...

You were doing fine, better than fine, really, until you noticed a tiny heart-shaped freckle just below Harry's collarbone.

Harry's mouth moves against yours, slow and sure, the kind of kiss that makes it hard to think in straight lines. His hands slip beneath the hem of your shirt, fingers skating across your waist, and the sheets tangle around your legs as he holds himself up over you.

It's not that you're not into it. God, you are. You always are with him. It's just that sometimes your focus slips sideways, and the smallest things tug at your attention like threads pulling loose.

Tonight it's the freckles on his chest. There's one that looks like a tiny heart that sits perfectly on the curve of his collarbone. You trace it absently, lips parting before you can stop yourself.

''Wait,'' you mumble against his lips, pulling back a fraction.

Harry pulls back just enough to study your expression, brow furrowed in concern. ''Something wrong?''

''You've got a heart-shaped freckle,'' you smile, proudly pointing at the spot on his collarbone like a voyager who's discovered new land.

Harry pauses and looks down at you, the corner of his mouth tilting into that lazy grin that makes your stomach do somersaults. ''Want me to give you a heart-shaped hickey? We can match.''

You laugh when he dives into your neck, trying to push him away as he lightly bites the delicate skin there. ''Harry!''

He always does this. When your mind threatens to dart away, he finds ways to anchor you back, making you laugh until you forget what distracted you in the first place.

You hold his face in your hands, pulling him back up and kissing him again, deeper this time, his curls brushing your cheek, the warmth of his bare skin melting against yours. Your hands move of their own accord, over his shoulders, through his hair, down his back, but your mind skips ahead, wondering whether the laundry finished, and you start silently praying it's not because you hate folding laundry—

''Hey,'' he murmurs, sensing it instantly. He tilts your chin so your eyes meet. ''Still with me?''

You laugh, a little breathless. ''Yeah. Sorry. Got distracted.''

''It's okay,'' he says softly, thumbs brushing along your jaw.

He kisses you again, slower this time, grounding. You focus on the way he smells, tea and soap and something sweet, the warmth of his breath against your mouth, the gentle scrape of his stubble.

''You know, I love that about you,'' he murmurs, nuzzling into your skin.

''Love what?'' you mumble, your thoughts blessedly quiet for once.

''The way your mind works. Even when it takes a few detours, or the scenic route.''

You smile. ''Yeah?''

''Positive,'' he says, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. ''Wouldn't change a thing.''

...

You burst through the door with a tote bag so full it looks like it might snap. ''Okay, don't freak out,'' you start, which makes Harry raise an eyebrow immediately. He's sitting on the couch, guitar balanced on his knee, and watches as you drop the bag on the coffee table with a soft thud. Books spill out, a tangle of art supplies following, brushes and tubes of paint rolling across the table and falling onto the rug.

''I know what you're going to say. I always start new projects and never finish them, but it's just—'' you start enthusiastically, picking up the items that fell on the floor and lining them up on the table in neat rows. ''I was walking past the bookstore and they had this display of used books and you know I can't just walk past old covers like that.''

''And the art supplies? Where'd those come from?'' He chuckles, putting his guitar aside to look at your newest impulse purchases.

''I don't even know what started that,'' you say, unpacking with wild energy. ''I was just walking past the art shop, and the smell hit me. That, like, chalky-turpentine smell? It reminded me of art class in high school, and then I realized how much I miss painting.''

He watches you with fond exasperation, a half-smile playing on his lips. You're still talking, describing brush textures and color names and book synopses, your hands moving animatedly in the air, every thought running into the next.

Harry's chest warms. He isn't really listening anymore, just watching the way your eyes light up, the little crease that appears in your nose when you smile, and he feels it settle somewhere deep and certain.

''Marry me,'' he says suddenly.

You blink, still holding a paint jar. ''What?''

He stands and grabs your hands, eyes soft but steady. ''I mean it. Marry me. I want to listen to you talk about pigments and fonts and color theory and secondhand books for the rest of my life.''

You let out a small, stunned laugh. ''Harry...''

But he's already moving, crossing to the dresser and pulling something from the top drawer, a small box, a little scuffed from being moved around a lot. ''Bought this two months ago,'' he says, almost sheepish. ''Was gonna wait for some fancy moment, but...'' he gestures around. ''this feels more like us.''

He sinks to one knee in front of you even though you already know your answer, and opens the box with shaky hands. The ring catches the lamplight, simple, pretty, your taste written all over it.

''So,'' he says quietly, nervous, ''what do you think?''

You're smiling now, wide and teary-eyed. ''About the ring or about marrying you?''

''Both.''

You reach out, cupping his face with your hands. ''Yes. Yes, obviously.''

His grin spreads, and he stands up quickly to pour all his love into the way he kisses you, slow and certain, unable to stop smiling.

''See?'' he says against your lips as he slips the ring onto your finger. ''I can be impulsive too.''

...

thank you so much for reading! i appreciate any and all support so remember to like, comment and reblog. requests are open! 💕

general tag list

@mads3502 @angeldavis777 @run-for-the-hills @postsexfistbump @hobireasns @madilee7802 @spinninc @practistyles @qrapejuices @fangirl509east @sstylezzz @hontpwk @lichi-dunkera @prettygurl-2009 @violinheartxx @gotthecinema @ghstyles @triski73 @chronicallybubbly @makytka @hswriting @mema10 @feralgayghost @littlenatilda

...

[hswritingficrec]

I love this little story so much for so many reasons, but it’s so nice to feel so seen and it’s so sweet❤️

[1d1195]

Ding - Bonus Round II

Read Ding here | ~2.8k words

Warning/From me: Jealous Harry, fluffy getting in the holiday spirit with Cupcake💕

Summary: “She asked you?”

“I love when you repeat me,” she sighed dreamily.

Harry just finished his workout with Louis. He ran earlier that morning, worked on speed and agility, threw punches at pads. It was a good practice, a good workout. After that he helped clean all the equipment with Sarah and made sure the bathrooms were in good condition too. Finally, he showered and made sure he wasn’t a complete disgusting mess. It was a long, good day, and he was happy.

But he was happier at the promise of seeing his cute, pretty Cupcake. Harry practically skipped through the center of town. The locals were used to him—especially the ones that saw him at A Pinch of Sprinkles, or her dad’s facility, or when he brought his little niece around by the waterfront in the summer to eat ice cream. Not everyone in town was a boxing fan, but boy were they a fan of his Cupcake. They knew he had a good record—a fantastic record, she would remind him. Every cupcake or treat came with a reminder that there was a gym right down the street if they wanted to work off the extra calories.

She was adorable. Harry often thought he didn’t deserve her, but he would keep her anyway.

Harry figured another little run to the bakery shop that he loved so much wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. Hardly overtraining if he got to see her a little faster, a little longer. He loved her so much that the action of just walking toward the cute little place made him overwhelmed with affection, happiness, it was perfect. Harry had the perfect relationship, the perfect job, the perfect life.

He pushed through the front entrance of her shop. The bell quietly rang in his arrival.

She was standing on a chair, on her tiptoes, hanging up lights around the back of the menu board that she painstakingly rewrote with red and green markers earlier that day. The soft ding of the bell made her turn toward him. Instantly, she yelped as she lost her footing. She smacked into the side of the shelf beneath the menu board; Harry rushed behind the counter even before she started to fall. He grabbed her as much as he could, catching her as best he could before she fell completely and hurt herself. She knocked some boxes and bags onto the floor. The other decorations she had laid out spilled to the floor as well.

“Easy, Cupcake! Are y’okay? Why didn’t y’wait for me?” He held her tight in his arms, awkwardly. Just holding her up, trying to ease the pounding of his heart. He kissed the side of her head and took a deep inhale of her sugary scent. “Y’scared me,” he mumbled.

She sank a little bit further into his embrace and smiled. “Sorry, baby. I was just decorating.”

“Well, stick t’cookies,” he grumbled. “I’ll do the stuff y’can’t reach.”

She giggled quietly. “I’m fine, hardly a scratch on me,” she promised.

He kissed her hair once more and maneuvered her, so she was firmly standing on her feet. “I’ll do this, you jus’ tell me what t’do.”

“Harry, you had a long day, I don’t need you to come do—”

“Cupcake, please,” he rolled his eyes and stood on the chair. “I want t’do it,” he assured her.

She smiled to herself and let him hang up the lights. Last year, he helped put hooks up around the menu so that it would be easier to decorate after that. It was so simple, and she should have thought it herself, but it wasn’t really on the forefront of her mind when she was running a shop. “Can I put the bows and stuff on the display case or do you want to do that too?”

“Ha-ha, you’re so funny kitten,” he rolled his eyes. “Don’t break anything,” he reminded her.

She giggled and picked up the décor she pulled from storage to decorate the shop. Each table had a little decorative basket with a tiny Christmas tree and fake presents beneath it. The front of the shop would need lights and bows. There would be a ton of orders flooding in for holiday parties and she would be overwhelmed beyond belief before December 1st arrived. But it would be worth it.

“Gem asked if we were coming for Christmas,” she stated as she arranged the decorations as best she could so they would make the place look festive but not block any of the treats.

“She asked you?”

“I love when you repeat me,” she sighed dreamily.

Harry rolled his eyes again at her and came down from the chair now that the lights were safely around her menu board. He reorganized the shelf she bumped into and picked up the remaining items off the floor that she hadn’t gotten to yet. “She didn’t mention Christmas t’me.”

“Maybe you’re not invited,” she teased.

“Maybe m’not,” he agreed. “They all like you more than me.”

“It’s okay, baby, I like you more than anyone else,” she promised.

“Except the baby.”

“Well, it’s a baby, Harry. I’m not insane.”

He smirked, enjoyed her teasing and brought the chair back to the correct table. The door rang in someone else’s arrival. Harry watched the smile grow on the man’s face as he admired her sweet shop.  “Oh, it’s smells even better in here than it does from outside,” he grinned. His eyes moved across the shop taking in all the baked goods, the decorations the menu, but unfortunately his gaze lingered on his favorite Cupcake a little too long.

“Thank you very much,” she said kindly standing up from the display case. “Are you here for anything in particular?”

Harry didn’t like his smile, and he didn’t like the way he was staring at her like she was the most interesting thing in the world. She was, but that was for him to know and be able to do and no one else. Her gaze flicked to Harry briefly and her smile hardened just a fraction. She knew how he felt instantly and he must not have been doing a very good job of hiding how he felt.

He moved back behind the counter to grab a box for the treats he could pick out. Hopefully get him to get in and out faster. Harry wanted him away from her as quickly as possible. “You’re the owner, right? I’ve saw an article about the shop in the paper. I remembered your picture.”

“Sure am,” she nodded politely. “It was kind of the town to put my shop in the spotlight like that.”

“For good reason,” he stated. “It’s even better than they described. I always told myself I would come in, but I just haven’t had the chance until today.”

“Well thanks for coming in,” she said kindly. She meant it, Harry knew that. She was ever grateful to customers even though she didn’t need to be. It was her though. She was so utterly sweet. Harry thought it was the reason she even opened a shop in the first place. There was so much sugary goodness in her that it had to go somewhere, needed an outlet of some sort and what better way than to sell cupcakes and treats for the masses.

But Harry didn’t want her to thank him. She probably had a hundred customers flirting with her daily. But Harry wasn’t typically present for it. He hated it. Of course they were going to flirt. How could they not flirt with her. She was adorable, sweet, gorgeous… it was hard to look at the rest of the shop when she was standing their looking so perfect and sweet.

“Yeah, of course…” he nodded still looking at her in her cute apron tied tightly at her waist. Her hair was pulled into a braid with two pieces pulled out to frame her adorable face. Harry could eat her up—she was his cupcake after all (and he very much planned to eat her up later).

“I have to suggest the cinnamon bun cupcake, it’s a great holiday favorite,” she said and pulled one from the tiny pyramid display right near the register. She pulled it out of the case and offered it to him. He’d seen her do it hundreds of times, but he hated it most right then.

Harry wanted to keep an eye on him, but he had to turn away before he slammed his head into the counter. He would hate to mess up her display. He found her little list that she had for the day. She wanted to mop the floors. Fine. Harry could do that—but that would require leaving the man with her alone.

At least she had a mean right hook now if he tried something funny.

Harry stomped to the back room and filled the mop bucket with hot water and the cleaning product as quickly as he could. When he returned the man had half a cupcake left and he was looking at her like she was the most amazing person he’d ever met.

He had good taste, but that’s the most Harry could compliment him on. Her actions were simply that of a good business owner, of course. Harry would never worry about her flirting with someone else. Not when he thought about all the delicious things she did to his body and how she was always smiling at him when they weren’t directly next to one another.

“Are you from around here?” She asked.

“No, my family has a house around here, we celebrate the holidays together and so on. I figured I would check it out here so I don’t ruin the holiday by trying to make my own desserts. I wanted to do a quick taste-test,” he explained. “I will definitely be returning.”

Great. Harry slammed the mop into the bucket a little too hard making water splatter outside the bucket behind the counter. Her gaze met his and she had a small smirk toying at the corner of her lips as he glared at her. “Well, we have a small sample box, six treats for fifteen-fifty—it’s like getting one treat free.”

“A steal really, if it’s anything like this cupcake.”

She smiled. “Do you want to pick them, or would you like me to select a variety?”

“I trust you.”

Harry splashed the mop water again as she pushed behind the counter alongside him and gently pushed him out of the way. Swiftly, she selected six of her favorite treats, boxed them up, and smacked a pretty Christmas bow on top. “Can I get you anything else?”

“Is your number on the menu?”

Harry’s grip tightened on the mop handle and he inhaled sharply. “I’m flattered but not interested. I have a lovely boyfriend,” she stated simply and rang in the treats to the register. She didn’t pause in the slightest. There was a small smile but nothing else. She didn’t blush, or anything. “With tax that will be 16.47.”

Harry’s grip loosened. His heart slowed. He didn’t expect her to say anything but the contrary, but he’d never heard it before firsthand. The man simply gaped at her briefly. “Oh, right. Sorry. Of course you have a boyfriend. You’re beautiful and sweet.”

Good taste. That’s all he had. Harry was taking heavy breaths. He wondered if the man noticed Harry was ready to smack his head into the display case. “You’re very kind,” she said gently. “Thank you for coming in. If you decide you want to do a big order for your holiday, I do have an online order form that’s a bit easier to fill out ahead of time. Ensures you’ll get everything you want,” she handed him a card for her website.

“Thank you,” he said gratefully. “I hope your boyfriend treats you well. You’re very sweet.”

“He’s more than I deserve,” her voice dripped with adoration and Harry truly couldn’t remember to stay mad at him when she spoke about himself in the sweetest, kindest way.

The man cleared his throat, nodded. “Right of course. That’s good.”

“Come again soon!” She smiled gently and he made his way to the exit.

Harry followed him and dropped the sign she had for a quick lunch hour when she was alone. Maeve would be in later to relieve her for the evening, but Harry needed a minute now.

“Harry,” she said gently.

“Do they all flirt with you like that?” He asked.

“No,” she shook her head. “Most people know I’m taken—he’s not from around here. I didn’t mean to upset you. I hope I didn’t—”

“You didn’t do anything wrong, Cupcake.”

She frowned. “Oh.”

“M’jus’ mad that they don’t know y’have me,” he grumbled. “Come with me,” he started. Then he pulled her outside, toward the parking lot.

“Well, if you want, I can tattoo your name on my forehead. Would that help?”

“Are you patronizing me, Cupcake?”

“Where are we going?”

“Will you jus’ follow me? Please?”

“I don’t really have a habit of following people places when I don’t know where I’m going,” she reminded him. Good. Perfect. It would work exactly as he hoped. It wasn’t supposed to be now, but there was no time like the present.

He rolled his eyes, ignored her, and continued to the parking lot. “Jus’… please?”

“I mean, yeah, I clearly follow you anywhere you ask,” she had a smile in her voice and Harry smirked despite how grumpy he was as he continued walking her toward his car. They were parked next to each other, and it was a bit cold, the wind making it chillier. He didn’t give her a minute to grab a jacket so she was cold. She was still in her apron and there was a dusting of flour on it. She smelled like sugar and frosting. He loved her so much it was unbearable at times. “I didn’t know it was this cold out,” she crossed her arms to rub them for warmth. “It’s so nice though, really.”

He unlocked his car and opened the center console.

“I love when it’s cooler for the holidays it feels more authentic, you know? I would kill for a white Christmas. I don’t think it’s snowed on or around Christmas in years. Ooh, I should buy spray paint of fake snow for the window. Maybe when Maeve gets in, we could head to the craft store? I also think we need to grab something for dinner as well so—”

With the door still open and her babbling about the weather, he turned and opened the small box that was in his hands. “Will you marry me?” He asked.

Her jaw fell open in the middle of her sentence as she inspected the ring. It was looped around a necklace charm. He intended for her to wear her ring around her necklace since it would be hard to wear her ring while working with dough and batter. He didn’t want it to get caught on things or make her life harder. That was the last thing he wanted the symbol of his love to do.

“Harry,” she managed to gasp.

“I love you so incredibly much,” he should have prepared something. Because he wasn’t nervous. Not really. The most important thing was they loved each other and that was it. But Harry rambled a lot when he was nervous. In a way that didn’t make sense. But he wasn’t really nervous. “I asked your dad and I had Maeve help pick out the ring. I’ve been staring at it for weeks and I felt so awful that y’wouldn’t be able t’wear it while y’worked so I got this necklace and if y’don’t like it, s’fine, y’don’t have to wear it while y’work. People don’t have t’know. I know you tell them you’re taken like y’jus did, but wouldn’t it be nice if y’didn’t have t’do that? That everyone jus’ knew I was all yours? M’tired of being your boyfriend because that guy was right, y’deserve t’be treated so well Cupcake, and I love you and s’time.”

Nothing he said made sense—except that he loved her. But Harry didn’t need to make sense because she would know what he meant. He really didn’t even feel nervous because if she said no, it would be for some ridiculous reason. He could just beg and remind her that her dad said it was okay.

Maybe he was the smallest bit nervous.

His stomach was in knots and if he just had a second to throw up really quick in the middle of the parking lot since his stomach didn’t get the memo that he wasn’t supposed to be nervous.

She turned around without acknowledging him. “Put it on.”

His heart skipped a beat. “Kitten, y’don’t have to—”

“Harry, put my ring on me right now or so help me,” she ordered, her voice catching slightly, and pulled her braid out of the way to make it easier.

Harry smiled, his hands shook a little as he pulled the necklace from the box, clasped it at the back of her neck. “This is better than a tattoo,” she murmured as he gently pulled the braid back to the back of her head. She spun around quickly, pulled Harry toward her, and kissed him. They leaned against her car as he kissed her, his hands cupping the sides of her face and his thumbs stroking against her cheekbones. She moaned softly against his lips, and the wind didn’t even feel cold anymore. She pulled away. “Really?” She whispered.

“Really what?”

“You want to marry me?” She asked.

“Cupcake,” he rolled his eyes. “I wanted t’have you all t’myself the moment I met you,” he pulled her hips back toward him, so they then leaned back against his car. “Since you dinged m’car.”

She sighed looking slightly down around his hip at the little spot that started their relationship. “Mmm,” she hummed. “I do make an impression, don’t I?” She smiled, her eyes still watery.

“Why are y’crying, kitten, baby?” He whispered, brushing his thumbs beneath her eyes.

“Because I love you so much, and I’m so happy and feel so lucky and—” Her voice caught. “You want to marry me?”

“More than anything,” he smiled at her in a way that made her feel so utterly precious. It made her stomach drop out, her head spun. “I love you jus’ as much. I wanted t’wait until Christmas, but…” he shrugged with a sweet, shy smile once more. Softly, he kissed the middle of her forehead and pulled her toward him, falling back against his car again. He cupped the side of her head against his shoulder, almost shielding her body from the wind.

His body was so warm, (but she was nearly hot now that Harry had proposed to her). She was overwhelmed with love for Harry and how he proposed to her in the middle of her favorite busy season. How he asked her father. How he asked Maeve for help. How he did it just because he loved her in the middle of the day and couldn’t wait a minute longer.

“Harry,” she asked softly.

“What m’love?” He kissed her hair again.

“I think this calls for a cupcake. It’s a happy moment.”

He chuckled softly, nodded, and nudged her forward to her shop again. “All my moments are happy with you, Cupcake.”

--

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[maudie-duan]

STRANGERS MASTERLIST<-

Summary: "And god, there you were staring again. How long had it been this time? You didn’t know, and then he interrupted your gaze, asking, “You’re not from around here, are you?” But said it more like a statement than a question, looking directly at you, those green eyes even more startling up close."

A/N: Because I needed to get this story out of my head! Happy Thanksgiving.✨Enjoy Part One! 🤗✨ ->Part Two<-

Word Count: 6.3k

Warning: Strangers meet in a bar with a little finger fucking in the dark alley behind the bar.

You had never really understood what small-town life was like until you stumbled through the door of this bar as your friend pulled you through the rusty door, setting your fate for the evening. Now you sat here, swiveling your bar stool from side to side, while looking around this fucking room, wondering what the hell you were even doing here in the first place, “Just let me see your phone real fast…I’m going to type my address into your maps...” Emily asked, getting pushy.

Then you watched mortified as Em’s fingers fumbled across your phone screen, her movements messier than you realized, her shoulders slightly swaying as she leaned too close to the screen, and she squinted to see the tiny letters jutting across the lit surface. “Okay…there…and here’s my keys….you can take my car. I don’t even think our little town has an Uber anymore. I think he got a DUI last Christmas or something…Plus, I’m pretty sure Derek can take me home later...” She told you in a tangle of words you could barely wrap your mind around. 

“Wait, so you’re really going to leave me here... in this like…umm…what is this even? …Can I even call this a bar?” you asked, as your eyes flitted around the space, reframing the dingy dive bar in your mind to what it really was…garbage.

“I know...” She nearly whined, biting her lip, eyes already sliding past you to where Derek was waiting by the pool table, his shoulders broad in a patient stance, looking like every other guy in the room in his worn plaid flannel and beard. 

As she drunkenly gawked over at him, you studied her face, taking in the flush that wasn’t just from the warmth of too many bodies crammed into this tiny building, and you knew there wouldn’t be a chance in hell of any kind of bargaining. “Em, are you okay? Like, okay enough to be making decisions right now?”

“Listen!” She grabbed your shoulders, her grip firm but unsteady. “I’ve been wanting to hook up with Derek since... like... all my life. I told you that he might be here...didn’t I?”

“Yeah...you told me everyone you grew up with would be here, but I didn’t think you would actually act on it…like ditch me…” And you looked around the bar again, still trying to wrap your mind around the situation at hand, really taking in the wood-paneled walls covered in faded photographs of Little League teams and high school graduations throughout the years—and you bet if you walked over to the wall right now, you would be able to spot Emily in at least one. 

Okay… you thought… so this was your life now, apparently. Sitting at a bar in the middle of north Connecticut, stuck in a small town—a town you had never even heard of until you met your roommate at the beginning of the year—and yes, to your surprise you were even caught in the middle of an impromptu high school reunion, because apparently this was what everyone did for fun the night before Thanksgiving—tortured themselves in their best outfits, hoping to impress each other or brag about how well they were doing to the people that were stuck here. You didn’t even want to think about the torture it took for a townie who never left to show their face, let alone how tragic you were going to look after Em walked out that door.

At least you weren’t missing much back home… just the cruise your parents decided to take at the last minute, and now your mom’s mashed potatoes, and maybe that was the only true bummer of this whole situation because God, she made the best mashed potatoes, and here that thought was hitting you sideways—because of all the things stacking up in your mind, it wasn’t that you were being abandoned in Nowheresville, Connecticut, that you were concerned about, it was your moms fucking mashed potatoes that had you slipping into some kind of internal rut, “…Perfect…just perfect,” you muttered to yourself, taking a drink of your watered down vodka soda. 

“Don’t be mad…okay. Please…I just didn’t think I would be this fucking hot now...” Em said, twisting a strand of dark hair around her finger. “At least that’s what he said.” 

That last line had you choking on your drink, gasping on the fact that he even had the audacity to say something like that out loud. “Well... I hate to say it, Em, but it doesn’t seem that hard to top all the plaid moving around here... what is everyone? Like a fucking lumberjack or something?”

“Yeah…something like that—” Em said half-heartedly, already reaching for the shot glass the bartender had just set down. You watched her down it with a nasty grimace just as Derek chose that very moment to amble over, shoving his hands in his deep denim pockets with the casual air of a guy who knew he was about to get lucky—that nonchalant manner in which assholes present themselves, shoulders drawn back and broad, a pose men dawned when they needed to appear bigger, and jesus, the vague head nod he threw your way nearly made your stomach lurch as his subtle arrogance revealed itself in the tilt of the smug smirk turning at the corner of his mouth.

“My dear sweet reliable roomie...” Then Em dropped her voice while wrapping her arms around you, buttering you up for her goodbye that felt more like an apology at this point. “Please, please, please don’t hate me...I swear I’ll make it up to you. I’ll owe you forever,” she told you, pinching your cheeks as her pouty lips continued:

“Okay, I have to go. Don’t wait up for me, you have the address. This is the key to getting into my house…” She showed you one last time, “And please try and be quiet, okay?”

“Oh, and try and stay out of trouble...” she added jokingly.

Yet all you could do was roll your eyes. “Like that will be hard to do.”

Watching it all, Derek let out a dry chuckle, then threw his arm around Em, ready to throw his claim, his body language never veering from boasting and sure. “Thanks for sharing,” he said, saluting you with two fingers while already turning Em toward the door, and you barely caught Emily mouth ‘sorry’ over her shoulder, as she was melting into his side, ready to forget you existed.

And then you were alone.

