[jawllines]

“Why can’t I stare?” He pressed, turning to face her more fully, resting his weight on his hip rather than his bum, and he sat his elbow on the back of the sofa, “You’re the one who said you loved kissing me so much that we needed to do it all of the time –” 

Y/N’s eyes go comically wide, “I did not –” she started to squawk but he kept talking over her. 

“--so maybe I am staring at them. And maybe I should grant your wishes and we should kiss a little before the food gets here, and my breath is all onion-y.” 

or

Y/N feels bad it's taking so long but Harry doesn't mind

(18k+ words)

part 1

ii.

Y/N thinks that cats might just like stomping on her head. 

Ferret does it because he’s Ferret; he’s all lean limbs and awkward tufts of hair that spike around his ears, with paws that are too big but he doesn’t seem to grow into, and a torso that would be lissom if he wasn’t so clumsy – he looks like that kind of cat that stomps on heads. It would be more shocking if he weren’t just narrowly avoiding stabbing her forehead with his claws in the morning because he’s hungry. She couldn’t even blame him either, because it was a foolproof way to yank her from the depths of a dream. One minute she’s swimming in water that’s too crystalline to be real trying to speak to fish, and the next she’s in her bed, Ferret’s front paw pressed against her cheek while he purred (seemingly content despite his “starvation”). 

So she assumes she’s at home when she feels it, only for whatever reason Ferret was being a little more graceful than he usually is. He felt a little heavier too, like his metabolism had finally slowed so he started plumping up, and Y/N could have the slightly fat cat of her dreams. His purr was. . .different, softer, a little more reserved than the engine-like revving that usually tore her into reality. And when he crawled over the top of her head, flopping his body in front of her face in what might be a suffocation attempt, she realized that there was much more fur, it’s softer – Ferret’s fur is kitten soft, but this is something different – something purebred. And it smells not like herself, or his stinky little self, it smells like Harry. Why would her cat smell like Harry? 

Her eyes flutter open, fighting past the heavy feeling of her lids and the sun streaming in through the window. Y/N pulls her curtains at night and screws her blinds shut tight (not just from the desire to wake up in relative darkness, but fear that someone was looking at her through the window, despite being on the third flow of a relatively tall flat building), and it is something so deeply embedded in her nightly routine, she doesn’t even forget to do it when she’s drunk. 

When her pupils finally adjusted to what felt like a blinding light, she took in her surroundings. However, her surroundings were mostly composed of the white fur that was currently stuffed right in front of her face. This is not her cat, and this is not her room, and the mattress she’s lying on is too soft to be her own. It’s only when the cat turns around and she recognizes Dolly’s sweet, bright eyes slowly blinking at her that she comes to the understanding that she’s at Harry’s. In his clothes, soft and worn slouching over her body, with his blanket pulled up just beneath her armpit. The window was open just a sliver, enough that the wind billowed the curtains out, and the fan whipped around above her. 

Harry was nowhere to be found, but that was probably for the best right now. She was barely awake and it always took her a couple of minutes to attune herself to reality after she roused from sleep. Especially when she wakes up somewhere that isn’t her room. Her muscles were stiff like she’d not moved for a while, and when she pressed up from the bed, she stretched out her arms and stifled a groan. Did Harry have plans? It couldn’t have been that late in the day could it have been? But Y/N was known to sleep in sometimes a little too late after being out the night prior, even if she turned in around midnight. Maybe he had an appointment or something – maybe he had plans for coffee. Though Harry doesn’t strike her as the type to leave unannounced or without explanation, and there’s no parting note on his nightstand. Just her phone, which had no new messages from him either – just a couple of pictures that Eloise sent from the night before, and Niall “helpfully” reminding her that he’d slid condoms into the side pocket of her purse. 

They didn’t sleep together, she knew that, but they did kiss. The memory of it slaps itself across her face as she raises her fingers, touching them to her lips, probably dried from sleeping with her mouth open. His lips had been so soft against hers, so pillowy – he kissed her like he really wanted to like it was the most natural thing in the world. When she remembered how he followed after her mouth as she pulled away, something twisted in her lower stomach that was a little too similar to arousal. Harry kisses like he needs to breathe, and that is without him even licking against her tongue – she couldn’t imagine what it would be like if he’d had. 

She feels embarrassed, even if she isn’t the one to suggest it. Y/N had given in pretty easily though, without him needing to ask twice, and for some reason, she’s feeling shy about that. Maybe he’d realized how easy for it she’d been – maybe he left this morning because he was worried she was developing feelings for him. Had he noticed so quickly? Y/N would have probably run off too, to avoid the conversation, letting her down easy, reminding her that she’s only here to help him find his actual soulmate, not to sponge off his affectionate tendencies for her own –

“You’re awake!” His voice slices through her spiral and Y/N turns to look at him. Harry had showered, she could tell by how damp his hair still was, and he looked way too good for someone who also drank the night before. His clothes are cozy though, sweatpants and a shirt that matches the one she wore, “I was just coming to check on you and Dolly. She didn’t want to get up with me this morning, she was loving her snuggles with you.” 

Y/N is still squinting a little bit against the light, her hand mindlessly running through Dolly’s fur, “What time is it?”

“Just a little over 9,” he replied. 

“I’m sorry,” she used her other hand to knuckle at her eye, “I – you probably want to get your day started, and I’m here loitering in your bed.” 

Harry makes an affronted noise, brows dipping in, his whole face drawing into a pout, “What?” He shook his head, “No, stop that, why are you apologizing? You looked so cute and peaceful sleeping with Dolly, I just couldn’t wake you up.” He motioned around his room, “I have no plans for the rest of the day. I made breakfast for us too.” 

She blinked at him, her brows raising, “You cook?” 

“Oi, do I look like I can’t?” He held out his hand for her and Y/N slid hers inside of it – it was unnecessary, she didn’t need help getting out of the bed, but his palm was soft and warm and Y/N couldn’t help wanting to hold it. She gets onto her knees on the mattress and then becomes acutely aware that she has no shorts or pants on, but his shirt hands low enough that it isn’t obvious. Harry helped guide her off the bed, and Dolly followed suit, “I made waffles and sliced some fruit. Give me a second so I can put a couple of eggs on the stove, it should still be warm so it’ll be quick.” 

He squeezes her hand then lets go, leading the way into the kitchen, “You don’t have to –” 

“I know what I don’t have to do,” he clicked his tongue, “I want to, though. I have coffee in the pot if you want, or there’s some peach juice I got from the market – it’s really good. The glasses are in the cupboard above the sink, Sweetheart.” 

Harry’s kitchen is spacious for a flat; there was enough room that they could both move about comfortably unlike her own kitchen, where if there’s more than one human body and one cat body in there, you’re constantly bumping and knocking each other around. He clicks the burner on where a pan is sitting, waiting like he’d planned to make her fresh eggs from the start. 

Once she got the juice, he directed her to sit at a small table he had set up closer to the corner. 

“You don’t want any help?” 

“I think I can handle two eggs,” he chuckled warmly, turning back to the stove. This was new. None of the people she’d helped before had made her breakfast; they would buy her something to eat, sure, or bring her breakfast in the morning before a shared lecture. Nobody had taken the time to make her a meal though, and it made her heart feel too big for her chest, displacing her ribs to make space for itself. He seemed happy to be doing it as well, humming low and sweet to himself as he cracked the eggs, murmuring and mocking Dolly’s meows as she curled between his ankles. 

Y/N cleared her throat, “She stomped all over my head this morning,” she doesn’t specify who, and she doesn’t need to – Harry hums an understanding noise. 

“She wants a second breakfast,” he flipped the eggs with an ease Y/N had only ever seen on the telly, “And she thinks she can trick you into it, the sneaky little thing.” 

She runs her lips over her dry mouth, “She does this to all your sleepover partners?” Y/N doesn’t think she wanted to know, actually, but the question leaves her mouth before she could think about it. Y/N thinks that her subconscious loves to torture her, and wants to be reminded that she was not special in this. Harry had probably cooked breakfast for people before, and he would continue to do so when he found his soulmate. Y/N thinks whoever it is would be lucky to have someone who seemed so pleased cooking eggs for them. 

Harry snorted, and she braced herself for him to agree, but he only shook his head, “No, actually,” he slid the spatula beneath the eggs and plated them, “She hated my ex, so she never really spent much time in my room when she was around. Now that I think about it, she hated most of my exes, even if it was just a couple of dates and not anything official – she wanted nothing to do with them,” he arranged her plate carefully, adding butter to her waffle and pressing the sliced fruit off to the side. He’d sliced the grapes too like he was worried about her choking on them and the thought almost made her giggle. Once he finished, he turned to her with a smile, “So, looks like you’re special, right? To win Dolly’s affection is a difficult task – she hated me the first few weeks she was here, and that’s when she was a kitten that I bottle fed.” 

The food looks delicious – the eggs are fluffy and the waffle is still warm, a little steamy. She only realized then that Harry had carefully curated some of the fruit into a smiley face, and she was so endeared she could scream, “She probably just smells little stinky Ferret on me.” 

“I’m over this Ferret slander!” Harry protests, sliding maple syrup onto the table, “When I met him, he smelled like you, and you smell amazing.” 

Her face feels warm, “Is he paying you? I’ve never had someone defend him so adamantly before.” 

Harry plops in the seat across from her, “He’s Dolly’s best friend,” he rests his chin on his hand, watching as Y/N picks up the fork on her plate, “Of course, I’ll defend him.” 

She’s about to accuse Ferret of bewitchment but is stopped when the first taste of it hits her tongue. It’s delicious, is the thing – even for something as simple as eggs and a waffle, Y/N is pleasantly surprised, “Oh, Harry,” she murmured, politely holding a hand over her mouth, “This is delicious, what the hell?” 

A dimple pops on his cheek, “Told you I could handle two eggs.”. 

For a while, they just exist together. Harry watches her eat and adjusts in his seat to accommodate Dolly who all but launched herself into his lap, while Y/N ate. Eventually, she motioned toward his phone and told him to scroll through something because, “You eyeballing me is making me nervous,” and he only giggled and listened to her. They stay like that until she’s cleaned her plate, content and full without feeling too heavy. Harry must have still been stealing glances at her because he knew exactly when she finished, his eyes flickering back up to her from his phone. 

“Y/N?” He started and she hummed, tucking her straw to the corner of her lips, “About last night. . .” 

Harry trailed off and Y/N paused mid-sip, holding the juice still in her mouth. This is when he would tell her it was a mistake, she’s sure of it. He’d explain that he’d just been drunk, that kissing had seemed like a good idea when he was filled with cocktails but now he wanted to nip that in the bud. Little did he know that he didn’t need to worry about Y/N initiating any kisses or even bringing it up if he didn’t. She was an expert at pretending like something didn’t happen and nothing had changed, when she put her mind to it, and she was certainly going to put her mind toward this. 

She swallowed, “Don’t worry about it,” she waved her hand, “We were drunk anyway, so we can just pretend that – y’know, that stuff happens all of the time. We don’t have to worry about it.” 

For the second time that morning, Harry’s eyebrows furrowed rather than his face relaxing like she thought it might. It’d been like this before, where they’d kiss her then feel silly about it, and Y/N always promised that it was okay, that it came with the territory. Normally she’s being looked at with relief and gratitude, not disgruntled confusion. 

“That’s not what I meant,” he went on to say, “I’m not worried about it, I was just – I wanted to know if that was okay to do now.” Harry pulled her plate away from her, closer to himself, “But if you don’t want that then that’s okay.” 

“No, I –” she mirrored his confusion, “I just thought that –” 

“That I regret it?” He filled in, and Y/N nodded, occupying her hands with the hem of his shirt, twisting and pulling at it with her fingers, “I don’t. I know it doesn’t seem like I think things through before I do them, but I do. It felt nice to kiss you, so I’d like to do it more – it doesn’t have to be anything complicated. Is that what you’re worried about?” 

No, I’m worried about the cultivation of feelings for you that seem to grow by the second, and if you weren’t so oblivious, you might notice that dummy! 

She doesn’t say that. It would be smart if she did say that, all things considered, because then it would be blunt and honest and they could eradicate any form of misunderstanding or miscommunication. Harry would know exactly where she stood and they could act accordingly so that it didn’t feel like a punch in the chest when he woke up and called her to tell her he had his mark. That would be smart, and it would be on trend with how smart she usually is with this, but it seems like a two-year-long sabbatical had expunged any trace of intelligence she still had. 

Because instead of saying that, or even just agreeing that it would be better for them not to kiss, she rushes to say, “I don’t mind the kissing. I liked it too,” she shrugged her shoulders, trying to seem nonchalant about it but her heart is thudding so quickly in her chest she thinks it rivals a hummingbird’s, “So we can if you’d – if that’s what you want.” 

“Is it what you want?”  Y/N took a drink of her peach juice so she didn’t have to answer verbally, and nodded again, chewing hard on the inside of her cheek. Harry’s serious demeanor eases some, and a smile works back on his mouth, small and sweet, “Then that settles it. I was hoping you would say yes,” he takes her plate and starts to stand, Dolly having long since hopped off and shuffled away, “I love kissing.”

God, what kind of mess had she gotten herself into? 

                                                                      .                        .                       .

Harry liked doing things for people. 

Y/N thinks it was something that was written in his DNA from the moment he was born, probably nestled somewhere close to the bit that was read for his soulmate. Harry likes to help, and he likes to feel useful. This means he’s cooking meals, bringing her lunches to work without warning her, and massaging her shoulders when she complains about them being stiff. He’s always listening; Y/N offhandedly mentions she’s out of her favorite candle, and Harry brings her one the next time he comes over. She complains about wanting meatless shepherd's pie, and Harry has a recipe ready, baking in the oven when he invites her for a Dolly-Ferret playdate. Hell, Y/N had complained about the water pressure in her shower and he came to work with a small box, and a big smile. 

“Are you busy this evening?” He inquired, resting his bum on Niall’s desk (Niall was sitting there, but he was leaning back in his chair on his phone, so he wasn’t concerned). 

“You know I’m not,” she clicked her tongue, “It’s a Wednesday night, those are reserved for wallowing and sleeping.” 

Harry taps his fingers against the box, “Well, pencil me in, I’m going to change your showerhead.” 

Finally, she looked at the outside of the box, and the brand she recognized because it was a luxury brand that Y/N had completely ignored when she scrolled past it online, “Harry, holy shit, that’s like – those are really expensive! You didn’t need to buy it for me, you could have just sent a link!” 

“For this price, I knew if I sent you the link you wouldn’t buy it even if I plead my case to you,” and he wasn’t wrong, is the thing. Y/N liked to be relatively frugal and showerheads over a hundred notes was a little absurd in her book, “But I have this one and it is so good – you’ll wonder how you were showing before it. 

 “How much do I need to send you?” 

“Nothing,” he waved his hand, “I bought this without asking, I’m not going to make you pay me back for it.”

“Harry –” 

“Think of it as a gift,” he grinned, and Y/N had a very particular feeling that he wouldn’t accept no or any monetary payment, even if she got on her knees and begged, “You can buy me a coffee or something.” 

Y/N scoffed, “You’re crazy,” she ran her fingers over the box, and her heart felt too warm – when was the last time someone bought her something, just because? It would have had to have been back then when she was doing this often – she used to get gifts all the time. Halting her soulmate gig also halted impromptu gifts every once in a while, and she wasn’t afraid to say that she missed that bit. No matter the cost, it was always nice to be doted on and pampered a bit.

Still, there must be a reason why this felt so special; a rapid bunny-like heartbeat thundering in her chest at the prospect of someone listening and caring enough to try and solve a problem for her. The gifts before were more materialistic – jewelry or clothes, maybe a painting that she saw in the store with them once that they bought weeks after they found their soulmate to smother any remaining guilt. This was. . .thoughtful. Something useful to her – something that she didn’t necessarily need, but that she wanted, that would make her life a little nicer. 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah – hey, should I bring Dolly? She’s been meowing at me so much lately, I think she wants to hang out with Ferret again.” He smiles wistfully, “I’m starting to think they’re dating or summat, it’s kind of cute. Do cats have soulmates?”

She snorted, “You think Ferret’s stinky self would be Dolly’s soulmate? No, she probably – I reckon her soulmate would be some purebred Maine Coone or something.” 

“You know, Ferret’s self-esteem is going to be seriously depleted if you don’t start complimenting him more,” Harry sighed, clicking his tongue, “That’s why I have to spend time with him, so I can nourish the growth of his confidence. He’s gonna go through life thinking he’s stinky and unloveable if you have any say.” 

Y/N clicked her tongue, “Aish, you only love him so much because you don’t have to live with him.” 

                                                           .                           .                            .

Harry is borderline appalled by the water pressure before he switches the showerhead. He turned it on, just to see, and he felt the length of time that it took it to get warm; you would have thought it was ice cold. Harry gasped like he’d been wronged by her landlord, brows furrowed, “How do they expect you to live like this?” 

He’s quick in switching it out, and precise in his movements like he’s done it plenty of times. Y/N tells him as much and he admits that, before finally investing in a better quality showerhead, he used to have to buy one every year. They would always crap out, or the holes would clot off with limescale deposits that wouldn’t dissolve in vinegar, and he’d have to buy another one – after three of them, he had become pretty proficient in changing them out. At least that’s what he tells Y/N while he does it, Dolly and Ferret both watching with wide eyes in their spots safe by the sink.  

Once it’s finished, he turns it on and gleams at her, “Tada!” He exclaimed and Y/N couldn’t help but match his excitement, her smile stretching over her mouth. 

“Oh wow,” she murmured, stretching her hand out, her palm getting pelted by the water – it was still warming up, but the pressure was much better, “I’ll be living like a noble, for sure. I’ve never had a detachable showerhead before.” 

“You haven’t? It’s got loads of different settings too,” he pulled it from the hook, pointing it toward the bottom of the tub, twisting the knob, and switching from setting to setting. Y/N watches in awe as the water pressure increases and the way it thins out, gets sharper, switching which holes the water was coming from. Some of them are softer, a rain setting, some harsher, a massage setting, and there’s one setting in particular that made Y/N’s eyes go wide. The water is coming from the center, fat droplets in a pressure that isn’t too hard and isn’t soft, and she is suddenly reminded of a very distinct (and NSFW) video she didn’t scroll by on Twitter one night. She’d stopped and watched the whole thing, actually, and had been halfway grumpy over the fact she couldn’t try it herself because her shower head was sadly screwed right into the wall (at least she could use the bathtub faucet though). 

“Oh wow,” she laughed, her face feeling hot at the memory of it and the fact she was thinking about it with Harry shoulder to shoulder with her, “That’s – that’s nice.”

It must be written all over her face, because Harry inhales sharply through his nose, “Don’t be filthy!” He scolded her, scandalized, and Y/N scrambled as he switched the setting back to the main one. 

“I’m not!” She lied, “You’re the one bringing it up, you’re the filthy one!” 

Harry’s cheeks get hot, pink as a rose, and he flushes down to his neck as he turns it off, “So there it is your new showerhead. Use it responsibly.” 

“Stop talking, right now!” 

It only takes a little bit of time for Harry’s flush to go away; they settle out and return to normal, and Y/N pretends that the conversation didn’t happen at all while they’re ordering food. Instead, she focuses on how Harry ordered possibly every topping for his burger and chewing over her bottom lip trying to decide if she wants a medium fry or a large fry (she never finishes a large, but when she finishes a medium, she’s longing for more fries, and it’s just an endless, vicious cyclic horror story). She doesn’t think Harry is looking at her anymore after he put in what he wanted and passed his phone off to her – but a clear of his throat and a murmur of, “You’ll chew through your lip like that.” Indicates that maybe he’d been looking at her for quite a while. The gnaw of her teeth settled to a stop when she turned to look at him, head lulling to the side like it was too heavy to pick up (and sometimes, after a shift, it felt like it was).

“Oh,” she felt a little embarrassed, actually, because it wasn’t the cute, subtle lip bite they show in movies or describe in books – the front four of her teeth had been digging pretty harshly into her bottom lip while she debated, but it was something nobody had ever noticed before. So she doesn’t really know what to do, besides pinch her brows, “Stop staring at my mouth.” 

“Why can’t I stare?” He pressed, turning to face her more fully, resting his weight on his hip rather than his bum, and he sat his elbow on the back of the sofa, “You’re the one who said you loved kissing me so much that we needed to do it all of the time –” 

Y/N’s eyes go comically wide, “I did not –” she started to squawk but he kept talking over her. 

“--so maybe I am staring at them. And maybe I should grant your wishes and we should kiss a little before the food gets here, and my breath is all onion-y.” 

She’s used to this kind of thing; Y/N hadn’t been lying when she’d described it. In the past, people got their wires crossed, tangled up, and twisted when it came to this whole “pretending to date” thing. Just how it is in every film, every book, every story written and posted on the internet with your two favorite characters in a show, or members of a band – when you pretend to date, your heart longs for it. It aches and yearns for the intimacy of actually being in a relationship, so things like holding hands, cuddling, and kissing become practiced parts of the ruse. 

There had also been the debatable fact that whether or not the more intimate she was with someone, the quicker they were able to find their soulmate. Back in UNI, there hadn’t been any proof to these claims and Y/N didn’t bother to test them out, but she knew some people swore by it. She knew through word of mouth, it was whispered that if she kissed them, or touched them, then their soulmate would come quicker. Maybe that’s what Harry was doing. . .or maybe it was a little bit of both. Honestly, with him, it could be either; hyped up on the companionship of spending time after work together for a meal, and the desperate need to do this with his actual soulmate and not a cheap stand-in for the better thing. 

Either or, Y/N had never claimed to not be selfish sometimes. And she thought it was okay to be selfish, now and then. She’d spent the better part of her life so far aiding everyone else in finding long-lasting love, so shouldn’t she reap some benefits? Like kissing pretty boys with curly brown hair and green eyes? 

The air feels right for it too. Her windows are open wide, a warm, spring breeze blowing through the screen and billowing the curtains out now and then. The fan above them in her living room whips around above their heads too, so it is unsurprisingly chilly but for now, Y/N was comfortable with it (and shocked that her candle – a sweet but pleasingly light, artificial strawberry scent – had been able to keep a flame in these particular conditions). The wind smells and feels like spring, and after a long, frigid winter, she’s pleased with it. 

It’s their second kiss, so it’s a little clumsy. Harry crawls closer to her on the couch and he’s the one to officially initiate it; they tilt their heads the same way, and their noses bump into each other, and she wondered how they were much more refined with this when they were both off their asses. Instead of getting flustered though, Harry giggles, his ears scorching red but his eyes crinkle when he smiles and it’s contagious enough to make her laugh too. When they settle, Harry goes in again, head tilted to the right and his lips are soft against hers. 

Their first kiss was chaste, even for them being drunk, just a simple, gentle peck that lasted for a couple of seconds. 

This one was a little more involved; Harry hovers over her, so he’s using one hand to keep himself balanced but with his free hand he has carefully cradles her cheek in his palm. Harry likes her top lip, she’s noticed, that even in two kisses that is the lip he usually goes to put between his own. He pushes them together, releases them, then pushes them back together, and this time his tongue traces along the line of her lips and Y/N tries not to make a surprised sound in her throat but fails. 

Harry pulled back right away, “Sorry,” he murmured, sheepish in his tone, “Was that not okay?” 

“No, it was – it was fine, just –” she giggled, also feeling embarrassed, “Um, just I haven’t really kissed like that in a while. I’m worried it won’t be very good.” 

He had understanding eyes, wide and soft as he nodded, “Ohhh, alright,” he replied but made no move to withdraw completely, “We can stop here if you’d like, but – I mean, if you don’t mind, I don’t mind. I’ll guide you through it.” 

It makes something curl low in her belly, the promise to guide her. Harry wanted to kiss her so badly that he didn’t even care if it wasn’t good – she bristled with the knowledge, and her whole body felt like it was buzzing – like her veins were humming. She nodded, wordless, just hoping he understood what she meant and he did (he always does). So Harry goes back in, he tickles her lips open with his tongue and slides his tongue into her mouth. It’s warm and wet and he tastes like the smoothie they picked up on the way home. Y/N follows his tongue as it strokes against hers, rubbing against each other, following each other – she tries to remember to breathe through her nose, but she isn’t doing very well at it. 

Harry’s a good kisser, and he shuffles closer, nearly sitting in her lap as he straddles one of her thighs. His fingers slide from her face, back to the nape of her neck, where they curl through the strands. Y/N feels like she melts, into the cushions, into his hold, and at first, her hands stay lamely in her thighs, but Harry plucks one up and slots their fingers together. He squeezes like he’s checking in on her, and she squeezes back. It feels good, this feels so good, and something feels like it’s clicking into place in her brain – maybe she should seek out kisses more often. She thinks, once Harry leaves her, Niall would, if she asked him. Or Eloise, even, sometimes she likes a friendly kiss once in a while. 