There you sat at the bar, not knowing a single person in this entire building. The bartender—a grumpy, burly man with a white beard—decided in that moment to raise an eyebrow at you…Right…you thought, huffing out a sigh, you should probably order something. Because why not have just one real drink? The truth was, you had barely touched your vodka soda earlier, too busy making sure Em didn’t do something stupid, and now all you could think was, look how well that had worked out.

Maybe you, too, could pick up a dude, and you let the idea drift through your mind, a sudden ridiculous thought that seemed to stick... Or at least make out with some rando up against a car in the parking lot... that might not be so bad.

But as the thought lingered, you laughed, like actually laughed out loud at the thought of yourself picking up anyone, knowing it was completely out of character. You were never that friend; you were the kind who offered water while others danced and had the fun you wanted, but couldn’t justify—always the designated driver—the one who made sure everyone got home safe…never the fun one…so why not tonight? Why not fuck some random dude you were never going to see again? Right now, you could be anybody you wanted, and even better, the night was still young. It was only ten o’clock. You could be at Em’s parents’ house by one and still get a good night’s rest before facing the awkwardness of Thanksgiving with strangers.

And just as you were raising your hand to signal the bartender, the door opened, bringing with it a gust of cool air and probably the most gorgeous guy you had ever seen.

It didn’t make sense. How many guys around here could look like a walking J.Crew ad—if J.Crew had suddenly gone edgier…or more expensive… or who knows… it didn’t matter. You were dumbfounded. All you saw was a gorgeous guy, with perfectly mussed chestnut brown hair, tossled like he had just run his hands through it, and you watched as a stray strand made an escape, falling across his forehead like it too needed to make some kind of silent statement, as he stood hovering in the doorway, making a mysterious entrance that felt like both a conscious act, but somehow accidental all at once—and it was fucking mesmerising. 

As he stood momentarily there, you observed him while his eyes searched the room. It didn’t seem like he was looking for anyone specific; more like he was assessing his surroundings, as if he were deciding whether this was where he wanted to be. When he took a step forward, his mysterious eyes landed on you, nearly holding your gaze for a beat too long, and your eyes darted away, not wanting to be that person staring like a weirdo at the pretty boy who you hoped had fatedly wandered into the wrong bar.

It was astonishing how his silent presence seemed to carry a magnitude of mystery without even trying. It almost seemed dramatic, the way the bar seemed to hum with his sudden presence…or maybe it was the vodka finally kicking in, and you huffed a laugh at yourself, listening to the track of his Chelsea boots—definitely Chelsea boots—and you had to hold back the laugh bubbling in your chest, as the strange man quickly became an enigma among a sea of plaid, because who wore Chelsea boots in rural Connecticut anyway? 

With each thud against the wooden floor, you felt your awareness peak and your spine straighten involuntarily as he walked toward you, a slight puff of air moving behind you, as the image of him flashed across your peripheral vision, catching on the rich, creamy cashmere sweater that looked too soft and delicate to be here, yet perfectly fitted to his tall frame. Then your gaze dropped to his casual black skinny jeans, probably worth more than anything you owned, you guessed…and were those rings stacked on his fingers? You wondered, capturing a glint of silver as he moved past.

It looked effortless; He looked effortless. And when you heard the bar stool scrape across the wood floor just one seat away from you, you nearly choked on nothing, thinking no way you could be that lucky, because the universe didn’t work like that. Not for you.

Feeling brave, you risked a glance in the mirrored wall behind the bar, the old glass distorting everything slightly, making the whole scene feel even more surreal. It was definitely him. Just a seat away, close enough for you to catch the green of his eyes staring back at you in the reflection—green like the moss that grew across the wooded floors of the forests you grew up near. In that moment, you knew you had to play it cool. This could be your chance at... what? Being someone different for a night? Doing something Em would do? Or maybe even getting what you wanted—and what was that even?

The bartender broke your gaze, sliding over to gain the stranger’s attention. “What’re you having?” he asked, his Boston accent rich and rugged.

Casually, you took the last gulp of your watered-down drink, letting the small bits of ice fall into your mouth as you chomped on them, the cold blunt against your teeth, deciding if you were going to order another. But you would have to, even if you sipped on it, you would need something to do with your hands, you were in a bar after all.

But before you could make the decision, you heard the stranger speak, your ear picking up the deep tone of his voice when he said, “A whiskey neat, and give her another of what she’s having.”

Holy shit, you thought as your brain got hung up on his accent, and you were suddenly unable to think past yet another layer of sexy, something you weren’t quite ready for. Is he British? Was the fucking J. Crew ad British? His voice was so smooth and refined, but with something more, like he was trying to rough up the edges, and he finished as you dumped the rest of your ice in your mouth, your ear only catching the end of what he had said. How random was this night going to get? A British guy in a dive bar in Connecticut. What were the odds?

“So a whiskey neat and another vodka soda for...?” The bartender repeated, and then his eyes swept to you and paused, waiting for something you were unsure of.

Confused, you looked around, skeptical about why all eyes were suddenly on you, almost certain they must be talking about someone else, anyone else but you… Maybe it was the pretty blonde at the other end of the bar; she seemed more the type to have strangers buy her drinks… definitely not you. She for sure looked like someone who would drink a vodka soda, but when your eyes moved to her hands, she was bringing a bottle of beer up to her mouth. 

“Her,” the stranger clarified, nodding directly at you as you met his stare, and the bartender’s gaze followed back to you.

When you realized it was actually you, you made this stupid, horrid sound, like a surprised, slightly manic laugh that had your cheeks heating. “Oh! Right.” and you pushed your empty glass forward across the sticky bar top. “I’ll definitely have another.” Then you straightened your posture, nodding at the bartender while internally kicking yourself for not playing it cool…fuck, so much for being mysterious and alluring.

Just as you turned to tell the stranger thanks, maybe even play it off with some witty banter you hadn’t thought of yet, he swiftly closed the gap between you, slipping into the barstool directly beside you in that effortless manner you had seen just moments before, making the space and your focus narrow to just him, the room suddenly feeling warmer and smaller… so much smaller.

The bartender handed the stranger his drink first, and he downed it in one go, his throat working as he swallowed the stiff drink with ease, and you watched, probably a little too obvious, but dammit, his jawline was perfect, his face a fucking work of art, you thought, as he set the glass down with a soft thud, and when your drink arrived, you wrapped your fingers around it, trying to obsorb the cold condensation, hoping it would ground you or cool you the fuck down, because this was crazy right? Like, was this crazy?

Completely unaware of your internal crises, He ordered another whiskey immediately, and that’s when you noticed it—the slight tremble at the tips of his fingers as he pushed his empty glass forward. Was he nervous? Could this beautifully effortless-looking man be just as nervous as you?

And god, there you were staring again. How long had it been this time? You didn’t know, and then he interrupted your gaze, asking, “You’re not from around here, are you?” But said it more like a statement than a question, looking directly at you, those green eyes even more startling up close.

“No, I’m definitely not…” You said, studying his face further, because the more you looked, the more you noticed the tiredness around his eyes, and the sharp tension in his jaw. “But something tells me you don’t really want to talk, do you?”

“Is it that obvious?” He asked, licking his lips as the corner corked up slightly—a nervous gesture, maybe, you couldn’t say, and then he ran a hand through his hair, messing it up further, but it only seemed to add to his effect.

“I don’t know...maybe…I’m guessing I may find out…” You shrugged, but the bartender was already sliding another whiskey in front of the stranger, giving him a suspicious look that clearly said, ‘I’m watching you, pretty boy.’

Without even touching the drink in front of him, the stranger said, “I’ll take one more,” then pulled out his wallet and slipped a hundred-dollar bill on the counter. Which, in this case, was overly generous, considering your drink was only six dollars and, by far, the cheapest you had come across in a while, and you assumed that this was the perks of living in a small town. Was he from around here? Did people like him exist in places with only one grocery store?

“Do you want anything else?” he asked, looking at your still-full beverage.

Yet there was something in the way he asked—like he genuinely wanted to know, as if your answer would matter—that made something flutter in the pit of your stomach, as he sent you a small smile.

“Um, yeah. I’ll take a shot of your best tequila, please,” you told the bartender, tearing your gaze from the magnetic green-eyed stranger, who seemed to be just as interested in you as you were in him.

Was there something building between you both? Could it be that easy? Because there was definitely an unspoken connection being forged in the silence, in the lack of the words that were needed. It was something in his presence, an honesty waiting just beneath the surface. How you hadn’t felt a single ping of fear rise, just the nervous giddy inflection of a schoolgirl curiosity, and that was okay, right? People could have instant chemistry; it happened all the time, didn’t it? Was this what it was? This simmering buzz across your skin, a silent tie, tingling up your spine as his elbow rested against yours—the gesture so natural that you didn’t even want to pull away… even if you had only exchanged a handful of words. You could feel it in the air between you, this electric, inevitable pull that was taking you completely, ready to push you right out the fucking door if he just asked, but will he?

The thing was, you knew what he was looking for, and you wanted it too; it was the same thing you had just been fantasizing about. But you weren’t good at this. You had never had a random hookup, especially not in a town you had never been to with a stranger who looked like he had stepped out of an entirely different universe. You didn’t know the protocol. For all you knew, he could be a murderer…of course, a very well-dressed murderer with excellent taste in whiskey…but it happened, right? Murders and murderers rarely held prejudice when it came to the outcome. No one was safe when it came down to it, and then you felt yourself begin to spiral. 

There you were…a fucking mess, but he didn’t seem to mind, and before long, he was downing his second drink and set it down with the same quiet thud, scooting it forward with the tips of his ring-clad fingers. This time, a little less shaky, like your understanding cut through the work that either one of you would have to do. As he drew his hand back, you caught sight of a tattoo peeking from under his sleeve—something that looked like an anchor, and you got distracted trying to see more as you attempted to suck down your drink through the tiny bar straw that was given to you, but the straw was too small, the drink too strong, and you were too aware of him watching you—and it was your turn to be precieved in any way he wanted.

The thing about you is you weren’t as graceful, and you tossed the straw aside with a slight clatter and brought the glass to your mouth, gulping the liquid down and hoping you didn’t look as desperate as you felt, as the vodka burned, but it was better than sitting there fidgeting.

“Here’s the deal,” he said suddenly, leaning into your ear as his warm, whiskey-scented breath fanned over your skin. “I don’t normally do this...” Then he sighed, shifting his mouth away, and you watched him in the bar mirror. He was scanning the room, you could tell by the way his shoulders tensed, like he was making sure no one was listening.

“It’s just...” he started again, but then the bartender was calling out his drink, sliding his third whiskey across the bar, and without an ounce of hesitation, the stranger downed it just as quickly as the first two, and you wondered if he was trying to find courage at the bottom of those glasses.

But as he recovered from his drink, you kept playing his line over and over. ‘I don’t normally do this.’ Yet all you could think was, yeah, right… A man who looked like him definitely did this, had practice at this even, probably had it down to a fucking science. But maybe this was his bit, his line, and you were cool, right? You were a chill girl. You could play along with whatever game this was.

“Here’s what I’m looking for,” he said as you shot your empty glass toward the bartender, who was already pouring your tequila.

“I’m here for one night.” And as someone passed, he dropped his voice and leaned in closer, his lips nearly grazing your ear, as the smell of whiskey mixed with the earthy scent of his essence filled your fucking senses like a hit of everything you could want in this moment. Because in this moment, you couldn’t tell if it was the alcohol or his proximity that was making your head spin, and you chuckled out a giddy laugh, when his breath pushed against the shell of your ear, sending goosebumps racing up your arms and down your spine.

“The thing is…I’m not looking for anything other than a quick fuck. No names, no exchange of numbers. Just sex.”

And there it was, his words sharp and precise, almost crude as they rolled off his tongue like a contract waiting to be signed, but fuck, with that accent, in that low voice, they sounded like a summons for all the dirty secrets you had ever held in your mind, a thrilling escape your soul needed.

“Yeah…just sex…same.” You offered back, turning your head slightly to meet his eyes. His face was close enough for you to make out every detail—the fan of his eyelashes, the tiny freckle near his temple, the perfect cupid’s bow of his upper lip, and holy shit, how did you get this lucky? You wondered, thinking, maybe the universe was on your side after all. Maybe this was its apology for being abandoned.

“Just sex,” he repeated, his eyes dropping to your mouth with a slight smirk playing at his lips, and your eyes searched his face as his heart-shaped lips pressed together, like he was holding back something else he wanted to say.

“Deal,” you answered, surprised by your direct response, as a full smile bloomed on his face, dimples appearing that should have made him look younger but somehow only made him more devastating—and you couldn’t help but return the smile.

It was too much, and you had to force yourself to look away, reaching for the shot of tequila as if to seal the ‘deal’ with yourself. The burn was quick and harsh, making your eyes water slightly as you tried to hold back your grimace. It was all a heady rush; the whole situation was dizzying, like something out of a movie. Because this couldn’t be real, things like this didn’t happen to people like you. You were too responsible for shit like this, the one who made sure everyone else had their fun while you held their hair back later. But fuck it, you didn’t want to be her right now. You could sort that out later. This was now…and right now you wanted this beautiful stranger more than you wanted anything in your entire life.

When he stood, fishing in his wallet again, you noticed how tall he was, his lean stature the perfect playground for what it could be. You were curious, no, you were more than curious, your interest was piqued, and as he readied to place another bill on top of the change the bartender had left from the hundred he asked, “Do you want anything else?” and as you shook your dizzying head no, feeling the drinks, you smiled up at him, suddenly feeling bold and reckless—and he placed a fifty-dollar bill on top of the pile of cash already on the counter, as the numbing creep of the alcohol heated your anticipating limbs with a loose excitement, that made you feel open and ready for anything. 

The deal was being set in motion, and you stood, slinging your purse across your body, the strap cutting diagonally across your chest, and you followed his lead, expecting to head toward the front door where he had entered, but instead he was leading you toward the back exit, his hand ghosting over the small of your back, not quite touching but close enough to feel the expected heat of it.

As you walked, heart pounding in your ears, you peered around the bar, making deliberate eye contact with a few people—the blonde at the end of the bar, a guy in a Patriots jersey by the dartboard…preparing maybe…you know, in case they ended up being witnesses to your future crime scene. Because honestly, what were you doing? This was exactly how it happened in all those murder podcasts Em insisted on playing during your morning commutes: Girl leaves bar with stranger, girl is never seen again…and whether you wanted to admit it or not, you had actually been learning way too much from them. Like, always tell someone where you’re going. Which obviously you couldn’t do in this moment because Em had abandoned you. Fuck.

The stranger pushed the back door open, and the chilly fall air hit you like a sharp dose of reality across your face, and he held it open, waiting for you to pass through, your eyes meeting briefly in the dim light from the single bulb above the door, yet his eyes shied away in seconds. There it was again, you thought, that flash of nervousness etched in the pull of his brow. 

Then the door closed behind him with a definitive click that seemed too eerie for the quiet alley, and you stood there, facing each other, two nameless strangers ready to embark on whatever this was, as your breaths became visible in small puffs of cold air while you tried to control them. The sounds from the bar grew muffled in your mind, already fading into a distant memory as your heartbeat picked up, waiting for him to make the first move— 

“I have no idea how this works...” you blurted, the words tumbling out. “So I think I might need you to take the lead...”

This made him laugh, transforming his face completely, and the handsome, stoic mystery man became just a guy, just as nervous and human as you, shoving his hands in his pockets as his dimples dipped with a playful grin spreading across his face. He was definitely nervous, and now you could see it clearly—the way he shifted his weight, or the way his eyes couldn’t quite settle on your face.

“Okay...fair enough…and honestly, I hadn’t thought this far ahead…” he confessed with a raspy laugh as he ran a hand up the back of his head. “My truck is nearby though…” He told you, looking toward the end of the dark alley. “We could start there if you want. Get out of the cold at least…”

Then he reached out a hand to you, palm up, an invitation, and you hesitated for a second, because this was definitely it, the last chance to back out, to go sit in Em’s car and search for the closest fast-food joint or diner and pretend this night never happened…

But instead, you took his hand, his fingers warm despite the cold, those rings cool against your palm, and you gazed into his eyes.

“I promise I’m not a murderer...” he joked, squeezing your hand gently, and giving it a slight tug.

“Yeah, but isn’t that what they all say?” you questioned, narrowing your eyes in mock suspicion as you took a few steps forward, the alcohol in full effect, making the alley tilt slightly, and you gripped his hand tighter, cursing yourself for being such a lightweight.

“I mean, yeah, I’m sure they do…But I went to high school with too many of those people in there,” he said, nodding back toward the bar, as he turned to face you. “And I’m pretty sure they remember me. I don’t think I could get away with shit around here. Trust me…”

“Oh, so you’re one of those people... in town for the holiday?” You asked, taking a few more cautious steps on the uneven pavement.

He laughed again, softer this time, and clicked his tongue. “No details, remember?”

“Ah, fuck, yeah, I did make that deal... fine.” You told him and mimed zipping your lips shut, which made him smile again…and fuck, those dimples were going to be a problem you could already tell.

He turned back, and you made it halfway down the alley when he stopped suddenly, turning back to face you with knitted brows. “You’re okay, yeah?” He asked, eyes searching your face in the fuzzy, fading light filtering in from the street. “We don’t have to—”

“Umm... I think, but…” You said, as your free hand playfully grasped hold of his sweater, the cashmere just as soft as it looked. “Maybe we should, like, kiss first or something...warm things up.”

And fuck, the words had barely left your mouth as he acted, backing you into the brick wall of the alley with a soft thud, as the cold of the brick seeped through your sweater, making you shiver as you stared up at him, and in seconds, he was stepping closer, his body blocking the wind, and you weren’t thinking about the cold anymore, you were thinking about his mouth, how warm his lips would be pressed to yours.

His hand came up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing across your cheekbone as he studied your face for a moment. “Still okay?” he asked, and when you nodded, he leaned in, closing the distance between your mouths.

The first kiss was gentle, almost hesitant, as he melded your mouth with his. It was dizzying, the way his soft lips moved against yours, stained with whiskey and mint. He was holding back, you could feel it, like he was letting you set the pace, and you fisted your hands in his sweater and pulled him closer, already greedy as you felt the breath passing between you shift, and he picked up the pace, following your cue.

As your grip tightened, he made a low raspy groan in his throat and pressed closer, one hand bracing against the brick beside your head, as the other slid into your hair, and he deepened the kiss, mouths moving until it became something urgent and necessary—until the only air passing between your lungs was each other’s, and when his tongue swept across your bottom lip, you opened for him, gasping when he nipped at your bottom lip as you bucked your hips forward to meet his. 

With the weight of his body, he pushed you back, pressing you against the brick wall as if to challenge your will. Your body was already moving with need, and you ground your hips forward, creating enough friction to spur him on, and his body pulled away slowly, just enough to thrust back into you with the gradual demand of someone needing to find release, as your own body grew ready, craving the way his hips collided with yours—it was utterly intoxicating, the rush of it all, of him, this perfect stranger who seemed in sync with your body—it was like a head rush unlike anything you had ever felt before. It was fucking magic. 

The more you lost yourself, the braver your eager hands became as they found their way under his sweater, fingertips caressing the warm, smooth plane of his back as his muscles tensed under your touch, and he shuddered, breaking the kiss to trace his lips down your jaw, then licked up your neck before he sucked hard just below your ear, so hard that you knew he would leave a mark as your knees went weak at the sensation, but you didn’t care. You let it happen, indulging his desire to ravish your body as he continued.

“Fuck,” you breathed, and you felt him smile against your skin as he huffed a hot laugh into the warm flesh of your neck.

“I know…” He forced as his hand skimmed down your side, fingers catching on the hem of your shirt, and you arched into him, wanting more contact, more friction, more anything. The brick was rough, scraping against your back with each movement as your shirt lifted higher, the sting grounding you even as everything else spun, your bodies moving in a messy blur—to explore, to know, as if there was nothing else but this. Then he kissed you again, harder this time, and you could feel how affected he was, how any kind of careful control was slipping.

Your hand dropped to move between you, going straight to the thick bulge in his skinny jeans, and he inhaled with a sharp restraint against your mouth, as you rubbed your palm against him, feeling him grow harder, his dick pushing until there was no more room to push, and he groaned, his hips jerking forward as your pace picked up slightly, tracing along the outline of his pressing length.

It was impressive, his dick, its size, you could tell, and the thought had your mouth watering as you slid your tongue against his. That’s when his large hand glided down your body, this time with a purpose, his long fingers tracing the waistband of your jeans before popping the button open with a gentle ease that seemed to calm the tension in your body as your clit throbbed for his touch. 

“Is this okay?” he murmured against your lips, his fingers pausing at the zipper, like some kind of polite gentleman, and you huffed out a laugh, forcing out the word “yes,” as you tried to catch your breath, because were you not just dry humping this guy in the middle of this alley, practically begging for him. 

Letting out a light laugh, you nodded, still breathless. That’s when he slid the zipper down, slow and sure, then slipped his hand inside your panties, as his long fingers found you, already wet and ready, and he let out a low gravelly rasp, pressing the words, “Shit, you’re so wet for me,” against your mouth, as his fingers slid through your folds, and back up to circle your clit, and then dipped back down to your entrance pulling a needy moan up your throat.

When he did it again, you gasped, breaking the kiss so your head could fall back against the brick wall, spreading your legs wider, and pushing your hips forward to give him more access. This time, when his fingers slid back down to your entrance, they pushed past your slick threshold, and he wasted no time as he began to finger fuck you, his long fingers quick to fill you as his thumb circled your clit in time with his fingers thrusting in and out of you in short, controlled motions.

As his pace quickened, so did your hand moving over his jeans, feeling him grow as if he could get any harder, and you listened to his breaths thin, coming in ragged waves against your neck, and you moved your hips with the rhythm of his fingers, already feeling the orgasm build in the pit of your stomach. 

“You’re driving me crazy,” he grunted, his fingers moving faster, pushing deeper, pushing you closer to the edge. You could feel his heart pounding against your chest as his weight fell into you, his body tense with restraint as you let your moan lift with the fog of your breath in the night air.

That’s when all your resolve broke, and you reached for the button of his jeans, eager to feel more of him, eager to feel him fill you and stretch you, just like you knew he would. You were more than desperate, holding your breath to slow the waves of pleasure building, but just as you found the button on his pants, he caught your wrist, his breath hot against your ear. “Not here,” he whispered, his voice gruff with desire. “My truck is parked around the corner.”

Part Two<-

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[1d1195]

The Lottery - Extra III

Read The Lottery here | ~2k words

From me/warnings: mostly fluff, a bit angsty--jealous Harry ya know?

Summary: Harry adores Peach. More than anything. He doesn't want to let anything get between them.

Harry was having a bad week.

It was his mum’s anniversary, which of course was grounds for the sourest of moods possible. He wasn’t even mad anymore. Just a time when he felt the grief a little harder. On top of that, his pretty Peach was busy. He hadn’t seen her at all in days. Since she moved to town all those years ago, he was certain the longest time he went without seeing her was the three days he was sick and closed the diner down while he was trying not to speak.

Needless to say, he was not his usual, happy, chipper self.

He knew that was truly saying something (and he figured Peach and Louis would make fun of him at the premise of Harry being denoted as any kind of happy emotion).

“Did she break up with him? The food’s terrible,” he heard Ed mumble it from across the diner while he was in the kitchen.

“Ed!” Alice hissed.

“You know how he gets this time of year,” Edith admonished.

“Poor guy,” Dave mumbled. The only thing Harry disliked more than the town that knew everything about him was the town that talked about him and his trauma within earshot.

All he wanted was to see his pretty girl. He wanted to lay in her lap, have her run his fingers through his hair, and tell him it was going to be okay. It was ridiculous that he wanted it so badly. It was just… easier… to be happy when she was around.

Some small-business convention she wanted to go to was out of town and of course it was this week. She asked him if it was okay. She didn’t need to go. She didn’t mind at all. Harry hated that aspect almost as much as her being gone.

Because of her obsession with the moon and all things space, they spent many hours watching and re-watching Interstellar. But the movie was so confusing. He only knew any part of it because she was so obsessed with it she could explain it to him (she had seen it so many times, he lost count). In the week she was gone, it made sense. All of it. Every minute she was gone felt like ten years of his life. He knew exactly how the movie worked.

So he did his best to keep busy. He watched her shop while she was away when he could. Made sure shipments were delivered correctly and that her employees had everything they needed. But his bed was cold without her. Her house was too quiet as well.

God, he missed her; missed her so much it felt a little insane. He wondered if she missed him a fraction as much. Was she was cranky to the new people that she was meeting? Did they even know or care about her, how special she was? Did she talk about home? Did she talk about their small little town? Did she tell them how Harry fell in love with her when she sat down at his counter for the first time?

His phone vibrated with a message from her. It kept happening all week. Every time he spiraled a little too much, it was like she heard him through his brain. He shifted the bacon and sausage around on the grill, flipped the pancakes (no peach and white chocolate chip while she was gone), and then looked at his screen.

I miss you so much 💔

His heart thawed ever so slightly. His anxiety lessened just a smidge more. I miss you too, Peach

Yeah, but do you miss me a LOT?

Harry felt a smile twinge at the corner of his lips for the first time since she left. Too much, kitten. I hope you’re having fun, but don’t forget about us here

I could never forget about you, baby

Harry liked that she could read between the lines. It almost made the smile on his lips grow.

Don’t like it more there either and get a bigger place and open a bigger shop.

Harry…

It’s not a good week for me, Peach. I’m sorry. I’m being ridiculous.

No, baby. Not at all. But you know, like you REALLY know that I’m addicted to you, right? And your pancakes. But mostly you.

I know.

Harry, baby... You KNOW, right?

I know, Peach. I know.

I’ll call you later, I have another talk to get to. I miss you like crazy. Can’t wait to kiss you and snuggle in bed and make you feel better 💕

His chest still felt achy, a bit of longing mixed with sadness. But he did feel a lot of love coming through her messages. Which made him feel infinitely better about missing her. That she was going to come back and not leave him behind.

But then he heard the sound of someone’s dishes clatter to the ground in the diner.

And he missed her a little more.

*

Harry had her pancakes ready.

She was supposed to be in her seat fifteen minutes ago. He was going to make her a peppermint mocha iced coffee. He thought there were too many flavors for her breakfast, but he missed her so much and wanted her to be happy so very badly.

His head was aching. It felt like if he didn’t get to see her in the next fifteen seconds he was going to explode. The last few moments of time without her seemed to reach new levels of time dilation and he never wanted to watch Interstellar again.

Maybe he’d finally snap at someone in the diner. That wouldn’t be fair. Alice certainly didn’t deserve his grumpiness. Neither did the family of four passing through town. And she would be disappointed to know he snapped at someone because he missed her. If she ever got here to find out.

Was she okay? Why was she late? Did she stay?

Harry was going insane.

“Hey Harry?” Dave called.

“Hmm?” He grunted from the kitchen. Dave probably wanted another refill which made the throbbing in his temples intensify.

“There’s a gentleman outside who’s taken it upon himself to prey upon Miss Peach’s politeness.”

Harry dropped the spatula and bolted from the kitchen. He ignored the snickering from his customers and ran out the front door. The eggs he left on the grill were probably going to burn but hopefully Edith or someone else would head back and take care of it for him. The diner could burn to the ground for all he cared.

There in the middle of the road was his pretty girl. She was half-turned, facing someone he didn’t know. Politely chatting with the person in the middle of the road near her. Her fingers pinched her moon charm. She pulled it back and forth across the chain. Her nervous tick. It settled him something fierce.

For five seconds.

Because he knew exactly what the stranger was looking at. The prettiest, sweetest bookstore owner. Her kind smile, her gentle eyes, and a laugh that he wanted to record on his phone and play at night when he couldn’t sleep. It killed him to know someone else who was probably so much nicer and happier than him was taking her attention. But why shouldn’t he? Harry was a Class A grump. She was so not. She deserved the attention of someone who would smile so much more than he did.

“Peach,” he called anyway. Because she might have deserved someone happier than him, but he was too in love to care—especially right then—and he didn’t care if this guy was happier than he was. Harry wanted to be happy. Wanted to have her all to himself.

She turned; her fingers dropped the charm against her chest. Her smile grew instantaneously, and Harry felt warm all over. She was looking at him with that smile. That perfect, lovely, wonderful smile. “Excuse me,” she said softly to her new friend and then turned completely toward Harry. Crossed the rest of the street. Harry should have met her part way, but he wanted her far away from the guy that was watching her.  She tossed her arms around his neck and sighed heavily into his neck. “Did you see the moon?” she whispered to him.

He smirked, nuzzled his face into her hair. He wrapped an arm around her waist, the other up around to cup the back of her head. She smelled like fall, the scent of leaves and damp grass. He kissed her temple. “Mm,” he hummed.

“I missed you so much.”

“Missed you, too, kitten.”

“Is he gone?”

Harry peeked from her shoulder. The guy was waiting patiently despite the fact Harry wouldn’t let go of her. Harry didn’t say anything but kissed the side of her head again while maintaining eye contact with the stranger.

“I don’t know why he stopped me, it’s too early,” she whispered to him.

“You know why, Peach. Pretty, sweet girl like you,” he mumbled and gave her a squeeze. His whole body felt better holding her. He could feel his blood thawing in his veins. She made great soup when he was sick. She got him medicine when he needed it. But there was nothing quite as healing as holding her in his arms after he missed her so very much.

Harry would have stood on that sidewalk and held her for the rest of his life, but he had a diner to run, and she needed her pancakes. It was the least he could do. But first he had to get rid of this stranger who was still ogling his pretty angel.

“Boyfriend?” He asked. Harry released her but kept an arm around her waist. She glanced up at Harry, there was so much adoration in her eyes it stole his breath, and he forgot he was supposed to be mad.

“Something like that,” she grabbed his hand other hand and squeezed it in both of hers.

“Right,” he nodded. “Well, it was nice meeting you. I’ll be sure to check out the bookstore before I leave,” he waved and headed off, hands in his pockets, and zero remorse for anything that passed between them. Harry followed his departure until he was hardly a speck in his vision.

“What did y’mean ‘something like that’?”

She looked up at him, fluttered those beautiful lashes and smiled her pretty smile at him. Harry would give her whatever she wanted for that pretty sweet smile directed at him. “I don’t know, don’t you think we need something that’s more than girlfriend and boyfriend? Soulmate sounds so lame, but it’s probably the most accurate,” she explained.

Harry didn’t know he could miss anyone that much and didn’t know someone could just ease every bit of pain trapped in his body from the last week like it didn’t even matter. “Y’trying t’hint at something, Peach?”

She flushed. “Oh gosh, no, Harry. I’m sorry!” She frowned. “I didn’t mean it like that. I… I love our life, and I don’t want to rush—”

“M’gonna marry you, Peach. Y’know that, right?”

She bit the inside of her lip and nodded, looking at him nervously. “I didn’t mean—”

“I know exactly what y’meant, kitten. M’jus’ teasing.”

Her nervous expression relaxed and she smiled again. Harry thought he was going to explode while she was gone. But he nearly forgot how her smile made him feel ridiculously happy that that would make him explode too. “Can I have pancakes then?”

“What kind?” He tugged her toward the diner.

“Hmm,” she hummed. “I don’t know. Do you know any good recipes?”

Harry grinned, and guided her back to the diner with a hand on her lower back. “I’ll find something.”

--

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[ellewritesx]

that's show business, baby

Summary: Harry pretends to enjoy acting with another woman, and you pretend you don't enjoy watching him.

Warnings: established relationship, descriptions of sex scenes, flo and harry are besties who have beef with olivia for unknown reasons, dirty talk, very suggestive but no explicit smut

A/N: this was so fun to write!!! the iconic florence-olivia drama is mentioned but it's obviously different (and i purposely kept it a little vague so you can imagine what you'd like) because, in this, harry was in a relationship with you throughout filming. hope you like it x

Word Count: 3,389

Playlist: Oogum Boogum Song- Brenton Wood, Tears- Sabrina Carpenter, Dress- Taylor Swift

...

The salty Venice air drifts through the half-open curtains, the sound of a church bell echoing somewhere far below.

Your room smells of hairspray and the vanilla-scented candle you lit to calm your nerves, though a waft of Harry's cologne has managed to creep in from under the door to the connecting hotel room.

The deep purple of your gown shimmers faintly under the light, the cutout at your waist effortlessly flattering. Your hair stylist fusses with a strand of hair that has escaped your loose ponytail, smiling down at you when she notices your nerves for the premiere ahead.

Despite years with Harry, these red carpet events always make your chest tighten, excitement and uneasiness warring within you at the thought of all eyes being on the two of you together.

A knock at the door startles you, and your heart flutters against your ribs. ''Come in,'' you call, smoothing your gown absentmindedly.

The door opens, and Harry steps inside. The navy Gucci suit fits him like it was painted onto his body, the exaggerated collar just crisp enough to make him look untouchable. He leans against the doorway, eyes narrowing a little while he drinks you in.

You try to stay composed, brushing one of the face-framing pieces that your hair stylist has to keep redoing behind your ear. Harry's gaze has a heavy weight, the kind that makes it impossible to hide the heat that creeps into your cheeks.

''You look…'' His voice is low, rough at the edges like he's trying to hide how badly he wants you. ''... absolutely incredible.''

You smile, rising from your chair. ''You don't look too bad yourself.''

He smirks, letting his hand lightly graze your waist, and you feel the electricity in the small space between you.

He leans down, and for a second you feel like the universe has paused, like the city outside, the festival ahead, even the cameras on the red carpet, are waiting for this, waiting for you. ''I could stare at you for hours,'' he murmurs. ''Can't believe you're mine.''

You press your hand to his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath the expensive fabric of his suit. ''And I'd let you, but you have a movie premiere to get to, big shot.''

Harry groans, following you out of the hotel room.

...

The car ride is short, a peaceful quiet settling over the two of you. Venice drifts past the tinted windows, the late afternoon golden light catching the turquoise water and the brown marble.

Harry's hand finds yours, fingers intertwining. ''You nervous?'' he asks, his thumb brushing along the back of your hand.

''A little,'' you admit, tugging lightly at his fingers. ''I've been to premieres before, but… not one with your name in big letters on every poster. This is... monumental. I'm so proud of you, H.''

He smiles bashfully. ''Thanks, baby, but I'd stray from complimenting me before you've seen the movie. I don't want you to get your hopes up and be disappointed in me afterwards.''

''Harry, I've seen you bouncing around on set. Your work ethic and dedication is admirable. I don't need to see the movie to be proud of the way you've devoted yourself to it.''

He squeezes your hand gratefully, but you can tell it isn't really getting through to him. ''Remember our first red carpet?'' He changes the topic, his eyes flicking briefly toward the window.

You do remember. You were younger, terrified, clinging to his arm as the photographers shouted invasive questions and the flashing cameras made you temporarily blind. That day had felt endless, like the world was judging every movement you made. But Harry had been your anchor, steady and reassuring, whispering encouraging words in your ear when you felt overwhelmingly out of place.

You're more used to it now, though the flutter of nerves hasn't disappeared entirely. You don't think it ever will.

The car comes to a stop, and the second the driver opens your door, you're immersed in the chaos. You take a deep breath, sliding out of your seat in your deep purple gown, taking Harry's hand with a grateful smile when he offers it to you like a gentleman.

His hand finds your waist instinctively, grounding you as you step onto the carpet. When the cameras turn to you, the brightness of the flashes startling you a little, you lean subtly into Harry, letting your hand rest gently on his chest. It's intimate, but not ostentatious.

He grins down at you, leaning his head toward yours, whispering, ''I'm definitely framing one of these pictures.''

The flashes pop relentlessly, but you focus on him, the warmth of his hand at your lower back, the tilt of his shoulder as he leans into you.

When his PA requests a few solo shots, you step away, watching with a proud smile as he shines in front of endless rows of cameras.

You've watched him on set, watched him throw himself into every scene with Florence and the rest of the cast, the countless hours you spent rehearsing lines with him, and you respect him deeply. You know the sweat and the self-scrutiny behind his easy charm.

The cast poses for a few photos together before Harry is finally allowed to come back to you, and you hear the faintest clicks of the cameras when his hand finds home on your waist, and you know the tabloids will have a field day with tonight's content.

Harry smiles nervously. ''You ready for the movie?''

''Can't wait,'' you whisper back, letting yourself relax when the carpet gives way to the theatre entrance.

The theatre is dimly lit when you and Harry find your seats, the soft chatter around you fading as the lights begin to lower. The velvet fabric feels warm under your palm, and you can still smell the faint sweetness of his cologne from the car, that clean, musky scent that somehow manages to both ground and distract you.

You sit between Harry and one of the producers. Florence is a few seats over, her blonde hair shining in the soft theatre lights. Harry leans close before the film starts, lips brushing your temple. ''You good?'' he murmurs, barely audible.

You nod, smiling faintly. ''Yeah. I'm so proud of you.''

The screen flickers to life.

The lights dim, the murmurs hush, and you feel the collective inhale of a thousand people waiting for the film to begin. Harry's hand finds yours in the dark, his thumb brushing lazy circles against your skin. You can tell he's nervous, even if he's trying not to be. It's in the way his knee bounces rapidly, the way he exhales like he's trying to release months of tension in one breath.

You've seen what it took to get here. The long nights on set. The endless re-shoots. You remember the articles the tabloids wrote about him, the words that kept him up at night, tossing and turning. The golden boy of pop turned actor. They wouldn't take him seriously, wouldn't even give him the benefit of the doubt.

You glance at him when the opening credits roll, frowning at his tight jaw. You squeeze his hand, turning back to the screen.

When that scene comes around, you shift in your seat, crossing your legs, then uncrossing them again. Your skin feels too hot, your dress too tight. You keep your eyes on the screen but your pulse stumbles, skipping in rhythm with the way he moves.

They've been whispering about these scenes online for months, twisting it into a big deal because it's Harry Styles, the popstar. He'd consulted you about it, promised you he wouldn't film any intimate scenes without your explicit consent. You'd brushed it off, laughing. ''You don't need my permission, Harry,'' you'd said.

You stand by those words, he's a professional, you just hadn't realized quite how... intimate he'd meant when he first told you about it. It's almost worse that he's eating her out instead of fucking her.

God, how you wish he was fucking her.

No, Harry's between her thighs. You know it's acting, you know it's not him, but still, the sound of Florence's moans on screen makes your stomach twist. The low hum of Harry's voice in the scene, deep and rough, sends a pulse of heat through you that has nothing to do with jealousy and everything to do with him.

Because you're not jealous. Really. Does it feel great to watch your boyfriend with another woman, knowing the entire world will watch along? Not particularly. But you know that, at the end of the day, he comes home to you. You know that while men and women across the globe will wish they were in Florence's place, you are. Often, because Harry's an extremely generous lover. You really lucked out.

So it's not jealousy, not really. It's... like watching the both of you from a third person's point of view. You've been in Alice Chambers' position more than once, but you never knew it looked like that.

Harry glances at you, noticing your nervous fidgeting. His brows knit in concern, the corners of his mouth twitching downward, that silent ''you okay?'' he's asked you a hundred times before. You give him a small smile, but it doesn't quite reach your eyes.

He doesn't push, his hand coming to rest on your thigh, warm and soothing, which doesn't help your situation. You press your legs together and pray he doesn't notice, cheeks burning, pretending to fix the hem of your dress. You give him another quick, reassuring smile. He squeezes once, gently, and pulls his hand back.

When the film finally shifts tone, intimacy and domesticity making way for psychological themes, your pulse finally slows. You focus on the artistry instead, on the way he loses himself in the role. You've watched him practice most of these scenes on tour buses and plane rides, in hotel rooms and trailers, until his lines stopped sounding like words. Seeing it all come alive makes your chest ache with pride.

You steal a look at him during a pivotal scene; he's focused, eyes fixed on the screen, the faintest crease between his brows. You think about the nights he came home from set, exhausted but glowing, always downplaying his hard work and commitment.

When the credits roll, the cast and crew bursts into applause. You join in, clapping along, adrenaline buzzing through the room as everyone stands up to congratulate each other.

Florence turns to you both, beaming, and pulls Harry into a hug. They exchange a few friendly kisses on the cheek, merely being polite, but it still makes something in your chest flutter uncomfortably.

She turns to you next. ''You must be so proud of him,'' she says warmly, and you can tell she means it. You smile, cheeks a little flushed. ''So proud,'' you manage.

The cast begins moving around, exchanging praises, laughing, clinking glasses. Florence snorts. ''I guess we should congratulate Olivia as well,'' she says, not sounding particularly eager.

Harry's smile doesn't quite reach his eyes. ''Yeah… guess we should.''

You know there's history there, some complicated mess from filming that no one really talks about. You've heard bits of it, the tension, the split loyalties, but you didn't know it ran this deep. When you give him a questioning look, he shakes his head almost imperceptibly. ''I'll tell you later,'' he huffs out a small laugh.

''We'll catch you up before the afterparty, so you know who to avoid. Fuck me. Speak of the devil,'' Florence smiles tightly when Olivia approaches, not bothering to hide her distaste.

''Florence. Harry,'' Olivia greets them, deliberately not concealing her disdain either, and you can feel the tension ripple through the air. ''Hope we can put aside the pettiness and celebrate like professionals.''

''Yes, let us celebrate the end of this project,'' Florence smiles insincerely, blatantly emphasizing how overjoyed she is about the conclusion of this collaboration.

''I'll toast to that,'' Harry chimes in, clinking his champagne glass with yours before taking a rather large sip. You can feel the stiffness radiating off all three of them.

''Right. I'll see you both later.'' Olivia offers you a small nod with feigned politeness, the kind of exchange that looks fine from the outside but leaves a weird aftertaste.

''Alright, lovebirds. I'll text you where we're pre-gaming, because I need to be drunk to deal with these people,'' Florence grimaces, her nose scrunching in a way too adorable manner for someone so blunt. ''And we need to catch Y/N up on She Who Shall Not Be Named.''

''Sounds like fun,'' you chuckle softly.

She winks at you, patting Harry's arm with a meaningful look you can't decipher. You glance away, pretending to fix your earring.

Harry catches it, of course. He always does. His hand grazes your back, assuming you're uncomfortable, maybe even a little jealous. He leans in, murmuring so only you can hear, ''You okay, love?''

You nod, your smile small and tight. ''Yeah. It's just hot in here.''

He doesn't believe you, but lets it go.

The energy in the theatre begins to scatter, everyone discussing arrangements for the afterparty. You and Harry step out into the cool night air, his hand finding the small of your back as he opens the car door for you. You glance back once at the glowing marquee, at his name in lights, and think about how surreal it still feels, to love someone who belongs so much to the world, yet still looks at you like you're the only one who matters.

''Proud of you,'' you whisper, kissing his cheek before sliding into the backseat of the sleek black car.

He smiles shyly, a blush creeping up his neck. ''Couldn't have done it without you.''

...

The drive back to the hotel is quiet, the kind that isn't uncomfortable but buzzes with unspoken things. Harry sits beside you, one hand draped lazily across your thigh, thumb tracing idle circles against the fabric of your dress. You watch the sun set over Venice through the window, camera flashes still burning in your vision.

He keeps stealing glances at you. You're usually chattier after events, but tonight you're distant. Not cold, just… somewhere else.

''Tired, love?'' he asks softly.

You smile faintly. ''A little. You know how I get.''

He does. You've always been this way; social battery drained fast, the noise buzzing too long in your head. He squeezes your leg once, gentle. ''We'll rest for a bit before the party, yeah?''

''Okay,'' you say, still watching the window.

The rest of the ride passes in silence. At the hotel, you part ways to get ready, trading soft kisses and a promise to meet downstairs in forty-five minutes.

In your room, the world slows down a little, allowing you to finally breathe. You kick off your heels, exhale, and smile gratefully as your stylist's assitant helps peel off your gown. The air-conditioning raises goosebumps along your bare skin. You stand in front of the mirror for a moment, staring at the faint flush still lingering on your cheeks.

The movie plays in flashes behind your eyes, Harry's hands, his face between Florence's thighs, her loud gasps. You press your lips together and shake your head, ridding yourself of the memory.

You shower quickly, steam clouding the mirror, and slip into the silver sequined Chanel dress. It catches light even in the dim hotel lamp, the bow at the neckline adding a touch of sweetness.

You slide on black tights and surprisingly comfortable platform heels, your hair stylist unpinning your ponytail. A spritz of your favorite perfume, and you're good to go. Thankfully there will only be a select few photographers at the afterparty, and they aren't allowed to publish anything without permission from the media team.

When you step into the hallway, Harry's waiting by the elevators, scrolling through his phone. He looks up, and for a second, you think maybe he's seen a ghost. Then he blinks, slow, and a crooked smile pulls at his mouth. ''Wow. You're... Wow.''

You laugh under your breath. ''I am?''

He pockets his phone and takes you in properly, the shimmer of your black tights, the black bow accentuating the V-neck that manages to be both provocative and classy. ''You look incredible, love. Truly.''

''You look unfairly handsome yourself,'' you tease lightly, smoothing the front of his jacket. The tweed is soft under your palms, and he smells like cologne and the faintest trace of champagne.

He grins. ''You ready to enter the lion's den?''

''Pre-game first, right?''

''Mhm. Flo's already waiting.''

He offers you his arm to loop yours through, and you gladly take it, smiling when his hand comes up to cover yours.

The car ride is shorter this time, but the silence stretches longer. Harry drums his fingers on his knee, glancing sideways at you now and then. You're looking out the window again, lips parted slightly like you're thinking of saying something but keep deciding not to.

When the city lights fade into the glittering chaos of the club near the party venue, he finally speaks. ''You've been pretty quiet tonight,'' he starts gently. ''Did you not like the movie? It's okay if you didn't, baby, but I'd rather you give it to me straight than lie to my face—''

''What are you talking about? I loved the movie. Have I not made that clear by showering you in praise?'' you huff out a confused laugh.

''Is it about those scenes? Because that's show business, baby, and Florence and I are both professionals—''

You turn to him, brow furrowing. ''What?''

He hesitates, slightly intimidated by your glare. ''You seemed uncomfortable. During the screening. I didn't mean to—''

''Oh my god,'' you interrupt, incredulous and a little offended. ''You think I'm jealous?''

His eyes widen slightly. ''I didn't say that.''

''You didn't have to.'' You let out a short, disbelieving laugh, shaking your head. ''What, you think I don't understand how acting works?''

He shifts in his seat, a little defensive. ''You went quiet and you could barely look at me, you wouldn't even—''

''Because it was hot, Harry,'' you interrupt him, amused even in your exasperation. ''Not because I was jealous. Jesus.''

The silence that follows is thick enough to choke on. His mouth opens, then closes again. ''I probably should've thought of that before accusing you of being jealous,'' he states sheepishly.

''You should've.''

''I'm sorry, baby.''

''Mhm.''

He grimaces at your noncommital answer, realizing he's going to have to work a little harder for your forgiveness than usual. ''How about I lay you on the dinner table tonight?'' he offers, effortlessly working his charm on you as he inches closer, one hand on your backrest.

You press your thighs together, looking out of the window briefly to hide your smile from him. ''I'm listening.''

His gaze drops to your lips, then to the hem of your dress as his hand slowly slides up your thigh. ''Mhm. I'll push this little number up just enough to put your legs over my shoulders.''

''Yeah?'' you ask a little breathlessly when he leans in and kisses the spot below your ear, your eyes fluttering shut.

He smiles against your skin. ''Oh, yeah.''

''What else?''

''I'll make you cum, over and over. I won't stop until your thighs are shaking, until you're crying and screaming my name, baby.''

You roll your eyes at his ego, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of winning. He grins anyway, leaning in a little closer.

The driver announces your arrival, saving you from his relentless teasing. You both straighten, pretending nothing happened as the car door opens and the noise of the club rushes in.

Harry steps out first, as always offering you his hand for support. His eyes flick down your body once more, then back up, full of mischief now. ''Guess we'll have to finish that conversation later.''

You take his hand, the corner of your mouth curving. ''We'll see.''

As you walk into the club, Florence waving you over to her private booth, you can still feel the warmth of his hand on your thigh from earlier, and your heart skips a beat at the dangerous promise of later.

...

thank you so much for reading! i appreciate any and all support so remember to like, comment and reblog. requests are open! 💕

general tag list

@mads3502 @angeldavis777 @run-for-the-hills @postsexfistbump @hobireasns @madilee7802 @spinninc @practistyles @qrapejuices @fangirl509east @sstylezzz @hontpwk @lichi-dunkera @prettygurl-2009 @violinheartxx @gotthecinema @ghstyles @triski73 @chronicallybubbly @makytka @hswriting @mema10 @feralgayghost

...

[maudie-duan]

HEY GUYS!!

Unfortunately, life is happening! And I won't be able to post -> Gilded Blood <- until Monday or Tuesday!! 😭😭 This part is really special and will probably be pretty lengthy!

To everyone who’s been following along!! Thank you, thank you! You guys have been so supportive and are making this story really exciting to continue. I appreciate you all so much!

- ✨💋✨

[hswritingficrec]

Take your time. We will all wait patiently because art takes time. It’s a great story!

[maudie-duan]

Summary: "Every soul in the room jumped at his command—every soul except yours."

A/N: Just a heads up...this story is about to get really horny you've been warned. This chapter will be the door opening!! (Taglist Open!!)

Word Count: 6.4k

Warning: None.

It had been four days since he rushed from your room, taking with him the finest print of the moth your mind could summon. When he departed the following morning, you lingered at the bay window, watching his carriage leave, and as the footman opened the door, a strange, aching dread tightened your throat. Every movement you observed—the command in his posture, the relentless rain pouring down in sheets, soaking everyone—seemed only to emphasize the almost impossible journey he was about to undertake. Just as he was about to step into the carriage, you softly whispered the word ‘please,’ the word a faint sound trembling on the edge of your breath.

To your astonishment, you observed him utterly absorbed as he paused, his head tilting to the side as if he had caught the faint whisper of your quiet plea, as if he could sense the pounding of your harrowing heart across the vast lawn. For a fleeting moment, you almost wished for him to turn toward the window and grant you one final glance; yet, in your hesitation, he moved—vanishing into the carriage, and amplifying the ache of his departure—knowing full well he would brave the harshest elements to place distance between you. What mistake had you committed? Why did the image of a meek moth evoke such visceral revulsion, when he had just uttered words—words that kindled within you a towering hope for a future where you might be more than a wife—perhaps, dare you say, even a partner?

Because if you had not witnessed his leave, you might have thought it but a mere dream—words spoken with such pure intent that no question arose within you in that moment. The only answer you sought was that your bodies moved as one, husband and wife forming a union under the watchful eyes of God—a righteous duty which he, too, seemed eager to uphold.

Yet, as the days moved slowly, one sedentary day after another, every query you imagined had been sufficient was swallowed by a new breed of questions that seemed equally distant and unfathomable, much like his presence felt within the space surrounding you. Should it appear strange that, on the very night of his departure, the dreams of torment ceased to come? Or that the sun had yet to shine brightly in the sky, not a single day since your arrival, for to gaze upon the ocean was like holding up a mirror; every stir of emotion was as severe as the tide crashing against the rocks of the shoreline—the dismal grey sky a gloomy longing, awaiting the sun’s bright light to pierce the thick clouds of confusion, to end the chaos that had entrapped you the moment you uttered the words ‘I do.’