She isn’t sure how long they’ve been kissing, but it’s at least long enough that his phone buzzes with a notification reminding them that there were items in their cart. It’s embarrassing, the way they both jump, and Y/N accidentally sets her teeth into his bottom lip. Harry makes a sound that’s somewhere between a grunt and a groan, “Sorry!” She reached out, the pads of her fingers gentle on his mouth, like her touch would soothe it at all – if anything, she was just reminded how warm his lips were in comparison to her icy hand. Harry doesn’t flinch away from it though, he only stares at her, eyes all wide, “My bad, I – your phone scared the shit out of me.” 

“Me too,” he spoke against her fingers, then finally pulled back, a soft smile pressing his cheek up, “Did you decide what you wanted?” 

“Mhm,” she agreed, and she’s thankful, that they’re just going back to normal conversation – she doesn’t even know what she would say if he brought it up, “Tell me the total and I’ll send you money for it.” 

Y/N’s lips tingle and buzz for the rest of the night. 

                                                             .                             .                           .

It had been rain-filled the last few days. To get Y/N through the thick of it, she reminded herself that it was the sky feeding the grass and the seeds deeply embedded in the soil. Y/N doesn’t mind the rain so long as she doesn’t have to go out into it, but sadly, this wasn’t the case, because some wealthy man hadn’t shown up in her life bearing the same mark she did on their bodies, and told her she doesn’t need to work yet. So each day, she trudges into work, no better than a wet rat drenched in rainwater, scurrying around on the streets. Especially when the rain decided to fall at a slant and her umbrella went in the opposite direction it should have, and the hoodie she wore could really only save so much. She was just thankful that her hair hadn’t been caught in the crossfire of the rain’s argument with the ground, and how hard it was darting against the pavement. 

And of course, she gets zero time to go assess the damage alone in their work bathroom. 

Harry, who is looking a little too dry for the onslaught outside, is standing at the elevators. The sound of her shoes squeaking against the linoleum must have garnered his attention, because he turned from the elevator, his eyes set in her direction. First, they light up, like he’s excited it is her he’s seeing, despite him seeing her almost every day, and then his eyes roll over the rest of her body, and he pulls his lips into his mouth like he’s trying not to laugh. 

“Don’t even start,” Y/N grumbled before he could start teasing her and Harry gave an insulted sound, something close to a scoff but not quite. 

“I wasn’t saying anything!” He defended himself, placing a hand on his chest, “Just – this look is cute, even when you’re all dripping wet. You kind of look like Dolly after her baths. It’s almost a shame your hair didn’t get wet to complete the image I’m seeing in my head.” 

Y/N could yell at him, or call him a dick (playfully) like she would Niall or Eloise, but she knew that wouldn’t get to him. If anything, she thinks he thrives off when she snaps at him because the fire of it never reaches her voice and he’s once again reminded that she’s just a big softie. 

So she pouts instead, making her bottom lip big and fat, and Harry’s face warps from someone two seconds from making a cheeky remark to someone amid a panic, “Oh, hey, none of that,” he frowned, and for a moment he looks guilty like he had brought the rain on himself, “You must be cold, right? Cold and wet, that’s an awful way to start the day.” Y/N nodded, and Harry’s frown somehow deepened, “Poor thing. You know, I have a sweatshirt in my employee locker and –” 

“You use that?” Y/N can’t hide her surprise – the employee lockers were little scams, she thought, because why did she need to pay a monthly fee for a locker that wouldn’t be used anyway? There were more than enough for everyone to have one without payment being an issue – she always thought nobody was stupid enough to fall for the clear scheme and keep things under and at their desk. 

But of course, Harry would have one – for some reason, that just makes too much sense. 

“Yeah, of course I do,” he reasoned, “Once, I ran into one of my coworkers and they spilled their coffee down the front of my shirt. I had nothing to change into, and it wasn’t worth the drive back home, so I had this huge stain – it was embarrassing,” he shook his head, “So the next day I bought one of these, and always keep an extra pair of clothes in it!” 

Y/N bit her tongue because she wanted to ask why he doesn’t just use his car, but he was smiling so triumphantly at his sensibility, that she just couldn’t take it away from him. “You would let me use your sweatshirt?” She said instead and he nodded quickly. 

“Yes, obviously. It won’t help with your bottom half being soaked, but at least you’ll be dry up top, right?” 

Harry’s sweatshirt would be big on him, so it’s plenty big on her, but Y/N likes it. It’s soft, and the inside still feels fleecy and new, like the washing machine hadn’t damaged the fibers yet with repeated cycles (probably because it’s been living in his locker for however long). It smells like his chosen fabric softener; the same that he washes his linens in, because as soon as she pulled it over her head, it felt like being submerged in his sheets again. A part of her longs for it, snuggling up in his bed, Dolly cuddled close between their legs and she even added stinky little Ferret who would no doubt be trying to smother her awake so he could eat. The very imagery of it makes her so content, that she almost forgot that she had to spend 8 hours using her brain today. 

It’s warm, and Harry’s waiting for her outside of the bathroom. He grinned way too prettily when he saw her and went to readjust the collar, which must have flipped in on itself, “You look so adorable,” he complimented, and Y/N’s heart did a flip in her chest that she didn’t bother to ignore – it was becoming more mental effort to ignore the organ’s reactions to him, rather than just accepting them for what they were, “It should be illegal.” 

Y/N rolled her eyes, her face feeling hot, “You should be the lead in a romantic comedy.” 

“Because I’m so handsome?” 

“Because you’re so cheesy.” 

                                                                        .                          .                         .

The longer it goes on, the harder Y/N thinks it’s going to be when he finally gets his mark. They were going on two months of playing pretend, and Y/N wouldn’t lie and say she didn’t like it. She’d always become relatively close with the people she’d done this for in the past, but never to this degree – never to the point where Y/N actually had to remind herself that they weren’t dating. No matter how close she became with them, there was always a distinct cleaving between reality and what they were doing for show. When they held her hand or brought her breakfast, or smeared their mouths against hers, she always had it lingering in the back of her mind that this wasn’t really for her. That all of their actions had one, overarching, transpicuous goal. 

With Harry, it didn’t feel like that. When he held her hand, it felt like it was because he wanted to. When he brought her breakfast, it was like he couldn’t imagine stopping and not buying her something as well. When he kissed her, it was with purpose, with intent, because he wanted to feel his mouth pushed up against hers and lick against her tongue. There was no subtext or hidden motives. . .he just wanted it at the time, with her, and that’s why he was doing it. 

However, that’s just what it felt like. The unwelcome reminder of what this actually was manifested randomly, when she least wanted it to. Whether she was going about her nightly routine and it slapped her across the face or when their knuckles brushed together as they walked side-by-side down the street, and it slammed into her like a biker not looking forward. It’s almost like her brain waits until she’s forgotten about it enough to truly enjoy herself before it decides to strike. Harsh in its words, reprimanding her for being so stupid, for soaking this up like an affection-starved sponge, for breaking her own rule of not letting her heart get too caught up in this. 

The reminder hurts, but it’s necessary. It makes it just that more manageable not to escape into her delusions, which is for the best. And, for at least a couple of days, she holds strong, keeps a level head, and doesn’t fall down the rabbit hole of feelings and premature heartache at what’s to come. She can appreciate the time spent with her friend without thinking of what is to come, and instead of wallowing in her misery about it, she is proactive and conceives plans to eradicate her feelings. Or, at least diminish them enough that she could still stay in Harry’s life without it being a problem for him and his soulmate. She thinks she would still like to be in his life, even if it would hurt. Y/N would rather see him happy, gleaming, smiling brightly, and loving someone else than not see him at all. 

She does pretty good with that, as she said, for a couple of days. 

Then Harry whines. He pouts his mouth when she doesn’t automatically link their fingers together while they walk, and he nudges his head beneath her arm like a puppy asking for pets, and he uses this berry lip mask and comments so longingly about how, “Nice my lips are right now, it’s a shame nobody has made an effort to kiss and taste them.” If Y/N was determined to stop these burgeoning feelings in their tracks, then Harry was hellbent on fostering their growth. He sends her messages throughout the day, just checking in on her, or telling her about things he saw that reminded him of her, or telling her the song she recommended to him has been stuck in his head all day and he can’t get enough (which Y/N treats like a proclamation of love from any of her friends when they tell her that – it makes her feel all too warm). 

Eloise had been hesitant at first, and skeptical of their outings together. She was never rude or mentioned anything, but she would give Y/N a look when Harry would wander his way onto their floor (nobody ever questioned why a book cover artist would need to be on the editors' floor, but everyone loved Harry too much to point that out). The more Harry showed up though, the more integrated he became even in their friend group, going out to eat with them, or out to bars, and he, Eloise, and Niall even scheduled to get pedicures together (Y/N’s feet were too ticklish for someone to go near them, which was ammunition she did not necessarily want to give Harry but she had to). 

Niall doesn’t question anything because he’s Niall, but he’s just as bewitched by Harry as everyone else. And the feeling is mutual because Harry just couldn’t get over the fact that Niall was good with numbers when he seemed like someone barely good with letters. He had a habit of sitting on the small stool Y/N had hidden beneath her desk (to rest her foot on, of course, not so that Harry had a seat for when he took extended lunch breaks up on their floor) and quizzing him. 

“How many hours in 7 weeks?” 

“1176.” 

“If my order was £21.22, what would a 42% tip be?” 

“8.91, but at that point you might as well round up to an even 9.” 

It’s just too easy with him. Things are too normal and Y/N feels too happy, for this to be what it is. 

They were stretched out on a picnic blanket again, another lunch spent outside with Ferret and Dolly, but now they are staring up at the clouds and watching them pass by. Y/N thinks about how big the world is, and she wonders who would see the same clouds that they are seeing right now. Would Harry’s soulmate see them? Would they feel a twinge in their heart, knowing that he’s looking at the shapes with someone different? That he is reveling in the calm and the quiet with a person that isn’t them? 

Was her soulmate looking up at the sky too? Would they see the same cloud, so fluffy and white that she just wanted to sink her body into it? Were they with someone else? Did they even exist? 

Harry’s hand is big and warm, resting over hers on the blanket. 

“What do you think your soulmate is like?” Y/N doesn’t realize her lips are moving until the words are out of her mouth. The breath Harry was in the middle of taking pauses, and the gentle caress of his thumb over her knuckles stopped, and even the one bird that had been singing suddenly ceased its chirp, as if even the world around them was wondering why the hell she brought it up. 

She could hear his head turn to look at her, “What?” 

“Your soulmate,” she repeated like it was obvious because it should be. She’d just realized that since a week or so after they started, she really hadn’t heard him mention them and Y/N wasn’t used to that. Normally, the person she’s with has mentioned their soulmate no less than forty times in seven days. They don’t give her a chance to forget that she’s merely a stepping stone to a better, more fulfilling love life. But sometimes, it feels like, even Harry’s forgotten why they started all of this in the first place, “I was just wondering what you think they’re like. You’ve never mentioned it before.” 

Harry cleared his throat, his hand slowly resuming the way he rubbed over the top of hers, sending pleasant goosebumps up her arms. His leg is resting on the bottom half of her dress to keep it from billowing up and out, so they’re pressed relatively close to each other, though she couldn’t say they wouldn’t be like this, even if her wardrobe wasn’t an issue with the wind. The sun is warm, even hidden behind the puffy white clouds they’re staring up at. 

“I used to think about it a lot,” he finally replied, his voice gentle, “I’ve never thought much about what they looked like. Back in school, everyone would always theorize what color hair they might have, or the color of their eyes, if their skin would be pale or brown if their skin had freckles or moles, but all of that seemed so. . .I don’t know. It just didn’t seem important to me, ever, what they looked like.” That makes Y/N’s lips twitch up in a smile – of course, he wouldn’t care, he’s just so good, but she thinks that someone as beautiful as Harry, could only end up with someone just as beautiful, if not more (if that was possible), “I guess, I’ve always just imagined that they would compliment me and I would compliment them, not in appearance, but in the way we fit together, you know? Their strengths are my weaknesses, and my weaknesses are their strengths so that when we’re together, then we’re just. . .unstoppable, seems cheesy, but that’s the only word I can think of.” Once he’s started, it seems easy for him to keep going, and Y/N likes that. She likes how much he talks, how open he is, the way he wears his heart on his sleeve, “I think they’re someone I would feel so comfortable with, it’d be as easy as breathing with them. That I could just exist in their presence and not feel like I have to be. . .on? Y’know, I can just be me. Someone who, knowing that I’m coming home to them, even if we’re in the middle of the biggest fight – I feel relieved and happy.” He shrugged his shoulders, “I kind of imagine them to be someone funny, who makes me laugh. I think they would be okay with cuddling too, and me waking them up with kisses in the morning because I can’t help myself. Even if they hated those things though, I would love them. Unconditionally.” Harry nodded to himself, “That’s what I think, at least.” 

She felt herself smiling, sighing gently, “That sounds nice Harry,” she flipped her hand over, weaving their fingers together, “Really nice. I’m sorry it’s taking so long.” 

He squeezes her hand, “I don’t mind,” he murmured, “I’ve waited my whole life, so I don’t. . .I don’t mind waiting longer.” Then, he’s turning, and Dolly readjusts the way she’d coiled up in between them, belly-up, now finding Y/N’s hip to rest her chin on, eyes falling closed again. Harry’s on his side now, looking at her, and Y/N can’t help but turn to face him. He always looks pretty, but he especially looks gorgeous on days like this. His skin is glowing (he swears by his skincare routine and Y/N really needed to try it one day), and his eyes are big, and light. The kind of green they are in the sun makes her wonder what they would look like reflected off the ocean, like maybe they were two, smooth marbles that belonged at the bottom of the sea. Someone stole them from a mermaid’s den to put them in Harry’s head and make him look at her the way he was right now. Like he could peer through her soul and read through her very being, “I have you, so it isn’t hard.” 

Y/N wanted to kiss him right now but it didn’t seem like the right time. Not after he’d just finished divulging what the person made just for him was like – it would seem like she was clinging onto something desperately, and she didn’t want him to know how hard this was for her. Harry, as soft as he is, would let the guilt eat away at him and that’s the last thing that she wanted. She just wants him happy, that’s all, even if it can’t be with her. 

So she only nods in agreement. 

“You have me.” 

                                                              .                           .                        .   

After spending so much time with each other, when Harry isn’t around, Y/N’s days are. . .quiet. Long and quiet, in a way that she used to yearn for after her days at work, but now she feels just slightly off put by it. Her days at work are quiet, her days after work are quiet, and the thought that this is what it would be like when Harry did find his soulmate just about gives her hives. It’s deafening, almost, if she thinks too much about it, but she’s sure she’s just getting too deep in her head. 

Harry went to his Nan’s farm a couple of hours away because his cousin just had a baby, and they were using it as an excuse to all get together. He didn’t invite her directly, just slyly mentioned that she’s always welcome to anything that he was going to do unless he ever specifically stated otherwise (“Which would never happen,”) and Y/N thanked him. Despite how close she felt to Harry, she would hold true to her early request that he not get her involved in family affairs. It’s just one thing that she won’t do, especially because she’s worried that if all Harry’s family members are like him, then she’d like them too much. And liking them too much meant it hurting when this inevitably came to an end, so she’d like to spare herself the additional heartache. 

So she sat this one out and told him to have fun and to send her pictures. He’d always described his Nan’s farm as something out of a fairytale, with rolling fields of green and acres upon acres of land she sat on. There was an apple orchard on the property that he used to go and pick apples from all the time when he was a kid, and a farm with horses, cattle, and chickens – sometimes she had sheep too. She never sold them off to be butchered, but she did sell their milk and eggs, and the sheep’s wool when it grew out enough to shave them down. According to Harry, she didn’t need the extra money (retirement, plus her ex-husband's pension, and her current husband’s (her soulmate) business funds more than just their leisure lifestyle), so she took it and put it away. Harry suspected that she put it away for grandchildren and expenses they may have in their future because she was always the first to help with tuition, graduation parties, weddings, and vacations. She’s a generous woman, through and through. 

And she loved babies, so anytime someone had one, they brought it over to meet their Nan. It’s cute – Y/N wished her family did stuff like that. 

He would be gone for a four-day weekend, starting on Thursday, and he would return Sunday night. Harry promised he would send plenty of photos and messages, but after he texts her that he’s made it safely, she doesn’t hear from him much the rest of the night. Y/N doesn’t take it to heart, she knows he’s busy, and the service out there isn’t the best thing in the world. Still, she finds herself missing his rapid-fire, ten messages in a row when it could have been put together in two. Her phone only buzzes with a photo Niall sends of his pedicured feet and asks if she’s jealous that he could sell foot pics and she couldn’t, and then a message from Eloise asking if she wanted to get breakfast in the morning. 

Otherwise, the night is quiet. Ferret is extra cuddly with her, snuggled up against her chest, and she wondered if he missed Dolly (who made the trip with Harry, because her long-time cat friend Mr. Muskrat lived there – he told Ferret not to be too jealous though, because Mr. Muskrat was 15 years old and not looking to be a suitor at the time). Typical Thursday nights for them had been Dolly playdates lately, or at least a Harry playdate, who smelled like his friend. Ferret is never this snuggly with her, usually slinking around and “accidentally” pushing things off the counter (the little bastard), so she petted him between his ears and cooed, “I know, stinky head. I miss them too.” 

Eloise and Y/N get breakfast that morning at an acai bowl place near their job. Eloise complained about her current boyfriend, who likes to sit with his headset on at his computer while she’s on his bed and clearly horny. “I mean, are there hot characters in Genshin? Does he want to fuck them more than he wants to fuck me? Because I’m sitting there, ready to get my shit rearranged and he’s talking about some bitch named Neuvillette.” 

“I think that’s a male character,” Y/N pointed, “With beautiful hair, so he might want to fuck them, sure.” 

Y/N gets her first photo from Harry around lunchtime, when she’s forking noodles into her mouth from the ramen bowl she brought. Normally Harry makes her stop eating so she can enjoy her lunch, but today she eats as she edits, and threatens to stomp on Niall’s feet when he tries to take a slice of the cucumber she had in her snack container. He pouted at her, big and deep, and it didn’t have nearly the same effect that Harry’s does on her, “You’re much more giving when Harry’s around,” he noted, “He’s never allowed to leave again.” 

“I’m not giving, he just takes what it is you're after and gives it to you.” 

“Well, you don’t yell at him for it, so it works out in my favor.” Niall sighed, leaning back in his seat, taking his thirty-minute break with his phone about 10cm from his face, “Did you see the girls from Dance Moms are finally doing a tell-all? They’re at each other’s throats and –” 

Niall keeps going when Y/N’s phone buzzes, and she sees a photo from Harry. The fields are beautiful, so green, hills and hills of it further than the scope of the camera could reach. There are trees and flowers, the clouds look as lush as the grass and the sky looks extra blue there, unbothered by the pollution of city streets. The countryside was always quite beautiful, she’d say, especially all the stars you could see at night. 

Isn’t it pretty? 

I wanna roll down a hill like a kid

I’ll get grass stains though so i might not 

Maybe i will though

 if i can convince one of my younger cousins to do it with me

hahahaha

Y/N huffed a breath through her nose, replying. 

I would roll down the hills if I were you 

It’s very pretty, it looks very soft and I think a couple of grass stains would be worth it 

Does it smell nice out there? 

The message is read immediately like he had the thread open and was waiting for her to reply. The three dots pop up immediately. 

It smells SO GOOD

Like flowers and grass and spring 

Does spring have a smell? 

It hasn’t rained for a few days so the dirt should be dry 

I’ll roll down the hill! I’ll have someone take a video to prove it 

My mum asked who you were bc you’re all over my socials 

I said you’re my best friend!!! 

Miss you :(((( 

Y/N’s heart squeezes in her chest. 

Miss you too. 

I’ll look forward to the video!! 

After work, she stops by the grocery store and picks up food for the weekend. Her cooking wouldn’t taste nearly half as good as Harry’s would, but she could at least make the attempt, and there was a vegetarian stuffed pepper recipe that she’d been wanting to try. Harry had promised to make it for her when he got back, but she was craving them now. It was crowded for a Friday, but the weather was nice, so it kind of made sense – there were always hoards of people in any and every store on a Friday with mild temperatures and a nice, warm breeze. 

She doesn’t realize until she’s at home and packing all the food away that she bought things that Harry likes too. The protein bars that he eats as a snack, and the oversized oranges that he swears by (they are extra juicy and sweet). Those two at the very least she could lie and say she got for herself, but she also picked up these god-awful snack cakes that he loves – ones Y/N could not get behind in the slightest – and those could only be for him because they would have no other reason to be in her pantry. She feels silly for it, wondering why her brain was convinced that she needed to buy snacks for him when he wasn’t even with her. 

Y/N had just finished making dinner and pouring herself a small glass of wine when she got another message from him. This time it’s a picture of Dolly with another cat snuggled together – Mr. Muskrat was a British shorthair, who was still looking around while Dolly had her body tucked up against his belly. 

Don’t show Ferret!! 

Are you eating yet? 

We had my Nan’s shepherd’s pie. . . so delicious.

I’ll have her make some so I can bring you it Sunday!  

Y/N sends him a picture of the stuffed peppers. 

Looks so good

Chef Y/N 

Make some for me next time! 

Ferret rubs between her legs, lacing around her ankles before slinking off to his food bowl beside the refrigerator. She liked the message and felt a smile stuck on her lips; she could tell he was smiling at his phone. She doesn’t know how she knew, she just knew, and his smile had always been contagious so she just let it spread across her cheeks. 

They message back and forth for a while and Harry lets her know he might disappear in a bit because they were going to drink wine and sit on her patio and look at the stars. It was something they did when he was younger (minus the wine on his end), where they would pick their favorite star out and name it, after finding the staple constellations that everyone seemed to know about. Y/N told him to choose a star for her since she couldn’t see them as well. The clouds had shifted from puffy, white pillows, to heavy stones of grey, threatening a storm later that night. It was dark, so she couldn’t visualize the clouds either, but the sky was dark and endless, save for the little peek of the moon every so often. 

Y/N pours another glass of wine, and halfway through she’s feeling a little unsteady on her feet. A lightweight right down to it, she giggled to herself for not being able to handle her liquor even a little bit and headed to the bathroom. She’d done this tango enough to know she wouldn’t drown in the tub, she wasn’t drunk by any means, just pleasantly lightheaded and tipsy. Bubbly as the soap she puts in her bath to make them foam up right over her chest, filling the water a little too high so with one wrong move she’d be sloshing it onto the floor outside of the tub. She soaked for a while until she started to feel sleepy and all the bubbles had dissipated so she was just staring down at herself in the clear water. 

By the time she crawls into bed in her pajamas, the clock reads 10 PM and she’s feeling like an old lady. Tipsy off two glasses of wine and tired from her bath, and she’s only up an hour later than she usually is on a work night. 

Before she could start wondering when she’d left her UNI party days and the ability to pull all-nighters, her phone buzzed at the side of her head. 

Is it weird that I want to kiss you right now? 

Can’t stop thinking about it. 

Y/N pauses, blinking at her phone, her breath stuck in her throat. He messages her again. 

Sorry if that was too much

It wasn’t too much

I want to kiss you too

Maybe it was the alcohol that made her say it. Harry must be a little drunk too, and there’s no telling how many glasses he might have had at that point. He gets carried away when he’s talking with a glass of wine in his hand, and sips and sips and sips, refills, repeat, until he’s three glasses in and confused about how he’d gotten this drunk this fast. He just gets caught up in the conversation, always giving his all to the person speaking, sparing every second of his attention on them and what they’re saying that he isn’t paying attention to much of anything else. 

Good

That makes me happy 

Bc i want to kiss you like, all of thetime

Your mouth always tastes so sweet

I’d taste you all over if you let me

Arousal sizzles through her lower belly, manifesting in a little trickle she can feel building up between her legs. She didn’t know what she’d been expecting but it certainly hadn’t been that – she guesses she should have expected it though. Harry is much more touchy when he’s drinking, more handsy, and less particular about where he puts his hands. She thinks back to the first night that they kissed, how he’d been holding her hips while they danced, how he kept wiggling her skirt down over her bum, the way he’d grab her hands and pull them to his bare chest making her rest them there, like he wanted nothing more than to be skin-to-skin. 

Y/N has sexted a couple of times but never with someone she was actually really, really attracted to nor with someone she had feelings for. It was normally a dick pic sent unprompted, and Y/N had to answer back mid-skin-care routine, hastily, a little disgruntled by the sudden meat on her screen. The girls she’s been with were always much more tactful and artful with their nudes, but even then, the timing was just never right for her to really sit down and get into it. 

But this. . .she could tell where this was going, she was pretty sure. 

You’re being filthy 

Aren’t you at your nan’s house? There’s no time for perverted thoughts 

Y/N nibbles on her bottom lip, waiting for his reply. 

Sorry, cna’t help it

Everyone’s already asleep anyway 

My room is on the opposite side of the house 

Alllll alone, wish u were here 

I’d let you 

You’d let me what? 

Taste me 

Fuck 

Really? You’d let me? 

I want to, i just know you would be so good

The sounds you make when we kiss are always the prettiest 

I bet you sound pretty like that too 

I’m embarrassed about how hard i am thinking about it 

Y/N’s heart is thudding in her chest. They’ve always been playfully flirty but they’ve never really gotten into it like this before. Never so candid about the sexual feelings they might have for one another. Everything had been mostly platonic, up to this point, except for the kissing but even then. . .their kisses did get rather filthy. They would kiss for so long that it would get kind of sloppy, their lips swollen red and slicked with spit. Harry had started nipping and biting and pulling at her bottom lip, and when he would she’d end up making sounds that she was trying to keep to herself. Then there was every time they would rearrange and she would scoot forward, and they’d be groin to groin, and Y/N had to desperately ignore the way he would always be half hard in his bottoms. 

They never brought it up, they just kept kissing until they were breathless and eventually stopped.  

Show me 

She sends it, then hides her face in her pillow and squeals. Ferret is over her, apparently, because he hops off the bed and leaves through the crack in her door. If she’s annoying him he usually just goes to sleep on the sofa for at least part of the night (but she always wakes up with him back in her room, on her bed, trying to smother her). 

It takes a little bit, but a picture does eventually come through. Harry’s in a bed, the flash is on because the room is dark apart from what might be a salt lamp in the corner of the room, the orange glow recognizable and telling in the photo. Harry’s only in a pair of white briefs, his stomach looks soft against the elastic band but she can see the muscles in his abdomen form well-toned lines. His hips are always just a bit softer than everything else, and it makes her want to dig her teeth into him. 

The briefs do very little to hide anything. Harry is hard and the fabric is thin enough that she can make out the ruddy tip where it’s tucked over on the left side. Her mouth all but waters and she plucks at the waistband of her underwear mindlessly, wondering if she should touch herself. Wine always makes her a little horny, and Harry. . .well, Harry always makes her a little horny too. How his hands are always all over her, big and broad, it’s hard not to consider what it would be like for him to hold her down. How he would grab at her tits, and squeeze and knead them in his palms. The way he could envelope her throat with only one of them. 

It looks so pretty, even like that 

You’re really that hard from thinking about tasting me? 

Yes yesyesyes

sorry 

You’re just so pretty and you always smell so good, i just want to bury my face in

or have you sit on my face 

And go until i can’t breathe 

shit . . .is this okay? I feel like sexting wasn’t in our unofficial agreement 

Y/N snorted – of course he would ask when they’d already started. 

It’s alright, some of the others have sexted me before too 

Comes with the territory i think, with fake dates and all 

I… hate that 

Sorry 

That makes me so jealous for some reason 

Y/N smiles, huffing a laugh through her nose. 

You don’t need to be jealous tho 

Anytime i’ve done it before, i’ve never been this wet

She does finally sink her hand underneath the fabric then, letting her fingers slide down into her slit. Her folds are really wet for having not touched herself yet, and they’re soft and swollen from her bath, where she’d trimmed herself a bit. She dips her fingers in and swirls them around, feeling herself clench, like her body was trying to entice them inside of her. 

That almost made me cum :(( 

Want you here 

Not just for this but just bc i miss you so much 

But for this too

Just wanna make you feel good 

Are you touching yourself too? 

Yeah, i am 

Ugh

I know you probably look so pretty

Will you come hard for me? 

And if you’re comfortable, send me a picture of your fingers afterward?

So i can imagine them in my mouth 

It doesn’t take much for Y/N to cum. She’s already so worked up that when her fingers do meet her clit in a slick, wet slide, she rolls her fingers over it in tight circles that make her thighs threaten to close. Her brain is all over the place: images of Harry two hours away with his hand wrapped around his cock and his balls full and heavy, picturing him between her legs, tongue slurping and licking her, getting drunk off it. Y/N had never sexted someone who seemed more like they wanted to get her off rather than talking about how far they could get their dick down her throat, so this was a pleasant surprise. 

In the end, it was the thought that Harry is taking more time between sending each message because he’s too busy stroking over himself with one of his hands. If he thinks she would sound pretty, then he must sound like a dream, moaning and whimpering. She would pay to hear it. 

But she doesn’t have to pay, because Harry sends a recording. 

That’s what makes her cum. His breathing deeply, moaning low and muffled like it was in the palm of his hand, and the wet, slick sounds of his palm against his shaft. Did he use lube or did he spit into his hand? Or maybe he was just that drippy and leaky with precum that she could hear it so loudly. Whatever the reason, it sends her straight into her orgasm, from the tips of her toes, bursting through her veins and fizzling into a pleasant hum. She’s breathless and sticky by the time she’s finished, the mess between her legs cooling into something uncomfortable. Y/N doesn’t let this distract her from swirling her fingers right outside of her hole, thighs twitching from the sensitivity, and her pussy fluttering. She turns the flash on her camera and takes a picture of her two fingers, and the sticky string that connects her index and middle finger together when she pulls them apart. 

She double-checks that it’s Harry she’s sending it to before she pushes the blue button. 

The response she gets only a minute later is Harry, his cock softening against his thigh, and a pool of cum in the shape of a heart on his lower belly. He sends the pink heart emoji, with the smaller one that sits atop it (it’s his favorite), and a message. 

You’re the best

Im so sleepy now 

Goodnight xx have sweet dreams

Send pictures of you and Ferret in the morning okay???

Love you!! 

Y/N smiles at her phone, feeling boneless and lazy. She needs to get up and pee and clean up a bit but she gives herself a second to just exist, melting into her mattress, wishing that his ‘love you’ was a little more than just Harry being sweet. But, as she is with most things, if this is the only time she’ll get it then she’s going to milk it a little. Pretend that he meant it in a way different than he does. 

Sweet dreams, love you too!! 

                                                           .                             .                             .

Sunday night, there’s a knock on Y/N’s door. 

Harry stands there, holding Dolly underneath his arm and a floral casserole dish in the other. 

“I told her you were important, so she made some just for you,” he told her, “Now invite me in so I can get my bum in a seat that isn’t a car, ‘cos I’m sore.” 

Y/N is relieved that nothing changed after Friday night. Harry had been messaging her like normal on Saturday, but she still had some reservations that he might be a little weird about it when they meet up again. Y/N didn’t regret it but she didn’t know how he felt about it, and she didn’t want to assume that he was in the same boat. If he didn’t bring it up, she wouldn’t, and if he wanted to pretend like it didn’t happen, then they could do that too. 

But when he’s handing her the dish Y/N’s mouth pops open to say, “Oh god, you didn’t have to hand deliver it after you’ve been traveling for so long. I would have come to get it from you!” Harry replied with. 

“It’s the least I could have done after you put me to sleep on Friday,” his voice is teasing, and light, but his face still flushes at the memory, despite being the one who brought it up, “And dealing with me drunk and horny.” 

She laughed, any remaining tension seeping from her shoulders, dissipating into thin air. 

                                                                .                            .                             .

Harry needs to tell her. 

On Tuesday morning, he woke up with what felt like someone branding him – maybe a little less severe. On his lower right hip, just above where the elastic of his underwear usually rests, and for a second, he thinks that Dolly had scratched him. That’s unlike her though; Ferret may stomp all over Y/N’s body and have little to no control over when his claws slip out, but Dolly is very particular about when the pointed tips dig anywhere that isn’t her scratching post. She’s his good girl, through and through, the only time he ever feels her nails is if she’s kneading biscuits on his chest or sometimes his thigh, and even then it was never like this. 

He’d still been half a step in a dream when he reached down, expecting to feel skin raised and inflamed, but he felt nothing – just the smooth surface of his hip. His brows furrowed, he peeled his eyes open and raised his sheets, then sucked in a gasp so hard it nearly chokes him. 

Like a new addition to his skin, like a birthmark, decorates a small patch. It’s nonsensical, like most of them are, a doodle that looks like a circle, turning into a swirl, dots that could be stars, three lines that remind him of Dolly’s whiskers, uneven in length. It’s a shade darker than his skin, and there’s no indication that it had even just appeared – no irritation or swelling, despite it feeling like a smoldering wound. A cat scratch that had been cauterized or something, that’s what it felt like. Has anyone ever described that before?

He sits up a little too fast and gets dizzy, his brain swimming and swirling. Harry can’t take his eyes off of it, his heart hammering – he’d wanted this so badly. Every day since he’d learned about soulmates, he woke up and mapped out his whole body, looking for anything that hadn’t been there the day before. At first, he never felt discouraged when he didn’t see it; his mum had caught him searching a few times and always told him that it would happen when the time was right. That his person would appear almost in tandem with his mark, and that everything would fall into its place when it was meant to. So don’t panic and don’t rush it. 

So Harry waited. He waited until he was 10, and his first love (who was three years older than him) met his soulmate at the neighborhood pool. He waited until he was 14, and his girlfriend who he was sure was the one, woke up with a soulmark beneath her ear and Harry had nothing beneath his. He waited until he was 18, in UNI, happy as can be with his partner, only to be left yet again, when their mark popped up on his thigh and all Harry had was his smooth, peach-fuzzer, pale skin. 

He waited until he was 21, until he was 22, until he was 23, 24, 25. He waited until he was 26, and the girl he’d been dating for a year and a half and he loved her enough he was looking at rings and talking about down payments, and making promises that soulmate marks wouldn’t change anything – woke up with delicate swirls and scribbles above her ankle. He waited four more days, and she was crying, apologizing, telling him how sorry she was but she met them at work, and it all just clicked into place. Something she’d never experienced before, something beautiful. 

Harry waited, until he was at a work party, welcoming some newbie who was talking about the girl across the table like she was some deity sent by Cupid himself. And he watched her get nervous under the attention, brushing off the rapid-fire questions, with two friends flanking either side of her shooing them away. Then he saw her excuse herself, a little while after, and instead of going to the bathroom she was making a beeline for the exit, and Harry’s feet were carrying him after her before he could even think twice about it. He’d only had two beers with his meal, but his tact, and social awareness had snuffed out into a nonexistent puff. 

Harry waited, and he waited, and he waited until he decided that he couldn’t wait anymore. And if this girl was real – if she could help you find your soulmate just by pretending to date her? Well, he thought it was worth a shot. Anything would be worth it, to not feel this pain of someone being chosen over him again, and again, and again. 

Y/N was so understanding when he spoke to her, and even when he (shamefully) started to snivel and cry about thinking he was going to marry his ex and how bad the last 4 years have been as far as romance was concerned. That was his first clue that Finley wasn’t fucking around, that people must come to her about this often enough. She comforted him, promised to think about it, and then the next time they saw each other, she agreed to do it. Harry had spent the entire weekend stressing over asking her if she would say yes or not if he’d made her uncomfortable, if he might have ruined her night. Y/N managed to comfort all that panic in one simple conversation. Honestly, even before they spoke to one another and sorted through all the details – when she messaged him the night before, Harry had felt at ease almost instantly. 

His second inkling, that this wasn’t some elaborate joke, was how halfway reluctant she seemed about the whole thing. Harry figured it must be hard doing this time and time again, helping people find their soulmates only to be left with nothing to show for it. To go from seeing someone frequently, to not seeing them much at all. To never know if your soulmate was out there, or if the consequence of having such a power meant you had no soulmate at all. That’s why he tried to make it clear to her that no matter what she chose, he wouldn’t hold it against her. Hell, he was just so enamored by the fact that she’d done it in the past. If it were him, he might withhold his powers out of spite – why should everyone else get their soulmate, and then he’s left all alone? How was that fair? So for Y/N to do this regularly – god, he just thinks she must be a saint.

Harry could follow the rules she set out just fine, he didn’t mind them, and she was nice so pretending to date her wouldn’t be hard. Actually, about three to four weeks into it, he’d forget pretty frequently about the whole arrangement. When he was planning things with her, it was genuine; Harry wanted her to come with him to get Mediterranean after work, and he wanted to go to the theaters with the nice, reclining seats and watch a movie in IMAX together. Harry wanted to go on picnics and kitty playdates, and he wanted to spend time with Y/N in the mornings before work, in the evenings after it, and on weekends when they both had nothing to do. When he wasn’t with her, he missed her. All of his other friends knew about her, Adam could probably recite Y/N’s sub sandwich order because for some reason that comes up a fair amount. 

“Are you sure she isn’t your soulmate?” Adam asked one day (unprovoked, because Harry hadn’t even spoken about her for at least twenty minutes) when Harry was waiting for a thunderstorm to settle down so he could drive home safely, “I’ve just never seen you so. . .taken, with someone before. And that means when it comes to you because you fall in love every three seconds.” 

“Heyyyy,” Harry pouted at him, but he really didn’t have an answer. This – how he felt about Y/N – certainly felt different than it ever had before. Harry was someone who did become infatuated fast, but with Y/N it felt so natural, so certain, so sure, that he was supposed to feel this way about her. That Y/N had been placed on this earth so that he could see her smile and hear her laugh, and he had been put on this earth, to do the same for her. 

Harry thinks she’s beautiful; her brain, her face, the way her giggles sound, and the noise she makes when she’s grumpy, huffing, and pouting. Her tears are beautiful when they slide down her face and leave her cheeks sticky. The furrow in her brow is beautiful when her eyes are glued to the screen trying to decipher what the author could have possibly meant by using the word scrumtrulescent to describe a car. She’s beautiful when her lips are all swollen red and bitten from his mouth. She’s beautiful when he wakes up from a nap finding Ferret smothering the bottom half of her face with his back. She’s beautiful when she asks him to describe what he thinks his soulmate might be like, and she’s beautiful when she’s oblivious to him describing her. 

Because it has to be her. 

It just has to be. 

Harry throws his bedding around, looking for his phone that he knows got tangled up in his sheets the night before. He looks at the time – 8 AM – and knows that Y/N is already awake and getting ready for work. She’d messaged him a photo of Ferret with one eye open and the other closed with Ferret the scallywag beneath it. A headache threatens to grow behind his temples when he realizes that if Y/N had woken up with a mark, feeling like she’d been branded, then she would have told him. Or, in her panic, she wouldn’t have bothered to message a photo of Ferret. 

Of course he won’t know for sure until he sees her, and until he can somehow peek at her hip, but right now it’s not looking. . .great for him.

It shouldn’t matter. Harry should just be happy to have one, he knows, but the truth is, Harry can’t be happy if Y/N isn’t. He doesn’t want to stop the way their dynamic is now. He doesn’t want to add another person to it, and he doesn’t want to figure out someone, and how they would feel about Harry’s relationship with her, when he’s so clearly in love with her it’s almost obnoxious. And how would he propose a polyamorous relationship where Y/N was included without seeming like a sleazy guy? Actually, how would he explain that he was going to love Y/N probably a little more than whoever his actual soulmate was? 

Harry had never dreaded meeting his soulmate before. 

But with Y/N involved, apparently, he’s just feeling a lot of new and different things. 

He needed to tell her. It was one of the things she requested of him, at the very start, one of the only things that she requested. She didn’t want him to prolong things to spare her feelings, she wanted him to let her know, so they could end things inconspicuously. 

. . .technically, though, that was only if he found his soulmate right? And what if it wasn’t to spare her feelings? What if Harry is doing this to spare his own? Then it’s different. . .right?

He wouldn’t keep it a secret for long, and if he really does find his soulmate, of course, he’ll tell her, but at least for now, Harry would like things to change relatively little. Knowing Y/N, she’ll back off if she knows he has his mark. She’ll try and leave him room to go and seek out his person, making herself distant so he wouldn’t have to feel bad when he distanced himself (not that he planned on that, even a little bit). Always so self-sacrificial; his mind and body yearn to see her now. Harry is nervous, and his mark is burning, and he simultaneously wants to stare at it and pretend like it isn’t there. 

The thing was, Harry had finally accepted that maybe he didn’t have a soulmate, and he was alright with that. He thought that maybe he and Y/N were just soulmates who didn’t have soulmarks. Him all of a sudden having one complicates things.

What was he going to do? 

Fuck, what was he going to do?

                                                                   ..                           .                            .

Harry attempts to not be so obvious about it, but he’s never been very good at hiding things. 

It must be written all over his face as soon as he walks through the door, Niall spots him outside of the elevator, and his brows furrow, “Why do you look like that?” 

“Like what?” 

“Constipated,” he replied easily, and Harry huffed at him, “Relax your brow.” 

Harry does loosen up the muscles in his face some, “You’re right,” he murmured, “My bad, the sun is just kind of bright today.” 

Niall surely doesn’t believe it because the sun has only just barely made its appearance from behind the clouds, but the good thing about Niall is that he isn’t pushy and he doesn’t quiz you. If you don’t want to discuss something with him, then you don’t have to – it's as easy as that. He just needs to count his blessings that he hadn’t run into Eloise, because she would have had him confessing everything in a matter of three seconds, with one look over her shoulder. 

Harry is itching to see Y/N but he’s already late, so he has to go straight to his floor. He’s greeted by the secretary, and his floor manager almost immediately, then his cubby buddy and a couple of his other coworkers swarm him as soon as he walks in. Harry would be alarmed if they didn’t always do this, chatting about a little bit of everything, and a little bit of nothing, while Harry boots up the tablet so he can start his final draft. It was for a romance novel, and humiliatingly enough, in the first couple of drafts, the woman he drew on the front had a striking resemblance to a certain editor a couple of floors down from him. So he’d decided that he’d try the author’s other vision, without any people on the front, and instead draw an intricate mural of flowers hidden among a grassy hill. 

He draws until his hand cramps and he just can’t take it anymore, packing up for lunch twenty minutes early, and the floor manager just winks at him and tells him to not let anyone know he gets special treatment just for today (he lets him do this quite often, actually, and nobody really bats an eyelash – the floor rules are much more lax than most floors in the building). Harry takes the familiar pathway to Y/N’s floor, and makes his way to her briskly, catching only the tail end of the conversation she must have been having with Eloise. 

“--must’ve slept weird or something, I don’t know,” then she caught sight of Eloise looking behind her, and turned around to face him. 

It feels like a weight had been lifted from his chest – he isn’t sure why. Just knew that it felt like it was hard to breathe a little, like when the air is clouded and heavy with smoke from a bonfire and he’s sitting a little too close, but when he saw her, it was good. Like being in the countryside, where the air is light and feathery like the wind. He wanted her there with him so badly when he went to visit his Nan, he could barely contain himself, but he knew she didn’t like getting the family involved. It wouldn’t be for nothing though, he would be introducing her as the person who should be his soulmate, no matter what the mark on his body said. 

“Harry,” she smiled, “Where the hell were you this morning, I got you a muffi–oh!” Harry wrapped his arms around her, and honestly, it’s more of a headlock than a hug, but it’s the best he can do from this angle. Y/N doesn’t seem to mind, leaning back into him and wrapping her hand around his forearm, “I mean, it’s only a muffin, I hardly think I deserve a hug.” 

You deserve the fucking world. 

“You underestimate how much I love a muffin,” he replied instead. 

                                                                .                           .                              .

Y/N isn’t typically a huge fan of swimming, but under the right circumstances, she could get behind it. These particular “right circumstances” are the manager of Harry’s floor coordinating a party for his own birthday and inviting everyone, and telling everyone to invite everyone, to his massive house with his equally massive pool. Y/N doesn’t mind a pool house party, because there’s somewhere to escape if it gets too cold outside and there’s a toilet that flushes and food that hasn’t been sitting stale under the watch of 2 or 3 teenagers who hate that they have to work in the summer. 

And she’d get to watch Harry wander around in a tiny little bathing suit, so. . .well, she couldn’t complain. 

It started at noon, but she and Harry didn't arrive until a little after 3 PM when the sun had lowered just enough to be tolerable and so Harry didn’t turn bright red underneath it. A lot of people had already been a few drinks in, but Y/N wasn’t necessarily in the mood for it. She stripped out of her clothes with Harry at the beach chairs, a little taken by how much of a resort vibe the pool gives. At first, she had no idea where the floor manager was getting this money, but she overheard someone say his soulmate was some lawyer bigwig. Which, how lucky is that, because now they have a 40,000-gallon pool, lined with white cushioned beach chairs. There’s a fire pit made of grey bricks, and seats around that. They’ve even got large umbrellas hovering over some seated areas — it’s amazing.

The pool was ice cold at first, but once she (Harry) shoved her shoulders beneath the water, it ended up being okay. Harry is swimming around too, though they hover close to each other. Y/N tries to suck up his body heat the best that she can, and maybe she just wants to be pushed up against his naked body — sue her. 

Harry doesn’t seem to mind. If anything, he reminded her a bit of a guard dog, “Jesus,” he murmured, retying her top for the 4th time because every time she resurfaced from the water it would loosen bit by bit, “Is this top made so you have no choice but to flash people? We need to leave a bad review.”

“It used to be much better,” she admitted, “I haven’t bought a new top in a while.”

“Let’s go shopping for a new one before it gets warmer enough that these parties are happening all the time,” he suggested, “I need a new one too, this one is a little short.” 

“Nooo, the shorter the better,” she tells him, reaching down and pinching at the fabric where it’s just about halfway up his thighs, “It makes your bum look peachier.” 

His face gets pink and Y/N revels in it, loving how flushed and shy he gets with her. 

They stay inside of the pool for a while, only getting out when Niall has reached the point of being drunk that cannon balls with their floor manager had started seeming like a good idea. Then Y/N crawls out, with the help of Harry’s hands on her hips because someone was occupying the ladder (the person occupying it, Harry tells her, is named Gene, and she doesn’t know how to swim so Y/N doesn’t want to make her let go). Harry squeezed her hips and re-adjusted the suit bottoms that had ridden up her cheeks. She has half the mind to suspect Harry is jealous of the others seeing her and she couldn’t help the giddy little bubbles that fizzle in her chest because of it. 

So now, it was around 6 PM and the sun was lowering in the sky but still pretty warm. Y/N and Harry don’t need to be sharing a seat but they are, and Harry’s legs are outstretched on either side of it while Y/N has her own crossed, a towel flopped over her lap. She’s turned to face him and Eloise, who sits on the neighboring seat, talking idly, while Y/N demolishes a bowl of sliced fruits that were in the kitchen. There were quite a few still left because people were focused more on day drinking than they were on the catered fruit, so she was trying to figure out how she was going to steal them for herself. They were so juicy and sweet, everything so wonderfully in season, and honestly, she wondered if they added some sugar to them. 

“Is it good?” Eloise inquired, her eyes trained on Y/N amused.

“So fucking good,” she nodded, then stabbed her fork into an orange slice and holds it out for her to have it. Eloise goes ahead and takes the whole fork and plops it and the fruit into her mouth, “Hey –” 

“Find those pics of Ferret when he was a baby. The one with him compared to the grapefruit and then he started biting it – he looks so skunky in that one.” 

Y/N’s eyes lit up, “Omg, you’re right!” She sets the bowl down on her knee, reaching down for her purse and rifling through it for her phone. 

“What is up with this consistent slander on this poor cat?” Harry exclaimed, clearly exasperated and it made Y/N laugh – he really would defend Ferret no matter the circumstances, “He doesn’t even smell! He smells like Y/N’s rose oil most of the time like he’s been rolling around in it!” 

“It’s not so much the smell as it is the look,” Y/N explained, “I mean, he’s just so – Oh, shit! Harry, I’m sorry!” The balance of the bowl on her knee had not been nearly as sturdy as Y/N had taken it for, because the rest of the fruit, along with the juices that had settled at the bottom, splashed out and onto his lap. If the setting was different, she honestly might have bent down and licked him clean, but this was a work event (no matter how drunk everyone was getting) and she didn’t need an HR ticket against her. 

So she uses the towel in her lap, “It’s okay, baby don’t worry about it,” but she’s already rubbing him down, wishing she had a bottle of water to pour over it. 

Harry has quite a few tattoos, but she’s a little confused when with one of the swipes of her towel, something like ink emerges from his skin. Her brows furrow and she squints looking closer, rubbing again, “Wait – Y/N,” he grabs her wrist, making her stop and Y/N is confused. 

“What, did you get my name tattooed on you or something?” She joked, but when she looked up at him, his face is. . .eerily serious. 

Dread tickles at the bottoms of her feet, when her eyes flicker down at it again. She can see a circle that turns into a spiral, and when she strokes the towel again, three lines, like cat whiskers. Confusing little doodles, not in the black ink that the rest of his tattoos are in, but in a pigment just a shade darker than his skin. . . .like a birthmark. 

Like something written into his DNA. 

Like a soul –

“It’s time for cake!” Someone cheers from somewhere – Y/N can’t really focus on much of anything right now. 

“Oh,” her voice is gentle, just above a whisper, and this inky, dark feeling crawls up from the base of her feet, wrapping like tendrils around her ankle, yanking her further into a pool of it – of something murky, and rotten. Even so, she fights to put a smile on her face, just a little one, “That’s good, Harry,” she avoids his gaze, “This is what we were doing it for, yeah? This is good.” 

“Y/N –” 

“When did you get it?” Why was he covering it with makeup? Did he just not want it to be a big deal at the pool party? Everyone turned it from a birthday event into a Who is Harry’s soulmate event. He must have just found it this morning and didn’t want to stir up a fuss, or anything. He would be kind enough to think ahead like that – everyone gets so interested when Harry’s involved, it might take away from the celebrating, and the cake, and the pool. 