For nearly a week, your evenings had been spent gazing out at the night sky, aching for a blanket of stars, yet all your longing heart was met with was the shrouded veil of darkness as the rain prevailed. As you reflected the final lines of your thoughts in your journal, you released a knowing curiosity that had been stirring from the moment your gaze met Harry’s—a deep, wild sense that the life you were meant to live was only just beginning to wake inside you as the memory of his eyes and the unsettling red flash, became a quiet understanding in your heart. Perhaps he was a creature, but even you yourself felt like a creature, so far from the woman you had been when you stepped past the threshold of your new home. You knew these strange happenings were not things you could dismiss as “anxiety,” as Agnus had suggested. No, these were facts requiring an explanation you simply hadn’t possessed the language for, at least not in this moment. Just then, a low, gentle knock on the door broke your concentration as Agnus entered, her movements a quiet sigh of relief after a long day of service.

“Are ye ready for bed now, ma’am? I’m settin’ out yer fresh nightgown and turnin’ down the covers.”

At the sound of her voice, you closed your journal swiftly, the leather-bound cover cool beneath your fingertips. “Yes, Agnus, thank you.” And you paused, your gaze lifting to her weary face. “Please, do tell me, Agnus, has there been any word from my husband, Mr. Styles?”

Evading the news you knew was coming, Agnus busied herself with the bed linen, avoiding your gaze with the subtlety of a long-serving maid who knew exactly how to dodge a question when needed. When finally she spoke, she said, “No direct word, ma’am, not a telegram, but we know his journey began safely. I’m sure he’s about his business, as he must be.” She sighed, her shoulders drooping slightly. I promise you, ma’am, that the moment I hear anything at all, you'll be the first to know, indeed. Now, darlin’, try to rest your mind, and let me help you get ready for bed.

When Agnus finally left for the night, the sudden silence was no longer heavy with apprehension, but rich with a strange, blossoming energy. Without the nightly torment of the dreams, you were less exhausted, your mind operating with a keen, rousing clarity. You had been using your nights to write and draw, your pencil moving with a determined urgency, thrillingly translating the chaos of the past nearly two weeks into quiet lines on paper.

It was as if your mind, no longer battling an unseen force in your sleep, had shed a protective veil. Your memories—usually a dense terrain of scattered thoughts—were now startlingly clear. You realized after days of conjuring the inked moth, that just by simply closing your eyes, you could step back into time, or so it felt, like you could walk through the spaces of your past—the scent, the light, all the muted words that had ever been spoken left to turn to ash were all retrievable. Each one was like sorting through old letters, every detail down to the very conversation, every room you had ever known, seemed to exist in a perfect, vivid landscape within your mind’s eye.

Yet the more you tried to dig deeper into your past, the more you noticed a strange and frustrating resistance, as if any memories preceding the onset of your womanhood were cocooned in an impenetrable, dark fog of mystery—all time before your first bloods was a blank wall, while the time after was a crystal stream, suggesting a pivotal shift, perhaps, one you hadn’t even noticed that seemed now both key to something lost within you and terrifyingly subtle in the way you had missed it.

But the strangest sensation, however, was reserved for Harry, and Harry alone, because in the moments you allowed your mind to linger on him, a gripping ache bloomed deep in your womb—not the familiar cramping pain of your recent courses, but a dull, insistent tremor in the boom of your belly, a feeling nearly as deep and magnetically familiar as the longing that ached in your bones for a man you truly knew nothing of—the feeling a physical, undeniable response to the man who had abandoned you, a silent pulse stirring that throbbed with the knowledge of a resounding, unseen thread that seemed to be connecting your core to his very presence, and even if this were not a fact, your spine tingled with it, your fingers twitching to write the words on paper, solidifying their realness in your mind. 

And the more you dwelled on this knowledge, the relentless, unspoken draw became a compass for your nightly activities as your mind wandered the halls as you lay in bed, and when your body could no longer bear the stillness of your room. You rose, your mind and body driven by an overwhelming intuition you couldn’t quite rationalize, and you began to sneak down the hallway to Harry’s private study. The room, now unoccupied, seemed to call out to you, a chilled, cultivating beacon of his essential being, daring you to enter.

That night, you crept through the dark house, your bare feet silent on the marble floors, the thrill became the illicit journey, a blunt, electric antidote to the humiliation you had suffered the moment Harry rushed from your room. When you slipped into the study, the lingering scent of Harry hit your senses with a brutal awareness that had your head spinning with an unforeseen longing you hadn’t spoken aloud, and as the smell of leather and earthly spices filled your nose, your knees weakened. It was like you had known it your whole life, could close your eyes, and the staggering sense of his presence was there, almost intoxicating, as if you could reach out and touch him, giving you a strange, humming focus that stole the very breath from your lungs.

Overwhelmed, you took a seat in his enormous, wingback desk chair, the leather cold and stiff beneath you, yet strong and firm, like you would imagine the engulfing spans of his arms, and you dared not move. Instead, you allowed your curiosity to roam, losing track of time as you explored and memorized the sweeping scroll of his signature across documents you read inch for inch, your head spinning anew, and each time you finished a page, there was Harry’s name, and each time you repeated, Harry, the syllables became a quiet, rhythmic mantra that whispered through your mind like an echo from the past. As your mind grew tired of reading, your fingertips began to tingle with a desperate, instinctive need to translate your focus, and when you finally crept back to your room, with Harry’s pen in hand, you brought it to your nose, inhaling what was left of his scent, and then you covered a sheet of paper with the swirling, intricate lines of his name, your belly trembling with that familiar, dull ache. 

The next night, as his scent enveloped you like a glove, a chill ran over your skin, and suddenly, the books seemed to demand your attention. Your ears perked up the further you walked into the study, as a low, chanting whisper began to emanate from the dark, recessed shelves—a heavy murmuring reverberating around you that seemed to press directly on your mind the more you focused on it. In the stir of your belly, you knew no human ear could register this sound, yet something in you felt the sheer pressure of the knowledge contained within. As you approached the darkest section, the whispers grew louder—a howl so insistent, so terrifyingly non-human in its authority that you didn’t know if you should fear it or follow its command. Maybe it was your heartbeat pounding in your ear, but you swore you saw a section move, and when the noise filled the space, you fled the room, your heart striking a frantic rhythm against your palm as you slammed the door behind you, your body trembling as you paced down the corridor to your room.

With barely any sleep, the next day, as you woke to the dark gloom of another rainy morning, the unsettling experience became a quiet obsession, playing through your mind as you wandered the vast, chilly house, unable to focus. Eventually, you found refuge in the abandoned greenhouse attached to the home, which you had grown very fond of over the past week. It was the only place where you seemed able to escape the confines of your own mind—the only place where you could let your guard down. The humid air, rich with the scent of damp earth and abandonment, guided you away from the cold granite of the house. Like a newfound ritual, you strolled through the greenhouse, absentmindedly touching the dry, brittle leaves of the neglected plants. The more time that you spent with the plants, the more the soothing certainty of your curiosity seemed to tingle to the tips of your fingers, becoming a quiet sense you hadn’t realized you possessed. It was as if you understood the needs of the nature around you, knowing exactly what each plant required.

It grew instinctive; day by day, your hands reached for tools you had never used, working with a natural, unhesitating knowledge over each plant. As you tended to the neglected ones—each nurturing action seemed to flow into your consciousness—your mouth hummed a faint whisper of words that bloomed in your mind, so pure and honest that you knew them to be true. As if they were a fundamental language you had forgotten you spoke. It felt more natural, more genuine, than any polite conversation you had ever had to endure.

That night, when the house had finally fallen silent, armed with a calm confidence from your work in the greenhouse, you gathered the courage to return to the study. This time, when the books called out, you allowed the unbearable resonance to guide you, accepting the pressure over your mind, not as a threat but as your curiosity demanding a challenge of will. Pushing your fear aside, you followed the low, humming murmur until you reached the hollow shelf and jumped when the books began to shake. Your eyes landed on a thick black book—the leather edge dried and cracked, and as your hand finally rested on the cold binding, a sudden vibration shot through your entire body, as the familiar ache in your womb worsened, doubling you over. The pain was so intense, so tied to the object in your hand, that you cried out, clutching your stomach, dropping the heavy book to the floor with a loud thud, as you fumbled back, searching for stability as the blinding pain overtook you.

Breath after heavy breath, you finally regained some composure, your hand trembling as you leaned heavily on the desk. Your dizzy gaze shifted to the dark, leather-bound relic, reading the dense title that seemed to confirm the terrifying quest to retrieve it: The Nocturnal Doctrine of the Serpent’s Shadow. As you pushed yourself up, you reread the title, feeling the ominous words run through you, and you sensed the danger lurking within without even opening the book. Its presence was like a whip cracking through your chest, speeding your heartbeat, and lashing your senses. 

As if you couldn’t last another minute in the study, you gasped for air and snatched the book up, not daring to open it or even examine the cover any further, as the need to possess it overwhelmed every muscle in your aching body, and every instinct within you urged you to flee. You hurried back to your room, your heart hammering not with fear but with the exhilaration of a secret too enormous to keep. You shoved the forbidden book under your mattress, hiding it alongside the other Moth sketches and markings you hastily drew from memory just days before, now determined to forget the book ever existed. Right now, you only knew you were meant to have it; you knew it wasn’t the time to read it. 

After another dreamless night, you woke to a startling silence so serene it felt like waking in a dream. When you opened your eyes, the room was bathed in a blinding, silver-white light as the sun broke through the lace curtains, bringing with it a new hope—silence and light had returned. The storm had passed, bringing forth the sun and all its glory, shining for the first time since you arrived in Newport. When you were called for breakfast, you walked down the stairs, drinking in the light as it streamed through the large windows lining the hall. You soaked it in as the sudden warmth of the light stirred that strange, new energy that seemed to be flowing through your veins all week. 

As your foot hit the first step, a drumming began in your ears, and you listened to the thunder of your heart—the thrill pounding like a steady drum, like a call you had heard many times before. The sound grew louder as you neared the dining hall, beating so loudly you wondered if the staff could hear. Still, as they carried on around you, not paying any mind to you, the sound grew more piercing, quickening until you paused dead in your tracks, eyes widening at the figure sitting at the head of the long, carved table, impeccably dressed in dark wool, and just as his eyes met yours the beating, rhythm of the drums ceased all at once.

Because there was Harry, his green eyes holding you in place, and you stood mesmerized in the doorway, taking each other in as the slow, low drumming started pounding in your ears again. Still, this time it was different, no longer the frantic beat of your heart, but indeed a calling—a powerful, soul-deep thrumming that felt like the earth waking under your feet, pulsing a silent, echoing chant that felt like the wind pushing you toward the man you called your husband. This time it wasn’t the music of fear, like it had been in your nightmare; it was the magnetic pulse of something you knew inside you, like an unseen tether finally drawing taut. 

And as you glided into the room, moving with an elegance born from a resounding weariness to draw any closer and a will to harness a quiet control, you settled into the chair across from him. Your eyes stayed fixed on his, and in that moment, you promised yourself you would not let him see the ache or the longing you endured; he would know the strength you had felt swelling, the power of self that you were more certain of than ever before, for when he spoke the words of his intentions into your mind that night, he filled you with a power you had been waiting for your entire life. 

“You look well,” were the first words that left his mouth, as your plates were presented in front of you, but you didn’t say a word, only nodded your approval to the waitstaff, as you straightened your posture, ready for Harry to ache with the silence you had weathered for days. 

Only silence filled the space between you both. A silence unlike anything Harry had ever experienced in his entire life, rendering him powerless, or what felt powerless. This silence itself was altogether something devastating and hopeless—a void opening up inside him where your thoughts should have been, your mind a mystifying wall that left him more isolated than any prison he had constructed around his demonic nature—to his one true self, he hid from the world.

Completely unbothered by his existence, you sat across from him, delicately cutting into your poached egg with a casual grace that seemed almost to mock him in its normalcy, as if his world hadn’t shifted the moment you entered the dining hall, as the morning light streaming through the tall windows caught in your hair, creating a halo effect that would have been laughable if it weren’t so cruelly fitting—you, the unreachable angel, and he, the demon desperately clawing at the gates of heaven.

Harry watched as you brought the fork to your perfect lips, the simple act becoming a form of exquisite torture. How could you sit there, consuming your breakfast with such apparent tranquility, while he fought every instinct screaming within him? Fighting the demon beneath his skin that writhed and pulsed, demanding he breach the distance between you, demanding he take what now felt more than ever to be promised to you both. But it was the silence—that damnable, suffocating silence—that threatened to undo him entirely.

When he tried to press deeper with his inner perception, that cursed gift that had always allowed him to slip past the mental barriers of every human he had ever encountered, he listened to the noise of thoughts around him as the servants bustled quietly around you both, broadcasting their thoughts like beacon fires: “The master seems agitated this morning,” from the footman; “Poor lamb, she deserves better than this cold marriage,” from the serving girl; even Agnus…sweet, sweet Agnus stood sentinel by the door, projecting her fierce maternal protectiveness toward you with crystal clear clarity.

But you—you remained a fortress of nothingness.

The scene unfolding around him only seemed to set the first burning within him as Harry’s fingers tightened around his silver fork until he felt the metal begin to bend. How was it possible? He could sense the very essence of your soul, that intoxicating energy that had nearly shattered his control from the moment he had touched your hand, yet your thoughts remained cocooned in an impassable fog. It was as if something more powerful than himself guarded the sanctity of your mind, something that recognized the demon and barred the door.

The longer the silence stretched, the more it became a living thing between you, growing teeth and claws that raked across his consciousness—an agony he could barely contain. You reached for your teacup, the fragile china meeting your lips in another moment of devastating normality, and it was just enough to have Harry’s Shrouded form flickering at the godforsaken edges, forcing a tremor to the tips of his fingers as he felt the onset of throbbing along his hairline, his small horns aching with the effort to remain hidden, the demonic markings beneath his shirt burning like brands against his skin.

In desperate focus, he attempted once more to penetrate the barrier of your mind, pushing with a force that would have sent most humans reeling. Yet you merely dabbed at your lips with your napkin, your expression as serene as the fairest Madonna, giving no indication you felt not a single ounce of his psychic assault. The failure of it, the complete and utter inability to reach you, sent a spike inching through his chest, inching toward the dangerous edge of panic.

When you set down your teacup with a gentle clink against the saucer—a sound that might as well have been a gunshot ringing through the stifling quiet—Harry could stand it no longer.

“Leave us,” he barked, standing to his feet, his voice carrying a demonic edge that had every servant in the room freezing mid-motion—dishes rattling, as a serving spoon clattered to the floor, and the footman stumbled back a step, bumping into the wall behind him.

Every soul in the room jumped at his command—every soul except yours.

You merely lifted your gaze to meet his, those analytical eyes studying him with the same startling intensity that had first captured him across the ballroom floor. There was no fear there, no surprise, just that quiet observation that made him feel more exposed than if he were standing before you in his truest form, horns and markings and all.

The servants fled like water through a sieve, Agnus casting one last worried glance at you before pulling the heavy doors shut with a definitive thud. The sound echoed through the cavernous dining hall as Harry took his seat, sealing you both in together, predator and prey—though Harry was no longer certain which role belonged to whom.

“I’m sorry,” Harry said, his voice rough as he tried to conceal his barely controlled desperation, “but I cannot sit in this silence any longer.”

Your head tilted slightly, a gesture so subtle yet somehow more commanding than the stunt he had just pulled to command even a sliver of power back to himself. “There is no silence,” you replied, your words carrying that quiet strength that seemed to emanate from your very core.

“I cannot hear—” Harry caught himself just before the damning confession could spill forth, his jaw clenching as he redirected, “Are you angry with me?”

“Should I be angry?” And yet the question was posed with such genuine curiosity that it sent another wave of frustration through him—the simplicity of your words like lashes across his skin. 

“It’s just...” he struggled, searching for words that wouldn’t betray the unearthly perception he wielded, “It’s just that it’s so quiet.”

And as if his cryptic words meant nothing, you set down your fork with that same graceful ease, folding your hands in your lap as you regarded him. “Forgive me, but I’m not quite sure of your meaning.”

“Everything. about. you. is quiet,” Harry ground out, feeling the demon surge beneath his skin, his control fraying like rope against sharp stone. “I can’t—”

Harry bit back the rest of his words as the frustration, the need, the unbearable pressure of your unreachable presence finally shattered his restraint, and with a devastating force, his fist came down on the table with the sole intention of fear, sending the china jumping and crystal singing as the sound cracked through the air like thunder, and this time—finally—you jumped.

When you brought your napkin up to your mouth, eyes cast down at your plate, Harry caught the slight tremor as he watched the slow release of your controlled breath deflate your chest, yet your perfect posture didn’t waver, and this seemed to stem more fear than he had just momentarily inflicted, and he wondered if you seemed to wield a power of your own. But just as he was trying to make sense of it all, your eyes met his again, this time blazing with a focus so unmistakable it seemed to make his demon rear back in recognition, as tears gathered at the corners of your eyes, not of fear but of something far more treacherous—a righteous fury that even he understood he deserved. 

Silently, you forced your chair back with a harsh scrape that seemed to echo in his very bones, and when you stood, when you looked at him with that same piercing gaze, in that moment, his demon didn’t just quiet—it cowered. “I wish to get one thing clear with you, Harry Edward Styles,” you said, and the moment his full name left your lips, something impossible happened.

It was as if an invisible force wrapped around his throat, not crushing but undeniably present, firm enough to make its warning absolutely clear. Harry’s eyes widened, his hand instinctively rising halfway to his neck before he forced it back down. Yet, the touch wasn’t demonic—no, this was something else entirely, something that hummed with an authority that was just as unearthly as his own power.

“I will tell you this…I have no intention of cowering around you in fear,” you continued, your voice steady despite the tears that threatened to fall. If it is fear that you seek to evoke within me, I shall keep my distance. Should you wish to imprison me, I will play my part, but if you meant a single breath of what we discussed before you stormed off the other evening, you will never speak to me in such a manner again.”

For a second, the grip around his neck tightened, just enough to remind Harry of its presence, as you held his eyes. The longer you maintained his gaze, the more Harry felt as though you were looking straight through his illusion, past the perfect human facade and directly into the writhing darkness beneath. Then the grip went slack, but it remained a constant presence, neither tightening nor loosening, only becoming a steady reminder of a power he couldn’t name or understand.

“If I’ve spoken out of turn,” you said, though your tone suggested you knew very well you hadn’t, “please speak now, and I will know where we stand.” And as the words left your mouth, a flicker of pain crossed your features, and your hand moved to press against your lower belly, a gesture that sent an unexpected ache of concern through Harry’s chest.

His eyes tracked the movement, noting the way your fingers pressed into the fabric of your morning dress, and suddenly the fight drained from him entirely. He cleared his throat, and miraculously, the invisible grip released. When Harry’s eyes flicked to yours, the power ebbed and slowly faded, as if you, too, no longer wanted to fight, your features softening just enough for him to lay down arms. 

Harry finally spoke then, “I am clear on the words you have just expressed.” And out of instinct, his hand rose to his neck, massaging the phantom sensation that lingered there. He cleared his throat again, trying to banish the rasp from his voice. “I’m sorry for my unseemly outburst. Please forgive me. I will do my very best to tame it next time.”

Wordlessly, you nodded, granting him a single, commanding inclination of your head that somehow contrived to make him feel both pardoned and condemned—carried with all the grace of a queen dismissing a subject, and you placed your napkin beside your unfinished plate.

“If you’ll please excuse me,” you said, your voice returning to that maddeningly calm register, “I would like to get changed to work in the greenhouse. I have plans to be there most of the day.”

Harry stood abruptly, then immediately questioned the wisdom of it. He didn’t want his height, his presence, to seem like another form of intimidation. But you didn’t flinch, didn’t step back, merely waited with that boundless patience that was somehow more disturbing than any show of fear would have been.

He gave you what he hoped was a sufficiently grave nod. “I truly am sorry. Please tell me if there is anything I can do to make it up to you, and I will do my best to accommodate it.”

Just as you reached the door, you paused, hand clutching at your lower belly, but you didn’t turn around fully, only offered him your profile—a sight that inexplicably reminded him of that first night in the carriage, when you had removed your gloves and nearly unmade him entirely.

“I told you what I wanted,” you said, and then you looked over your shoulder at him, your eyes carrying the weight of your meaning, sending a flash of heat pooling in his stomach. “You’ll know where to find me…when you’re ready.”

Just as your words settled, a servant opened the door as if summoned by your very presence, ushering you out and leaving Harry standing alone in the vast dining hall, staggered by the remnants of every unfinished thought torturing him and the echo of a power he couldn’t comprehend.

When Harry climbed the stairs after breakfast to his study, his feet heavy and leaden with each step, as he meditated on the disaster he’d made of the morning, and he was struck with a new surprise. The moment he crossed the threshold, your scent hit his senses, giving you away, like it had seeped into every surface you had touched during his absence. Curious, he moved to his desk, sinking into the chair where he knew without a doubt you had sat. His eyes roamed over the surfaces where yours had run, and probably ran your fingers across. He gathered the neat documents in his hands, eyes tracing over his signature with a new curiosity, looking for any clues you may have found interesting in his mundane life. 

Should he see the act as a violation, yet as he searched for the anger, he found he had nothing to hide. On paper, he was a normal man, handling his business affairs like any other man in his position. Still, as he calmed the human, the demon stirred, your scent rousing his fleshly want—an animal in search of its mate. Was that what you were? Had you both been fated to meet that night, was this the draw silencing his demon in your presence—the magnetic pull that defied every ounce of his control, could you be the fated connection that terrified him more than any prophecy his father had ever spoken, because that was never spoken. He was never meant for anything more than the role he was created for.

Should he dare to dream of such happenings, he asked himself as he closed his eyes, allowing himself the dangerous indulgence of imagining what it would be like to shed his human mask entirely, to stand before you in all his monstrous truth. Would you run? That warlike spirit you had displayed this morning suggested otherwise. Would you recoil at the sight of his horns, the demonic markings that told the story of his cursed heritage? Or would those remarkable eyes of yours simply observe and accept, as they seemed inclined to do with everything else about him?

Nevertheless, the gravest question, the one that sent a shiver of genuine apprehension through his very soul, was whether he could maintain control if he gave into your desires—what you had made so painfully clear you wanted, as you held fast to the sacred duty to consummate the marriage—a marriage he had crafted as a mere facade, a convenient arrangement that had become anything but convenient the moment you had taken his hand in that carriage—because it truly was so much more. 

His demon had harbored a desire from the very first touch—a wish to devour, to claim and possess in a manner most mortifying to any proper lady… or even any human being, for that matter. Yet you were no ordinary lady, were you? There was something decidedly otherworldly about you, a mysterious aura that called to both sides of his nature with equal infatuation. The human within him longed to cherish and protect you, even from himself, while the demon yearned to worship you in ways that would cause the angels above to weep in despair.

The question that haunted his thoughts most was whether he could lie with you—to take you as his wife in truth—without succumbing to the beast within. Could he trust himself to be gentle when every fiber of his being yearned to claim, to mark, to possess? Could he maintain his illusion of control? Did he require more time, or was his time already slipping away? Because then the memory of his father’s presence in your room, the lingering scent of Susurrus' breach, sent a fresh wave of panic as a protective rage surged through him. If he couldn’t even keep his father at bay, how could he trust himself not to harm you?

Yet, what choices remained? To persist in this distance, this meticulous routine of avoidance, which only seemed to be gradually draining your spirits. He could see it in the shadows under your eyes, in the way you tenderly pressed your hand to your belly, as if seeking relief from an ache that mirrored his own. Beyond your shared desires, he longed to ask you so many questions—curiosities that hovered like delicate paper notes around him, waiting to be unfolded. 

Just as Harry was forming another thread of thought, a knock at the door shattered his trance. Agnus entered, her weathered face attentive and neutral, though her thoughts rang clear… “The poor master’s as tortured as his bride. What a pair they make, both too stubborn to see what’s plain as day.”

“Is there anything you’ll be needing before I settle the missus for the evening?” she asked, though Harry could hear the real question beneath… “Will you finally stop this foolishness and go to your wife?”

“No,” Harry said, standing to make it seem as though he had been working rather than lost in another round of tortured contemplation. Yet he knew the movements looked stiff and uncertain, nothing like his usual steady refinement. 

And as Agnus turned to leave, Harry found himself speaking before he could think better of it, the words emerging with a pained hesitancy that even he knew was uncharacteristic of himself. 

“Please tell her...” he paused, the weight of the decision pressing down on him like weighted pockets full of stones in the ocean, and when he spoke, he felt the demon writhing in anticipation while the human within trembled with the magnitude of what he knew this would cost him. “Please tell her she will get what she wants.”

Harry watched confusion flicker across Agnus’s features, stunned only for a moment, and though the confusion lingered, she merely nodded, and just as she was about to close the door, Harry called out her name. She paused in place, gazing at him again, “While I was away, did my wife suffer any more terrors?”

Agnus spoke quickly, even though Harry already pulled the answer from her mind, “No, terrors, sir, she was perfectly rested every night.”

“Very well, Agnus, that will be all, thank you—,” Harry answered, gathering a stack of papers into his hands as he listened for the sound of the door, but when he didn’t hear the click, he glanced back up. 

“Excuse me, sir, just in case the missus asks. When should she be expecting you this evening?” And the joy that rang out in Agnus’s mind nearly swallowed his thoughts completely, as if Agnus had just understood Harry’s intentions in the message she was to convey. 