But why wouldn’t he tell her? That’s – why would he want to keep that a secret? 

“Last Tuesday.” 

Two weeks ago. 

He got it two weeks ago. 

Her eyes narrowed, “Why didn’t you say anything?” 

Harry looks flustered as Y/N takes the towel back, pulling her legs out from where she’d been tucked close to him, “I just didn’t want –” 

“I told you,” she keeps her voice low, she’s not trying to make a scene and this doesn’t need to be as dramatic as it could be, “I said you don’t have to prolong anything because you feel bad for me, okay? I’m not some. . .some pitiful creature that you have to coddle from the truth. That shit pisses me off, Harry, and you know that.” Y/N presses herself up but she doesn’t do it too quickly, lowering to grab her bag but Eloise had already plucked it off the ground for her. 

“Please, that isn’t why,” he pleaded, and he looked so distraught, if Y/N didn’t feel so upset maybe she could listen to him. But she doesn’t want to right now – the emotions wreaking havoc in her body are so intense that she isn’t sure which ones to listen to. She’s sad because if he has his mark that means his soulmate must be close by – that their time pretending to be together would come to an end, and he would go on, and live his life happily with someone who wasn’t her. They would get smoothies together after work, cuddle with Dolly on the sofa, and curl up next to each other in the recliner seats at the movie theater. They would wake up to each other in the morning, or they’d send messages saying they love the other so much, and they would share clothes all of the time (Did Y/N have to give him his hoodies back? She probably should – they weren’t hers to keep anymore).

And she’s angry, so fucking mad, because she told him not to do this shit. It had happened more times than she would have bothered to count, where the person gets their mark and finds their soulmate and they don’t tell her because they feel bad. Because when everything works out for them, that’s the perfect time to start feeling shitty about using her. Now they feel guilty that she’s going to be all alone, poor pitiful Y/Nm with no soulmate, and no romance in her life, just this uncanny fucking ability to make sure that everyone else gets their chance. She just wanted people to be real with her, and honest. She was an adult, she could handle this, and if she couldn’t then she wouldn’t do it. 

But she had! She’d done it again, after swearing it off, because she wanted him to find his person. Even when she realized that she had feelings for him, she still wanted him to find them, even if it was going to suck for her. Even if it was going to hurt. 

Because that’s what this feeling is, all dark, and inky, and suffocating. When she’s angry and she’s upset, the amalgamation usually transcends to hurt. This time, it’s excruciating. This time, she wants to press herself into her mattress and stay there for months. This time, Y/N wants to cry. . .she really, really wants to cry. 

Eloise follows her to a point when they are far enough from the others so that nobody is eavesdropping, “Do you need company or do you need to be alone?”  

“I just, need to be by myself for a second,” she replied, and she hates, hates, hates that she knows that she’s like that, but Harry isn’t – he doesn’t want to be alone when he’s upset, he wants to be with people, and the thought of him being alone right now. . .she can’t stand it, “Could you – I know its a lot to ask, but could you please stay with him? I don’t want him to be alone.” 

A look crosses over Eloise’s face, something understanding as she nods, “Of course,” she replied, “I can handle him. He’s an idiot but so is Niall. I’ll rally the two of them together.”

Y/N smiles but it hardly reaches her eyes, “Thank you, El.” 

“Message me when you get home.” 

Y/N actually holds it together for longer than she suspects she might. She keeps it together while she’s pulling on her t-shirt and shorts over her wet swimsuit and orders an Uber. She keeps it together the whole ride home, even when the driver won’t stop talking about. . she’s not really sure what he was talking about, but she was humming and nodding like she might be listening so he kept going. And she keeps it together on the way up to her flat, when she gets through the door after she showers, and washes her face and brushes her teeth. 

Then she goes into her room. Ferret is sitting on the bed, minding his business. 

Y/N cries then, for some reason. And, not for the first time, wishes this ability was not her own. 

                                                                    .                        .                        .

Harry knew he probably looked stupid in front of Eloise and a ‘yanked from his drunken stupor to sobriety by way of angry Eloise’, Niall. But he’s stressed out, and upset with himself and this fucking mark on his hip, and his eyes have been filled with tears for the last twenty minutes while Niall squeezes his thigh, teetering on the edge of the bathtub, and Eloise holds a bottle of water for him, her hip cocked against the sink. They’d fled to the bathroom so that they could have some privacy.

“I’m an idiot,” he cried, and Eloise nodded while Niall shook his head, “I shouldn’t have – I shouldn’t have kept it, I don’t want her to be mad at me.” 

“Let her stew over it for a little while,” Eloise tells him, setting the water bottle on the counter, “She just needs a minute to gather her bearings and then she’ll be ready to talk. She’s probably more hurt than she is angry, anyway.” 

Harry frowns, and Niall adds, “Yeah, once I accidentally spilled my coffee all over her new purse and she didn’t talk to me for like. . four hours, but after lunch, we made up.” He smiled, and whatever he’d been drinking was still swimming in his gaze, “She just needs to work it out in her head.” He doesn’t have the slightest idea what they could be fighting about, since he’d been kept out of the whole soulmate agreement situation, so Harry does appreciate the attempt on his end. Even when Eloise mutters something that sounds like, “Very unhelpful Niall.” 

“I didn’t want things to change.” He snivels, “I wanted it to stay the same, I just want – I want to be with her. I don’t want a soulmate if it isn’t her.” 

“Just tell her that, when you get the chance,” Niall encouraged, “She likes honesty.”  

Eloise replies, “For once, I do agree with Ni. She’s someone who appreciates complete transparency, so tell her exactly how you feel, yeah? Don’t hold anything back.” 

Harry nodded, only feeling slightly better. Still, he’s overcome with so much guilt he just wants to run to her flat and fix it right now. But he won’t – he’ll wait until she’s ready to talk. 

And then he’ll tell her he’s in love with her, next time they speak. 

[patheticallysentimental]

This hurt so, so good 😭😭😭😭

[1d1195]

Dolcezza

Harry works in an Italian restaurant.

She just moved into the apartment above it.

Harry thinks she's a princess and should be treated as such.

She has never felt the way Harry makes her feel.

from my 🧸-anon:

"Sometimes for some people it takes a lot to ask for help.... Simply because they weren't given some the first thousand times they ask for it"

Part I

Part II

Part III

Part IV

Part V

Part VI

Part VII

Part VIII

@babegoals made the ADORABLE top divider for me 💕 I couldn’t not use it. So this will be a special little series and I will have an upper and lower one!

[patheticallysentimental]

This fic is like a long, warm hug

[messyemmy]

Grapejuice (fic) Part Three

Premise: To your dismay, an Italian reunion with Harry seems impossible to avoid, and it's time to start facing the music- after all, it seems you are the one who can't stay away.

Word Count: 9.7k

Warnings: Alcohol use, mind-blowing banter. Use of She/Her.

Part One Part Two

Fashion Board - Fic Playlist - Other Writing

-

You were still at a loss for words, soul sucked out of your throat - straight into his hands. Perhaps if you said nothing, this would remain a figment of your imagination. 

But he was as real as he had been between your thighs, as he had been when you were beaming up at him, eyes doey and desiring to please. 

You suddenly felt insecure – thrust onto a stage, the spotlight so terribly blinding. Harry was politely keeping his eyes trained on yours, awaiting a response he would never receive. 

Savina, who could clearly sense you had just been sent straight into a torture chamber, quickly sits up, tossing her hat to the side and extending a warm introduction. You hadn’t noticed the man standing beside him but Savina recognised him from the first encounter outside the café, so she extended her welcome his way. 

He introduced himself as Jeff, and before you could even think to protest, Savina invited both men to set up and join your little beach session. A kindness you hardly ever saw her express, and Harry accepted far too quickly for your liking. 

Naturally, he chose to set his towel next to yours; and to make matters worse, he sat directly facing your side, legs bent forward, almost touching your hip. You slightly shifted away, aware that he would notice but not address it. 

Savina took the liberty of keeping the light conversation flowing, prying on how Jeff knew Harry, what they were doing here, where they were staying and for how long. You heard not a thing; head thumping, chest burning. 

Harry was particularly quiet, chiming in every so often, putting forth his best side for Savina, encouraging her to change her mind- or at least opinions on him. Harry was certain you had only shared vague details about him – even vaguer about your relationship. 

And he tried to avoid being disappointed, still completely overwhelmed by finally confirming that he was, in fact, not crazy - you had been the person he saw running in the opposite direction – twice. 

Harry was yet to understand why he found it so challenging to stay on planet Earth when in your presence. He had to keep himself grounded, trying his hardest to keep his gaze directed away from you,

“Of all the places…” you built up the courage to snap at him. 

Harry took this with a grain of salt- knowing you well enough to expect rejection and complete weariness. For now, he deemed he could deal with those feelings when you weren’t fearsomely sitting across from him. 

Savina ensured no gaps of silence settled, asking all the right questions – general and friendly. Jeff was eager to engage and happy to be in the company of others- the last day and a half consisted of only physically communicating with Harry. Harry, who had spent his hours mulling about, stuck in his head, totally distracted. Jeff didn’t know what his problem was- starting to ponder if this was how Harry behaved during his downtime. 

You were still focused on regulating your heart rate, ears ringing, eyes staring blankly at the sea,

“So, Y/n, how do you and Harry know one another?” Jeff asked, startling you back into reality. Your lips parted, mind blank, and as you struggled to formulate a simple response, Harry stepped in and, to your surprise, helped you out, 

“She’s Jack’s little sister-”

“Older sister.” you scoff, eyes rolling. 

Jeff nodded along, having been around your brother in the past. He made the same face everyone made whenever Jack was mentioned; a look of approval after flashbacks of your chaotic-good, riot-of-a-time brother came to mind. 

“Where is he staying this summer?” 

“Alps.” both you and Harry spoke in sync. 

You glanced his way, already sure he was smiling as a result. And he was - cheekily. Just as rapidly as before, your heart was beating against your chest. It was loud – orchestral; ears screeching, body-quaking thumps, waves crashing against the sand, and the chatter of the three people situated around you - they spoke with clarity, but you heard only mutters- feeling like a bomb had just detonated beside your head.

After applying extreme focus, the ringing in your ears dulled and replaced itself with the sound of talking- comprehensive conversation. The last thing you wanted was to give Harry a reaction. After all, it was what he lived for. But you both knew that it bothered you– Harry knew before he even said hello.

Your stubbornness kept you going – always had – and from extensive practice, you were sure you could tune out his existence– at least for the time being.

“He plans on staying until August.” you scoffed – your brother was a moron who always seemed to forget how much the snow displeased him, 

“Bet he’ll last a month, tops.” Harry decided, and you briefly looked over in acknowledgement, 

“A week.” you felt certain – remembering a phone call yesterday where Jack whined for far too long about another incident on the slopes.

“Wanna put money on it?” Harry tempted.

“Money? We’re not children.” Instantly regretting your choice of words.

“Is that a fact?” 

“Don’t start.” Yet again, your anxiety surfaced- hot under the invisible collar of affection he clearly wanted to swaddle you with. 

“So, no money?” 

“No money.” You dismissed, breaking eye contact. 

Harry thought about it for a while – certain he could find a cheeky consolation prize for his failed attempt at striking up some friendly competition. 

“Doesn’t he hate the snow?” Savina pondered.

“Does it even snow there during the summer?” Jeff joined in.

“Some places snow all year round…surely?” Harry was sucked right into the confusion.

Your body was on fire, a headache threatening to split your forehead in half, and everything sounded like noise, sensory overload in full swing. 

“You can still ski in some places in Switzerland during the summer. Christ, next thing you’re gonna ask where snow comes from.” the longer you stayed put, the sooner you found yourself setting alight. 

“You already gave me that lecture in seventh grade.” Harry reminded.

“You thought snowflakes were a myth.” 

“At least I didn’t take it upon myself to spend all week preaching safety tips.”

“I’m older. I know better.” you scoffed.

“Slanderous lies.” 

“It doesn’t matter. Clearly, all of my warnings went in through one ear and out the other because you sprained an ankle and lost one of your ski sticks.” 

“You bumped into me.” Harry leaned forward, ready to argue to the death.

“Fuck right off. You cannot bump into someone who is behind you. And you were certainly behind me, you fuckin’ klutz.” You reclaimed the nickname, amazed that you were still having this argument. 

Harry always refused to let it go. It was one of the first times he learned that listening to you was probably a wise move. He remembers how frantic you had gotten- yelling at him for not listening, for hurting himself, and for finding it so amusing. But your eyes were so sweet, filled with concern, hands soft as they helped remove his gear. 

“Oh please, you came out of it practically unscathed.” Harry scoffed.

“I still have a chipped tooth!” you couldn’t believe how incredulous he was.

“Well, my heart still hurts after you called me, ‘Dickhead. You foolish dickhead. Are you trying to get us killed?’” Harry had memorised it like his favourite song.

He deserved it then, and he deserves it now, you thought. And though Harry’s recklessness was anxiety-inducing, you couldn’t help how fun the day was – before and after his fall – there was minimal argument, plenty of laughter, and the best hot chocolate you’d had to date. 

“I was being nice.” you offered. 

“Oh, I know.” Harry said smugly, “Until recently, it was the nicest thing you’d ever said to me.” 

A choral of your voice - singing sweet compliments his way, intent on luring him closer – made your stomach churn; the many, many pretty praises pointed straight at him. And just like that, all calm and collectiveness were sucked back into the Earth's core, replaced with only remorse and dread. There were no walls, and yet they were certainly closing in; you felt all eyes were on you now, burning into your skin with newfound curiosity- you couldn’t bear to look anywhere other than directly at him. 

And he was looking right back at you, waiting to see if he had struck a chord, hoping to get more than just a dismissal. But he was sorely mistaken – underestimating your need for control, becoming more overwhelmed by the second. 

Harry hadn’t the faintest clue about how he made you feel – how could he really? Your poker face could earn millions; your expression never faltered, no noticeable twitches, your body rejecting the ache to stiffen. But you could feel the cracks starting, threatening to shatter, spill all of your nerves out right into his lap, and if you stayed here a moment longer, you were sure to break. 

With that in mind, you startled the group by standing abruptly, your book falling from your lap, hitting the towel, causing Harry to look away for a moment- enough time to gather your cool, pulling your shades back over your eyes, hiding sheer panic. 

You turned to Savina, who was already looking at you puzzled, your words jumbling together, refusing to come out coherently. You searched desperately for an excuse- for some damn reason to get out of this mess. But all you could foolishly muster was both weak and faulty, 

“It’s fucking swelting. Think I'm gonna go for a swim.” You turned with whatever confidence you could scrape to the surface, walking off toward the ocean– your guard only retreating once the sea enveloped your ankles, cooling you down in more ways than one. 

You kept on forward, letting the salty water twist and wrap your thighs and belly- letting yourself sink into its embrace, dipping your head back until your hair dampened, fresh and comforting to your swelling brain. 

As you straightened, letting your body bob between the waves, hands coming up to cup your face, hiding your embarrassment from even yourself. This was not your definition of summer- you were sure this was nobody's ideal vacation. 

Harry was punctually proving that spending even ten minutes with him was a grave mistake. And you decided then and there that designating your time to avoid him was your best bet- your only guarantee that whatever vacation remained would stay sacred. 

Your skin was pruning by the point of your begrudging departure from the water, taking your time and returning to where you had left Savina, Jeff, and Satan himself.

And a wave of relief, bigger than those you had been bobbing in, washed over you with fresh revival at the realisation that the men were no longer here, only Savina, deeply invested in The Old Man and the Sea, perched in one hand, the other strewn across her hip.

You reached down for your towel, wrapping it loosely across your shoulders,

“Y'know, reading that book is kinda foretelling.”

“Are you calling me an old man?” Savina turned, instantly shutting, and discarding the book. 

“No, no. I think you’re struggling with the language barrier.” You teased.

“I speak better English than you.” Sshe reminded. 

You scoffed, folding and putting your towel back down, sitting cross-legged. There was a moment of pause, an itch to ask what had happened after you went for a swim- but the relief you had felt suddenly intertwined with slight disappointment. Why had they left? 

“They had lunch reservations.” Savina informed. 

“You did not need to invite them to join us.” you reprimanded. 

“And I didn’t need to invite them out for dinner tomorrow night, but I did.” She said matter-of-factly. 

Rage, confusion, anxiety, and a little excitement. You couldn’t decide which to act on- instead, your jaw went slack, lips parted, eyebrows raised, 

“You bitch.” 

Savina chuckled, picked her book back up and continued reading. 

🍷

Lunch had been a quiet affair; Jeff did most of the talking, and Harry did his best to listen. If it weren’t for the steaming serving of Shrimp Scampi keeping him sane, Jeff probably would have left Harry to his own devices for the day. 

But, after eating had long passed, and the sun had set over the sea, Harry was still in a funk- one that Jeff had failed to see from him so far, which, in itself, was odd. Jeff was usually first witness to Harry going through the motions; stressed, anxious, overwhelmed or overjoyed.This mood is hard to pinpoint though. It almost seems like Harry is so deep in thought he has become dismissive of all surroundings. 

Mid-way through the evening, when Harry unintentionally sighed for the third time in ten minutes, Jeff looked up from his phone, paused his round of Sudoku, and decided an investigation was in order,

“Is this how you behave on all holidays?” 

“What does that even mean?” Harry shrunk back in the sofa, shading his wariness behind a surprised façade. 

“You’re acting weird.” Jeff said, one brow arched, and as an afterthought, he decided to get straight to the point, “Is there something going on between you and Y/n?” 

“Why would you say that?” 

Harry ignored the little cupid’s dancing within the walls of his stomach, swallowing hard and staring out past the closest window, watching the sandy shores welcoming waves, the sea sparkling under the waning moon.    

“For starters, I don’t think I’ve seen you get this flustered around someone before.” Jeff tested, “Which is… something.” He was too observant, which obviously didn’t help soothe the little stars and hearts swirling around like a halo above Harry’s head. 

“…Don’t know what you’re on about.” He murmured timidly.

Jeff couldn’t comprehend why Harry seemed so reluctant to talk to him- surely if the two of you were purely platonic he would have no reservations just clarifying. Right now, Harry could barely look at Jeff, forehead compressed in an intense moment of introspection. 

A phone notification pinged, distracting Jeff momentarily, and Harry was back to his belligerent thoughts of yours truly. The knots in his stomach were ones of excitement and anticipation, but his head was advising him to halt, to be realistic for once in his life, even if a piece of his heart took a hit along the way. 

“So?” Jeff sternly pressed on, dropping his phone back into his lap.  

“So… what?” 

“Is there something going on between the two of you?” 

“No…Maybe…I don’t know.” Harry exhaled mercifully, only perplexing himself further.

“What’s the problem?” The muddy waters were only worsening- Jeff had never heard of you, and now he was hooked on figuring out exactly why that was the case. 

“She’s Jack’s sister, for starters.” Harry stressed, finally sharing his apprehension.

“Does he care?” honest curiosity.

“Probably not.” Harry hadn’t really thought about that part. 

“Does she care?” Jeff worded.

“Oh, for sure.” He knew that for sure. 

🍷

Harry was lying in bed now, the window ajar, salty summer breeze mixing with the lull of waves crashing in the distance. A secret sliver of the moon peeked through the sheer curtains, dancing across his face, illuminating his features, flickering like a flashlight above his shut eyelids. 

With a huff, he grabbed a fistful of the thin cotton sheet covering his torso, crinkling it between his palm, tugging it along with him as he turned over, facing his back to the moon., 

Harry couldn’t fall asleep, and even if he could, he wasn’t letting himself. His thoughts were on a sugar high, replaying the entirety of today on repeat; hyper-focused on the moments that included you, the sun crisping your edges, sunscreen turning to golden gloss atop your soft skin. 

And though he felt tremendous relief knowing he was, in fact, not delusional. You were as real as you had been the last time he saw you - sweetly slobbering, just for him – Harry felt you slipping further away. Especially after your less-than-stellar reception to his arrival- it could have been chalked up to the fact that you were surprised to see him, but something in Harry knew better. 

And when you jumped up off of your towel, body seeming scorched, scalded and scathing - desperate to separate from him- he easily confirmed you were running from him. 

Harry felt a pang in his heart each time he thought of you walking away, unable to drift off peacefully knowing that you were so close, and he had blown the opportunity once more. He would sell his soul to find out what went on in your head-especially regarding him. Harry thought he would gladly doze off into slumber, wrapped in the soothing comfort of your headspace. 

Yet here he was, his mind and body riddled with inertia- swallowed and swaddled by the sheets- he felt lonelier than he would have liked to admit. Harry knew just how well your body fit so snugly with his own, considering the feeling of tugging you closer, tangling yourselves into one whole being. 

Never in his right mind would he have actually expected to see you here. He had sooner accepted that he was slipping into delusions- and somehow still easier to pretend that was the case. At least then he wouldn’t be trapped in this limbo. 

As you walked away, Harry quickly glanced over at Savina, and they shared a brief but curious exchange. Jeff, none-the-wiser – reminded Harry that they still had that lunch reservation. Though he wished to stay, feet buried within the sand, relief rushed through his veins- frustration for, once again, being unprepared in your presence. 

He hadn’t expected you to be so standoffish, a hint of discomfort seeping through your usual style of banter. Harry worried it was because of him- because you truly couldn’t stand being near him.

Punctured with confusion, but almost certain that you had meant it when you were asking for him with such a needy craving that night in his bedroom, Harry still felt he knew you- knew not to take it too personally when you sent such frigidity his direction. He couldn’t – and wouldn’t – let it get to him.

His neck started to ache, threatening to spasm if he didn’t punctually readjust. And with that being the case, Harry lifted himself up and swung his legs over the mattress- feet softly thudding against the hardwood. 

Waiting on his eyes to adjust to the darkness, his hand blindly roamed the nightstand in search of his phone. Coming out successful, he unlocked the screen, glancing at the time, 01:13. He decided this was still a reasonable-enough hour, going to recent calls and pressing dial- knowing the man on the end of the receiver was still awake- confirmed when the call connected after two rings,

“Talk to me, baby.”

“Why are you still awake?” 

“Why would you call unless you thought I was?” Jack starts to think, offended that Harry would have called whether he was asleep or not.

“And why didn’t you tell me Y/n was in Capri?”

“I didn’t think you’d care.” He says nonchalantly.

“Well, you thought wrong.” Harry tries not to snap. 

Either Jack can’t tell that his friend is currently rather moody, or he can tell and just doesn’t care. Considering that their consistent friendship spans two decades, there’s a high likelihood Jack made a more-than-conscious choice to dismiss Harry’s demeanour. Instead he takes the opportunity to do what he does best, complain,

“Dude, I’m freezing out here. I fear I might have hypothermia, and I burnt my tongue on a cup of hot chocolate first night here- barely have any taste buds left. And, for some reason, I have this feeling I’m gonna get caught in an avalanche, I know, I know, that might be irrational but-”

“Stop whining. Go somewhere sunny. Go to the sea, I’m already looking forward to hearing you worry about hyperthermia instead.” Harry griped petulantly.

“Not a bad idea…” Jack considers. 

It sounds like Jack has started busying himself on the other end of the line, shuffling around as Harry contemplates bringing you up again. But, sleep will be hard to find if he chooses not to, and he’d kick himself for backing out, 

“Your sister doesn’t seem very keen on me being here…”

“Yeah, she didn’t sound too impressed.” 

“You spoke to her?” Harry almost sits up fully, soft sheets pooling at his waist. 

“Well, she sent me some rather colourful texts earlier.” Still, in the midst of doing something, Jack definitely has the phone on speaker now, veering further from Harry’s evident curiosity. 

“What about?” posed with caution, 

“Same as you. Wanted to know why I didn’t tell her you were coming.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Don’t know why you’re both suddenly so interested in one other. I could just send you her number- would help stop me from having to be the messenger.” Jack groused.

“Not necessary.” Harry quickly dismissed, his nerves untangling as relaxation began to wash over him. He liked the idea of you being interested in him. For now, that was enough to lull him into a state of sleep, “You are the worst messenger, though.”

“And you love me, bitchboy.” He sang with silly spirit, voice nearing the speaker. 

“Yeah, yeah. I don’t think insurance will pay out if you die on the slopes... Maybe keep that in mind?” 

“That’s it. I’m getting out of here, man.” 

“Good for you.” Harry affirmed, yearning for a yawn.

“Tell Y/n I say hi!” Jack merrily tormented. 

“Fuck off.” He chuckled lazily, eyes visited by the Sandman. Throwing in an, ‘I love you’, promises of their next dialogue happening during daylight hours, and a threat of coming to visit, the call came to an end. 

Harry released a lengthily postponed sigh, palm pressing to his forehead, before his phone emitted a startling ding, Jack’s name lighting up. Attached are the words, 'I think my fingers are freezing. Will they fall off?', as well as your name and number. 

He wanted to roll his eyes, dusty rose coating the apples of his cheeks- shyness coursing through him, and great relief that Jack had dismissed his protests- swooning at the digits belonging to you, feeling a little closer- nearer.

Customizing your contact details, gifting you the title of Klutz with a wine glass emoji for finesse, Harry’s eyes finally swell shut with sleepiness, body soothed back into the sheets, already drifting into dreamland by the time his head hits the pillow.

🍷

You would sooner face the guillotine than admit how long you took to choose an outfit for dinner. Throwing clothes in your suitcase the morning of your flight- ‘it’s not like I’ll have anyone impress’ mixed with ‘I put off packing to binge-watch Kitchen Nightmares’- was now biting you in the ass. Why the fuck did you bring so many socks? When would you even use them? 

When you had finally settled on something- consisting of a white tee tucked into a high-waisted coral and pink mermaid-esque skirt, paired with white latex ankle boots, a cream belt and a matching mini baguette bag- it was time to start fussing over hairstyles and by the end of that, it was a miracle you hadn’t ripped out all of the hair on your head. It was only when you caught a glance of yourself in the mirror that your confidence returned, and you mustered up as much of it as you could to get through the next few hours. 

The chosen restaurant was spacious, built with cobblestone, and decorated with dark green vines and eclectic hardwood tables. Harry and Jeff were already waiting on the sidewalk. Greeting you warmly, the sudden kiss Harry pressed to your cheek was startling but welcomed, and you hoped he wouldn’t see the way your cheeks flushed wishfully.  

Settling in, Harry makes it very clear that he intends to sit next to you- forcing Jeff to the end of the table without a chance for choice. It had been expected, but still, you felt the familiar bubbling of anxious uncertainty within you. The only promising factor was the chance to eat- something you had been too distracted to do all day. 

An awkward silence lulled over, only amplifying the splitting headache you soon faced. Harry looks at you as if he couldn’t imagine being anywhere else in the world. Gaze happily settled on your own- and your lack of comfortability- clearly revelling in it all. If the wine you had ordered would just arrive, perhaps your nerves would settle. 

“Thanks for inviting us, Savina.” Jeff started after a subtle clearing of the throat, and everyone was more than grateful for it. 

“Oh, of course! It’s such a coincidence bumping into someone Y/n knows from home. We just had to have dinner.” She shot a cheeky glance your way, and you hoped to God that the dim lighting would mask the blush rushing across your cheeks, 

“Well, we didn’t have to.” You mumbled, regretting it as Harry’s ears instantly perked up,

“Cancelled another hot date, did you, Y/n?” With each word, he seemed closer and closer, pricking at your emotions, stirring frustration back to the surface each time it threatened to settle down. 

“Do I sense jealousy?” You felt yourself shifting forward, arms resting impatiently atop the table. 

“Just curiosity.” He shrugged, relaxing back into his chair, arms folded across his chest with nonchalance, 

“What are you, a cat?” You dismissed him, turning both your attention and body to face the others, “It’s nice to finally meet you, Jeff.”

“Likewise, I’ve heard plenty about you.” 

“Hope I live up to my reputation then.” Shrugging, you glance over at the loved-up boy from your childhood, and he's already looking at you longingly.

“Oh, trust me, you already are.” Jeff chuckles with certainty, 

“Really?” you pondered, mirroring the curiosity that flashed across Harry’s features.

“I can’t help but enjoy seeing Harry being put in his place.” Jeff shrugged, sending a reassuring wink across the table.  

“Ah, you’re the designated babysitter?” You quizzed heartily.

“I hardly need a babysitter.” Harry defended in an instant.

“Hardly.” Jeff emphasised. 

“You make it sound like I’m a child.” Harry worked hard to remain still- tempted to act out with a pout and a soft foot stomp.

“All I’m saying is, it’s refreshing.”

“To see me being scolded?”

“The constant praising is great but…” Jeff’s face scrunched sympathetically.

“Tiring?” Savina tries.

“Exhausting?” you add. 

“Alright, alright.” Harry shushed with a playful eye roll- mostly directed at yourself.

The waiter arrived with a newly opened bottle of Merlot, gesturing for confirmation to pour a tester into the large glasses you were each designated. Savina approved, taking the liberty of tasting for the table. With a delighted suck of the teeth and a nod, the waiter went on to fill each glass. 

“So, Savina, what line of business are you in?” Jeff asked between his first sip- pleased with the bitterness greeting his pallet. 

Savina knew exactly what she was doing as she blocked her courtesy and left you with the challenge of creating some form of communication with Harry. He proved to be kinder, however, taking the opportunity to show signs of life, 

“What’s good here?” he made no effort to check out the menu, 

“Everything.” no effort on your part either. 

“Narrow it down.” 

“Well, you can never go wrong with Risotto alla Milanese…you’d probably really like Parmigiana- but either way, we should get the Olives Ascolante as an appetizer, they’re incredible, and I know you love olives…”

“Look at you, so astute.” He was trying not to grin back at you, heart silently swelling at the subtle affection you had let slip, 

“Shove off.” You prayed he would let it slide. 

Thankful for the return of the waiter, you took the liberty of ordering appetizers accordingly- glancing over at Harry to confirm he was satisfied with your choices. As an afterthought, you asked for a side of Rice Arancini.

Harry was enjoying his vacation more than ever, unabashedly sending a smile straight to your heart, hairs rising up the back of your neck, 

“What?” You asked when it was clear he was in no hurry to look away, 

“I like it when you’re assertive.” 

“Yeah, why am I not surprised?”  

“Guys?” In sync, your heads turned to the other two, “Should we also order some Focaccia for the table?” Nodding- in sync- Savina was quick to ignore you once more, “Got it. I started in Milan…” 

Twirling your index finger around the glasses rim, you had unknowingly prompted Harry to finally reach for his own wine, taking a curious sip. Wine was something he hardly humoured, even during his previous stays in Italy. His eyes lit up with adorable surprise, and a wave of endearment washed over you, the familiarity of Harry reappearing for the first time since even before your… incident(s),

“This is good.” He praised, lips glossed over, reattaching to the glass for more.

“I know.”

“No, like, really good.” He tried to emphasise entirely

“I know.” You sent him a cheesy smile, reciprocating the need to completely confirm that you two were on the same page.

“If the wine back home tasted this way,” his eyes still wide, going in for a third sip, “I’d have stopped with the scotch years ago.”

“Please, you love your Johnny Walker too much.” You tried your best not to pay attention to the stray droplets staining his bottom lip- it would be too easy to kiss away all remnants.

“Fuck, this is so good though.” Harry felt unnecessarily revolutionary, “made in Italy?” putting his glass down to reach over and grab the bottle, 

“I would hope so.” “Siena. Thank fuck.” 

“With this many vineyards nearby, it would be criminal to drink anything else,” you engaged your own glass, taking savoured sips, lashes unintentionally fluttering their way into the crevices of his heart.

“Been to any good ones so far?” Harry asked, leaning nearer with the excuse of the restaurant being a little loud, looking at you like he had loved you far too long- something you mistook for boyish fascination, it had always been just that, right? 

“Wineries?” You asked for confirmation he granted with a soft nod, “Oh, of course. Did a tour from Modena down through Bologna. At some point the trip did turn a bit blurry… but from what I recall, the wine just kept getting better and better.”

“I’ve never done a wine tasting before.” 

“You’re kidding.” 

“No?” he had never even thought about it before.

“Too much business, not enough pleasure?” You prodded, and as usual, you were correct. Harry had definitely spent plenty of time travelling- for the purpose of work. 

You knew this without him ever needing to tell you, though you typically minimized the importance of his career, you were one of the only people who understood this- and he wasn’t sure why you did… but it only helped reinforce the certainty he felt about the two of you, you just understood him, and you would never, ever admit that you knew he understood you too. 

“Exactly.” He agreed with subtle satisfaction, and a settled silence grew between yourselves, as you took another sip, swirling the rouge for a moment more.

“…Better change that then.”

“Yeah?” Harry’s entire body perked up, hoping you would lead him directly in your trap, and everything in you wanted to go with him, to spend time with him. An invitation ached to slip from your tongue, fighting contradiction, just dying to tour wine country with Harry. But in true fashion, you tracked back on every feeling of affection and offered.  

“I’m sure Jeff would love to go.” 

And Harry was lured straight into disappointment, having already indulged in the idea of spending time with you- ideally at your own suggestion. He was sure it looked like you were willing, if not pretty eager, but there was no way the frown accompanying your conflicting thoughts could go unnoticed. Harry knew this face well enough; you had sported it through most of senior year. Every time it seemed you were about to reconsider, to give in, a sudden reality check seemed to pull you back, retreating into nothing but a bowed head and twiddling fingers. 

The aroma of the appetizers finally arrived, scattered across the tabletop with the threat of mouth-watering bite-sized pieces of heaven. The conversation is almost completely forgotten to you, your senses elated with the promise of food, and your hands are moving every which way, grabbing one of everything, piling your plate plentifully. 

And even though the sight of your eyes rolling back, lips parted, as you taste a spoonful of, clearly entices him to try some for himself, Harry still thinks back to your last words, taking over your habit of overthinking. He can tell his brows are furrowed, can’t help himself from shifting his chair to face you, his arm resting across the table,

“How long are you gonna keep this act up?” 

You glanced up at him, Arancini half-chewed, eyes wide and heart thudding. Taking extra time swallowing, pushing it by reaching over for a sip of wine, you felt scorched by his stare and attempted another aversion, 

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about...”

“We both know you’ve done damn near everything in your power to avoid me.” 

“Now that’s just not true.” You try. 

“Oh, really?” His forehead raised. 

You were trapped in a stare-off; Harry was clearly keeping you there by the challenging glimmer of his pretty green eyes. But, you don’t lose, 

“I haven’t done everything in my power…” 

“Oh my god, you’re infuriating!” Harry has to stop his hands from flailing around dramatically, 

“And you aren’t?” You defended, unable to commit to keeping your hands at bay, and Savina glances over with a brow raised in suspicion. 

Quickly detaining your outward display of displeasure, your hand finds the wineglass once more, taking a hefty gulp as Harry obtains the opportunity to get closer, eyes darting to the two diners across the table, engaging in a mild debate. His voice lowers, 

“At least I didn’t almost get hit by a Vespa trying to run away from you.” 

Almost choking on your wine, withholding a cough, spluttering out in utter surprise- and undoubtedly shameful understanding, 

“You know about that?” 

“I do now!” Harry exclaims, shocked that his suspicions have been confirmed. 

“I didn’t almost get hit.” 

Attempting to turn your attention back to the act of dining, Harry finally reached out and grabbed an olive and popping an olive between his teeth, crunching down on it, his smile mixed into one both of enjoyment for the food, and sheer amusement for your attitude. 

“What’s your plan, Klutz? To be the cause of pileups all summer?” 

The sheer suggestion of spending the rest of your vacation avoiding him and the ever-increasing fondness you felt whenever in his presence. And looking over at the man who seemed only capable of enjoying your company, you only panicked more,

“You’ll be here all summer?” 

“Well, if my staying will keep you this riled up, I think it’s my obligation to.” He was taking this less than seriously,

“Harry, I swear-”

“Man, my name never sounded so good being chewed out.” He’s met with only sternness, a glare that had him feeling like a scolded schoolboy. And he didn’t like your stare- not when you could be coating him in sweetness, so his features soften, his taunting tone turning tenderness, “We’re friends, Y/n, I’ll make sure I don’t get on your nerves…more than usual.”

“Why don’t I believe you?” you ask meekly, shoulders relaxing and soothed by his surety, but still too sceptical to believe him. And when Harry sees this in the way your eyes stay squinted, he wants to reach over and soothe every frown line with soft kisses, 

“Trust me, I would hate to see your arms and legs covered in bandages…would be such a shame.” 

He takes a long sip of his wine, savouring the way it tantalizes his senses, before reaching over and popping another olive into his mouth, chewing and talking consecutively, 

 “Besides, I have plenty of sweet nothings lined up for you… can’t bear to keep them all in.”

“Bet?” you fail to resist falling for his promises of future-fondness.

“Might fuck around and writing another song about you.” He shrugs candidly.

“Another?” 

Head racing, hurriedly scanning through the roller deck of songs and memories that pertained to Harry, you couldn’t begin to highlight a moment or song worth writing for your sake. You want- no, need- him to say more, to give you something to soothe the idea that Harry might have been right about his feelings all along- that this ‘thing’ between the two of you was nothing new, only brushed aside. 

“Y/n, Harry. Are you guys ready to order the main course, or do you need a moment to finish flirting?” Savina interrupted, amusement showing in both her tone and her taunting smile. Your defence was back and bigger than ever, and you bit back with dismissal,  

“We were not flirting.”

“Well, one of us was.” Harry mutters.

“That’s your problem.” You shut him down sternly, sliding your chair an inch further from his intensity, you focus all attention on the question at hand, “I’m ready to order.”

🍷

Wine glasses are empty, the bill is taken care of, and you can finally admit that relaxation has set in. With no further incidents during dinner, there was finally space to enjoy Harry’s company. Though that only reminded you of how fond you were of him, the night was young, and Harry was sure to resort to naughtiness. 

Glancing between the group, Savina made certain her next suggestion wouldn’t result in you retreating to a coffin. And with one more smile of endearment from you- directed at Harry’s detailing of an event he attended- she decided it was a safe bet, 

“Should we check out some of the bars?” 

With a collection of cohesive nods, the restaurant was left behind in search of a place with dimmer lighting and louder music. 

Standing on the sidewalk, the air was warm, but when Harry’s boot accidentally knocked your own, your skin had an eruption of goosebumps. 

“I remember this little one on the corner of Regazzi. Very nice for dancing.” Saved by Savina, you had an excuse to take a step away, ensuring no further bump-ins with Harry. 

“Lead the way.” Jeff agreed, and with that, you were all headed off down the street. 

A quaint but bustling location, already filled with enthusiastic guests grooving along to a song you faintly remember playing in a nightclub in downtown Rome? The energy was infectious, bobbing and weaving between those dancing. It took a moment to source a small table for the group to gather around. Instead of occupying the seat next to you- which you swear you hadn’t hoped he would select- Harry stayed standing, addressing the collective, 

“What are we drinking?” 

Savina was quick to name Sangria, Jeff offered to join Harry, and you were about to order your classic Gin and Tonic when the memories of Harry taking care of it for you came flooding back, and your feelings of bashfulness were asking to be fed once more,

“Surprise me.” Batting your lashes, his eyes lit up, confirmed with a nod; Harry, with Jeff in tow, made their way through those dancing in search of the bar.

They were hardly out of earshot when Savina gently grasped at your wrist, giving it a shake, her smile growing,

“He’s fabulous!”

You scoff as the last person on your side seems to be switching teams, leaving you open to feeling crazier than you already did. He was fabulous, but you swear you aren’t wrong in finding him aggravating,

“You’re just saying that because he’s Harry Styles.” 

“You know I don’t care about that.” Savina dismissed.

“Yeah, well, I wish you would.” She was right. You knew there was no reasoning. 

“C’mon, he’s cute! A little puppy!”

“I don’t want cute.” Griped through gritted teeth.

“But you do want him?” She already knows the answer.

Who were you fooling? Either you were miserable at hiding your attraction for Harry, or it had gotten so strong that the mere energy between the two of you was telling. Probably both, and neither would gain your admittance any time soon, 

“No. I told you, it was a lapse in judgement.” 

“No such thing.” 

“He’s annoying. He’s famous- and childish- and he’s fucking everywhere I go! Can’t close my damn eyes without his pretty little face popping up like a Jack-in-the-box.” 

“What’s that?” 

“Jack-in-the-box.” That cleared up nothing. Savina’s gaze is perplexed.

“… Your brother is in a box… in your head?” 

“No. Those boxes that sing when you wind them up,” You used your hands in an attempt to describe the boxes shape, “and then a clown pops out of nowhere, and you’re like, ah! Why didn’t I see it coming?”

“Oh my God, yes!” Savina almost cheers with comprehension, “My cousin loved that thing… what is this universal fascination with clowns?”

“Like, who is their demographic?”

“I’ve never met a child who likes clowns.” This was taking a real detour, 

” Plus, they don’t have the greatest rep.” 

“Always trying to eat children… yeah, kids are definitely not the demographic….” Savina thought about it a moment, and you were sure you had successfully managed to divert the conversation from Harry until Savina did a one-eighty, “Anyways, stop running. Let him take you out. It could be fun.”  

“That would make me a clown.”

“You’ve been acting like one since he got here, no?”

“No.” You had been acting nothing but rationally; hiding behind a tree was perfectly normal under the circumstances… right? Or did you really need to run when you saw him from the sidewalk? There’s no way he would have spotted you. Turns out, you had been acting anything but rationally, “Oh God. I have, haven’t I?” 

“A little.” Savina smiled sympathetically, grateful you were finally catching on to the bizarreness of your behaviour these last few days. 

“I almost died trying to avoid him!” Your eyes were wide with embarrassment, absolutely mortified. 

“I, for one, would like to see you relax.” She confessed, “It would help me do the same.”

“You took two naps today.”

“Because I needed to relax.”

Across the restaurant, Harry waited anxiously for their round of drinks, trying his best to seek you out within the movement of other patrons. He was granted quick glances before bodies moved to the beat and blocked you once more. 

“You really like her." Jeff observed, 

“Obviously.” Harry thinks anyone who spent even five minutes with you two would be able to see the wishful fondness he felt for you.

“Why am I only finding this out now?”

Harry really didn’t want to get into it- especially since you clearlydidn’t want to. 

“Because I’ve barely seen her the last five years.” He concedes, and when Jeff only looks at him like he’s speaking gibberish, Harry is forced to go on,

“It’s like she’s suddenly everywhere. I mean, she’s always been everywhere, but now she’s like… everywhere… y’know?” 

“Sure…” It’s becoming rather evident to Jeff that Harry isn’t sure when he stands with you, and as the conversation hits a dead end, the drinks arrive, and they busy themselves with making their way back to the table.

🍷

Your drink- long finished- forms a large part of being the reason you wanted to dance- so badly that your boots basically stood up on their own and made their way over to the make-shift dancefloor, slipping in between bodies vibing along to the beat.

It felt good to relax- as Savina would suggest- and you felt the release of all pent-up frustration as it left your body and disappeared into the crowd, no longer your burden to bear. The rest of the group had scattered, and for a while, that went unnoticed as the dancing held your undivided attention.

Harry was simply a thing of the past until you did a little twirl, and unbelievably, he was in your direct eye line. Leaning against the wall, an almost empty scotch in his hand, he seemed to be comfortably observant. 

The checked overshirt he donned was doing a half-hearted job at covering his chest- most of which was on display due to his choice of a low, low-cut white undershirt. His pants were a peachy-pink hue, not unlike your skirt, and like you, his sneakers were white to match. He’s dressed good. So good that you aren’t surprised when a girl starts to approach him. That doesn’t stop you from almost choking, insecurity suddenly invading your free spirit, and it killed you how much it bothered you to see him tilt his head to hear her better, a smile as she spoke, leaning in even closer.

Determined to stay sane, you continued to dance, looking anywhere but the scene of what you deemed a crime. But when you were about to explode from the need to let your eyes wander back to him, you looked over, heart sighing with liberation, when it became clear he was alone again. 

That wasn’t enough, though, your target had been set, and the need to dance was done and gone. Your body didn’t want to sway; it wanted you across the room, trapping Harry against that stupid wall. So, you let that ambition carry you across the dancefloor, dodging dancers, focused on reaching his unsuspecting figure. 

Harry followed the trail of your shoes up to the determined look plastered across your face as you seemed to be suddenly bounding over. He hadn’t managed to spot you, searching the crowd for as long as he had been standing in this corner. 

Before he could blink, you were before him, slotting your feet in the space between his own. The gap between you was small, but you gestured to it anyways, finally acknowledging the fact that you happened to be dressed similarly,

“I like the way you dress.” 

“I get it from you.” His head bowed to see you better, smile beaming down at you like you were the only person in the world. 

“I thought about the bet….” You started, chest tilting into his own, brushing up against him. 

“Ready to put money on it?” 

“No.” 

“Then?” He wondered, hands finding their home on your hips, tugging you a tad closer, his eyes flickering back and forth across your features, loving the fact that you looked like you wanted him.

Your palm flat against his chest, the other resting on his forearm, only seemed to confirm Harry’s suspicions. Pushing up on your tippytoes, lips lining with his ear, your voice, low and sultry, threatened to turn Harry to mush. But that wasn’t your plan, 

“If I win, you have to stop with all your little flirty remarks-”

“Why would I agree to-” His eyes augmented with horror.

“If you win, I’ll go on out with you... on a date.” 

Harry wanted to laugh. You had stumbled into a trap he hadn’t realised was set the moment he had phoned Jack last night. But his body was in a shamble of shivers and goosebumps, hands pressing into your hips, pulling you closer, your chest bumping into his own.

“Do you hate my compliments that much?” He cooed, hoping to charm you closer.

“No. I just want to wipe that smugness right off of your lips.” You slide your hand out from the trap of his chest and your own, wrapping it around his shoulder, nails raking across the back of his neck. 

“Deal.” Harry hardly held back his enthusiasm, pupils swallowing the swirls of mossy-green whole. 

“I’m sticking with one week.” You ignored the way his reaction sent a rush of encouragement straight up your spine and instead indulged in the feeling of him melting under your touch- like a magnet to your presence.

Harry’s face was closer now, his forehead threatening to brush against your own. Your grip tightens, hanging on to anything he might say next.  

“Three days… max.” He was almost aching with adamance. 

“Better get the last of those compliments in, Styles. Make ‘em count.” You tried to warn, putting all available energy into maintaining control, but it was hard when he was still inching closer, his voice husk and for your ears only, 

“Even if you win, I have a feeling we would both miss those compliments terribly.” 

Unfortunately, he was far from wrong. This was a last-ditch attempt on your behalf- and you knew that going into it. You could have easily dismissed the bet altogether- easily dismissed it even now, instead of pushing on with fervour.  

“You don’t know that.” You swallowed, trying to remain factual- hating the way he made you feel so submissive. Your comfortability of being the older, mature one was almost non-existent the moment he opened his mouth. Cursing yourself for this sudden willingness to let him take the reins. 

“I’m almostcertain I do.” he wouldn’t budge. It only made you want him more as you unconsciously lilted into him, leaving no gaps to be found, 

“You’re far too hopeful.” 

“Only when it comes to you.” 

“Cute.” Sarcasm masking the way your heart did a hurdle- threatening to jump right into his arms. 

“I know you are, but what am I?” Harry’s words brush over you with a mix of musk and mint, breath fanning over your cheeks, making your eyelashes flutter,

“Annoying.” 

“What else?” He’s so close now, jaw tilted and taunting you to reach out and grab at him.

“Insufferable.” 

“And?” His eyes are blown-out, one of his hands slipping from your waist and wrapping around your lower back. Trapped in his hold- and never wanting to leave- your former frustration was nowhere to be found, nudging your nose against the nape of his neck, lips brushing the warmth of his skin,

“And, sometimes, I want to just fuck the brattiness out of you.” 

Pretending the words that you had uttered were ineffective, Harry struggled to breathe; his brain scrambled, ready to be seasoned and served on a platter. His grip only tightening at your tantalizing warning, ready to do whatever it took to make it a reality,  

“Might take a couple tries….” 

You breathe out at his suggestion, soft laughter tickling at his neck. You’ve never enjoyed being in the arms of someone more- and you ensure it stays that way, arms wrapping around him with warmth, pulling him impossibly closer. You press a soft kiss to the slope of his jaw and inform, 

“Would be worth it.”  

🍷

Jack doesn't mean to, but he sneaks up on you- consumed in overwhelming thought, staring blankly at the copy of Crime and Punishment strewn across your lap.

“Miss me?” His voice was sharp, slicing through the silence, sending a shockwave your way. 

Your legs jolted- gravity dragging the heftiness of Dostoevsky off of your lap and onto the floor. But it was long forgotten, bent askew atop the tiles.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” You spat, seething at your brother as if you were sure that he was here just to spite you.

“I’m here to make this the best summer ever!” He hollered, embodying the energy of a teen on spring break.

“Does Harry know you’re here?” 

“I’m not digging this lack of enthusiasm…” He half-pouted.

“Jack, respectfully, I will pay you to leave.” You bargained with the panic within, threatening to trap your tongue between teeth.  

“Keeping the bit going, I love it!” Jack was hardly listening to you. Instantly falling into the routine of sibling comradery.

“I’m not doing a bit. You have to leave before Harry sees you!”

“Well, it’s too late for that.” His creased brows met in the middle, looking at you as if you were suddenly alien.

“What?” Panic was fizzling over, foaming at the gums.

“I called him before my flight, and he gave me all the details.” He shrugged.

“Details?”

“Yeah. I’m staying with him. He said he thought you wouldn’t be overjoyed having to host me, which is rude, by the way.”

It was as if you were simultaneously thinking and not thinking at all. The inside of your head was suddenly a jumble of letters, an amalgamation of nonsensical emotions. The rug had been ripped from right under you.   