Harry ran a hand over the sleeve of his jacket, his markings burning beneath, “Within the hour. I’m just finishing up here. I shouldn’t be long.” He told her, pulling at his sleeve, being sure everything was concealed at the wrist. 

“Very well, Mr. Styles…I will bid my leave now…” She said, trying to hide the smile pressing at the corners of her mouth as Harry listened to her inner monologue, and the great details she would take to make this evening perfect for both of you. 

As she finally took her leave and closed the door, Harry was left alone with the consequence of the promise he had just made; now the die was cast. Tonight, he would go to you. Tonight, he would risk everything—his control, his methodically conserved facade, possibly your very life—based on the growing certainty that you were meant to be more than just this convenient arrangement. That in your presence, you could silence the beast, but if there were a God above, please grant thy will of safety, he nearly whispered, allowed, as the demon gnarled its ugly head.

Could you both be strong together? Were—you—strong enough? Were you meant to be his salvation, or were you the very damnation his father spoke of?

Could you be both?

And though these thoughts should have terrified him. Instead, for the first time since you took his hand, Harry felt hope rise enough to tame the monster.

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[maudie-duan]

Part One<-

Summary: "The sight of him alone was powerful; his unadorned chest glistening in your sight became a sweeping assault of your senses that kindled a devastatingly hot flame pooling deep in the boom of your belly..."

A/N: Sorry, not sorry, for the length of this bad boy!! had to get the ball rolling hope you guys enjoy! Thanks again for all the love you've shown. ✨🫶🏽

Word Count: 8.3k

Warning: Strong Sexual Tension, Sexual Incubus Encounter. Mentions of Blood.

Sleep, they say, is not merely the surrender of the mind into perfect stillness; nor is it solely rest. It is the opening of our innermost gate—the sacred portal through which our most vulnerable spirits slip away, bearing with them the whispers of otherworldly wisdom. There, on the cusp between light and shadow, we forsake ourselves, becoming a willing sacrifice to the great unknown, with our fate entrusted to forces beyond our knowing. Is it faith that compels you to pray amidst the darkness, hoping that light shall again prevail in a realm where illumination is so seldom granted? Nevertheless, when night offers the darkness, reeling us in entirely, we close our eyes with a silent resolve, whispering our prayers, never knowing what dreams may come…

The day’s deep exhaustion had ultimately claimed you, only to dissolve into complete terror when the soft creak of the heavy mahogany door jolted you awake. In a beat of your resting heart, the weariness that had finally overtaken you disappeared, taking with it your gentle surrender to a bed you couldn't quite call your own, violently shattering your peaceful sleep and bringing along a rabbit heartbeat. 

Your eyes jolted open as the noise of the door closing tore through your mind like glass breaking, the sound harsh and commanding—a hefty latch like the final thud of a vault sealing its contents inside. That was when your body began to go numb as a slow preternatural weight loomed over you, and you turned onto your back, your muscles stiffening, locking you in place, as a chilling current ran down your spine.

Every time you dared to move, the weight pressed you deeper into the mattress, holding you captive as the oppressive atmosphere seemed to drain the oxygen from the room, leaving a foul taste of dread on your tongue and bringing with it a phantom sensation of terror echoing in your chest. The sheer effort to breathe felt like fighting for your life as you croaked out each breath. Your entire body was not only paralyzed but also pained by the tightening knot of panic in your gut.

You felt him before you saw him; the dim light casting his shadow across the ceiling, and your eyes stayed fixed, your panic rising as you watched the shadow move. There in the doorway, a tall figure silhouetted the frame, yet you knew it was him—knew it was Harry. Of course, it was him, but something about his form was too blunt, too immense, and his quiet stride across the Persian rug too predatory to be the weary man who had fled the hall mere hours before… How long had you been asleep? Had it been hours or mere minutes? Suddenly, you felt confused, your unfamiliar surroundings only adding to the chaos building behind your mind’s eye as you struggled to make sense of it all. 

His presence seemed to shift the air around him into something cold and brittle, a sudden charge of static energy flowing through the space that raised the tiny hairs along your arms, hinting at something more sinister. Despite the darkness, your eyes caught the deep green of his eyes, which seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it, suggesting a vast, terrifying depth within, bringing with it the sweeping fear that plunged through your body like a brutal awakening. 

You knew this was coming, so what were you most afraid of? Was it the fear of the unknown, or was it the fear of the physical act you were about to endure? Was this fear that was paralyzing you in place, or was it him?

Because now, it wasn’t the pain you feared; it was the complete surrender of yourself to this strange, unknowable man, a sacrifice that felt less like duty and more like your very spirit being consumed—a stripping away of the precious inner life you had so carefully protected. Yet, at the height of the fear, your body squirmed at the thought of his very touch—the same touch that had shed light on a knowing you so desperately wanted to hide, from yourself, and now from him. 

The sight of him was a haunting reminder of duty, yet desire and fear rendered you momentarily helpless, a passive surrender to the inevitable. When he paused at the foot of the bed, his back turned to the soft glow of the light, his green eyes swallowed the shadowed darkness—two pits of mesmerizing torment that seemed to trap and hold every flicker of your gaze.

 Each movement he made was a willful declaration of his nature, a private performance designed solely for your eyes, each motion becoming a ritual of seduction. He approached with a quiet confidence that both captivated and aroused your fickle thoughts as his gaze held yours effortlessly. You watch the slow unbuttoning of his shirt, your longing shaping itself into an exquisite preface to the rising fire within you, burning to the surface as your eyes ventured down his body. 

When he reached for the collar of his shirt and gave it a temperate tug, each button yielded with a hushed snap, your throat seizing as the delicate punctuation cut through the oppressive silence. As his toned chest revealed itself, the tension loomed near, stretching thin like a taut wire across your vision, evoking the quiet ache of want tucked behind your ribs. 

The scene was utterly bewildering, a sensuous chaos of want and need intertwined so tightly that rational understanding became almost impossible. What in that moment was right from wrong, or good versus evil, when your heart’s true desire was drowning beneath the layers of fear and the intoxicating thrill of conquest? As you watched, shadows danced along the contours of his strong, elongated fingers, tracing the bare, sculpted planes of his chest, each movement both commanding and tender. He watched unwaveringly, and beneath his gaze, you felt shame rise and mingle with the longing that rippled across your skin in heated waves, burning like fire and igniting a tumultuous, forbidden sensation. 

This was the moment when the paralysis of fear began its slow, treacherous shift into something disgraceful, leaving you consequently mesmerized by the dark, silky sheen of his skin stretched tightly over the hard structure of his ribs and toned abdomen. Here was your first glimpse of a man, his beauty twisting into a masculine magnificence so striking it stole your breath away. 

The urge was a silent plea, growing desperate with each fleeting breath, and tightening your lungs as the gnawing ache of need climbed from your bones, gathering with it the sound of your booming heart pounding in your ears, as the desire blossomed into a wild, untamed thing. As the feeling stirred deep inside you, a heavy, familiar pulse thickened between your legs—the illicit strain betrayed the duty-bound terror you should have felt, slowly melting into an undomesticated, undeniable yearning that filled the air, thick and sweet—a feast the creature before you seemed to inhale deeply. His very presence swelled, becoming more substantial, filling the room’s confines until the granite walls themselves seemed to press inward.

The sight of him alone was powerful; his unadorned chest glistening in your sight became a sweeping assault of your senses that kindled a devastatingly hot flame pooling deep in the boom of your belly. Every muscle in your body only tensed under his silent focus as you realized the slow, intentional reveal of his body was an act of mastery he wanted you to consume, to pull all the power from the room, and from you. 

When he finally drew nearer, crossing the short distance in two noiseless strides, his hand reached out to the heavy velvet comforter—your last refuge of modesty—and ripped it down, casting it aside as if it weighed nothing, exposing your motionless body to the cold air. Your eyes, wide and pleading, were met only with the unnerving, triumphant stillness of his face—his green eyes black, reflecting an empty depth that gave nothing away. 

His dark gaze studied your form beneath the delicate, sheer fabric of your nightgown, as a low, velvety voice whispered, “Do you understand what is expected of you?” The words, smooth yet commanding, carried the weight of a master’s authority, fitted only for a husband bound by possession. 

A slow tremor ran down your spine as you fought to speak, but to your deepest horror, your voice was trapped. The more you tried to speak, the louder it echoed in your mind, and that’s when tears began to well up as you managed a timid nod—the acknowledgment of your fate, indicating you could no longer fight. The sound of your own heartbeat, a frantic, rapid drum, soon became the only noise in the universe—an uncontrollable sound of pure panic that seemed loud enough to rouse the staff. He leaned in close, his breath warm and cloying, carrying a scent of ancient spice and acridness, which felt entirely unorthodox—like burnt sugar and raw iron—that crawled across your skin.

“Ahhh...” he gasped, as a dark delight flickered across his face. “Listen to the rhythm of your heart…” he whispered, closing his eyes and turning his head toward the sound. “Such music to my ears. That, my dear, is fear… and I’m starving for the fear, darling.”

His words only made your heart pounded more fiercely, as his voice settled over you like honey—sweet, yet infused with a wicked curl, each one dripping with a nectarous poison, confirmation that your fear was his nourishment, as the sinister satisfaction glinting in his eyes abruptly dissolved the last traces of the gentleman you thought you knew, revealing instead the tantalizing truth of a predator lurking beneath.

His gaze dropped to the hem of your gown, his hand grasping a handful of material, and you held your breath, willing your heart to quiet as he slowly raised your gown with an agonizing control that had you gasping as he uttered out the words “Good Girl,” smoothly revealing the length of your legs, and with impossible strength, he spread your thighs, leaving an ache of pain along the inside of your tender flesh. 

His heated hand lingered at your mid-thigh, a slow smile revealing too many teeth as his gaze fixated on your bare skin. “Such supple flesh,” he purred, the compliment a damning objectification that stripped away all human decency. 

As his fingers lingered upon your inner thigh, a tremor coursed through you, igniting a fiery suspense of what was to come. Though a violent cry within urged you to resist, to draw your limbs together in defense, his will overpowered your own, effortlessly parting your thighs with an alarming grace. The act of violation was sealed before it even began; his presence alone claiming you as his touch started its slow ascent, tracing the path up your thigh and toward your yearning core, each movement a testament to his dominance. He had you, the way he was orchestrating your submission as though you were but a vessel in twilight, a ritualistic dance that rendered you utterly powerless beneath his spell.

Then his fingers pressed into your warm center, gliding up your silken folds, unleashing a cascade of sensations that mystified your entire being, rushing your vision with streaks of electric vibrance—sweeping away every rational thought, and all that remained was his touch, which seemed to penetrate your thoughts like a psychic invasion, as though he had penetrated the very depths of your mind, and knew all your hearts longing. 

In that instant, pleasure surged forth, momentarily eclipsing the terror, transforming it into an irresistible tide of curious ecstasy. All the while, his flawless facade began to wane, his eyes flaring, consumed in a sudden blaze of scarlet—a fiery ember, smoldering like rubies, narrowing with a predatory focus.

And like a mirage, ink began to emerge upon his skin—demonic markings, tales of which had only been spoken in hushed whispers, unfurled beneath the surface, darkening and stirring across his magnificent chest. This hideous yet exquisite tapestry captivated you—a blend of beauty and fear—as it seemed to writhe and pulse with an ancient power, a force you were blissfully unaware of.

The vision before you was utterly mesmerizing, trapping your gaze with an intoxicating pull. It dawned upon you that this was no mere man, but a manifestation of a demon, its essence entwining itself with your very soul, consuming the energy of your dread. Yet, it was not the darkness that provoked your fear now; instead, it was the reflection of your own desire, for in that moment, he was beautiful, and as you observed the marking etched upon his chest, rising and falling with each labored breath, you lay there captivated by the majestic moth inked into his skin—an enchanting field of ink that seemed to whisper of its terrible descent, that only spurred the growing pleasure building between your legs, the growing want.

The first moan, torn from your throat, was met with a savage growl as two small horns briefly broke the taut skin above his brow. Yet, before you could fully comprehend the beast, he was transforming back. His other hand found the nape of your neck, drawing you closer, only intensifying his touch that elicited the first agonizing and uncontrolled sound of pleasure, a sensation both foreign and exhilarating, making the blood in your veins sing for more. 

And though your continued moans were met with a feral indifference, you complied, absorbing his deep, guttural growls that reverberated through his chest like a blade slicing through flesh—a sound drenched in pure, animalistic desire. That’s when the sharp pressure against his flawless hairline revealed the budding of a small, wicked horn, then the other, this time remaining in place, as his fingers worked toward your entrance, releasing the startling duality of pain and unexpected pleasure that fractured your very being, rendering you utterly subject to his will. His fingers seemed to move with a mastery of knowledge, seeking the ultimate breach of your control, pressing deeply into the rising, nearly welcoming heat between your thighs, as he discovered the relentless rhythm that compelled your body to respond.

But as pleasure swelled to a spellbinding climax, a hand seized your throat, stifling the cry that teetered on the brink of release, and he leaned in, commanding you to part your lips, as his fingers delved past your slick opening, bringing with it a blunt invasion of pain and pleasure that only seemed to silence your inner rebellion further. “Open your mouth,” he urged, his voice transforming into a layered hiss of whispers that scraped against your senses—a chilling echo from a shadowed abyss as you struggled, yet the ecstasy incited by his touch became a cruel, persuasive force, compelling your body to obey.

You opened your lips with a broken whimper, and he leaned in, not for a kiss but to offer up a final, horrifying communion. From the depths of his mouth, glistening with a dark, wet sheen, a large, black-winged moth emerged, its plump, slick body. Its silent movement was an unspeakable horror, its antennae twitching towards your face like dark, living probes seeking purchase as the scent of dust and rot preceded it—[Harry’s eyes just as black and lifeless as the moth staring back at you.

Every ounce of fight within you sought to recoil, to seal your lips in a desperate act of defiance, to unleash a wordless cry of utter rejection. Yet the intertwining of terror and a sharp, sickening pleasure converged within you, manifesting as a silent scream as the moth advanced. Its segmented legs dragged tantalizingly across your lips, its body pressing insistently against your teeth, forcing its way into your mouth as its dry, foul head budded against your tongue, and just as your jaw hinged open with a rancid, painful click, a distant voice began to call to you, echoing through the haze of your fear and confusion.

Agnus’ voice called out as you were torn from the nightmare by a sensation utterly different: the feather-light, gentle touch of a human hand on your shoulder. Your body was sweaty and trembling, the sheets tangled around your legs, as the phantom chill of a touch radiated from your thighs. The enormous bed was empty, but the shrill taste of fear was heavy on your tongue, and the ghost of the moth still felt like a disturbing flutter clinging to your mouth. 

A gasp shuddered from your mouth, your eyes snapping open to the immediate, nearly recognizable solace of the room. Yet, you could not reconcile the velvet curtains and the cool, damp air with the monstrous heat that had been pressed against you moments before.

And as your breath hitched, you choked back a wet sound that you hastily smothered behind your trembling hand. When your eyes began to focus, you didn’t dare speak, not only because the muscles in your jaw were stiff and locked, but out of fear that your lips still carried the phantom slickness of the intruder. Somehow, you only managed to turn your neck just enough to face the source of comfort. There was Agnus, standing above you, now an island of safety as the severe blackness of the inked moth at the center of Harry’s chest flickered in your mind, staining your eyesight as her Irish features came into focus and softened into an expression of genuine concern.

“Oh, my dear, there, there…let me help you,” she whispered, her voice a soothing hum that couldn’t quite extinguish the memory of the honeyed voice that whispered, “I’m starving for the fear.” When she lowered her hand from your shoulder, the immediate loss of that small, grounding pressure made the world around you swim violently in your vision. 

“Just checking in on you, love. Do forgive me if I frightened you—sure I didn’t mean to, truly. It’s morning now, and Mr. Styles sent me to see how you’re faring. But now I can see you’re having a bit of a struggle. It must be the new surroundings, but it’ll pass, ma’am. It always does.”

And as your gaze quickly swept to his side of the bed, the sudden realization dawned on you that he never came... “He had never come,” you repeated in your frantic mind. The thought was a desperately needed breath to the ordinary reality settling over you. If he hadn’t come, then the figure—the beautiful, monstrous figure who had pinned you with those eyes of fire and a mouth full of living dread—was in fact not Harry. Yet, the relief was only a fragile barrier against the flooding tide of details that swiftly overtook your thoughts—the burning touch, the scarlet flicker of his eyes, the violation, and the unimaginable horror of the living, squirming moth were not the act of any human, as the inked moth flashed across your mind’s eye in fragments. 

That marking seemed so vivid. Had you not witnessed it before? Was there not a sliver of familiar knowledge within your grasp, awaiting to be pieced together? And as your mind sifted through the recollections of past memories, a current of trepidation stirred anew, until at last, a shuddering gasp of recognition escaped your lips. 

With it came a wave of panic slowly engulfing you, as if water had filled your very lungs, stirring within you until you were leaping from your bed, all grace lost, only driven solely by instinct—a hasty, frenzied scramble toward the edge, fleeing the unseen menace that still felt all too real. You toppled with a harsh thud onto the thick rug, the cool wool pressing beneath your nails as you sought some semblance of reality. Though the impact was startling, it seemed a necessary act, grounding you, and when your hand reached forward, grazing the marble floor, your silence was shattered by a quiet, ragged sob, bearing the remnants of decay and salt.

“Oh, my lamb, what is it?” Agnus rushed forward, her composure momentarily broken by the mere, unbridled terror radiating from your presence.

The monster’s violation felt utterly complete, a revolting consumption of the soul that seemed rooted in the flesh itself. As tears continued to well, they were no longer shed for the potential promise of a wedding night’s duty, or its absence; instead, they flowed from a deep sense of being stripped and touched—your body unknowingly marked by a dark entity that dared to justify its presence through the vow of duty. 

Deep within, you recognized that whatever it was—this haunting shadow—was no mere specter, but a true, infamous presence that had once tormented you, remaining in your past as something lost, always appearing as a moth, forever drawn to the flickering flame your soul bled like a candle—revealing itself as an eternal specter of temptation and remorse, and though you never saw but a moth in your dream, you never forgot the feelings it elicited, or the willful act to take from the purity of your essence. 

When you search through the maze of your mind again for the moth, you squeezed your eyes shut, almost willing it to appear again…and there it was in immaculate detail from the murky distance of your past—the inked moth, its black wings magnificent in their grotesque detail, its image forever burned into your sight, displacing the new memory of Harry’s perfect face, with the past’s true understanding. 

Indeed, you knew the inked moth. There it was as if it were tattooed across the lids of your eyes, emerging from the deepest corners of your mind, echoing the language of your spirit. But now, the memory of the moth appeared to carry an air of ancient truth—a source of knowledge within your mind that you could not quite rationalize, yet you felt its truth rattling your bones, as the memory grew clearer and more transparent—an ancient creature, bearing a story you would search for later, but in this moment the one certainty you had was that you remembered it’s haunting. Remembered the way it crept around the edges of your consciousness. How strange that it would appear when the first odd stirrings of womanhood had begun—at blood’s first sight—the entity coming with no warning, becoming a fluttering presence continuously trying to breach your mental wall, only to be pushed back by a force far beyond your understanding.

You thought it was gone, that you were safe from the dangers of its consumption, but now, it had finally found its door, opening up the devastating truth that was sinking into your soul like the truest fact in your mind, yet still there were questions: Had the moth or the monster it came from merely traded its ethereal form for the handsome, perfect disguise of your husband? Had it not been a dream? Because it felt like an assault, an invasion, and there it was, cloaked in the likeness of the man you were supposed to trust. Could you trust him? Was it strange that the dreams should come on the very same night of your union? Had his eyes not flashed the very same scarlet? And as the questions stacked one after the other, your mouth began to ramble— 

“The... the markings,” you stammered amidst the sobs, your voice laden with a thick, sorrowful tone of a new destruction underway. “The moth, Agnus. I know the moth. I know most certainly that I have seen it...”

Agnus clicked her tongue, silent with the wise language of a woman familiar with distress, and chose to ignore the hysterical cry. She helped you gently, her sturdy arms hoisting your slick, trembling body up from the ground. “There, there, my lamb. It’s all right. We’ll get you settled now, and we’ll have no more talk of moths or markings. It’s the anxiety, my dear. It can play terrible tricks on the mind.”

It was then, as your feet settled beneath you, that you felt the strange, thick warmth between your legs, that cooled into a wet tackiness that stuck the skin of your inner thighs together. You looked down, and the sight of your own body finally dragged you fully back into the harrowing reality of the room, stripping away the nightmare’s chaos and replacing it with a new and rapid shame that threatened to swallow you just as entirely.

Crimson blossomed against the pristine white of your cotton nightgown, seeping into the thin seams and staining the rug beneath your feet with tiny droplets, an evidence awakening a newfound nervousness within you. As you gazed upon your own dark red blood, the final fragment of the morning’s tragic puzzle fell into place with a somber clarity you knew you wouldn’t be able to shake.

“Oh, heavens,” you whispered, with a delicate whimper of astonishment. “My courses have arrived early,” and as your gaze shifted to Agnus, you faintly added, “Agnus…this…Harry never came to bed last night...”

Agnus’s face, which had been softened by pity mere moments before, immediately hardened with a weary, knowing tension. Her eyes flicked instantly from the stains on the rug to the stained sheets upon the bed. There was no need for words, for the sheer weight of your failure was evident in the sight of your blood. She knew all at once that your expected duty—the necessary consummation—had not been performed, and now your body had offered an unassailable bodily excuse for that failure, one that rendered you unclean and unfit for your husband’s touch for the days to come.

Indeed, ma’am, we’ve got ourselves a bit of a problem, and we shan’t say another word of it.” Agnus sighed, her voice low and tense, each word filled with a shared apprehension of the situation. She knew the implications as intimately as any woman of your time—a woman’s cycle was not merely an inconvenience; it was a physical obstruction to duty, a sign of a most vexing delay to the family line. She knew this would disgrace you thoroughly in the eyes of the gentleman who had rightfully secured your hand in marriage. This delay would be a public failure to present a legitimate union, and you both understood that this very burden fell squarely on your shoulders alone. “Sure, now, we should tidy you up a bit before anyone else catches wind of this.”

Your heart sank as you brought your motions to a halt, the shame of blood mingling with the fresh, cutting sting of his betrayal. “Am I nothing more than a disgrace? How am I ever to live this down?” you choked, as the confession caught in your throat, bringing a fresh set of tears to your eyes—not from fear, but from the binding sensation of rejection, and for the failure that had now come to define your future. 

Agnus only responded with a sorrowful nod, a silent gesture of acknowledgment guiding you towards the bathing chamber, and you walked in hushed silence, the wet blood on your thighs beginning to dry, stiff and tacky with each heartbreaking step as the chilling parallel sank into your consciousness—how could the slippery wet pull between your thighs nearly matched the exact sensation of the slick fingers in the dream? Could your mind truly confuse the physical reality of blood with the traumatic wet fiction of the night upon standing to your feet… How could everything feel so real? So utterly and terrifyingly real, now confusing the line between a dream and the waking world. 

As you stood bare from your nightgown, the shame of your failure felt vast and heavy, the chill of your nakedness a cold reminder stacking up around you like the stone walls of this massive house, and as the shame loomed around you, you named them one by one, each one ringing through your mind: the shame of your uncontrolled desire, the shame of your failure to fulfill your marital duty, the pity of a period you would now have to hide, and the crushing shame of what your husband’s absence truly meant. Had you scared him off with your honest, unblinking assessment? Did he truly not want or even feel the slightest bit of curiosity about the woman he had procured?

By the time you sank into the voluminous tub, the hot water was merely a welcome for your chilled skin, and when your eyes searched your sore body, the stark whiteness of the porcelain was quickly shattered by the appearance of your blood, blooming and swirling in the depths, the crimson rising up around you becoming the heavy, visual condemnation of all your faults. However, the heat of the water could not compete with the cold, heavy heat of your shame, which felt powerful enough to pull you under the surface of the tub, threatening to suffocate you with the reality of your failure, and you watched the blood dissolve, slowly washing away the physical evidence, but not the memory of the moth.

And as you closed your eyes, allowing the image of the inked moth to steal your vision, Agnus spoke, her voice snapping you back to the practical danger, and handed you a clean towel, her eyes meeting yours with a grim, conspiratorial focus. “We shan’t speak of this, not a soul in the world. We both know we’ll need to keep this from Mr. Styles, at least until you’ve fulfilled your duties, so we must be as quiet as the grave about it. Can you do that, dear?”

Harry sat alone at the large carved dining table, reflecting the single candelabrum, eating dinner in solitude for the third night. Since fleeing the carriage, he hadn’t risked another encounter with you, his wife, who, for him, now felt more like the prisoner he had made of you, locking you in a cage of his own doing, and instead of facing you, he stayed in his private study, emerging only to perform the mundane role of an ordinary man—the house’s silence, once comforting, now felt like a cold echo chamber amplifying the failures of what he felt he owed you.

As he cut into his pheasant, acting out his own perfunctory duties, his mouth went dry, no longer able to taste the extravagant meals; his palate only registering the emotional climate of those around him. For the past few days, that emotional resonance was a blank slate, becoming an unnerving void. He could only assume the quiet, observant creature upstairs was starving, not only physically, but intellectually.

He pushed his plate away and called for Agnus, his voice curt and low, “Send dinner up to the Lady of the House tonight. And a pot of fresh tea, mind you.” 

The title, Lady of the House, rolled from his tongue, both foreign and enticing—a title that felt entirely too human, yet the deep, subtle thrill that rushed through his chest when he voiced it was undeniable. For a creature whose very existence was rooted in chaos and the false perception he presented to others, the very notion of established order—a home, a wife, a name—was pressing on the cusp of powerful, turning into an intoxicating lure the more he mulled it through his mind, a structure stable enough to hold the desperate pieces of his soul together, whispering that perhaps his relentless loneliness need not be an eternal sentence he would have to bear alone.

Harry listened to the parting thoughts of Agnus, words easily deciphered by his inner perception, and held his breath when a swift prayer for his wife’s appetite confirmed that the poor girl was indeed suffering from the chosen neglect of his presence. The guilt was instantaneous as Harry frowned, feeling a keen pang of sorrow for the position he had forced you into. Of course, he was painfully aware of the duties you were expected to fulfill, the consummation you were now obligated to provide to complete your transaction. But, for days, he had left you waiting, suffering in the silence of an expectation less role he had yet to set, or to ease your tortured mind.

The most damning truth was that he knew more than Agnus realized. That he had been listening, lurking in the darkness of his own home, not out of hunger, but out of a desperate, primal need to monitor the distinctive essence you radiated even from behind a closed door. Ever since the night your hands had touched, he felt your presence, even if he wasn’t able to hear it. That first morning, from his study door, he had heard the muffled sound of your terror during a nightmare and the subsequent hushed, tearful conversation with Agnus. He knew that your monthly courses had arrived unexpectedly. Had even let himself into the room and listened when Agnus closed the bathing chamber door, the sound sealing his own immediate danger.

The scent of your energy pierced him with a new knowledge, as he breathed it in, he felt himself weaken. Never in all his life had a soul permeated the air, leaving behind the distinct scent that he knew was yours—sweet and rich, hanging heavy around him, heightening his senses, as the intoxicating musk caused the demon coiled within him to flare violently—the first time it had threatened to override his control since childhood. Now, as he stared out his study window, he leaned his head against the cool glass, fighting the memory. Yet, piercing through that heavy, iron-infused sweetness of pure feminine vitality, another odor—harsh and sickeningly familiar—rose, as the image of his father flooded his mind, recalling the acrid spice of brimstone and ancient malevolence that always seemed to linger whenever his father beckoned him in his dreams.

Without a thread of doubt, he knew it was the scent of Susurrus—his father, the most powerful incubus ever to exist. He was the haunting smell that clung to the fringes of Harry’s dreams, where the demon spoke of destined prophecies—that Harry was the fruition of a dark, ambitious plan. Susurrus had created him not merely for his own gain, but to raise the very vessel capable of killing the one being who, according to ancient texts, was fated to destroy Susurrus himself. The mystery of his father’s presence had drowned him with questions for the days to come, none of which made sense in his mind. There had always been pieces to the prophecies that alluded to details his father had hidden from him—a puzzle piece to both their destinies that always repelled the demon within him. 

That morning, when Harry had smelled the lingering essence of his father’s violation in the sanctity of his own home, a resounding fury of anger had risen within him, strong enough to silence the demanding demon, because there was something about you, a question marking the complex, guarded nature of your soul that he had sensed across the ballroom floor. Was it fate that brought you to him? Was it anger at his father that made him want to protect you? A feeling so fierce and possessive, bringing with it an instinct that was entirely new and entirely human. Susurrus’s presence only seemed to fuel the primal protective rage rising, eclipsing the demonic hunger, giving Harry the strength to maintain his illusion and retreat, forming a plan that he hoped would ease his frenzied mind. 

By the fourth night of his absence, the dreadful mental paradox of his mind had steeped in pressure, finally becoming unbearable—the shame he was forced to carry when, night after night, the sound of your suppressed screams had reached his inner ear, a continuous, debilitating noise that scraped against his very soul, knowing he wasn’t strong enough to take on his father, nor did he have the knowledge for such an undertaking. When he could no longer stay away from the source of his fear, or allow another day to pass without seeing you. He rose, the movement stiff, and walked the long, silent corridor to your room.

He knocked once, the sound hollow against the heavy wood of the door. When Agnus invited him in, her eyes immediately darted away from him to you, excusing herself with a soft bow of her head, and her parting thoughts—echoing through Harry’s mind—said, ‘Have mercy on her soul,’ a weary plea entirely directed at him. When Harry looked into Agnus’s fearful eyes, her gaze held a truth the servant couldn’t speak aloud, acknowledging the truth they both knew and the terrifying risk Harry posed to you and the housekeeper, whose loyalty to you was surprising but did not anger Harry, for he understood her intentions were pure.

And as Harry stepped past the threshold of the doorway, the atmosphere of the room seemed to tighten around him. When you stood, courteous to his presence, he was startled not only by the gesture but also by the feeling that he had not earned the kindness, and by your eyes—those determined, analytical eyes—focused intently on him, despite the evident exhaustion etched across your features. The guilt had him turning away, and he closed the door behind him, the act like sealing you both into a pressure chamber when a low gasp slipped past your lips, so low that if he were human, he wouldn’t have heard a sound.

That’s when he fought the first stirrings of the demon rising, with a curious lash, as the scent of your clean, warm skin and the extraordinary essence that was entirely your own became quickly overwhelming as the large room seemed to box you both in. His gaze swept the room, searching for an anchor, but no matter how hard he tried, his eyes kept returning to you. You stood there waiting, hands clasped low in front of you, an obedient portrait of a wife awaiting a duty he knew you were currently unable to perform, your eyes cast meekly toward the floor, as Harry forced himself to remain by the door, unwilling to test the volatility of his weakening control.

“I’ve only come to check in on you,” he said, his voice grating slightly as he finally broke the arresting silence with a formality that felt more like a lie than the truth he knew deep within.

Your head swiftly lifted, your gaze locking onto his. “To check on me?” you repeated, the question soft, yet sliced him as the painful confusion of his words stole your tired features. 

“Yes, and to tell you that I’ll be leaving for New York for a couple of days for business. It’s unavoidable.”

“Am I to come with you?” You asked timidly, your whole body stiffening.

And as another wave of uncontrollable rage surfaced, Harry snapped out the word, “No—” a sudden, fierce denial escaping before he could temper it—the simple word, burdened with the anxiety of your presence, was a blunt, reflexive act of self-preservation. As the wave of demonic heat swept through him, it overwhelmed his control, mixing with the air around you, becoming heavy with the suffocating sweetness of your scent—and it was all too much.

“I’m sorry—I can’t…” he forced out, the apology flat and immediate as he reached for the doorknob, desperate to retreat, to run from everything you were. But then you boldly called out his name, a singular, soft utterance that stopped him cold in his tracks, instantly quieting the demon’s rage like a sudden, calming balm.

Harry kept his back turned, his hand rigid on the cool metal knob, feeling an unexplainable, out-of-body sensation that had never settled over him before. There was a claim in the way you said his name, a conviction as the sound rolled so easily off your tongue, that seemed to possess some unearthly pull over him—an instant quieting of his mind.“I…” he tried, but his voice faltered, in the wake of a spell, because that’s exactly what it felt like…like a force…like power.

“May I speak plainly…” You began, your voice suddenly gaining strength. Harry turned to face you then, not trusting his words as he gave a silent nod, allowing you to continue. 

You gave him an acknowledging nod, and he watched your posture straighten as a new energy seeped in. “It’s just…speaking with honesty, that I’m lost…I don’t know what is to be expected of me…what you’re needing from me? I know my title is wife now—”

Just as you were about to finish the words that Harry already assumed, he found himself asking, “What is it that you’re wanting?” and as the question leaves his mouth, a fierce curiosity takes him—a curiosity he can barely contain.

For a long moment, you both held one another’s gaze, and when you recite his word back to yourself “What is it that I want?” more for your own clarity than his, your voice seems to draw Harry like a siren drawing him out to sea, taking command of his whole body, and he takes a hesitant step toward you, his gaze locked with yours, the raw green of his eyes meeting your unmoving stare. 

“Yes, what do you want?” He asks, taking another step, the space between you both closing.

You shake your head, confusion riddling the contours of your face. “I guess I’m uncertain at the moment. I’ve never been asked what I’ve ever wanted. I’ve always done what’s expected of me.”

Harry knew this would be the answer, but knew this could never be a life he could live, so when he says: “I’ve never been one for expectations…I guess I, myself, haven’t a clue to what’s expected of me…well…” He starts as a short, humorless laugh rushes him, as he runs a nervous hand up the back of his head, then swipes a finger above his brow, subtly checking for the pressure of his horns, because he’s barely had to work at his illusion since the moment you said his name. “I guess I know… what society expects… but…”

“But?” You prompted.

“Societal expectation…I know that there are rules…and maybe there are rules I know that I cannot fully live up to, nor would I expect my wife to suffer…for us to suffer with the burden…” And as he said the words, your gaze finally wavered, and you sat down gently on the edge of the bed. That’s when Harry crossed the room to the grand desk near the windows, seeking the anonymity of the shadows as he stared out at the coastline. The night was stormy, the sea a frantic, churning blackness, as waves crashed against the stone cliffs with a furious, unnatural energy. For a moment, he saw the ocean as a reflection of his own inner turmoil, a great, angry evil stirring just beyond the house’s protective shell.

“I think I could live with that,” You finally spoke, your voice breaking the tense silence, carrying a lonesome quality that instantly drew him back. When he looked, you were staring down at your hands, twisting your fingers together. He said nothing, simply allowing himself to take in the sight of you in your sheer nightgown, then at the ring that honored his claim. In that instant, he wanted more than ever for this to feel less like a claiming of property and more like a willing, chosen union.

Finally, he cleared his throat, the sound a necessary, human cue. “You’re different from the others,” he disclosed, knowing the words were an immense understatement.

Then he felt a truth rise, and as he braced himself for the release, he let the words flow: “If we’re speaking plainly, then I must warn you that I’ll never be what you’ll expect. There are parts of me… depths that you may never be able to fathom.”

And he watched your hands halt, your gaze still drawn away, you said, “I think I understand,” and then your eyes lifted to meet his with the same unsettling, knowing stare from the carriage, looking at him as if he were standing there in his truest, most terrifying form.

“And does that scare you?” he asks, his most genuine plea yet, as he witnessed the tears welling in your eyes, tears that terrified him more than any demonic state that has ever proclaimed him.

You gazed at him, never wavering, forcing him to hold your captive watch. “Truthfully?”

“Yes,” was all Harry could say, his composure hanging by a thread.

“It only makes me more curious.”

“Curious?” he repeats, the word a painful, foreign echo as his throat burned with it.

“Yes,” You confirmed, rising slowly from the bed, and as you walked toward him, his entire body tenses, his inner demon flaring with a harsh, excruciating anticipation. He held his breath, terrified that a single wrong movement might send you fleeing. “Curious in the sense that the moment you walked into this very room, whatever darkness that had seemed to plague me felt as if it had lifted. Like maybe for the first time since we arrived, I could truly breathe.” You finished, as a tear finally slid down your delicate cheek, a sight he desperately wanted to wipe away.

Harry swallowed hard, his eyes stinging with the threat of his own tears. He wondered if you guys wouldn’t even have to say a word at all if you already saw the good in him—the desperate human heart fighting the evil, because he felt good, felt like he could be good, for you, for the complete stranger standing before him. 

Yet unsure in himself, your certainty seemed to unnerve him, the way he felt not a single doubt surrounding you, and then he said with a new conviction of his own, trying to match the energy emanating from your strong presence, “So tell me what you want?”

This time, you were the one who stepped closer, your eyes locking, and your hand reached out, resting with a gentle, startling weight on his forearm, his markings burning beneath the layers of his jacket. “I want nothing more than to make this union right in the eyes of a god I’m no longer sure exists,” you told him, your silent strength filling the room and shaking him to his core. Because what did those words truly mean? 

Yet all he could say was, “I want whatever you want… Whatever you want, I will give…wherever you lead, I will follow. The direction in which we stand as husband and wife is completely yours. I will never ask or take what isn’t given. I want you to know you will never lack, nor will your family. This will not be a marriage where you owe me for the fortune that is now rightfully yours, nor will you need to assume a specific duty—”

“Harry—” You interjected, pausing him with a gentle squeeze to his arm. Much like the touch you guys shared that very same night, the silent language he knew now… knew past all the darkness. He forced his eyes away from your compelling gaze, staring instead at the delicate hand resting there, realizing it felt like the most certain thing he had ever known in his life.

“Do you not fear me?” Harry asked, his gaze floating back to hers, confusion etched onto his brow, wondering how anyone could ever want to be this close to him.

Your grip tightened, “Should I fear you?” You countered, your eyes searching his face again, as if looking for an answer he wasn’t prepared to give, and maybe you knew. 

You were a wonderment, he thought, as he drew his brows together, thoroughly bewildered by you, the woman in front of him. “I don’t want you to… I never want you to fear me.” He breathed.

“Then I won’t,” You answered so easily that Harry’s head spun, marveling at the fact of you standing there without a speck of fear in your eyes.

“Do you fear me?” You asked in return.

“I don’t know… Perhaps I fear myself more in this moment,” he answered, his voice a strained rasp.

“Tell me again what it is that you want so that I can be clear in the words that you have spoken.” He questioned, staring into your brilliant gaze.

“If I am to be so bold,” you said, turning toward the bed, and stretching the agonizing tension between you both, “I want you to have me as your wife… and me to have you as my husband.” you finished.

You’re answer was not what he had expected, and all Harry could do was stare, completely transfixed by the beauty unfolding before him. His mind became as silent and clear as it had ever been; the monster’s threat no longer threatening to steal the desire like a gluttonous feast, and it was then, when you reached up and unbuttoned the single top button of your high-necked nightgown, Harry knew, somewhere deep down, that everything he had ever known was about to change.

Feeling the heat rush to his face, he turned away, intending to give you privacy, but his eyes landed on the desk. Scattered among your journals were several small, detailed sketches you must have done while confined to your room, and without pause, he snatched one up as the world begun to spin around him violently, there sketched marked with the perfect, agonizing detail was the distinct ‘Mark of the Moth’—the same horrifying sigil permanently inked into his demonic skin, which he knew you could not possibly have seen for he was the only one that bore this—a marking that symbolized his fathers claim and legacy.

All at once, his whole world creaked open and shattered with a single breath, as the illusion of safety, the fragile hope of acceptance, tore apart, slipping away with any hope he had promised himself in the exchange of words he thought were genuine. When you asked if he was okay, your nightgown slipped from your shoulder, exposing the soft skin he desperately desired. Your scent was too much—entirely too overwhelming—causing his control to lurch. For a second, His Shrouded form wavered, his red eyes searing through your mask of humanity, and he snatched the sketch, clutching the damning proof.

“I can’t do this—” he choked out, the words cruel with complete panic, and he fled, pushing past you and slamming the door shut, leaving you alone once more.

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Part Three<- (coming soon)

GILDED BLOOD MASTERLIST<-

[maudie-duan]

My friend!! @hswritingficrec I miss you! 🥹 I've been meaning to check in on you!! How are you!?Thanks for sharing!! You're such a supporter and I appreciate you!! ✨🫶🏽

[hswritingficrec]

I’m doing good. How are you? And I’ll always reblog because your stories are just THAT GOOD

[1d1195]

Beautiful Enough

Part VIII

Read Beautiful Enough here | ~4.7k words

From Me/Warnings: smut and not much else 😉

Summary: “Do you want to stop?” He asked softly.

She shook her head. “No… but I’m just—”

“I don’t want you t’think, Beautiful. Okay?”

Harry’s lips felt like hot chocolate that cooled off enough to drink without burning her throat. Her heart pounded so hard she thought Harry would be able to feel it through his own chest. His hands were cupped around her face, his fingers slid through the soft tendrils of her hair that curled around her cheeks.

Everything was warm. The way he felt, how his lips tasted, and the way her blood flowed from her heart to her extremities. Her face, her mind, everything felt warm. Harry was warm. So, so warm. The kiss lasted for several delicious moments. She never wanted it to end. If Harry could kiss her on that dance floor for the rest of her life, she would have accepted such a wonderful fate.

“Mm,” he moaned quietly against her mouth as he softly brushed his lips between her over and over. “Y’taste so much sweeter than I thought y’would, Beautiful,” he whispered against her cheek breathing for a moment as he carefully dotted soft kisses across her jaw. He nosed at her hairline and kissed her temple. He dropped one arm to encircle her waist again and he swayed gently in time to the music. “M’afraid if I kiss y’anymore I won’t stop and m’not sure y’brother and sister-in-law would appreciate it.”

“I beg to differ,” she giggled and watched as Mia was practically sprinting over to them. Harry chuckled, stole the tickets, index card and envelope back from her and tucked it safely into his jacket pocket once more.

“Hi guys,” Mia greeted her eyes darted between the two of them rapidly. A smile on her lips as Harry wrapped his arm around her back again, held her other hand in his as he moved to the music.

“Hi Mia,” Harry laughed. Elijah strolled behind his wife and rolled his eyes at her.

“You could let them have a minute, love,” he said softly as he approached. He placed a hand on her back and kissed the side of her head.

“Do you have something to share?” Mia asked excitedly.

Harry smirked and glanced down slightly at the pretty girl in his arms. Her cheeks turned cranberry pink, and she smiled shyly. “I’m going to Ireland next summer.”

“Oh?” Mia beamed. “Alone?!”

“No, I’ll have an escort,” she rested her cheek on the front of Harry’s shoulder. He squeezed around her waist and kissed the top of her hairline on her forehead.

“Respectfully, please get out of here,” Mia begged. “I don’t want to see you until brunch tomorrow.”

“Mia, it’s still like an hour until the reception is over and there’s the afterparty and I’m a bridesmaid and the sister of the groom—”

“And we’re telling you to get out of here,” Elijah stated. “Please. You’ve done more than enough, and we love you so much. You’ve suffered for enough today on our behalf, go enjoy your night,” he pulled Mia away who was giddily looking over her shoulder at Harry and his pretty girl.

Biting the inside of her lip, she glanced up at Harry. “Do you want to get out of here?”

He grinned.

*

“Can you help me with the bobby pins?” She asked quietly as they got to their room. He helped her with the straps of her shoes and then untied his own.

He finished shrugging out of his suit jacket and stepped behind her. Harry’s fingers slid from the hairline at her neck into the bun that looked like a bouquet. Carefully he plucked the pins from her hair, hoping not to pull or tug on her pretty strands of hair. “Sorry, love,” he hummed quietly while he released her hair from the bun.

“I’m nervous,” she stated. There was no use lying to him. Harry would read her like an open book. But it helped that she couldn’t see his face when she said it.

He chuckled from behind her. “S’absolutely nothing t’be nervous about, kitten,” he kissed the curve of her neck, right where it met her shoulder. “M’so happy t’have y’alone. You’re so pretty. I wanted you t’myself all night.”

“I know, but there’s like… the whole night in front of us… and I don’t want to ruin this before it starts.”

Harry frowned, turned her by her hips and cupped her face again. “Y’couldn’t ruin a thing, Beautiful. M’not sure what exactly is happening in that pretty mind of yours, but m’very happy t’have you. Finally. Officially,” he brushed his thumbs across his cheeks. “The last thing I want is for you t’be nervous. So we could watch a movie and go t’sleep tonight. That would be perfectly fine with me.”

“So, you don’t want to have sex with me?” She asked quietly. There was a small smile on her lips, a teasing tone in her voice.

He snorted, kissed her softly on the lips, and then pinched her hips. “No, you silly, beautiful, insane, woman,” he released the last bobby pin from the back of her head and pulled the elastic from the bun. “I’ve wanted t’have sex with you since I walked into your apartment for the first time.”

She blushed and glanced away from him. “Really?”

“God, beautiful. Yes, really. Where do I start?” He murmured. “The pretty skin, the soft hair, the eyes, your lips,” he sounded so thoughtful as he spoke, his thumb brushed across her lower lip. “I dream ‘bout making y’feel good.” She bit the inside of her cheek. She felt the blood rush to her face. “Y’know y’blush the same color as a pink cranberry?” His voice sounded far away as his thumbs moved over her cheeks. “Didn’t know it was a color until you. Now s’my favorite color; I don’t like blue anymore. I’ve meant to tell you a hundred times. I didn’t know till y’told me and then it jus’ made so much sense. You know? Like it was always m’favorite, I jus’ needed you to tell me,” his voice was so soft, almost far away as he explained. His fingers trailing along her face again. His eyes studied hers as he watched her. “Can I make y’feel good, kitten?”

She nodded eagerly. “Please,” she whispered.

Harry pressed his lips against her mouth quickly, kissed her deeply, his tongue tracing her lips. He tasted like champagne which was fitting because he made her feel bubbly and lightheaded. “God y’taste good,” he spoke like he was speaking to himself. She whimpered softly as he kissed along her throat. He hummed appreciatively at the sound. “Mm,” he sighed.

“That feels really nice,” she told him.

He smirked against her skin. “Good.”

“Can we—”

“Baby,” he cupped her jaw gently and brushed his thumb across her lips again. “Whatever y’want from me, y’can have. Y’don’t have t’ask.”

“I-I think I should. I feel… I feel like you won’t like what I would do if I don’t ask.”

He frowned; his brows pinched together in confusion. Harry really didn’t see how that was possible. What was she going to ask? Could she take her clothes off? Could she take his clothes off? Could he make her come faster? All of that seemed like really great things to ask… what was the worst that—

“Should we turn the lights off?”

Oh.

Fuck.

Harry truly forgot that no one aside from some eighteen-year-old boy made her feel beautiful and fucking cherished. “No,” he shook his head definitively. “I’ll dim them, but I want t’see you. Every inch of you,” he stated and scooped her up as if she weighed nothing more than a pillow. She nearly lost her balance as she threw her arms around his neck to steady her. He brought her to bed. Gently he put her directly in the middle of the mattress. He knelt beside her, cupped her face and gazed so intently into her eyes she thought she was going to explode.

“M’gonna kiss and lick every bit of your skin,” he warned. “And Beautiful, I swear,” his voice was thick with promise. “I’ll fuck you in any position y’want whenever y’want, but I want t’watch your pretty self come all over m’cock for this first time,” he stated sincerely. His voice didn’t waver as he spoke and his stare didn’t break from hers. “So m’gonna lay y’back, now, and make y’feel good… okay?”

She swallowed hard. The sweetness and sexiness dripped in his voice, and it seemed completely unfair that he could make the ache between her thighs worsen and ease the mean thoughts she had toward herself. But she could hardly speak.

“Do you want to stop?” He asked softly.

She shook her head. “No… but I’m just—”

“I don’t want you t’think, Beautiful. Okay?” He stepped away from the bed and turned off the overhead light. Quickly, he switched on the bedside lamps before he loosened the tie around his neck and pulled the hem of his shirt from his pants.

“Can I?” She asked, moving to her knees and her fingers started at his collar to fiddle with the buttons.

“Y’can do whatever y’want t’me, kitten. Yeah?” He put his hands on her hips and drew small circles on her dress with his thumbs against the fabric. Her hands worked down the front of the button down quickly. He still had a thin T-shirt underneath. She bit her lip.

“I know it’s nothing I haven’t seen before because of the running and stuff, but this is different. It’s more now,” she whispered. “What if you look at me differently and don’t think I’m pretty like the rest—”

Harry swiftly grabbed her wrist and pressed her hand to the front of his pants. An impressively long, hard length was beneath her fingertips. Her breath and voice caught in her throat. “Don’t even start, Beautiful,” he murmured and gave her wrist a gentle squeeze.

“I-I didn’t know that—”

“That y’get me impossibly hard?” He asked and pressed himself into her hand a little more. His eyelids lowered over his pupils. Like he was already feeling the effects of her hand awkwardly pressing against his dick. “Y’do, kitten. M’crazy for you. In work meetings, at the gym, the middle of the cereal aisle, the shower,” he shook his head in disbelief. “M’a mess over you and I’ve been dreaming ‘bout m’cock buried inside your pretty body until your legs shake,” he brushed his mouth over her lips again. “You’re perfect,” he said reassuringly.

“I’m scared,” she whispered, eyes closed, her lips against his.

He shook his head. “Please don’t be. M’already in love with you. Y’have the prettiest body and I want t’see you and make sure you know how beautiful you are. Please, kitten?” He asked softly. She sucked the inside of her cheek and nodded after a moment longer of hesitation. “You’re sure?” He asked. “Y’can say no if y’don’t want to, but not because you’re scared.”

“Well, I’m still a little scared,” she joked a little more lightheartedly. “You felt way too big to fit inside me.”

He chuckled, shook his head at her. “I’ll make it work,” he assured her and kissed her again.

For several moments he continued kissing her. His lips and tongue working perfectly against hers. “Can I take y’dress off?” He asked between breathless kisses. She nodded quickly and his hands worked blindly behind her to unzip her from the pretty blue fabric. His fingers felt like little bolts of lightning burning her skin in a delicious way as he continued kissing her. “I don’t want t’stop kissing you,” he warned her.

Her hands moved to his face, and she clung to him as he carefully moved the straps off her shoulders and brushed down her arms. It revealed the strapless bra she had beneath the dress and Harry stopped kissing her for a moment. “You’re stunning, y’know that?” He asked.

Her face warmed at the compliment, and he helped her shed her dress. He revealed the shapewear on the lower half of her body, and she felt a wave of embarrassment wash over her. “Sorry,” she mumbled.

“For what?”

“The really un-sexy shapewear.”

He tilted his head at her and paused for less than a moment. “Honestly, Beautiful, I can’t think of anything much sexier than something hugging every bit of y’pretty body—quite jealous of it, t’be fair.”

It was truly unfathomable how he could make all her deepest insecurities feel like absolutely nothing. “Oh.”

“Please stop thinking so hard, my love,” he brushed the back of his finger along her cheek.

Her heart stuttered. “Okay,” she agreed unable to think of much anything else. Harry looped his fingers into the band and helped her wiggle out of her undergarments. He didn’t laugh or make her feel any worse about how ridiculous she felt trying to shimmy out of the tight fabric.