“So… he knows that you’re here?” 

“Gee, Jack. It’s so good to see you. I missed you too…” He mocks, having expected better reception. Whatever was brewing between you and Harry was not going unnoticed. 

“I’ll deal with you later.” You huffed, turning on your heels.

Your head was a pot, thoughts bubbling and boiling over, steam surely sputtering from your nostrils as you stormed out of the house and onto the sidewalk. Taking two steps at a time, almost tripping, shoes scuffing the paving as you muttered your frustrations aloud. 

The day was joyous- and you hated that – raindrops swirling within a cloud floating atop your head just as a crown would. It was more than obvious that Harry had been playing you all along. The part of you that felt mortified had rushed all heat to your blushing cheeks, and the part of you that felt so silly- so gullible- had you picking up your pace until abruptly arriving.  

“Harry!” Fists thumping against the hardwood as if it was personally responsible, 

“Harry.” Louder- thudding harder- indisputably sending your frustrations his way.

He took his time, bare feet strolling along the porcelain tiles. Running a hand through his hair, he unhooked the latch and smiled as your flared cheeks and kissable pout finally came into view. 

He smiled knowingly, opening the door fully before leaning lazily against the frame, eyeing you up and down with endless patience, noting how lovely you looked in lilac; skin soft and shimmering under the sun, hair pulled back and certainly warm to the touch. He thought for a moment more, lips spreading into a smirk, and then shrugged,

“There were no rules stating I couldn’t make use of the information Jack provided.” 

“It’s- that’s- what you did was totally unethical!” You reasoned, pushing past Harry into the villa, arms across your chest, owning the entire entrance hall. Harry only looked more entertained, enjoying the flashes of frustration in your eyes.

“Unethical?” 

“Yes!” you settled.

“I won fair and square-”

“Not fair. Not square.” You all but whined, and a shiver shook at Harry’s spine; scenes of you pressed up against him, pleading for his affection. 

“Wow, Y/n. I’ve never known you to be a sore loser.”

Harry was pushing buttons for sure, seeing how much closer he could bring you, guiltlessly loving the attention you were paying him- even if it was lacking positivity, if it was all you were willing to give, he had to have it. 

“I am not a sore loser.” You defend, accusatory finger pointing directly at him, “You tricked me.”

“I hardly tricked you.” He scoffed, eyes rolling fetchingly.

“You omitted very important details.”

“We both knew he was on the brink of leaving.” He rationalised, “I simply gave him a little nudge.”

“You’re unbelievable.” 

 “I could say the same about you.” He challenges.

“This is like blood money or blood diamonds, I don’t know.” Coming to terms with the catastrophic choice to indulge in this bet, you hadn’t thought this far ahead- you hadn’t actually thought about it at all. What happened next? 

“Oh, please.” He mused. But when you only seemed to look more upset, Harry softened, guilted and regretted putting you in this position, “If you want to back out, I won't judge. We can forget the bet ever existed.” 

He meant it with all sincerity, but the words whisked over your head, hopelessly mistaking his sympathy for torment. This man had to be up to something. There was no way he would give you such a hard time only to retreat at the first sign of resistance. So, instead of taking him at face value, you switched up your tactics- whatever they were and tried a different defence, 

“Ha. You’d just love that, wouldn’t you?”

“No, I would not, missy.” 

Harry laughed the words your way, arms folding atop his chest, almost totally distracting you as his muscles constricted against his flimsy t-shirt as it threatened to shift and expose the pleasing sight of the soft skin belonging to his hips and pelvis. Taking a step nearer, your next sentence would send Harry into a world of excitement,

“We’re going on that date,” You said it straight, but when Harry shifts, and his stomach peeks past the thin cotton, you add for your own sake and reminder, “and I’m gonna make damn sure you regret it.”

“Is that a threat?” He tries to move even closer, but you take a step back and then another, preparing to turn on your heels and put him behind you. 

“Yes, Harry Styles.” 

It’s time to get out of here before you say more things you can’t retract, and there’s plenty of leftover angst you can project onto Jack, whom you only now acknowledge is probably still aimlessly wandering the grounds of your villa, waiting for an explanation.

Nodding your head with finality, this was your chance to finish on a high. You were already out the front door, sneakers angrily scraping the gravelled pathway, when Harry swung himself around the door frame- holding onto it the way you would wish farewell by hanging from the side of a moving train- projecting unnecessarily, and sending you home with some wise food-for-thought, 

“It would take a miracle to make me regret spending time with you, Y/n.”

---

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Lord have mercy, I am so nervous and hope you guys like this! This series is near-and-dear to my heart, living in my head rent free for the past few years lol. Anyhow, thank you for reading! I know my updates are less-than punctual, but I really do appreciate all the love and support 🥺 -Emmy. xo 💞

[patheticallysentimental]

I love this series. The past two days have been absolutely NIGHTMARISH for me, but coming back to this has gotten me through. UGHH. SO CUTE. SO FRUSTRATING. LOOOOOOVE

[cherryjuiceblues-deactivated202]

𝐌𝐔𝐓𝐔𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐘 𝐁𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐅𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐀𝐋 | 𝟐

Summary: Harry is a little obsessed with Y/N and Y/N just wants to know when he'll have sex with her again. | fluff , smut , dom!harry A/N: WOOOO!!! it's done :D i got a little carried away but i hope you likey ! Words: 14k

Part One

Harry doesn’t love his job.

He doesn’t hate it either. But he certainly doesn’t love what he does.

It’s not the hardest of occupations; since becoming CEO (and after getting over the guilt of surpassing his colleagues in status), having the option of assigning others to complete otherwise arduous tasks for him has eased some of his tension.

However—inevitably—those smoothed over stress bumps are quickly replaced by bigger, more stubborn protrusions that take more than a gentle palm to flatten out.

But Harry is comfortable—he’s financially secure, surrounded by a loving family and loyal friends, and treated with respect, revered even, by some. So despite being true, what Harry had told Y/N—that You think I was wishing to own a finance company when I was a little boy? indicating that it has hardly been a dream come true—he is grateful for his position in life. Aware of his privilege but also immensely proud of how much his hard work had paid off.

However right now, as he sits behind his desk with his phone burning a hole in his pocket, Harry hates his job.

Hates the schedule that’s pulled up on his monitor, hates the squeak of his chair as he rolls over to the filing cabinet, hates the way the clock is ticking louder than he’s ever heard it before. And the seconds are taking twice as long as they should.

With each passing minute, the presence of his phone in his trouser pocket becomes heavier and heavier; its lack of buzzing and dinging feeling abnormally disheartening. And everytime his work phone—that’s lying face up on his desk—lights up with an email or a phone call and creates its shrill cacophony that pushes the line of Harry’s brow deeper and deeper into his already default frown, he becomes less and less of the easy-going boss he presents to everyone.

It’s enough to drive anyone mad; this torturous waiting. Harry feels as though he’s being dangled over the edge of a cliff but never dropped, never given the sweet release of death which he would gladly take over the pain of not knowing when he was going to fall.

One week. It had been one week since Harry first met Y/N. One week since they’d had maybe the best first experience he’d ever had with someone, and one week since he’d heard a single thing from her. And the memory of that night is enough to have Harry distracted. Enough to have him on the edge of his seat.

ㅤㅤ

“Please.” She whines—to Harry’s teasingly obvious question.

“More what?” He wants to ask. Wants to make her spell it out for him. 

But he doesn’t. He’s nice. 

Nice as he stretches her open with his fingers—intrusion more than easy with the copious amount of slick between her thighs—whilst his tongue plays with her masterfully. She pants and whines, bucks and wiggles. Loses the ability to say coherent words without stuttering over them.

He takes his time—relishing in the fierce, squeezing heat around his fingers—in the way her excitement makes his palm shine the longer he goes at it.

And he’s thorough in the treatment he gives her. Behaves as if he’s a professional that’s been paid to change her life. He imagines Niall as his agent who had come to him earlier in the day with a ‘great opportunity’ and demanded Harry give his absolute best. 

Pretends that his entire career rides on Y/N’s enjoyment of this night.

Harry thinks, really, that Y/N’s lack of experience means he could do a subpar job in actuality—but the thought just makes him go harder. Makes every flick of his tongue and curl of his fingers feel like the best thing she’s ever known.

She’s soaking into his skin and it’s filthy; the way Harry’s throat rumbles out a groan at the thought of his stubble bathing in her—the resentment he’ll have in washing his face later.

Little does he know that Y/N is thinking the same thing—or rather, imagining the irritation of her thighs his facial hair will leave behind. The soreness that can only come from pure satiation, that she’s sure she’ll admire with great joy. Her first marks, her first memory-jolting piece of evidence of the night she was finally touched. The day she’s been waiting for—for far too long, in her opinion.

Especially now, as it’s happening, and Y/N doesn't know if she’ll ever be able to stop chasing this feeling. Her limbs fight between stretching out in tight, desperate attempts to grasp for her orgasm—and melting into the mattress in a mangled mess of flesh and bone. Harry’s mouth struggles to compete with the smile that overtakes his expression, watching Y/N’s body writhe in response to his ministrations.

This is his favourite thing to do.

She tightens, and squeaks, and drips—Harry’s fingers working her just right and tongue curling in fast, pointed flitters—as she propels further towards the edge. Close, so close; lips moulding around a string of garbled sounds and hips pushing up into the large span of his hand. She’s trying to beg but she doesn’t get the chance because Harry is feeling her spasm in contracting waves and she’s slicking down his fingers, crying out—

ㅤㅤ

Harry’s debauched daydream fizzles away when his work phone chimes insolently. The screen lights up, forcing his eyes towards it.

A reminder.

Team meeting | in 15m

“Fuck’s sake,” Harry runs his hand through his hair, leaning back in his chair as the leather stretches. His trousers are tighter than he would consider comfortable, but he’s safe—no recognisable evidence of unprofessional thoughts in his professional environment.

Harry considers himself to be a focused man—often finds solace in working to provide distraction—but this constant replay that has been leading his mind astray whenever he even attempts to shift his concentration is proving to be a hurdle too high for Harry to jump over. He thinks if he makes himself come then the unavoidable meeting that’s starting in thirteen minutes might be less torturous to sit through.

But just as he smooths a palm over his thigh, there’s a telltale knock on his door. The rapping a pattern that only his assistant uses.

Harry clears his throat, shifting himself higher to appear more orthodox in his chair.

“Come in, Mr Rowland.”

The door makes way as it’s opened, rattling the blinds that preserve Harry’s modesty—matching that of the ones on the full-length windows that look out into the building.

The man moves to stand stiffly in front of his boss’ desk, suit free of creases and long hair tied back to maintain formality. Harry used to have long hair once.

Mitch Rowland is a quiet man; stoic, but not unfeeling. Harry believes him to be the thoughtful type, and he chips away more and more of his exterior everyday, he’s sure. Cracking a joke that makes Mitch laugh feels like a reward—an acknowledgment of all the hard work he puts in to becoming closer to his reserved assistant.

“Time for a briefing, Mr Styles?”

Harry nods, gesturing to one of the armchairs facing his desk. “Yes, go ahead.”

He’s respectful enough to look intently at the man sitting across from him. As he speaks, Harry doesn’t drift off into his fantasy land full of strawberry embroidered dresses and passion fruit martinis—no, he converses with Mitch like the approachable boss he takes care to be, discussing the best way to go about conducting the team meeting and how to amicably pull up the areas that his employees are lacking in.

Truth be told, it’s life changing having someone like Mitch as his assistant. He demonstrates capability—enough so that Harry can often sit back and let him take the reins—it’s satisfying when their brains match up like they're connected via bluetooth. It’s an easy relationship to maintain, and Harry often ponders about how grateful he is.

But never has Harry been more grateful for Mitch as he is right now. (Which is cruel really, for a situation that would probably lose in a battle of importance if voted on by a large audience.)

The meeting is going fine, most likely—Harry wouldn’t know because his mind is elsewhere once again.

ㅤㅤ

“That’s it, take a deep breath for me, darlin’.” He’s good at maintaining composure, but God if Y/N isn’t testing Harry right now. She’s still fluttering—more than ready to let him start pushing into her—as her arousal coats copious miles of skin. He leans over her, pressing a soft kiss to the dip above her chin as he rolls a condom over his neglected cock. The throbbing gets harder to ignore now that she’s laid out for him; all stretched and wet.

“Are you sure it’s gonna… fit?” Y/N looks down, pupils expanding at the sight. Long, and thick, and hard.

“I’m sure,” Harry drags his nose against her throat, lifting back up to catch her blown-out eyes. He smiles.

“I… I want you to feel good too, Harry. Please?”

His heart thumps and his eyebrows pinch. She’s special. He wants to take such good care of her.

“I feel so good, love. I promise.” Harry drops his hips to prove it, sliding through her folds and nudging her sensitive clit as Y/N’s breath shudders. “Are you ready?”

“Can I—can I hold your hand?”

She’s a doll. (Maybe in more ways than one permitting she’d like to be pliable for him, but right now Harry knows she’s cuter than even the sweetest of puppies). He wants to coo right in her face, obnoxious and embarrassing, before his voice takes on a squeaky pitch and he expresses Of course, you can hold my hand—you’re just adorable, aren’t you?

Instead, he wordlessly transfers his weight to the now singular arm holding him up as he reaches for the girl’s empty palm and tugs it up beside her head. Their fingers entwine as the mattress creates a mould of their knuckles—and Y/N’s eyes clear themselves of the fear of rejection, gazing up at Harry with such appreciation that he doesn’t even receive from his employees. Not that he’d expect them to but the way Y/N is looking at him makes Harry feel as though he’s done something far more significant than hold her hand or coax a few orgasms out of her.

It’s almost sad.

“Ready now,” she whispers, and Harry’s forgotten everything else.

He reaches down to stroke over her hip bone in soothing circles. “Keep looking at me, okay?” She nods, eyes never wavering even as Harry guides himself into her drippy hole.

The first feel of intrusion is new—different to his fingers—exciting and tight as the mushroom tip of Harry’s cock presses in gently. Y/N gasps but it doesn’t hurt; it’s a filling sensation, one that makes her question why she’s not always been doing this. It feels right, like it’s meant to be.

And when she breaks eye contact to look down, she sees that he’s hardly an inch in and exhales heavily into Harry’s face. He squeezes her hand, green surveying her expression. It takes all of his composure to ignore how tight she is around him. It’s euphoria.

“H-Harry,” Y/N whines, shiny mouth falling further with each centimetre discovered inside of her.

“So good, baby, you’re so good. Keep looking at me…there you go.” His voice is taut, even Y/N can tell, and she blinks at him because it’s all she can do—hoping she is communicating well enough with her eyes.

As he gets deeper, she suddenly expels a great breath, jumbled words tumbling out. “Thank you, oh—that’s so—oh my god.”

And Harry is bottoming out, balls resting against her bum, as he lets out some air of his own. “Look at that, darlin’,” he smiles, “took all of me, first try.”

Y/N’s face suddenly splits into a grin. She chances a lift of her leg, to open herself up more as she stretches it to the side, bent knee pressing into the sheets.

“I didn’t know I had that much space in there.”

Harry laughs (it’s quite literally forced out of his lungs) and Y/N starts to let out endless strings of giggles—delirious with overwhelming happiness—as her stomach starts to contract. She can’t stop laughing. And every one has her core tightening around Harry’s cock in pulsing flutters.

If he wasn’t searching deep in his mind for the stability not to build up too quickly, then Harry’s heart would be bounding at the sweet sound of Y/N’s giggles. Pure elation in the form of prancing lilts. Bouncing off the walls and racing past their ears; slicing through any of the nerves she had left.

To see her face bunched up in laughter is to witness beauty in its rawest form, Harry is certain. All whilst she lays bare with himself inside of her—connected as far as he can possibly reach—this feeling doesn’t compel him very often. If ever at all.

ㅤㅤ

Sitting at the head of the table with absent eyes, Harry’s nodding his head in faux-interest whilst his mind is full of filth. Not many eyes are on him anyhow, as Mitch talks through the monthly rates but—understandably—when his personal phone starts ringing disturbingly loudly, the heads of everyone turn to watch their boss answer it alarmingly quickly. The same boss who most employees have never seen handle a personal phone in their entire career at his company; might have believed he lived permanently in his office, in fact.

It’s a shock when he holds the phone up to his ear, shoots his assistant a glance and says, “You’ve got this, haven’t y’Mitch?” before exiting the room with a curt nod and a rushed shuffle to squeeze around the chairs.

Harry knows it’s unprofessional of him, but he’s been waiting for his phone to ring all week. So he’ll be damned if he misses an important call just to maintain formality. He can’t fire himself.

The voice on the other end of the line doesn’t quite contain the lilt he was hoping for, however.

“Heyyy, Harry.” He can’t help but sigh as he closes his office door and slouches unceremoniously into his chair. “You’re at work, aren’t you? Surprised you answered.”

“The luxury of being your own boss, Niall,” Harry watches the seconds hand spin around the clock on his wall. Each tick is echoed by nails tapping wood. “You okay?”

“Oh yeah, yeah, I’m fine. I was ringing to ask about you, actually.”

“Yeah?”

“You heard from Y/N at all?”

Harry looks away from his clock. “I haven’t. Is she alright?”

“Oh, she’s more than alright. She had a great time with you.”

He smiles a little, “That’s nice. She’s very sweet, Niall.”

“Mhm she is… I think you should see her again.”

Harry thinks so too. “I’d like that. But I haven’t heard from her, which is fine—I didn’t want to overwhelm her.”

“That’s the thing though—she’s so nervous, even though she’s been proper gushing about ya. She’d love to see you again, I’m sure. But she’s too scared to call you.”

Harry rolls his eyes at his friend’s dramatics. “Alright… what are you saying, Niall?”

ㅤㅤ

Y/N is shy. 

Chronically shy.

She always has been and that certainly isn’t going to change overnight. Especially not if she were to meet the most attractive man she’s ever seen, have him take her home and then alter the very definition of pleasure itself. Especially not then.

But she so very wishes that was the case.

The post-it note hasn’t moved from the position Harry left it in when he penned his number. He’d been so sweet when asking if he could give it to her—like making her come multiple times wasn’t enough of an indication that she might want to see him again.

And she really does. God, she wants it more than anything.

But she’s an overthinker. She’s a worrywart, a nervous Nellie, a wet blanket—whatever. In every version of the phone call they have in her mind, she says the wrong thing, or Harry lets her down gently, or someone else picks up the phone. And if she texts him, her responses are awkward, or he leaves her messages on delivered—or worse read—or even worse he asks to see her again and then Y/N has to panic over fifty completely different hypothetical scenarios.

She decides that it’s just not meant for her—relationships, or human interaction, happiness—she’s not sure what specifically, but she knows it’s too much to handle. Harry would only be disappointed in the long run anyway; Y/N is simply saving his time—doing him a favour.

Niall isn’t inclined to agree—because of course the topic came up in conversation. Her friend had never been so eager to talk about anything in his entire life, and he loves talking.

The morning after Y/N met Harry, she was greeted by a dozen text messages, followed by multiple missed calls. (If Niall was ever in danger, Y/N thinks she’d be inclined to ignore him—never phased by the multitudes of spam she receives on a daily basis.) And at the first opportunity he had, Niall was knocking—no, pounding—on her door, sing-songing her name from outside her flat.

There was a reluctance in letting him in. This was all new territory for Y/N and Niall knew that. However in fairness to her—rather oversized golden retriever of a—friend, he attempted with all his heart to pretend he wasn’t bursting at the seams for as long as he could. Grinning in a somewhat subdued manner as she opened the door—elated beam withstanding his journey to her sofa—until he sat down and just couldn’t help himself, springing back up.

“You didn’t fuck on the couch, did you?” Half teasing, half deadly serious as his eyes widen and he shuffles away in an attempt to evacuate quicker if Y/N were to confirm his fear.

Y/N cowered behind her hands, cheeks burning, “No! Don’t say it like that, Niall.”

“Oh right, I’m sorry, hang on,” he cleared his throat obnoxiously, “You didn’t make sweet, sweet love on the couch, did you?”

She squawked and Niall cackled, holding his arms in front of his face when Y/N started to batter him with a sofa cushion.

“Okay! Okay, I’ll stop, I’ll be nice.”

He was nice. A relief to have someone to talk to, and never before has Niall been happier about anything, Y/N is convinced. She didn’t realise the status of her sex life was something to be so thrilled about, but his smile threatened to blind her.

And once the initial embarrassment had somewhat passed, Y/N was honest.

“He was so lovely, Niall. Far too good for me, I mean—God,” she smiled but it’s a little sad.

“Hey,” Niall’s eyebrows pinched, “don’t go there with me, young lady.” He flicked her arm. “Harry wouldn’t have initiated a thing if he didn’t want to. And he left his number, come on.”

And that’s how they’d ended up in a tizzy over calling him. Y/N just couldn’t make herself do it. No matter how sweet, and pretty, and kind he’d been to her. Niall had even offered to do it for her but that had sent humiliating shivers down her spine, imagining it play out. My friend has a crush on you—absolutely not.

The days pass and Y/N works. She eats poorly, often asleep standing by the time she arrives home—and if it is proper food she’s ingesting, it’s something she’s woken up at two a.m. to bake because she’d had a sudden itch to do it. The rest of her time at home is spent cleaning the mess she made whilst baking—which turns into moping with a feather duster in hand. Moping about the best night of her life and how she’ll never get a part two.

Nighttime comes and her fingers don’t feel the same. It feels fruitless to even try. She’s hardly got hands big enough and none of the curling does her any good. It only makes her angry, and that’s the one thing she was always told not to be when going to bed.

She asked Niall not to bring Harry up in conversation again; that it would only make her sad and she’ll just have to get over it. Over him—or over whatever he could’ve become.

So the last person Y/N assumes is at her door when she hears knocking, is the very man she’s trying to pretend doesn’t exist. She’s exhausted—been home for no longer than an hour after a long day of answering the phone to far more people than usual, trying to maintain equanimity as she booked meetings in the rapidly filling calendar. Her lunch break had been undeniably cut short—some may argue it was cut out completely—when the computer she was entering sensitive data into decided to crash (without saving) and Y/N had to compose herself in the toilet so she didn’t stain inky droplets all over her desk.

She was hungry, and tired, and sad, and—above all else—overwhelmed. Y/N’s not sure the last time in her life when she wasn’t, and it really builds up in a person. It’s near impressive that she’s even still running. If Y/N were a computer, much like the one at work, she would have crashed years ago. And point blank refused to turn back on again.

It’s unsettling, to say the least, when she hears that knocking. Because who could possibly be at her door right now? It’s too late for it to be the postman, Niall is still working—and that is literally all the people she knows.

In a panicked rush, Y/N scrambles to answer it, too startled to check her appearance or wipe the panda circles from around her eyes. It feels like everything happens in slow motion, from the door opening to reveal the man standing behind it—to the unveiling of his gentle smile and kind eyes. Y/N is half-inclined to slam it shut in his face with an affronted squeal.

She doesn’t quite squeal, but a noise is certainly made. One of terror, Harry might believe, as her eyes widen and flit around his face in a frenzy. The flowers in his hand are only just noticed, and she pauses on them for a moment, an expression of disbelief passing over her features before they become chaotic once again.

“Harry! I—” Y/N pastes a hand to her cheek in bewilderment, heart sinking at the sight of the man’s eyebrows kinking, migrating towards the centre. Then she trails further down, sees him still clad in his suit—crisp navy pressed to perfection. It’s jarring the way her brain switches from awkward to lewd for a split second, until she looks away with shame.

“Darlin’, are you alright?” He steps forward, hand reaching out. “You’re not going to faint, are you?” His voice is light and Y/N wants to laugh because what a ridiculous suggestion, of course she’s not going to faint! but she’s not so sure she believes it.

“No, no, I’m okay,” she lies.

“Let’s sit you down. Can I come in?”

Y/N swallows, exhaling as she looks up at him, before nodding slightly and stepping to the side to allow him room. Harry barely stops to assess his surroundings—only guides her to where he’s been before—her sofa feeling like the softest of clouds in this moment, while her heart is racing and her skin is tingling. He stays remarkably calm and light on his feet, whisking himself away to do God knows what but Y/N is hardly concerned. All she can think about is the fact that he’s here, and she’s a catastrophe, and she has not prepared for this. She has NOT prepared for this.

Harry finds the kitchen, near tripping over his feet to turn down the boiling pot of water that’s about to overflow. He throws some pasta in the saucepan—something quick he can fill her tummy with—and digs around for another that he fills with a jar of sauce. Then he’s rifling through cabinets to find a vase for the bouquet in his hand—which is something she apparently does not own, so a jug will do—before filling both that and a glass with water to take back to Y/N.

She looks timid and small—hands fiddling with themselves in her lap as she disassociates whilst staring at her coffee table. Harry places the jug down right where she’s looking and she blinks some. Her lips upturn just a little at the sight of the buttery petals.

“Drink.” Y/N accepts the glass easily, swallowing multitudes. Her face is dewy, a slight sheen of anxiety, and her knees bounce. “Better?” Harry softens his gaze, aware of the tension between his eyes—he knows he can sometimes appear cross without realising.