“Y’should be in a museum,” he mumbled as he pulled away from her body. Slowly he inspected her, drinking her in like he was dying of thirst, and she was the only water in sight. He unclipped his belt, undid the button and zipper of his pants. Even the way he shimmied out of his pants was sexy. There was no way he could be that hot, like her, and not be a figment of her imagination.

Once his pants were on the floor, her gaze dropped to the bulge that strained against his underwear.  There was no way that was going to fit in her. It looked bigger than what she felt. How was that possible? She did her best not to ogle but it was next to impossible. Especially when he finally slipped the white T-shirt over his head leaving him almost entirely naked. The toned muscles in his stomach flexed with every movement. She was used to his stomach and biceps. But his thighs, the dips she could see at his hips, even his calves made her blush. He was so sexy it was overwhelming.

Fortunately, before she could start drooling and subsequently embarrass herself, Harry moved back toward her. He grabbed her leg at the bottom of her shin and lifted her foot. He kissed the bone on the inside of her ankle and then dragged his lips up the inside of her calf. “You’re pure artwork.”

Her heart felt like it was going to burst out of her chest, the blood pumping loudly through her whole body, but especially in her ears. He wasn’t real. Not really. This wasn’t happening to her, right? His lips touched the inside of her knee, and he brought her leg back to the mattress. He shifted forward more, knelt between her legs, and then his eyes dropped to hers. “Can I make y’feel good, Beautiful?” He asked.

She nodded. “Yes,” she whispered.

He grinned almost wickedly. Harry laid on his stomach, his arms hooking beneath her thighs and almost looping back around to spread her thighs thoroughly apart. Her underwear was the only thing stopping him from the full display.

Despite the insecurities and all the negative thoughts in her head, she really wanted his mouth on her. She wiggled ever so slightly, trying to edge closer to his lips. He moaned quietly. “M’getting there, baby,” he promised. “Jus’ want t’savor this, okay?” She took a deep breath, and he dipped his head to press a wet kiss to the inside of her thigh. His head turned in and the thought of how she smelled or tasted crossed her mind and she started to worry. Harry sensed it almost immediately. “Stop thinking, Beautiful,” his voice was muffled by the soft skin of her thigh.

“But—”

“Y’smell so good,” he promised and pressed his mouth, warm and sinful, to the outside of her underwear instantly soaking it from the outside (and making it so she soaked them from the inside as well). She arched almost instantly toward him again. “I promise—jus’ turn your pretty brain off, kitten.”

It was impossible to think about anything with his mouth on her underwear. “If y’want me t’stop, baby, jus’ say so. M’gonna pull these pretty panties to the side, okay?”

His finger hooked around the width, his knuckle brushing against her clit and he pushed it aside. “Beautiful,” his breath was warm against her core, which seemed impossible as well because she was so fucking hot, she thought she was going to spontaneously combust. Before she had time to think any longer about all the issues with her body, Harry’s tongue was parting her lips. He circled her clit with the tip of his tongue, slid it lower and dipped it into her entrance. “Oh my God,” she croaked.

“That’s it, Beautiful,” he groaned against her. His mouth practically suctioned between her thighs. His hands groped at her hips then moved down toward her butt. Every so carefully, he lifted her waist up to create an earth-shatteringly better angle. “So good, baby,” he licked, sucked, and circled more. “I’ve wanted you for so long. This is so good,” he placed her hips back on the mattress and he pulled her panties down her thighs so quickly she wasn’t sure she could have counted the seconds between his lips leaving her body and his mouth coming back to her.

As he licked her, his hands slid up the length of her torso; his fingers played with the edges of her bra. Like this was something he did all the time, and it was the only thing he was meant to do with his life. “Can I take this off too?” He asked.

She nodded quickly. “Anything you want,” she whimpered. As long as he kept his mouth on her body. As long as he kept tracing her clit with his tongue. As long as his fingers kept touching her softly, hotly, all of it. As long as he was there.

He chuckled, slid his fingers behind her back and unhooked her bra quickly. There was the slightest pause as his eyes roamed over her leisurely. “Kitten,” he murmured quietly. He shook his head, disbelief coloring his pretty face. “I think your brain and personality makes you the prettiest woman I’ve ever met, but your body is so fucking beautiful,” the admiration was thick in his voice. His eyes scanning her from head to toe. She was completely exposed and naked. There was enough light that she couldn’t hide and even if she could, she wasn’t sure she wanted to. Harry’s thoughtful, heated gaze made her feel downright precious.

He went back to his previous position, his mouth practically devouring her whole. His tongue was everywhere: nearly thrusting in and out of her, licking and parting her folds so gently and expertly, and of course tracing her clit like it was the only thing that mattered. But after a moment that may have been two seconds or two days (she couldn’t tell, it felt too good), he brought one hand to join his mouth in the fray of the wet mess she was making along with his saliva. “Can I?” He asked politely, his middle finger teasing her entrance after his tongue circled the very same spot.

She nodded quickly, breathlessly. “Yes. Please.”

He smiled. Due to everything being a soaking wet mess between her thighs, his finger slid into her effortlessly. He moaned before she did. It felt so good, she already felt full. Having felt it herself, she knew his finger wasn’t even a fraction the size of his dick. Good God, she was fucked.

“God, Beautiful, you’re so hot. Give me your hand,” he ordered. His hand not actively fucking her into euphoric delirium, reached for hers and he squeezed her fingers. He pressed the back of her palm to her thigh, holding her legs wider apart so he had ample room. Her other hand fell to the top of his head. He moaned again. “Good,” his voice sounded rough. Like he was straining to keep his composure.

She knew the feeling.

Her clit felt achy for relief despite the fact he hadn’t stopped sucking and tracing it over and over with his tongue. It felt so good. Almost too good. Harry hadn’t even gotten fully naked yet. It all seemed so unfair, but her brain wasn’t working at full speed. She couldn’t get out a word because it felt like her vocal cords were directly connected to the motion of Harry’s finger thrusting into her and curling just so to make the part of her mind in charge of speech completely numb. Was she gasping? Maybe. Did she moan his name? Probably. But she couldn’t be sure because his tongue lapping at her clit was clearly connected to the part of her brain in charge of hearing.

“Jus’ come, kitten, want it so bad,” he murmured.

It had been months since she had an orgasm during foreplay or sex or anything. And several years since someone else made her do it on his own. So maybe Harry’s quiet plead wouldn’t work the next time this happened (and she very much planned on there being many times after) but it did work. The coil that had been twisting in circles in the pit of her stomach, the one that made her clit feel achy, and her walls practically vibrate with need, pulled metaphorically at all the parts of her that were full of want and desire and warmth and it snapped something fierce.

The heat rushed over her. Everything felt warm and came in waves. She could feel herself pulsing around Harry’s finger still thrusting her through the pleasure. He moaned while she gasped, her body arching more toward his mouth. She gripped the comforter tightly between her fingers and wrapped her other hand in his hair holding it in place to make the euphoria last for longer. “Oh fuck,” she cried. Harry made a satisfied noise, somewhere between a grunt and a growl.

“Beautiful,” he murmured thoughtfully. “Absolutely beautiful.” Slowly he pulled his finger away, rubbing softly as he did to ease the pressure and release of leaving her body. He took his other hand and cupped the side of her face. “Hi,” he hummed, his nose brushing against her face as he hovered over her.

She blushed. “Hi.”

“Was that okay?” He asked kissing her forehead. His lips lingered against her skin for a moment. Then he leaned back a bit to watch her and check that she really was okay.

She nodded. “I’d say so,” she was practically breathless.

He smirked, his cheeks turning the lightest shade of pink. “You’re gorgeous,” he reminded her.

She flushed as well. “That was the best orgasm I’ve ever had.”

“Have to tell Joe,” he winked and moved away from her to grab something from his suitcase.

She shook her head, a smile toying on her lips. “I feel like mush.”

He chuckled quietly. “You’re being very kind, Beautiful.”

“No, I don’t think so. I… Can I return the favor?”

“Oh, I uh…” he looked away awkwardly before smiling at her. “Y’have t’give me a minute. I sort of—” He scratched his head nervously and shrugged as he watched her.

Her brain was only working at a fraction of it’s normal capacity so her filter was gone. “Did you…?” she gaped at him, her eyes dropping to his underwear where the gray fabric was without question wet and dark. “From—”

“Did I come from licking your very sweet, pretty pussy?” He asked with a shy smile. “Yeah, kitten. I did.”

Her heart skipped a beat. “Oh,” she flushed more.

“Sorry,” he cupped her face, leaning over the bed to kiss her again. “Y’tasted so good, smelled so good, and y’were making the prettiest noises,” he took a deep breath like he was trying to stop himself from coming again. “Couldn’t help it,” he admitted sheepishly. She bit the inside of her lip, and he groaned. “Don’t bite your lip, kitten, you’re not helping my cause. M’gonna embarrass myself further.”

She shook her head. “No, no way.”

“S’not embarrassing?” It sounded rhetorical the way he said it.

“No,” she repeated.

“Are you happy y’did that, Beautiful? S’make y’feel good t’know how much y’unravel me?” He asked and slid his boxers off.

It took every remaining ounce of her brain power to keep herself from dropping her gaze immediately to the already half-hard dick. “Yes,” her voice was air.

“Good.”

He cupped the back of her neck, tilting her head up slightly as he kissed her so deeply, she felt it all the way to her toes. She was certain that with the right amount of time, Harry could kiss her until she orgasmed. His hands were all over her body. She kissed him back, grabbing at his very warm, tattooed, perfect body. He knelt on the bed again while still kissing her, hovering over her legs. His hard length pressing against her body. It seemed much too big, and she wasn’t sure she could do this, but she was very willing to try.

He leaned back a bit and rolled a condom down his dick. “M’really hoping y’weren’t lying that y’enjoy unraveling me,” he cocked an eyebrow at her. “Cause m’going t’embarrass myself quite a lot, Beautiful. I felt how nice you were around m’finger. M’gonna burst with y’wrapped around m’cock.” She bit the inside of her lip and he groaned. “Kitten,” he pleaded. “Please.”

She smiled softly and nodded. “I do like it,” she assured him.

“Good,” he repeated. Then he settled between her legs and lined himself up. He rubbed the head of his dick against her folds, circled her clit and a moan slipped through her lips. Harry answered it with another groan. Then slowly, he pushed himself inside her.

Because she was post-orgasm she was still thoroughly soaked so there wasn’t a lot of difficulty sliding in. However, he still stretched her beyond belief. Her body arched toward him so much that basically her feet were planted on the mattress so she could meet his thrusts. Which was great for Harry to slip his arm behind her and pump into her. “Oh fuck, Beautiful, I love you so much,” he groaned. His other hand slid between them and his fingers circled her clit.

“Fuck,” she whispered.

“Perfect, kitten. You’re so perfect,” he praised. Her body felt like heaven. Surely this wasn’t real. All that time he spent saying she was unreal—telling Niall she was imaginary and bantering with her about what percentage he believed she actually existed—was the truth. She couldn’t be real. It couldn’t feel this good. She couldn’t be all his and be so perfect, beautiful, sexy, hot, talented, adorable, and every other adjective that his blissed-out mind couldn’t fully form.

Her body clenched against his dick and he grunted again through the steady pumps. How could anyone not want to look at her? How could anyone take their eyes off her while they had her like this? She was so fucking perfect. “Oh God, love please.”

“Harry,” she croaked.

He was done. There wasn’t anything he could do but shake and shudder. His even tempo was gone, and he was falling on top of her as he finished. His breath was as shaky as he felt. “Did you come?” He asked breathlessly.

She cleared her throat, her fingers unclenching from his hair and skin. “Like a little while ago? You were there, remember?” She teased.

He rolled his eyes. “I meant jus’ now,” he pinched her hip and kissed along her hairline.

“Oh, no. But—”

“That simply won’t do, kitten,” he tutted.

She laughed softly. “Harry, honestly I don’t know if I’m full recovered—”

“I don’t care,” he murmured and kissed along her body. “Again,” he stated. A promise. “S’never going t’be enough for you. I have so much t’make up for you, s’jus’ let me do it,” he offered and opened her thighs apart again.

“You cannot be real. Twelve percent. Maybe.”

He chuckled. “S’enough, Beautiful. Jus’ enough.”

--

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[maudie-duan]

Part One<-

Summary: "The sight of him alone was powerful; his unadorned chest glistening in your sight became a sweeping assault of your senses that kindled a devastatingly hot flame pooling deep in the boom of your belly..."

A/N: Sorry, not sorry, for the length of this bad boy!! had to get the ball rolling hope you guys enjoy! Thanks again for all the love you've shown. ✨🫶🏽

Word Count: 8.3k

Warning: Strong Sexual Tension, Sexual Incubus Encounter. Mentions of Blood.

Sleep, they say, is not merely the surrender of the mind into perfect stillness; nor is it solely rest. It is the opening of our innermost gate—the sacred portal through which our most vulnerable spirits slip away, bearing with them the whispers of otherworldly wisdom. There, on the cusp between light and shadow, we forsake ourselves, becoming a willing sacrifice to the great unknown, with our fate entrusted to forces beyond our knowing. Is it faith that compels you to pray amidst the darkness, hoping that light shall again prevail in a realm where illumination is so seldom granted? Nevertheless, when night offers the darkness, reeling us in entirely, we close our eyes with a silent resolve, whispering our prayers, never knowing what dreams may come…

The day’s deep exhaustion had ultimately claimed you, only to dissolve into complete terror when the soft creak of the heavy mahogany door jolted you awake. In a beat of your resting heart, the weariness that had finally overtaken you disappeared, taking with it your gentle surrender to a bed you couldn't quite call your own, violently shattering your peaceful sleep and bringing along a rabbit heartbeat. 

Your eyes jolted open as the noise of the door closing tore through your mind like glass breaking, the sound harsh and commanding—a hefty latch like the final thud of a vault sealing its contents inside. That was when your body began to go numb as a slow preternatural weight loomed over you, and you turned onto your back, your muscles stiffening, locking you in place, as a chilling current ran down your spine.

Every time you dared to move, the weight pressed you deeper into the mattress, holding you captive as the oppressive atmosphere seemed to drain the oxygen from the room, leaving a foul taste of dread on your tongue and bringing with it a phantom sensation of terror echoing in your chest. The sheer effort to breathe felt like fighting for your life as you croaked out each breath. Your entire body was not only paralyzed but also pained by the tightening knot of panic in your gut.

You felt him before you saw him; the dim light casting his shadow across the ceiling, and your eyes stayed fixed, your panic rising as you watched the shadow move. There in the doorway, a tall figure silhouetted the frame, yet you knew it was him—knew it was Harry. Of course, it was him, but something about his form was too blunt, too immense, and his quiet stride across the Persian rug too predatory to be the weary man who had fled the hall mere hours before… How long had you been asleep? Had it been hours or mere minutes? Suddenly, you felt confused, your unfamiliar surroundings only adding to the chaos building behind your mind’s eye as you struggled to make sense of it all. 

His presence seemed to shift the air around him into something cold and brittle, a sudden charge of static energy flowing through the space that raised the tiny hairs along your arms, hinting at something more sinister. Despite the darkness, your eyes caught the deep green of his eyes, which seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it, suggesting a vast, terrifying depth within, bringing with it the sweeping fear that plunged through your body like a brutal awakening. 

You knew this was coming, so what were you most afraid of? Was it the fear of the unknown, or was it the fear of the physical act you were about to endure? Was this fear that was paralyzing you in place, or was it him?

Because now, it wasn’t the pain you feared; it was the complete surrender of yourself to this strange, unknowable man, a sacrifice that felt less like duty and more like your very spirit being consumed—a stripping away of the precious inner life you had so carefully protected. Yet, at the height of the fear, your body squirmed at the thought of his very touch—the same touch that had shed light on a knowing you so desperately wanted to hide, from yourself, and now from him. 

The sight of him was a haunting reminder of duty, yet desire and fear rendered you momentarily helpless, a passive surrender to the inevitable. When he paused at the foot of the bed, his back turned to the soft glow of the light, his green eyes swallowed the shadowed darkness—two pits of mesmerizing torment that seemed to trap and hold every flicker of your gaze.

 Each movement he made was a willful declaration of his nature, a private performance designed solely for your eyes, each motion becoming a ritual of seduction. He approached with a quiet confidence that both captivated and aroused your fickle thoughts as his gaze held yours effortlessly. You watch the slow unbuttoning of his shirt, your longing shaping itself into an exquisite preface to the rising fire within you, burning to the surface as your eyes ventured down his body. 

When he reached for the collar of his shirt and gave it a temperate tug, each button yielded with a hushed snap, your throat seizing as the delicate punctuation cut through the oppressive silence. As his toned chest revealed itself, the tension loomed near, stretching thin like a taut wire across your vision, evoking the quiet ache of want tucked behind your ribs. 

The scene was utterly bewildering, a sensuous chaos of want and need intertwined so tightly that rational understanding became almost impossible. What in that moment was right from wrong, or good versus evil, when your heart’s true desire was drowning beneath the layers of fear and the intoxicating thrill of conquest? As you watched, shadows danced along the contours of his strong, elongated fingers, tracing the bare, sculpted planes of his chest, each movement both commanding and tender. He watched unwaveringly, and beneath his gaze, you felt shame rise and mingle with the longing that rippled across your skin in heated waves, burning like fire and igniting a tumultuous, forbidden sensation. 

This was the moment when the paralysis of fear began its slow, treacherous shift into something disgraceful, leaving you consequently mesmerized by the dark, silky sheen of his skin stretched tightly over the hard structure of his ribs and toned abdomen. Here was your first glimpse of a man, his beauty twisting into a masculine magnificence so striking it stole your breath away. 

The urge was a silent plea, growing desperate with each fleeting breath, and tightening your lungs as the gnawing ache of need climbed from your bones, gathering with it the sound of your booming heart pounding in your ears, as the desire blossomed into a wild, untamed thing. As the feeling stirred deep inside you, a heavy, familiar pulse thickened between your legs—the illicit strain betrayed the duty-bound terror you should have felt, slowly melting into an undomesticated, undeniable yearning that filled the air, thick and sweet—a feast the creature before you seemed to inhale deeply. His very presence swelled, becoming more substantial, filling the room’s confines until the granite walls themselves seemed to press inward.

The sight of him alone was powerful; his unadorned chest glistening in your sight became a sweeping assault of your senses that kindled a devastatingly hot flame pooling deep in the boom of your belly. Every muscle in your body only tensed under his silent focus as you realized the slow, intentional reveal of his body was an act of mastery he wanted you to consume, to pull all the power from the room, and from you. 

When he finally drew nearer, crossing the short distance in two noiseless strides, his hand reached out to the heavy velvet comforter—your last refuge of modesty—and ripped it down, casting it aside as if it weighed nothing, exposing your motionless body to the cold air. Your eyes, wide and pleading, were met only with the unnerving, triumphant stillness of his face—his green eyes black, reflecting an empty depth that gave nothing away. 

His dark gaze studied your form beneath the delicate, sheer fabric of your nightgown, as a low, velvety voice whispered, “Do you understand what is expected of you?” The words, smooth yet commanding, carried the weight of a master’s authority, fitted only for a husband bound by possession. 

A slow tremor ran down your spine as you fought to speak, but to your deepest horror, your voice was trapped. The more you tried to speak, the louder it echoed in your mind, and that’s when tears began to well up as you managed a timid nod—the acknowledgment of your fate, indicating you could no longer fight. The sound of your own heartbeat, a frantic, rapid drum, soon became the only noise in the universe—an uncontrollable sound of pure panic that seemed loud enough to rouse the staff. He leaned in close, his breath warm and cloying, carrying a scent of ancient spice and acridness, which felt entirely unorthodox—like burnt sugar and raw iron—that crawled across your skin.

“Ahhh...” he gasped, as a dark delight flickered across his face. “Listen to the rhythm of your heart…” he whispered, closing his eyes and turning his head toward the sound. “Such music to my ears. That, my dear, is fear… and I’m starving for the fear, darling.”

His words only made your heart pounded more fiercely, as his voice settled over you like honey—sweet, yet infused with a wicked curl, each one dripping with a nectarous poison, confirmation that your fear was his nourishment, as the sinister satisfaction glinting in his eyes abruptly dissolved the last traces of the gentleman you thought you knew, revealing instead the tantalizing truth of a predator lurking beneath.

His gaze dropped to the hem of your gown, his hand grasping a handful of material, and you held your breath, willing your heart to quiet as he slowly raised your gown with an agonizing control that had you gasping as he uttered out the words “Good Girl,” smoothly revealing the length of your legs, and with impossible strength, he spread your thighs, leaving an ache of pain along the inside of your tender flesh. 

His heated hand lingered at your mid-thigh, a slow smile revealing too many teeth as his gaze fixated on your bare skin. “Such supple flesh,” he purred, the compliment a damning objectification that stripped away all human decency. 

As his fingers lingered upon your inner thigh, a tremor coursed through you, igniting a fiery suspense of what was to come. Though a violent cry within urged you to resist, to draw your limbs together in defense, his will overpowered your own, effortlessly parting your thighs with an alarming grace. The act of violation was sealed before it even began; his presence alone claiming you as his touch started its slow ascent, tracing the path up your thigh and toward your yearning core, each movement a testament to his dominance. He had you, the way he was orchestrating your submission as though you were but a vessel in twilight, a ritualistic dance that rendered you utterly powerless beneath his spell.

Then his fingers pressed into your warm center, gliding up your silken folds, unleashing a cascade of sensations that mystified your entire being, rushing your vision with streaks of electric vibrance—sweeping away every rational thought, and all that remained was his touch, which seemed to penetrate your thoughts like a psychic invasion, as though he had penetrated the very depths of your mind, and knew all your hearts longing. 

In that instant, pleasure surged forth, momentarily eclipsing the terror, transforming it into an irresistible tide of curious ecstasy. All the while, his flawless facade began to wane, his eyes flaring, consumed in a sudden blaze of scarlet—a fiery ember, smoldering like rubies, narrowing with a predatory focus.

And like a mirage, ink began to emerge upon his skin—demonic markings, tales of which had only been spoken in hushed whispers, unfurled beneath the surface, darkening and stirring across his magnificent chest. This hideous yet exquisite tapestry captivated you—a blend of beauty and fear—as it seemed to writhe and pulse with an ancient power, a force you were blissfully unaware of.

The vision before you was utterly mesmerizing, trapping your gaze with an intoxicating pull. It dawned upon you that this was no mere man, but a manifestation of a demon, its essence entwining itself with your very soul, consuming the energy of your dread. Yet, it was not the darkness that provoked your fear now; instead, it was the reflection of your own desire, for in that moment, he was beautiful, and as you observed the marking etched upon his chest, rising and falling with each labored breath, you lay there captivated by the majestic moth inked into his skin—an enchanting field of ink that seemed to whisper of its terrible descent, that only spurred the growing pleasure building between your legs, the growing want.

The first moan, torn from your throat, was met with a savage growl as two small horns briefly broke the taut skin above his brow. Yet, before you could fully comprehend the beast, he was transforming back. His other hand found the nape of your neck, drawing you closer, only intensifying his touch that elicited the first agonizing and uncontrolled sound of pleasure, a sensation both foreign and exhilarating, making the blood in your veins sing for more. 

And though your continued moans were met with a feral indifference, you complied, absorbing his deep, guttural growls that reverberated through his chest like a blade slicing through flesh—a sound drenched in pure, animalistic desire. That’s when the sharp pressure against his flawless hairline revealed the budding of a small, wicked horn, then the other, this time remaining in place, as his fingers worked toward your entrance, releasing the startling duality of pain and unexpected pleasure that fractured your very being, rendering you utterly subject to his will. His fingers seemed to move with a mastery of knowledge, seeking the ultimate breach of your control, pressing deeply into the rising, nearly welcoming heat between your thighs, as he discovered the relentless rhythm that compelled your body to respond.

But as pleasure swelled to a spellbinding climax, a hand seized your throat, stifling the cry that teetered on the brink of release, and he leaned in, commanding you to part your lips, as his fingers delved past your slick opening, bringing with it a blunt invasion of pain and pleasure that only seemed to silence your inner rebellion further. “Open your mouth,” he urged, his voice transforming into a layered hiss of whispers that scraped against your senses—a chilling echo from a shadowed abyss as you struggled, yet the ecstasy incited by his touch became a cruel, persuasive force, compelling your body to obey.

You opened your lips with a broken whimper, and he leaned in, not for a kiss but to offer up a final, horrifying communion. From the depths of his mouth, glistening with a dark, wet sheen, a large, black-winged moth emerged, its plump, slick body. Its silent movement was an unspeakable horror, its antennae twitching towards your face like dark, living probes seeking purchase as the scent of dust and rot preceded it—[Harry’s eyes just as black and lifeless as the moth staring back at you.

Every ounce of fight within you sought to recoil, to seal your lips in a desperate act of defiance, to unleash a wordless cry of utter rejection. Yet the intertwining of terror and a sharp, sickening pleasure converged within you, manifesting as a silent scream as the moth advanced. Its segmented legs dragged tantalizingly across your lips, its body pressing insistently against your teeth, forcing its way into your mouth as its dry, foul head budded against your tongue, and just as your jaw hinged open with a rancid, painful click, a distant voice began to call to you, echoing through the haze of your fear and confusion.

Agnus’ voice called out as you were torn from the nightmare by a sensation utterly different: the feather-light, gentle touch of a human hand on your shoulder. Your body was sweaty and trembling, the sheets tangled around your legs, as the phantom chill of a touch radiated from your thighs. The enormous bed was empty, but the shrill taste of fear was heavy on your tongue, and the ghost of the moth still felt like a disturbing flutter clinging to your mouth. 

A gasp shuddered from your mouth, your eyes snapping open to the immediate, nearly recognizable solace of the room. Yet, you could not reconcile the velvet curtains and the cool, damp air with the monstrous heat that had been pressed against you moments before.

And as your breath hitched, you choked back a wet sound that you hastily smothered behind your trembling hand. When your eyes began to focus, you didn’t dare speak, not only because the muscles in your jaw were stiff and locked, but out of fear that your lips still carried the phantom slickness of the intruder. Somehow, you only managed to turn your neck just enough to face the source of comfort. There was Agnus, standing above you, now an island of safety as the severe blackness of the inked moth at the center of Harry’s chest flickered in your mind, staining your eyesight as her Irish features came into focus and softened into an expression of genuine concern.

“Oh, my dear, there, there…let me help you,” she whispered, her voice a soothing hum that couldn’t quite extinguish the memory of the honeyed voice that whispered, “I’m starving for the fear.” When she lowered her hand from your shoulder, the immediate loss of that small, grounding pressure made the world around you swim violently in your vision. 

“Just checking in on you, love. Do forgive me if I frightened you—sure I didn’t mean to, truly. It’s morning now, and Mr. Styles sent me to see how you’re faring. But now I can see you’re having a bit of a struggle. It must be the new surroundings, but it’ll pass, ma’am. It always does.”

And as your gaze quickly swept to his side of the bed, the sudden realization dawned on you that he never came... “He had never come,” you repeated in your frantic mind. The thought was a desperately needed breath to the ordinary reality settling over you. If he hadn’t come, then the figure—the beautiful, monstrous figure who had pinned you with those eyes of fire and a mouth full of living dread—was in fact not Harry. Yet, the relief was only a fragile barrier against the flooding tide of details that swiftly overtook your thoughts—the burning touch, the scarlet flicker of his eyes, the violation, and the unimaginable horror of the living, squirming moth were not the act of any human, as the inked moth flashed across your mind’s eye in fragments. 

That marking seemed so vivid. Had you not witnessed it before? Was there not a sliver of familiar knowledge within your grasp, awaiting to be pieced together? And as your mind sifted through the recollections of past memories, a current of trepidation stirred anew, until at last, a shuddering gasp of recognition escaped your lips. 

With it came a wave of panic slowly engulfing you, as if water had filled your very lungs, stirring within you until you were leaping from your bed, all grace lost, only driven solely by instinct—a hasty, frenzied scramble toward the edge, fleeing the unseen menace that still felt all too real. You toppled with a harsh thud onto the thick rug, the cool wool pressing beneath your nails as you sought some semblance of reality. Though the impact was startling, it seemed a necessary act, grounding you, and when your hand reached forward, grazing the marble floor, your silence was shattered by a quiet, ragged sob, bearing the remnants of decay and salt.

“Oh, my lamb, what is it?” Agnus rushed forward, her composure momentarily broken by the mere, unbridled terror radiating from your presence.

The monster’s violation felt utterly complete, a revolting consumption of the soul that seemed rooted in the flesh itself. As tears continued to well, they were no longer shed for the potential promise of a wedding night’s duty, or its absence; instead, they flowed from a deep sense of being stripped and touched—your body unknowingly marked by a dark entity that dared to justify its presence through the vow of duty. 

Deep within, you recognized that whatever it was—this haunting shadow—was no mere specter, but a true, infamous presence that had once tormented you, remaining in your past as something lost, always appearing as a moth, forever drawn to the flickering flame your soul bled like a candle—revealing itself as an eternal specter of temptation and remorse, and though you never saw but a moth in your dream, you never forgot the feelings it elicited, or the willful act to take from the purity of your essence. 

When you search through the maze of your mind again for the moth, you squeezed your eyes shut, almost willing it to appear again…and there it was in immaculate detail from the murky distance of your past—the inked moth, its black wings magnificent in their grotesque detail, its image forever burned into your sight, displacing the new memory of Harry’s perfect face, with the past’s true understanding. 

Indeed, you knew the inked moth. There it was as if it were tattooed across the lids of your eyes, emerging from the deepest corners of your mind, echoing the language of your spirit. But now, the memory of the moth appeared to carry an air of ancient truth—a source of knowledge within your mind that you could not quite rationalize, yet you felt its truth rattling your bones, as the memory grew clearer and more transparent—an ancient creature, bearing a story you would search for later, but in this moment the one certainty you had was that you remembered it’s haunting. Remembered the way it crept around the edges of your consciousness. How strange that it would appear when the first odd stirrings of womanhood had begun—at blood’s first sight—the entity coming with no warning, becoming a fluttering presence continuously trying to breach your mental wall, only to be pushed back by a force far beyond your understanding.

You thought it was gone, that you were safe from the dangers of its consumption, but now, it had finally found its door, opening up the devastating truth that was sinking into your soul like the truest fact in your mind, yet still there were questions: Had the moth or the monster it came from merely traded its ethereal form for the handsome, perfect disguise of your husband? Had it not been a dream? Because it felt like an assault, an invasion, and there it was, cloaked in the likeness of the man you were supposed to trust. Could you trust him? Was it strange that the dreams should come on the very same night of your union? Had his eyes not flashed the very same scarlet? And as the questions stacked one after the other, your mouth began to ramble— 

“The... the markings,” you stammered amidst the sobs, your voice laden with a thick, sorrowful tone of a new destruction underway. “The moth, Agnus. I know the moth. I know most certainly that I have seen it...”

Agnus clicked her tongue, silent with the wise language of a woman familiar with distress, and chose to ignore the hysterical cry. She helped you gently, her sturdy arms hoisting your slick, trembling body up from the ground. “There, there, my lamb. It’s all right. We’ll get you settled now, and we’ll have no more talk of moths or markings. It’s the anxiety, my dear. It can play terrible tricks on the mind.”

It was then, as your feet settled beneath you, that you felt the strange, thick warmth between your legs, that cooled into a wet tackiness that stuck the skin of your inner thighs together. You looked down, and the sight of your own body finally dragged you fully back into the harrowing reality of the room, stripping away the nightmare’s chaos and replacing it with a new and rapid shame that threatened to swallow you just as entirely.

Crimson blossomed against the pristine white of your cotton nightgown, seeping into the thin seams and staining the rug beneath your feet with tiny droplets, an evidence awakening a newfound nervousness within you. As you gazed upon your own dark red blood, the final fragment of the morning’s tragic puzzle fell into place with a somber clarity you knew you wouldn’t be able to shake.

“Oh, heavens,” you whispered, with a delicate whimper of astonishment. “My courses have arrived early,” and as your gaze shifted to Agnus, you faintly added, “Agnus…this…Harry never came to bed last night...”

Agnus’s face, which had been softened by pity mere moments before, immediately hardened with a weary, knowing tension. Her eyes flicked instantly from the stains on the rug to the stained sheets upon the bed. There was no need for words, for the sheer weight of your failure was evident in the sight of your blood. She knew all at once that your expected duty—the necessary consummation—had not been performed, and now your body had offered an unassailable bodily excuse for that failure, one that rendered you unclean and unfit for your husband’s touch for the days to come.

Indeed, ma’am, we’ve got ourselves a bit of a problem, and we shan’t say another word of it.” Agnus sighed, her voice low and tense, each word filled with a shared apprehension of the situation. She knew the implications as intimately as any woman of your time—a woman’s cycle was not merely an inconvenience; it was a physical obstruction to duty, a sign of a most vexing delay to the family line. She knew this would disgrace you thoroughly in the eyes of the gentleman who had rightfully secured your hand in marriage. This delay would be a public failure to present a legitimate union, and you both understood that this very burden fell squarely on your shoulders alone. “Sure, now, we should tidy you up a bit before anyone else catches wind of this.”

Your heart sank as you brought your motions to a halt, the shame of blood mingling with the fresh, cutting sting of his betrayal. “Am I nothing more than a disgrace? How am I ever to live this down?” you choked, as the confession caught in your throat, bringing a fresh set of tears to your eyes—not from fear, but from the binding sensation of rejection, and for the failure that had now come to define your future. 

Agnus only responded with a sorrowful nod, a silent gesture of acknowledgment guiding you towards the bathing chamber, and you walked in hushed silence, the wet blood on your thighs beginning to dry, stiff and tacky with each heartbreaking step as the chilling parallel sank into your consciousness—how could the slippery wet pull between your thighs nearly matched the exact sensation of the slick fingers in the dream? Could your mind truly confuse the physical reality of blood with the traumatic wet fiction of the night upon standing to your feet… How could everything feel so real? So utterly and terrifyingly real, now confusing the line between a dream and the waking world. 

As you stood bare from your nightgown, the shame of your failure felt vast and heavy, the chill of your nakedness a cold reminder stacking up around you like the stone walls of this massive house, and as the shame loomed around you, you named them one by one, each one ringing through your mind: the shame of your uncontrolled desire, the shame of your failure to fulfill your marital duty, the pity of a period you would now have to hide, and the crushing shame of what your husband’s absence truly meant. Had you scared him off with your honest, unblinking assessment? Did he truly not want or even feel the slightest bit of curiosity about the woman he had procured?

By the time you sank into the voluminous tub, the hot water was merely a welcome for your chilled skin, and when your eyes searched your sore body, the stark whiteness of the porcelain was quickly shattered by the appearance of your blood, blooming and swirling in the depths, the crimson rising up around you becoming the heavy, visual condemnation of all your faults. However, the heat of the water could not compete with the cold, heavy heat of your shame, which felt powerful enough to pull you under the surface of the tub, threatening to suffocate you with the reality of your failure, and you watched the blood dissolve, slowly washing away the physical evidence, but not the memory of the moth.

And as you closed your eyes, allowing the image of the inked moth to steal your vision, Agnus spoke, her voice snapping you back to the practical danger, and handed you a clean towel, her eyes meeting yours with a grim, conspiratorial focus. “We shan’t speak of this, not a soul in the world. We both know we’ll need to keep this from Mr. Styles, at least until you’ve fulfilled your duties, so we must be as quiet as the grave about it. Can you do that, dear?”

Harry sat alone at the large carved dining table, reflecting the single candelabrum, eating dinner in solitude for the third night. Since fleeing the carriage, he hadn’t risked another encounter with you, his wife, who, for him, now felt more like the prisoner he had made of you, locking you in a cage of his own doing, and instead of facing you, he stayed in his private study, emerging only to perform the mundane role of an ordinary man—the house’s silence, once comforting, now felt like a cold echo chamber amplifying the failures of what he felt he owed you.

As he cut into his pheasant, acting out his own perfunctory duties, his mouth went dry, no longer able to taste the extravagant meals; his palate only registering the emotional climate of those around him. For the past few days, that emotional resonance was a blank slate, becoming an unnerving void. He could only assume the quiet, observant creature upstairs was starving, not only physically, but intellectually.

He pushed his plate away and called for Agnus, his voice curt and low, “Send dinner up to the Lady of the House tonight. And a pot of fresh tea, mind you.” 

The title, Lady of the House, rolled from his tongue, both foreign and enticing—a title that felt entirely too human, yet the deep, subtle thrill that rushed through his chest when he voiced it was undeniable. For a creature whose very existence was rooted in chaos and the false perception he presented to others, the very notion of established order—a home, a wife, a name—was pressing on the cusp of powerful, turning into an intoxicating lure the more he mulled it through his mind, a structure stable enough to hold the desperate pieces of his soul together, whispering that perhaps his relentless loneliness need not be an eternal sentence he would have to bear alone.

Harry listened to the parting thoughts of Agnus, words easily deciphered by his inner perception, and held his breath when a swift prayer for his wife’s appetite confirmed that the poor girl was indeed suffering from the chosen neglect of his presence. The guilt was instantaneous as Harry frowned, feeling a keen pang of sorrow for the position he had forced you into. Of course, he was painfully aware of the duties you were expected to fulfill, the consummation you were now obligated to provide to complete your transaction. But, for days, he had left you waiting, suffering in the silence of an expectation less role he had yet to set, or to ease your tortured mind.

The most damning truth was that he knew more than Agnus realized. That he had been listening, lurking in the darkness of his own home, not out of hunger, but out of a desperate, primal need to monitor the distinctive essence you radiated even from behind a closed door. Ever since the night your hands had touched, he felt your presence, even if he wasn’t able to hear it. That first morning, from his study door, he had heard the muffled sound of your terror during a nightmare and the subsequent hushed, tearful conversation with Agnus. He knew that your monthly courses had arrived unexpectedly. Had even let himself into the room and listened when Agnus closed the bathing chamber door, the sound sealing his own immediate danger.

The scent of your energy pierced him with a new knowledge, as he breathed it in, he felt himself weaken. Never in all his life had a soul permeated the air, leaving behind the distinct scent that he knew was yours—sweet and rich, hanging heavy around him, heightening his senses, as the intoxicating musk caused the demon coiled within him to flare violently—the first time it had threatened to override his control since childhood. Now, as he stared out his study window, he leaned his head against the cool glass, fighting the memory. Yet, piercing through that heavy, iron-infused sweetness of pure feminine vitality, another odor—harsh and sickeningly familiar—rose, as the image of his father flooded his mind, recalling the acrid spice of brimstone and ancient malevolence that always seemed to linger whenever his father beckoned him in his dreams.

Without a thread of doubt, he knew it was the scent of Susurrus—his father, the most powerful incubus ever to exist. He was the haunting smell that clung to the fringes of Harry’s dreams, where the demon spoke of destined prophecies—that Harry was the fruition of a dark, ambitious plan. Susurrus had created him not merely for his own gain, but to raise the very vessel capable of killing the one being who, according to ancient texts, was fated to destroy Susurrus himself. The mystery of his father’s presence had drowned him with questions for the days to come, none of which made sense in his mind. There had always been pieces to the prophecies that alluded to details his father had hidden from him—a puzzle piece to both their destinies that always repelled the demon within him. 

That morning, when Harry had smelled the lingering essence of his father’s violation in the sanctity of his own home, a resounding fury of anger had risen within him, strong enough to silence the demanding demon, because there was something about you, a question marking the complex, guarded nature of your soul that he had sensed across the ballroom floor. Was it fate that brought you to him? Was it anger at his father that made him want to protect you? A feeling so fierce and possessive, bringing with it an instinct that was entirely new and entirely human. Susurrus’s presence only seemed to fuel the primal protective rage rising, eclipsing the demonic hunger, giving Harry the strength to maintain his illusion and retreat, forming a plan that he hoped would ease his frenzied mind. 

By the fourth night of his absence, the dreadful mental paradox of his mind had steeped in pressure, finally becoming unbearable—the shame he was forced to carry when, night after night, the sound of your suppressed screams had reached his inner ear, a continuous, debilitating noise that scraped against his very soul, knowing he wasn’t strong enough to take on his father, nor did he have the knowledge for such an undertaking. When he could no longer stay away from the source of his fear, or allow another day to pass without seeing you. He rose, the movement stiff, and walked the long, silent corridor to your room.

He knocked once, the sound hollow against the heavy wood of the door. When Agnus invited him in, her eyes immediately darted away from him to you, excusing herself with a soft bow of her head, and her parting thoughts—echoing through Harry’s mind—said, ‘Have mercy on her soul,’ a weary plea entirely directed at him. When Harry looked into Agnus’s fearful eyes, her gaze held a truth the servant couldn’t speak aloud, acknowledging the truth they both knew and the terrifying risk Harry posed to you and the housekeeper, whose loyalty to you was surprising but did not anger Harry, for he understood her intentions were pure.

And as Harry stepped past the threshold of the doorway, the atmosphere of the room seemed to tighten around him. When you stood, courteous to his presence, he was startled not only by the gesture but also by the feeling that he had not earned the kindness, and by your eyes—those determined, analytical eyes—focused intently on him, despite the evident exhaustion etched across your features. The guilt had him turning away, and he closed the door behind him, the act like sealing you both into a pressure chamber when a low gasp slipped past your lips, so low that if he were human, he wouldn’t have heard a sound.

That’s when he fought the first stirrings of the demon rising, with a curious lash, as the scent of your clean, warm skin and the extraordinary essence that was entirely your own became quickly overwhelming as the large room seemed to box you both in. His gaze swept the room, searching for an anchor, but no matter how hard he tried, his eyes kept returning to you. You stood there waiting, hands clasped low in front of you, an obedient portrait of a wife awaiting a duty he knew you were currently unable to perform, your eyes cast meekly toward the floor, as Harry forced himself to remain by the door, unwilling to test the volatility of his weakening control.

“I’ve only come to check in on you,” he said, his voice grating slightly as he finally broke the arresting silence with a formality that felt more like a lie than the truth he knew deep within.

Your head swiftly lifted, your gaze locking onto his. “To check on me?” you repeated, the question soft, yet sliced him as the painful confusion of his words stole your tired features. 

“Yes, and to tell you that I’ll be leaving for New York for a couple of days for business. It’s unavoidable.”

“Am I to come with you?” You asked timidly, your whole body stiffening.

And as another wave of uncontrollable rage surfaced, Harry snapped out the word, “No—” a sudden, fierce denial escaping before he could temper it—the simple word, burdened with the anxiety of your presence, was a blunt, reflexive act of self-preservation. As the wave of demonic heat swept through him, it overwhelmed his control, mixing with the air around you, becoming heavy with the suffocating sweetness of your scent—and it was all too much.

“I’m sorry—I can’t…” he forced out, the apology flat and immediate as he reached for the doorknob, desperate to retreat, to run from everything you were. But then you boldly called out his name, a singular, soft utterance that stopped him cold in his tracks, instantly quieting the demon’s rage like a sudden, calming balm.

Harry kept his back turned, his hand rigid on the cool metal knob, feeling an unexplainable, out-of-body sensation that had never settled over him before. There was a claim in the way you said his name, a conviction as the sound rolled so easily off your tongue, that seemed to possess some unearthly pull over him—an instant quieting of his mind.“I…” he tried, but his voice faltered, in the wake of a spell, because that’s exactly what it felt like…like a force…like power.

“May I speak plainly…” You began, your voice suddenly gaining strength. Harry turned to face you then, not trusting his words as he gave a silent nod, allowing you to continue. 

You gave him an acknowledging nod, and he watched your posture straighten as a new energy seeped in. “It’s just…speaking with honesty, that I’m lost…I don’t know what is to be expected of me…what you’re needing from me? I know my title is wife now—”

Just as you were about to finish the words that Harry already assumed, he found himself asking, “What is it that you’re wanting?” and as the question leaves his mouth, a fierce curiosity takes him—a curiosity he can barely contain.

For a long moment, you both held one another’s gaze, and when you recite his word back to yourself “What is it that I want?” more for your own clarity than his, your voice seems to draw Harry like a siren drawing him out to sea, taking command of his whole body, and he takes a hesitant step toward you, his gaze locked with yours, the raw green of his eyes meeting your unmoving stare. 

“Yes, what do you want?” He asks, taking another step, the space between you both closing.

You shake your head, confusion riddling the contours of your face. “I guess I’m uncertain at the moment. I’ve never been asked what I’ve ever wanted. I’ve always done what’s expected of me.”

Harry knew this would be the answer, but knew this could never be a life he could live, so when he says: “I’ve never been one for expectations…I guess I, myself, haven’t a clue to what’s expected of me…well…” He starts as a short, humorless laugh rushes him, as he runs a nervous hand up the back of his head, then swipes a finger above his brow, subtly checking for the pressure of his horns, because he’s barely had to work at his illusion since the moment you said his name. “I guess I know… what society expects… but…”

“But?” You prompted.

“Societal expectation…I know that there are rules…and maybe there are rules I know that I cannot fully live up to, nor would I expect my wife to suffer…for us to suffer with the burden…” And as he said the words, your gaze finally wavered, and you sat down gently on the edge of the bed. That’s when Harry crossed the room to the grand desk near the windows, seeking the anonymity of the shadows as he stared out at the coastline. The night was stormy, the sea a frantic, churning blackness, as waves crashed against the stone cliffs with a furious, unnatural energy. For a moment, he saw the ocean as a reflection of his own inner turmoil, a great, angry evil stirring just beyond the house’s protective shell.

“I think I could live with that,” You finally spoke, your voice breaking the tense silence, carrying a lonesome quality that instantly drew him back. When he looked, you were staring down at your hands, twisting your fingers together. He said nothing, simply allowing himself to take in the sight of you in your sheer nightgown, then at the ring that honored his claim. In that instant, he wanted more than ever for this to feel less like a claiming of property and more like a willing, chosen union.

Finally, he cleared his throat, the sound a necessary, human cue. “You’re different from the others,” he disclosed, knowing the words were an immense understatement.

Then he felt a truth rise, and as he braced himself for the release, he let the words flow: “If we’re speaking plainly, then I must warn you that I’ll never be what you’ll expect. There are parts of me… depths that you may never be able to fathom.”

And he watched your hands halt, your gaze still drawn away, you said, “I think I understand,” and then your eyes lifted to meet his with the same unsettling, knowing stare from the carriage, looking at him as if he were standing there in his truest, most terrifying form.

“And does that scare you?” he asks, his most genuine plea yet, as he witnessed the tears welling in your eyes, tears that terrified him more than any demonic state that has ever proclaimed him.

You gazed at him, never wavering, forcing him to hold your captive watch. “Truthfully?”

“Yes,” was all Harry could say, his composure hanging by a thread.

“It only makes me more curious.”

“Curious?” he repeats, the word a painful, foreign echo as his throat burned with it.

“Yes,” You confirmed, rising slowly from the bed, and as you walked toward him, his entire body tenses, his inner demon flaring with a harsh, excruciating anticipation. He held his breath, terrified that a single wrong movement might send you fleeing. “Curious in the sense that the moment you walked into this very room, whatever darkness that had seemed to plague me felt as if it had lifted. Like maybe for the first time since we arrived, I could truly breathe.” You finished, as a tear finally slid down your delicate cheek, a sight he desperately wanted to wipe away.

Harry swallowed hard, his eyes stinging with the threat of his own tears. He wondered if you guys wouldn’t even have to say a word at all if you already saw the good in him—the desperate human heart fighting the evil, because he felt good, felt like he could be good, for you, for the complete stranger standing before him. 

Yet unsure in himself, your certainty seemed to unnerve him, the way he felt not a single doubt surrounding you, and then he said with a new conviction of his own, trying to match the energy emanating from your strong presence, “So tell me what you want?”

This time, you were the one who stepped closer, your eyes locking, and your hand reached out, resting with a gentle, startling weight on his forearm, his markings burning beneath the layers of his jacket. “I want nothing more than to make this union right in the eyes of a god I’m no longer sure exists,” you told him, your silent strength filling the room and shaking him to his core. Because what did those words truly mean? 

Yet all he could say was, “I want whatever you want… Whatever you want, I will give…wherever you lead, I will follow. The direction in which we stand as husband and wife is completely yours. I will never ask or take what isn’t given. I want you to know you will never lack, nor will your family. This will not be a marriage where you owe me for the fortune that is now rightfully yours, nor will you need to assume a specific duty—”

“Harry—” You interjected, pausing him with a gentle squeeze to his arm. Much like the touch you guys shared that very same night, the silent language he knew now… knew past all the darkness. He forced his eyes away from your compelling gaze, staring instead at the delicate hand resting there, realizing it felt like the most certain thing he had ever known in his life.

“Do you not fear me?” Harry asked, his gaze floating back to hers, confusion etched onto his brow, wondering how anyone could ever want to be this close to him.

Your grip tightened, “Should I fear you?” You countered, your eyes searching his face again, as if looking for an answer he wasn’t prepared to give, and maybe you knew. 

You were a wonderment, he thought, as he drew his brows together, thoroughly bewildered by you, the woman in front of him. “I don’t want you to… I never want you to fear me.” He breathed.

“Then I won’t,” You answered so easily that Harry’s head spun, marveling at the fact of you standing there without a speck of fear in your eyes.

“Do you fear me?” You asked in return.

“I don’t know… Perhaps I fear myself more in this moment,” he answered, his voice a strained rasp.

“Tell me again what it is that you want so that I can be clear in the words that you have spoken.” He questioned, staring into your brilliant gaze.

“If I am to be so bold,” you said, turning toward the bed, and stretching the agonizing tension between you both, “I want you to have me as your wife… and me to have you as my husband.” you finished.

You’re answer was not what he had expected, and all Harry could do was stare, completely transfixed by the beauty unfolding before him. His mind became as silent and clear as it had ever been; the monster’s threat no longer threatening to steal the desire like a gluttonous feast, and it was then, when you reached up and unbuttoned the single top button of your high-necked nightgown, Harry knew, somewhere deep down, that everything he had ever known was about to change.

Feeling the heat rush to his face, he turned away, intending to give you privacy, but his eyes landed on the desk. Scattered among your journals were several small, detailed sketches you must have done while confined to your room, and without pause, he snatched one up as the world begun to spin around him violently, there sketched marked with the perfect, agonizing detail was the distinct ‘Mark of the Moth’—the same horrifying sigil permanently inked into his demonic skin, which he knew you could not possibly have seen for he was the only one that bore this—a marking that symbolized his fathers claim and legacy.

All at once, his whole world creaked open and shattered with a single breath, as the illusion of safety, the fragile hope of acceptance, tore apart, slipping away with any hope he had promised himself in the exchange of words he thought were genuine. When you asked if he was okay, your nightgown slipped from your shoulder, exposing the soft skin he desperately desired. Your scent was too much—entirely too overwhelming—causing his control to lurch. For a second, His Shrouded form wavered, his red eyes searing through your mask of humanity, and he snatched the sketch, clutching the damning proof.

“I can’t do this—” he choked out, the words cruel with complete panic, and he fled, pushing past you and slamming the door shut, leaving you alone once more.

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Part Three<- (coming soon)

GILDED BLOOD MASTERLIST<-