Y/N nods, rubbing at her nose like a little rabbit, he thinks.

“I’m sorry,” her voice is small, “you’ve been at work, and now you’re here and I’m… I’m a mess,” she tries to laugh but it falls flat.

“Don’t be silly. I’m a big boy, Y/N, you don’t need to apologise.” He’s encouraging as he smiles, rubbing over her knee soothingly. She’s still in her pencil skirt and white shirt—but she looks less like a sexy secretary and more like a sweaty schoolgirl. It’s hardly self-respecting.

Y/N grips the glass like it’s an anchor, altering her train of thought. “Uh… no one has ever… bought me flowers before.”

The smile he gives her is compassionate. A small curve of his lips and the widening of his eyes as if to implore his feelings to display correctly on his face. The way he disagrees with the fact of it—why could that be true? It shouldn’t be true. Everyone deserves flowers.

“There’s sunshine in your smile… yellow tulips, that’s what they mean.” He offers the information with zero insecurity.

Y/N’s face starts to burn, heart fighting to burst through her ribcage. She opens her mouth, and then she closes it. Harry’s watching her so, very intently, eyes crinkling when her hands press into her cheeks as if to will the heat away.

“I don’t know what your favourites are, but I thought you might like those.”

“No…” Y/N shakes her head, “yellow tulips are my favourite flower… definitely.” She chews on her lip to detain the smile threatening to break free.

“Yeah?” His eyes are shining, light reflecting off the sea glass of his irises and unlocking the depths of his spirit. “You gonna let me see your sunshine smile, darlin’?”

She laughs, a bright, bubbly giggle as her palms smother her face. “No!”

“What?” Harry grins. “What’s so funny?”

“Stop talking like that… it’s— I’m… flustered.”

“‘M just talkin’!” He insists, hands holding themself in a surrender.

“You’re being… a lot.”

“Too much?”

“No. It’s just— people don’t talk to me like you do. It’s nice… but I don’t know how to react.”

“Just show me your pretty smile, I think that’s a good place to start.”

She giggles again, eyes full of mirth—trying so desperately to embrace the fire in her cheeks. “Thank you for the flowers, Harry.”

They hold each other’s gaze.

“You’re welcome, Y/N,” his voice is soft.

“Can I— Can I make you dinner?” She starts, desperate to repay him in any way that she can. And then her eyes widen and she springs from the sofa. “Oh shit—”

“It’s okay, I did it, love.”

“What?” 

“I turned the water down and put some pasta in. I’ve got it all sorted.” He touches her elbow, conveying his wish for her to sit back down.

She doesn’t.

“You— Really?”

Harry nods.

“I’m sorry, God, I’m so sorry. You shouldn’t be doing that! I can’t even boil a pan of water properly.”

“Listen to me, Y/N.” His voice hardens a little. Not enough to be scary, or rude, or suggest he has ill intentions. His voice hardens and suddenly Y/N wants to listen to him, just like he said. It’s relieving, almost, the way his words cut through the thick fog inside her skull.

“Sit down, okay?”

She does, eyes wide and nervous.

“You remember what we spoke about last week?”

The look on his face prompts Y/N to answer—to brush past the sex despite it being the first thing she thinks of. “About you being a— a dominant? Or… uh… taking care of… people?”

“Mhm. How would you feel about letting me take care of you?”

And Y/N is shy—it’s been discussed—but she knows she really has to be honest right now. Even if that means embarrassing herself.

“Guilty,” she murmurs.

Harry straightens up some. “Guilty? Now why would you feel like that?”

“Because! You’ve turned up today with—with flowers and you’ve put dinner on and I already want to pay you back. I don’t deserve it, I’ve done nothing to warrant all of this.”

“All of this?” Harry parrots. His eyebrows furrow but he maintains a gentle tone, shifting closer to Y/N and holding his hand out, palm facing up. She places her own on top with the hesitance of a newborn lamb, eyes meeting his. “Darling, I don’t mean to be blunt but… this is not a lot. Flowers are really the bare minimum, and putting pasta in a pot is hardly a back-breaking task. Lovely… relationships, friendships—they’re not transactional, okay?” His thumb drags across the back of her hand.

She’s going to cry.

“You don’t need to pay me back for anything. I’m here because I want to be. And I want to show you that you deserve to be taken care of. Because you do, Y/N. You do deserve it.”

A tear brims over her rapidly filling waterline. “I’m sorry,” she laughs wetly. “I’m just tired.”

Harry nods, “I know,” wiping her cheek. “You just need a little help. And that’s okay.”

“You wanna do all this… and you barely know me… why?” He’s cloudy in front of her eyes, tears obstructing his handsome face.

“I haven’t stopped thinking about you all week. You know that?”

“Okay, sure.” Y/N rubs at her lashes, smearing more mascara around. But she’s smiling a little, at the absurdity of Harry’s words.

He replaces her hands, the soft pads of his thumbs doing an adequate job of preserving her dignity whilst he wipes the smudges away. 

“Mean it. Been distracted at work remembering it all.”

She’s not laughing anymore. No, her skin is tingling now. And her throat squeezes around a swallow.

“But it’s not just about sex. I like you, Y/N. And I want to like you more—get to know you, spend time with you. Is that convincing enough?”

Y/N shakes her head. But Harry sees the glint in her eye. He narrows his own at her.

“No? Are you playing with me? I thought you were a sweet, good girl.”

The skin of her cheeks has never been subjected to so much heat in such little time. It spreads out to her chest, and down her arms. She must be praying to some sort of God to ensure her hands haven’t become sodden yet.

“That’s not fair,” she squirms. “I just… like hearing you talk.”

“Hm, you like hearing me say that I like you, is that it?”

“Maybe,” she looks down. “Never really heard it before.”

“Well, get used to it, love. I want you to become sick of those three words.”

“You don’t even know me.”

Harry just smiles. “Will you let me?”

ㅤㅤ

Y/N is confused. 

Or rather, she is tentative. Anxious, uncertain, disbelieving—waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Harry sits across from her in the café they’ve frequented quite a few times in the last two weeks. His eyes are closed, taking in the first gulp of his coffee as it slinks down his throat and warms his chest, leaving a pleasant trail of heat in its place.

She admires him; something she wishes she could do more without his beady eyes on her and making her feel all embarrassed. He’s pretty—she likes to look at him. Especially when he’s not in his usual suit and slack attire. (Not that her brain doesn’t start to malfunction when he’s embraced by the flattering lines of fabric clutching to the muscles Y/N has had the pleasure of being crowded by but…) The contrast of seeing him comfortable and unfiltered is enough to make her relax too.

Or attempt to relax.

The first time Y/N and Harry came to The Little Snail Café, the former of the two had been nervous. (That is hardly information anyone would pay for.) It was a date as far she had been aware; Harry had explicitly labelled it so. And Y/N hadn’t been on a date since she was with her ex… but their time out was hardly ever impressive enough to warrant any kind of excitement.

Even remembering that she’d had a boyfriend renders every moment spent with him as less and less meaningful. As time spent wasted. He’d never told her her smile was that of sunshine. He’d barely ever told her he liked her.

But Y/N wasn’t thinking about him. Not on that day.

Harry had forced her to let him serve her dinner that evening he’d brought her flowers. Had implored that she change into something comfortable and sternly ordered glue your pretty arse to that sofa, little miss. That had been hard to argue with. Then he’d proceeded to plate up perhaps her first proper meal she’d consumed in a week and ask her about her day.

Y/N had been a little hesitant to admit the extent of her misery but Harry cottoned onto her pause quicker than most would. He was earnest in his sympathy, eyes void of ridicule as she detailed all her misfortunes.

“No wonder you nearly stacked it when I turned up,” he’d joked. “I’m sorry you had a rough day, love.”

It had been nice to have company. A pleasant silence whilst the two filled their stomachs. Y/N had missed it irrevocably—someone to breathe the same air with. 

That had been when Harry asked about taking her somewhere the following day during her lunch break. A quaint place I think you’ll like. It wasn’t far and he’d have her back at work just in time. Y/N found that she trusted his word.

And although she had been worrying about it, as soon as Harry walked through the front doors and into the reception—wearing a chestnut suit that once again clung to him, like thick globules of honey, with his slicked hair that begged to curl onto his forehead in ringlets like that of a piglet’s tail—she had tunnel vision.

Her boss could have come in and fired her on the spot and Y/N wouldn’t have heard a thing. Only the rush of blood in her ears as her pupils expanded to the size of ten pence pieces and her stomach became the home to a dozen butterflies.

Harry had watched her reaction as she’d read the sign above the café—smiled at her bright eyes when she’d told him how cute it was. Had smiled even larger when he took her inside and let her discover the tiny snails etched into the edges of the tables.

“No one else has ever shared my passion for these little guys,” he’d emphasised as they sat down in the corner, sunlight flooding in through the windows and brightening up their irises, making Y/N giggle easily. Harry could tell she wasn’t laughing to make him feel better—or just to flirt—and that only made him try even harder to elicit those sounds from her pretty mouth.

He’d insisted he wanted to get to know her better. So that’s what he did.

Harry learned that Y/N eats far too much sugar, doesn’t sleep enough, and wishes she could have a pet cow. Or that is how he heard the words that exited her mouth. Y/N had only said she usually baked goodies in the dead of night and that videos of little fluffy calves make her cry.

The two never glanced away from one another. It was the kind of chemistry that drew eyes. Subtle glimpses from other customers sipping their warm drinks and cherishing that collective sense of human connection just from witnessing two people so innately into each other. Old couples nudging the other to reminisce on their younger days—workers wiping down tables and feeling a sense of respite during their long day at the unmistakable widening of the woman’s eyes in an attempt to see all of the man before her—to hang onto his every last word.

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-nine.”

“What’s your favourite colour?”

“Pink.”

“Dogs or cats?”

“Dogs.”

Y/N had asked him lots of those questions. And had seemed very content with every answer he gave her. Perhaps apart from that last one. Y/N might have preferred cats but it wasn’t a dealbreaker.

It didn’t last long enough, in her opinion; their date. She had to return to work far too soon for her liking. But Harry paid for her toastie and hot chocolate, much to Y/N’s disarray, and dropped her off with a stroke of his thumb to the back of her hand and a kiss to her cheek.

She’d smiled so much she’d had to bite her lip to tone it down. Receptionists were never that happy.

ㅤㅤ

Their second date had been impromptu. And not really a date. Harry had knocked on her door once again—however this time, Y/N hadn’t jumped out of her skin. In fact, she’d just finished decorating a cake she’d hoped to surprise him with and the shock of his presence was replaced with elation at the coincidence.

The door opened, and before Harry stood a smiling girl with youthful glee painted all over her face. A pleasant difference from the last time. She giggled to herself and instructed he close his eyes as she guided him to her kitchen where the sweet smells were surely giving away any element of surprise. Still, Harry played up to it—feigning shock—(it’s not that he’s a cruel man but Harry remembered things about people and Y/N wasn’t so hard to read).

“Oh! It’s beautiful, darlin’… you made this f’me?”

Y/N nodded, grinning. A proper smile, unabashed and without premeditation. Harry felt its warmth; lucky to receive such a display from someone he’d previously seen so reserved.

The cake was cute; rusticly smothered in vanilla buttercream and decorated with halved strawberries circling the edges (Y/N was not so hard to read) and it tasted heavenly. Harry never believed he was much of a cake person—he’d always much preferred ice cream—but devouring a slice with the knowledge it had been made with care, especially for him, had his taste buds in a sugarcoated frenzy.

Y/N had been so elated to watch Harry enjoy her baking that she’d failed to realise that he had come to her home for a reason. And so had Harry, apparently—a look of epiphany crossing his face as he was placing his plate in the dishwasher. (Y/N had tried to do it for him but Harry had smoothed a large palm over the top of her head and all thoughts just melted away.)

“I wanted to ask you something.”

“Mhm?”

“Weather’s supposed to be nice this weekend. Picnic?”

And Y/N still got flustered, sure, but…

“You came all the way here to ask me that? You have… you have my number, don’t you?”

Harry couldn’t help his smile, tongue stuffing his cheek to attempt to control it. “Yeah, I do. I do. Just wanted to see you. Good job I did too.” He nodded to the cake.

But Y/N was all twinkles. In her eyes, over her face, all the way to her toes. She had half the mind to believe Harry visited her just to garner this reaction; to inflate his ego.

“I won’t be able to take you for lunch tomorrow though, ‘m sorry.”

“Oh… that’s okay,” she smiled. It wasn’t okay. It was world-ending news. What was she supposed to look forward to now?

“Been offloading a lot onto m’assisstant lately—should really give him a break.”

Y/N frowned, “I’m sorry.”

Harry barely let her finish the word. “No. No, I don’t want to hear that.” He moved forward, nudging the back of his index finger under her chin. “Not your fault, is it?” His eyes bored into Y/N’s, stern but imploring her to not worry herself like that. To take the blame for something that was not her fault.

“I’m— I…” Words failed to form, eyelashes brushing her cheeks in repeated blinks.

Harry swept it under the rug. It’s not something he wanted her to get het up about. Another time—he’d thought—another time he’d make sure she understood never to apologise unnecessarily. To feel guilty about him causing an inconvenience just to see her; because God forbid she accepted that she was good enough to be treated with such consideration. Another time. “I’ll come see you the day after though, yeah? I still want you to try the beetroot soup.”

“Idon’tlikebeetroot,” the girl mumbled, lips downturning with the admission.

“What was that, love?”

“I don’t think I like beetroot, Harry.” Her eyes lifted…and there was that guilt once again. Fear that disliking something may cause offence or trouble.

“Have you ever tried it?”

Y/N’s silence was deafening. She smiled shyly up at him, skin tingling with the beginnings of heat—whilst Harry simply shook his head with a playful eye roll before stroking his thumb over her chin. The plush pad met with a soft indentation.

“Have an early night tonight, okay? Get some rest.” The syllables rolled off his tongue like a gentle caress; told her she looked tired in quite possibly the kindest way.

Y/N nodded, focusing all her energy on the feeling of his thumb on her skin.

And when Harry had gone, leaving her heart an overexerted mess of muscle and blood turned flower petals and bubbles, she’d simply looked to the ceiling with a shit-eating grin as she tried to swallow a giggle. There was nothing inside her that was not touched by Harry—and everything transformed from rickety and paint-chipped to sturdy and ornate—embellished down to the finest details.

ㅤㅤ

It had been a joy to wake up on Sunday.

Y/N felt the rays of sun through her curtains warming her sleepy face as her alarm blared—an alarm worth setting despite it being the weekend—and as her consciousness came rushing back to her, the memory of Harry promising to pick her up at eleven had her residual tiredness dancing away like it was performing the quickstep.

Dress weather made Y/N happy. Made her feel pretty and confident and giddy; something quite contradicting considering her skittish personality. And that’s exactly how she felt when she admired her sundress in the mirror of her wardrobe—square neck framing her chest, white fabric bunching around her shoulders in sheer puffs and cinching at her waist to flow into a floaty skirt. She looked sweet; the picturesque vision of a girl about to perch on a blanket under the sun and consume saccharine confections. Y/N pulled the hem between her finger and thumb, exposing the skin of her upper thigh, deep in thought at the fantasy of Harry taking her all in. His own confection.

And he did of course.

Though it didn’t unfold in perhaps the way Y/N had hoped. Which is why they’re called fantasies, she supposed. Because she was still her—despite feeling like a whole new person, she certainly wasn’t.

Harry had knocked on her door at two minutes to eleven, which may have been a problem had Y/N not been ready over an hour earlier than she needed to be. (With another bunch of flowers—white gardenias—“They mean I have a crush on you,” Harry leaned over and whispered as though it was some big secret. Y/N took them with a stifled titter and scurried off to place them in water, dress swishing around her thighs.) His gaze had dripped down her, as respectfully as he could manage when all he wanted was to glide his palms all over. The sight of soft skin contrasted by the sanctity of white cotton—her silky hands carrying a wicker basket (the true vision of a picnic) which Harry had plucked out of her grasp with little hesitation.

As a true gentleman would, he offered Y/N his arm to place her hand; the crook of his elbow providing a safe seat to rest from the weary necessity of holding the weight of her own limbs.

Y/N, however, would only be so lucky to mirror Harry’s formalities—to uphold the stereotype of womanly elegance—as her toe catches on a step down towards his car. Emulating their first night outside of her house, only this time it felt worse. It’s far more embarrassing, Y/N decided, to fall when holding onto the person you’re so enamoured by.

It was hardly a fall—moreso a drag of the foot, a buckle of the knee. But it was still enough to have her gasping and untangling herself from Harry. Harry who had kept her secure without any chuckling or patronising. Had his brows furrowed in concern and his hand to her elbow to steady her. Y/N still ripped herself away, turning so he couldn’t see her.

“Oh my god! Don’t look at me.” She was mortified; as the pair stood halfway down the steps, suspended in a moment.

“Darlin’—” Admittedly, Harry did have to try his hardest not to laugh. Not at her trip but her reaction; the drama! “Darling,” he tried again, “you’re alright.” His hand ghosted over Y/N’s shoulder blades, where fabric met flesh.

“That was—I’m mortified—that was so unattractive!” She barely meant it; was just humiliated as she’d said, but Harry shook his head behind her.

“You’re still very pretty, Y/N. Just a little clumsy. But that’s okay,” he turned her around, “you’ll just have to hold on tighter.” Harry admired the kinks in her brows, expressive in her shame, as he guided her hand back to his arm. “Very pretty.” He’d almost whispered it—not out of a wish that she had not heard but as an attempt to reseal their bubble—their intimate world.

The sun stayed magnificently bright for them.

As though it was watching its light bounce between their eyes; wanted the moment to last as long as it could maintain the warmth; the incandescence.

Harry followed the motions of her hands, fingernails painted in alternating shades of soft green and pastel pink, as Y/N devoured a punnet of strawberries. (She’d brought two.) She was a head-bobber, munching away with the occasional hum as her eyes transfixed onto his knees. 

He was wearing corduroy shorts and a big floaty shirt, unbuttoned to reveal a white top poking out from underneath. Y/N admired his golden skin, the delicate tattoos bracketing his kneecaps, and the dusting of hair covering his lean limbs. It was still a joy to see him so underdressed, the true image of a boy she would take home to her parents.

The two looked symbiotic—two sides of the same coin, or heart, or strawberry—as Y/N offered one to Harry, who took it graciously with a smile and a scrunch of his nose. (Mild hayfever, he’d described it as.) From an outside perspective, they looked established. A relationship that surely began as highschool sweethearts. Enough so to have strangers whispering I’ll bet you a tenner he’s about to propose to her.

But neither registered any sort of outside perspective, they were the only two people that mattered, after all.

“You ought to be careful, love, you’ll get a bad tummy if you eat so much fruit,” Harry prodded, as Y/N opened up the second punnet of strawberries.

“Oh,” she frowned down at them. “My stomach sorta always hurts anyway.” He perturbed her none, eyelashes fluttering as she bit into a picture perfect fruit. Harry hardened his gaze—registering her unbothered tone with concern.

“That’s not… ideal, Y/N.” He was slow, cautious. “Y’shouldn’t be hurting all the time.”

Her eyes rounded out as she looked at him, lips plush as she took another bite. But she just shrugged her shoulders, tastebuds too preoccupied by the blossoming on her tongue. The wind picked up a little, blowing her hair across her face in soft streaks—as though the Earth was wielding a paintbrush, and using her strands as the medium. She whined a little, trying to avoid getting hair in her mouth as she finished the rest of the strawberry. Harry watched with starry eyes—zoned in on her shining skin—as a drop seeped out of the edge of her lips and dribbled down the side of her chin.

He reached over without hesitation, thumb swiping the liquid away, and Harry basked in the subtle widening of Y/N’s eyes as he brought that very thumb to his mouth to coat his tongue. Her fingers scrambled at her face messily, brushing all hair out of her eyes. It felt incredibly humid all of a sudden.

“Hey,” she pouted, refusing to be swept away under Harry’s ruse, “that was my juice.”

And Harry couldn’t help himself. Not when she was setting the scene just perfectly. “Mm, sorry,” he hummed, “d’you want it back?”

Y/N nodded, tongue darting out to wetten her lips.

“Hm?” He prompted.

“Yeah—yes, I do, please.” She swallowed; Harry’s eyes followed the contraction of her throat.

“Come here then,” he tempted. He was already in a very alluring position, elbows bracing his weight as he sprawled across the blanket, knee propped up and easily manoeuvrable. Y/N shuffled on her knees, the short space towards him, setting herself down with her hands placed on her thighs as though he’d instructed her to.

Harry pushed up, hand ghosting along the side of Y/N’s cheek. “What am I going to do with you?” Their breaths mingled, swirling across one another’s face and sinking into their skin. Y/N’s eyelids dropped closed, patiently asking, waiting. He took his time to admire her anticipating face, leaning closer to drape a sigh over her bottom lip.

“Kiss—kiss me,” she exhaled, eyelids twitching—wanting to open. But they didn’t. They stayed shut, stayed waiting, stayed hiding her from the world around them.

Harry smiled and Y/N swore she could feel it. Feel as he leant forward and brushed the tip of his nose down the front of hers. His hand stroked through the hair behind her ear, large digits coaxing her to melt and mollify into his hands, which she did so easily. She parted her lips wider, blindly tilting to try to meet his. Harry let them touch for a second—a press of flesh—before he leant back, nose nudging hers once again.

Y/N expelled a shaky breath, a little whine falling out of her neglected mouth. Her eyebrows kinked and her pretty nails dug into her thighs.

She chose to stay in the dark—from fear that it would be over if she opened her eyes. But that was something she needn’t have worried about. Harry leant back, enough to see out of the corner of his eye and reach for a strawberry.

He resisted the urge to indulge himself, mouth watering at the thought, and instead brought the pointed tip towards Y/N’s eagerly awaiting lips. Harry grazed his nose along her cheekbone, words finding her sensitive ears as he pushed the fruit to touch.

“Bite,” he whispered.

A noise of complaint lodged itself in Y/N’s throat, but she complied regardless, teeth sinking into the strawberry. Its juice coated her tongue and lacquered over her lips, the gooey pulp going down smoothly as she dared to open her mouth for another offering.

But as she did, suddenly the air around her face shifted, and the heat of Harry’s breath ghosted across her once more. Pointed and heavy exhales from his nostrils as she felt his tongue dart out to swipe across her bottom lip. It felt exploratory, leisurely—like he had all the time in the world to get to know her mouth. And it’s not like they hadn’t done this before—kissed—but it felt new, all the same. It had her breath hitching and her body leaning unconsciously into his touch.

Once her bottom lip stopped being enough, Harry pulled it down with the pad of his thumb and unlatched Y/N’s jaw in the process. He opened her up, and she let him completely, sat still on her knees as he played with her. She didn’t feel toyed with really—was still processing being touched in such a way and wondering if it would ever stop feeling so intoxicating. Harry took one final moment to bask in her blind trust; to watch the stillness of her face and feel the gentle (but rapid) breaths fan against his mouth.

And then he kissed her.

He really kissed her.

Y/N’s hmph quickly turned into a muffled mewl, open mouth accepting Harry’s tongue rubbing over hers as though it was her resuscitative medication. The only thing to stabilise her bloodstream, to soothe her fighting heart. He tasted like strawberries. And so did she. Sweet, and wet, and promising. It felt filthy but it felt clean at the same time—renewing and resetting, like running across soft sands to plunge into bracing sea water—Y/N would let him drip juice anywhere he liked, she’d let him feed fruit from his own mouth into hers. She’d let Harry spread her out and do with her as he pleased. Right there. Right then.

And it caught up to her all too quickly, the overwhelming heat of her thoughts. They were in public. But yet she couldn’t possibly entertain pulling away—not when Harry’s mouth engulfed her entirely. It wasn’t a cute kiss, a sweet reminder of affection or endearment. It was a kiss you shielded your child’s eyes away from, or grimaced at from nearby. It was sloppy, and sticky, and mind-numbingly dizzying.

Harry’s lips left syrupy residue wherever they landed—her top lip, her bottom lip, her tongue, her cupid’s bow. Y/N felt poisoned. Drip fed for weeks until Harry deemed the time right as he went in for the kill. She wasn’t sure she was even doing much of the kissing; perhaps she was simply being kissed. She tried to keep up, returned his tongue with her own and let her mouth encase his bottom lip in a frenzied attempt at reciprocation.

But his hands were holding her face, and then they were sliding into her hair, and all Y/N could do was feel.

Feel, and be felt, and—and—

ㅤㅤ

And Y/N is still confused!

She’s drifted away from their cosy table at The Little Snail Café—well physically, she’s right there but mentally… Her eyes are glossed over and she’s still very much contemplating the state of their relationship. Because… that kiss had been nearly a week ago and… well, Y/N doesn’t want to be thought of as some sex pest (she loses her virginity and now she’s clawing at the walls for orgasms) but she always thought—completely aware of her ignorance and unrealistic education—that the role of a dominant was to… fuck the living shit out of someone on the regular.

And even as she’s thinking that, with Harry right in front of her, she feels crude and disrespectful. But he hasn’t so much as hinted that he was going to have sex with her again, and that moment with the strawberries has been going round, and round, and round inside her head for days and nights and it’s driving her insane. Because, as previously established, nothing she can do matches what Harry made her feel, so any attempt at quelling the ache leaves her worse off than before.

“Don’t much like hearing how I feel about squirting, huh?”

Y/N blinks, and physically shakes her head as if to wake herself up. “Sorry?”

Harry sips from his mug, smiling. “Joke, love.”

“How uh—” she clears her throat, “How do you feel?”

“Hm… messy, but hot.”

She nods—perhaps a confusing reaction to such a sentence. Most people would probably quip back something flirtatious or coy. But Y/N just nods.

“What’re you thinking about in there?”

“Um… I was just wondering when— when you were gonna kiss me… again…”

“Y’are, are you? How uncouth.”

“Well— I just… When you said you were,” she leans forward, volume dropping considerably, “a dominant… I just thought… something different would be happening.” And then she starts to spiral. “Not in a— not because this is… this is great. I mean—”

“Settle down, darlin’, it’s okay.” Harry sighs, scratching the top of his head with a thoughtful expression on his lovely face. “‘s my fault, really. I haven’t explained much to you. And I have no doubt you are basing all of your facts on poor media portrayal.” Y/N scrunches her nose in a silent show of guilt. “It’s not just about sex,” he starts. “It is for some people, but for you I don’t think it is. And I’ve been slow, and cautious in fear of overwhelming you, and it’s resulted in probably a couple confusing weeks for you. So, I’m sorry.

“The whole point is for you not to worry, and you’re still doing that because I’m not doing my job properly, but I was worried you might change your mind so I held off. You can still change your mind, by the way.” Y/N shakes her head. Harry continues. “I’ll take you home now, if you like, give you the whoooole run through. Does that sound good?” Y/N nods. “And you’ll tell me if it’s too much, won’t you?”

“Yes, Harry. I will.”

“Can I take you to my home? Cook you dinner?” He asks, staring at the way Y/N’s head lays heavy against the headrest and her limbs are leaden, as she relaxes into his car.

She nods, lips quirking upwards with intrigue. At the blanks in her mind that will be filled. What to imagine when he’s in bed, when he’s watching TV, or eating… or… showering. “Can I help?”

Harry pretends to consider it. “We’ll see.”

ㅤㅤ

Harry’s house is… not what Y/N expects it to be.

Well, it is in some ways.

It’s large, and it’s expensive, and it’s astronomically grand. But it’s… it’s characterless. It lacks personality—and Harry Styles does not lack personality. Harry Styles is charming, and intelligent, and beautiful. But his house is stark white. There is no indication that his house is not a show home. It’s untouched, unlived in, unloved. And Y/N wasn’t expecting that.

“It’s too big, I know,” Harry gestures to the air around them as he watches Y/N take it all in.

“Not at all! No… it’s so beautiful, Harry.” And it is, it really is. She’s not lying. How can she lie when she’s staring at such a grand staircase? When the windows are so large, and bright that the space is nearly sparkling. And the garden she sees through the other side is blooming trees and unkempt flowers and just begging to be loved.

But as beautiful as it is, it’s still just… white.

He guides her through to the kitchen which…

“Woah,” Y/N admires, “you could make so many cakes in here.” She laughs and Harry grins just at the sight.

It’s true, there’s enough counter space to house at least ten separate mixing bowls. Impressively clean considering the observed shades of white. But there are signs of life in here—photos on the fridge, (one that catches her eye of two women that absolutely have to share his genes) post-it notes huddled around a pot of pens, a basket of cleaning products, a vase of flowers in the middle of the island. A comforting sight to see a little bit of the inside of Harry’s brain.

“They’re very pretty,” Y/N points at the photo on his fridge with a hesitancy that suggests she’s expecting him to berate her for being nosy.

“Mum’ll love that,” he laughs. “That’s her,” Harry points to the woman on the left, adorning sunglasses and a bright smile, and then to the right, “and m’sister, Gemma.”

“You look like each other.”

“Yeah? Y’think so?”

Harry shines when he speaks about his loved ones. Is so happy to talk about the photo of his father, his step-dad, his mum’s cat, the younger Harry surrounded by other young boys (“My mate Jonny, he was stoned as fuck in this picture. Had no idea.” His eyes crinkle around the edges and Y/N can only think about how beautiful those lines look).

Then he moves over to the island and tugs out a stool. “Come sit,” he pats.

He doesn’t let her help him cook—insists that she stay right where she is and carry on looking at him like that.

“Like what?” Y/N pretends she’s not shy about being caught.

“With those gooey eyes.”

“Gooey?”

“Mhm. You look one moment away from melting into the counter.”

“I do not,” she scoffs.

“It’s okay, I like it.”

Harry owns the fluffiest rug in the history of the universe, Y/N is sure.

Obnoxiously cream in comparison to the rest of the colour palette. And in defence of Harry, the walls of his living room are painted a warm beige and his vast, velvet sofa is a deep forest green. The main attraction remains the rug, however. Long and shaggy and absolutely imperative to lie upon.

Y/N withholds the urge, but she stares pointedly and longingly towards it for too long to be considered a passing gaze.

“You can touch it if you want.”

“Hm?” 

“The rug… that you’re eyefucking.”

“I—” she blanches, “It looks so soft.”

Harry makes the first move, blue jeans creasing at the knees as he crouches down. He pushes his palms into the strands and watches as they’re swallowed up into the depths of the faux-fur. Y/N hesitates, looking down at him on his hands and knees and wondering if it would be inappropriate to join him. But when he leans back, hands bracing himself behind him so he can lounge—mirroring the position of the day they had their picnic far too much—Y/N caves and drops to her own knees.

It’s sensory heaven—quite frankly—and Y/N knows immediately that she could get lost stroking this sole rug for hours. Harry watches her with an informed smile as she drags her fingers back and forth through the threads, already lost in a little world of her own.

“G’na have a mature and adult conversion now, alright, love?”

Y/N nods.

“Are you going to be able to listen and finger my rug at the same time?”

She narrows her eyes at him, adjusting from kneeling to crossing her legs. “I’m not finger—” she swallows. “Yes, I believe so.”

ㅤㅤ

“—I would encourage you to eat, go to bed at a certain time, turn your phone off. And I would want you to listen to me—not to argue, to trust that I know best.” That sounds easy, Y/N thinks. “I would want you to raise concerns in a polite manner—I don’t think it’s ever necessary to shout. And it would be important to me that you are always honest about the way you are feeling. No trying to make me feel better or pushing it down, okay?”

Y/N had feared it may be complicated, from the way Harry had suggested—had put off having this conversation for so long. But his commanding voice, and intense eyes make her feel so safe, and incredibly mellow. New feelings for Y/N. She nods.

“And when it comes to sex… trust is the most important thing. I don’t want to be doing anything we haven’t discussed, and I certainly don’t want you to make yourself uncomfortable in an attempt to please me. Now I know you may not be experienced with a lot of the things that are involved in these kinds of relationships but would you be interested in learning… with me? What you like and dislike?”

“Yes.”

“How are you feeling now? Good?” When Y/N nods once more, Harry gets to his feet. His voice slicks down her spine when he drawls, “Come here then. And kneel.”

Whilst Harry had been speaking, Y/N can’t deny the fact that her insides had started stirring around in anticipation. But now, as he commands her to station herself so far below him in stature, the silly little brain inside her skull begins to melt into mush. She crawls the short distance towards him until her eyes are level with the tops of his knees, and she just waits, sneaking a glance up to see Harry towering above her with a subtle quirk of his lip.

He brings a hand up slowly, warm palm ghosting the heat of her cheek and smoothing over her head in a comforting stroke. “I want you to call me Sir. T’help you slip quicker. You wanna be all nice ‘n’ mellow? Forget about all your stress?”

“Yes… Sir.” It comes out as little more than a squeak.

Harry chuckles, “You’re so good.” Y/N quite nearly beams up at him, insides swarming. “You like that? You like when I praise you?”

“Mhm,” she nods.

“Well it’s just so easy for me, darlin’. Because you’re so lovely.”

She closes her eyes, bottom lip nibbled to hide the giddy smile that overtakes her. Harry’s hand in her hair, scratching and smoothing, is already doing enough to make her eyelids heavy. But she supposes sleep is not the end goal.

“Your first time,” Harry starts. “Did you enjoy it?”

What? “Yes—yes Sir, of course.”

“What would you change about it?”

“N-nothing! It was perfect.”

He hums, nails dragging soothing lines into her scalp. “Which part?” Y/N opens her mouth but Harry keeps speaking. “When I fucked you open with my fingers? Got you nice and stretched for me—had your little pussy just quivering and begging me to fill her up?” He fists a more substantial amount of her hair. “Or maybe when I finally got my cock inside of you, and you were so happy. Squirming underneath me like a wet dream.”

Y/N can’t help but grab for his thighs, nails trying to dig in.

“Hands in your lap, darlin’.”

She pulls away regretfully.

“Was it when I fucked up into you, hard enough to force all those pretty sounds out? Or when I stretched over you and held your hands above your head? Had your body arching for me.”

Y/N is on fire. She must be. Her body is aflame and her insides have melted.

“I think…” Harry bends over some, trying to catch the eyes of the girl who is fighting every feeling. Her eyelids are shut, concealing the windows to her soul, and her brows are knitted together so tightly that she might induce a migraine. He smooths them out with a thumb before stroking over the delicate skin of her lids. “I think—look at me, darling—I think… it was when I had your stomach pressed into the mattress and a hand around your throat,” thick fingers squeeze her cheeks together with care, “and all you could do was lie there and take it. As I fucked you for the first time, just like you deserve. 

“And after you came around me for the third time, I flipped you over so I could see your pretty face, and I came between your soft thighs, didn’t I, love? Did you want it inside of you? Warm, and sticky, and all because of you? Is that what you’d change?”

Y/N doesn’t actually think he would have come inside of her—he’d worn a condom, after all—but if the thought doesn’t have her thighs squeezing… “Wouldn't change,” she shakes her head. “Liked having you— liked it on…”

“Mm, I think you’d say that about everything. What do you know, after all?”

He’s right, and she hates the way his condescension has her wilting even further into the palm of his hand. 

Y/N leans her face into Harry’s hand as he begins tracing over her features with a curious thumb, dedicating every line and mark to his memory. Then he’s crouching down with a little exhale and securing his hands under her armpits to pull her up with miniscule preamble. Y/N gasps, and her hands shoot out instinctively whilst Harry is lifting her up to his height. She grabs his shoulders and wraps her legs around his waist using muscle memory she didn’t realise she had.

Her knees sink into the rich green of his sofa as Harry sits down, gently encouraging her hands down from his shoulders and behind her back. A buzz zips through her chest from the feel of his warm body underneath her. Warm, and strong, and solid.

“Wanna hold these here, okay?”

“Yes, Sir.”

Harry’s tongue darts out to wet his rose-tinted lips. “Gonna be a little rough with you. If you want to stop, you say Red. If you want to slow down—take a break—you say Yellow. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Good,” he says, eyes trailing down her neck, deciding what to do, “good,” repeated solely to himself.

Y/N feels the frustration of choosing to put on jeans this morning, mind spiralling at the thought of being on top of Harry with just a skirt to hide her modesty. Just a skirt that would so easily be slipped underneath by his hands, and then her underwear…

But Harry seems less concerned. His gaze is transfixed to her chest; to the intricate lace of her camisole, that—in contrast to her jeans—provides very easy access. Y/N’s breathing picks up at the very thought, ribs expanding and only drawing his eyes further. She’s tugged forward by a hand on her hip, searing through the fabric, and the other holding her hands. Tugged until Harry is resting his forehead on her sternum and inhaling deeply.

Her lungs are working at an extreme rate, and more of his nose presses into her with every breath. Y/N is so close to his hair in this position—just has to bend her face down a little and his musky scent fills her nostrils. It seems they both have similar ideas—breathing one another in—but Harry seems far more relaxed than the near shaking girl on top of him.

It only gets worse for her when he pushes his lips against the valley of her breasts—small, tender kisses that have Y/N’s breath hitching. The straps of her camisole want to fall down her shoulders in angelic swoops but her cardigan prohibits all movement. Suddenly it’s the heaviest and warmest piece of clothing she’s ever worn.

“Har—Sir,” she breathes, head tilting back on her shoulders. The caress of his breath on her body is immobilising, and he seems content in moving at a snail’s pace for his own enjoyment. Whether he gets the message or not is unclear, but regardless, Harry lets go of her hands just long enough to shuck the chunky cardigan down her arms and discard it beside them.

As soon as he tightens his grip around her wrists once again, the strain of her arms has her camisole straps slipping down the curves of her shoulders, like a waterfall of silk. The fabric is so light and thin that it pools underneath her breasts—the crooks of her elbows the only things keeping the straps suspended. And Harry’s immediate response suggests he’s somewhat of a starved individual, teeth digging into the top of the left cup of her bra and tugging it down with haste.

He takes her nipple into his mouth and Y/N is all gasps and bucks. The sensitivity of her skin and the rough suction of his lips, the flicking of his tongue and the grazing of his teeth. It’s deafening; the blood rushing in Y/N’s head, it’s near predisposing. The spit, and the hot exhales from his nose against her chest, the indentations his teeth leave behind when he pulls away to admire the wetness of her breast. But he goes back in—bites at her flesh—chews, and laves, and consumes her entirely.

Y/N’s cunt is pulsating. She is wet, and fervently hot, and the subtle rocking of her hips is ceased by a large palm over hip, which has her whining into the air.

“Stay still f’me,” he slurs into her skin, desperate fingers pulling her bra down further and watching to make sure it stays, before he starts on the other side of her chest. Her wrists are encircled behind her back, and Harry pushes her forward—into his mouth, as if he’s not already practically eating her. And maybe she can try her hardest not to squirm but all that energy has to go somewhere, and she’s panting now—whimpering all these sounds that she’s never heard herself make before—and Harry can surely feel the vigorous inflation and deflation of her lungs.

“Oh—oh, H—Sir, please.”

Please what? Stop? No. Keep torturing her breasts? Also no.

Harry hums against her, long and unwilling as his mouth leaves her with a wet smack. He admires her skin, eyes flitting up to see the dazed girl atop him.

“Don’t like it?” He puffs, inhaling deeply, beginning to dance a hand around her ribs.

“I do, I do,” Y/N breathes, eyes still closed. “Too h-hot.”

Harry frowns though she can’t see, before he’s unclasping her bra and pulling her camisole over her head—standing her up on jelly legs and pulling her jeans down. Sat on his lap once again, he tightens his grip around her wrists and curls his fingers around her throat.

“Can feel your heat, baby,” he looks down to where her clothed cunt rests just before his bulge. His still very clothed bulge. “Give me a kiss.” And she still feels exceptionally inexperienced in the whole department but her body surges forward, urged by the pressure against her pulse, as her lips meet his shiny ones. 

This time, when Y/N’s hips start moving on their own accord, Harry doesn’t stop her—tugs her closer in fact. Right on top of where he’s warm, and hard. Their mouths part a centimetre, just enough to pant into one another at the feeling. Of his hand squeezing her throat, and pushing her arms into her back. Y/N doesn’t even notice when he lets go of her wrists—never daring to move them—as his palm comes down in an experimental slap to her arse. 

It’s light; enough to not hurt but suggest his intentions. And when Y/N gasps and twitches on top of him, he gets the idea. “Is that nice?”

“Yes.”

“You like that?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Sir, yes Sir,” she whimpers into his mouth, lips pasting to his cupid’s bow and falling away when he does it again. Hard enough to leave a tingle that spreads out to her centre and up her stomach.

“Unzip my trousers.” 

There’s no hesitation, both his palms are holding her ass now, desperate to spread them apart but damned by the confines of her underwear. Y/N shakes a little but does what he says, exposing the hot pink of his boxers underneath—and the thick outline of his cock.

“Take me out, go on.” She meets his eyes—blown out and transfixed, mirroring her very own. “Take me out, Y/N,” he whispers, leaning closer to lick a stripe up the column of her throat, and then an open-mouthed kiss to her chin, and her mouth.

He’s heavy in her hand, and intimidatingly big. How did she ever fit this inside of her? But she feels the instinct to make him feel good. This was the one area she had experience in, afterall. The skin is so soft and all she has to do is spit down and watch as it drips from his head along his shaft. But Harry takes her hand instead and laves his tongue along her palm before guiding her down to wrap around him.

His breath hitches; their eyes don’t stray from one another’s. He holds her hand over him and starts to drag it up and down, his blinking lagging a little from the feel of her delicate fingers wriggling underneath his palm. It’s intense, and paralysingly slow—every second spent watching his face feels like sixty—and when she looks down, she feels herself clench around nothing at the sight of her smaller hand wrapped in his, and the way his cock looks between them. Red, and thick, and wet.

It must show on her face because Harry’s unwrapping her hand and reaching forward to press his fingers into the front of her underwear. “Put me in.”

“What? B-but I’m not… and you’re so…”

He nods, “I know. You can do it,” as he awkwardly fumbles for his wallet from his back pocket. Y/N’s heart jumps when he rips the condom open with his teeth—a true teenage fantasy—and slides it on with a swallowed grunt.

He tugs her gusset to the side, breaking strings of arousal and basking in the twitch of Y/N’s hips. She clumsily hovers over him, embarrassed as she holds onto his base. As she lowers down, Harry’s thumb finds her clit—swollen and hypersensitive—and she squeezes him reflexively. He groans, low and vibrating, content to roll her under his digit cruelly—distracting her from the attempt at swallowing him with composure.

Y/N whines as the thick head squeezes inside her tight hole, mouth ajar and eyes half-focused on the man who brings his shining thumb to his mouth and makes a show of relishing in the taste of her arousal.

“F-fuck,” the words force their way out of her shining mouth.

Harry rears a hand back and slaps her ass, harder than the other times, fingers staying on the skin to dig in and pull. “Don’t swear.” And Y/N doesn’t think he’s usually adverse to it but she’ll do whatever he asks of her right now.

“S-sorry, Sir,” she moans out as Harry sinks deeper and deeper inside. Maybe he should’ve stretched her out first but God if it isn’t the most blissful discomfort. That initial entrance—knowing what her body is accommodating for and how far he reaches inside of her most private place.

As soon as she’s seated on him, completely and utterly full, Harry confines her wrists once again as he sits up and encourages Y/N to lean into him. Her breasts squish into his shirt. His shirt. That he is still wearing. “Come on, baby. Tire yourself out.”

Exhaustion is already seeping into her bones but Harry’s voice croons into her ears so tenderly—it coats her skin in a sheen of glitter and pumps sparkling wine through her veins. She makes every effort in lifting up and sinking back down—in, albeit, slow and wobbly movements—but the concentration on her face is like a drug to Harry. It has him thumbing over her nipple and taking it into his mouth again, which only has Y/N stuttering and inevitably stopping. She pants, and wiggles, and whines, enough so to have Harry placing both palms underneath the seam of her underwear and gripping her bum like he’d wanted.

He squeezes and stretches to his heart’s desire, mouth still firmly attached to her breast, but his strong hold aiding Y/N in moving once more. She’s lifted up and down, and up and down—slow enough to feel every ridge of him opening her walls.

“M-my legs hurt. Sir.” Y/N wishes she were a gym fiend as she admits it.

“Do they, love?” He pulls back from her chest, discontent to stop nibbling her skin raw but her voice is oh, so fragile. He’ll take care of her like he promises all the time. “Lean your head on my shoulder—keep your arms where they are.”

When she doesn’t immediately listen, and looks up to his eyes with a silently begging expression, he cocks his eyebrow. “Can I f-feel you? Your skin, please, Sir.” He’d left his clothes on, somewhat intentionally, but he doesn’t feel so mean in this moment. A nod is all the encouragement she needs, as Y/N unbuttons his shirt with clumsy fingers, and pushes it off his shoulder to rest her cheek upon. Her arms go back behind her and her nose moves forward to press into his neck deliciously. He smells of allure.

Harry can’t help himself when he tears her underwear from her body. She’s too soft, and warm, and wet to simply entertain the idea of pulling out of her. And from the noise she makes—a surprised squeak but no beratement—and the clench around his cock, he can only assume she likes it. Likes the desperation, or the display of strength, or his pure animal brain—it doesn’t matter. Because Harry’s kneading her ass in heavy handfuls, and moving her faster and faster, and Y/N is flooding his neck in her warm, tight pants—sweet whines falling out of her mouth.

“Beg me to come,” he grunts, granting Y/N no kind of warning before his fingers dig in harder and his hips slam into her at a speed that has her lungs forcing out high-pitched squeals. The sounds are nasty, unmistakable and unexplainable. The slap of skin, the wetness between her thighs, the noises that leave both their lips. It’s raw, and scaldingly hot, and— and… she needs to rub her clit.

“I— Sir, I can’t—”

“No?” His thrusts don’t falter, not even once. She’s on her back in a second, and her wrists are trapped underneath her. He makes no move to readjust them, only stretches her knee to the side so it pushes into the back of the sofa before grabbing a throw pillow and stuffing it under her hips. “Come on, beg me, little doll,” his hand spans across her mound, thumb meeting her clit in a back-arching press. This, has her cunt tightening—pulsating, contracting, strangling his cock. And with the pillow angling her just right, Harry can feel himself underneath his palm; it drives him batty.

He fucks her into the sofa, hard and unrelenting, leaning over her to chew on her tits once more. It’s sweaty, and messy, and that only makes it hotter. “Beg, Y/N.” His thumb rubs faster, expelling the choked up cry from her throat. She’s so close, is writhing underneath him—fighting the rolling of her eyes into the back of her skull.

“Please! S-sir, I—”

“That’s it. Good girl letting me fuck you—your sopping cunt, baby. Beg better than that, come on.”

His words send her spiralling, orgasm racing up on her and she panics that she won’t be given permission before it happens. “Oh my god! Oh, pleasepleaseplease, Harry!— Sir, please l-let me, please.” It’s adorable, Harry finds, her minimisation of the English dictionary when she’s so bent out of shape. Her pleading is less begging and more repetition, but he’ll let it slide.

He’ll let it slide as he presses his thumb harder and leans back to watch as he murmurs something akin to the value of diamond. “Come. Fucking come f’me, darlin’. Look at you.”

Y/N can’t hear anything. Not now. All she needed was that first word of permission and she’s seeing stars. Spasming around him so tight that Harry’s own moans started flowing out, pace increasing as he rolls her clit under his thumb. “Fuuuck, there you are. Keep squeezing like that, there’s a good girl.”

It takes her a while to come down from, no surprise considering Harry is still pounding into her, and her whimpers echo his moans—desperate and unabashed, his lips red and brows tight. He looks so handsome. So beautiful above her with his flushed skin and his flexing muscles, unbuttoned shirt floating around him. Y/N’s not sure she’s ever felt so peaceful, in a dreamlike state in all her vulnerability. And she keeps contracting around him, like he asks—because when he groans like that, she’d have to be a sadist not to—and as his moans build up in pitch, and his eyes meet hers in frenzied pleasure, she’s sure she wants him to come more than she’s ever wanted her own orgasm in her life.

Harry surges forward, smearing his lips all over Y/N’s mouth. It’s messy, and uncoordinated, and his tongue is slicking her skin. But it’s the hottest kiss she’s ever had. And it feels so good when his groans hit a crescendo, and his hips stutter, and Y/N can feel the warmth of his spurts inside the condom. She whimpers against his open mouth, arms losing all feeling behind her back, but she doesn’t care because his eyelashes are brushing against her cheek and it’s the most intimate thing she’s ever felt.

They’re lethargic, Harry’s movements, and he’d like to be much more alert but his body is tingling and Y/N is looking up at him so trustingly—he wonders if she’s fallen into a stupor.

“Th-thank you, Sir.”

He strokes her hip bones, pulling out with a soft hiss. Y/N whines a little at the sensitivity.

“You can call me Harry again now, if you like, darlin’.” He leans down to kiss her forehead, consuming palms holding her cheeks.

She’s not really listening. “Mm, feels… feel kinda drunk.” She smiles, nose turning into his thumb. Harry gives her another kiss and pulls away, to knot the condom and collect her clothes. Minus the pair of panties that are no longer wearable. He doesn’t feel even an ounce of guilt.

He’ll make her some food, watch as she eats it with her eyes begging to close, and then let her sleep in his bed—hoping she’ll want him to stay.

Little does he know that Y/N will wake up in the middle of the night to raid his kitchen in a matter of ways that Harry will reprimand her for. 

But for right now, he’ll keep her as happy as he possibly can.

[patheticallysentimental]

I’m melting, this is perfect

[cherryjuiceblues-deactivated202]

Mutually Beneficial | 1

Summary: Y/N finds life difficult and Harry just wants to make her feel good. | smut , a Harry to make you swoon A/N: NEW FIC! :O i told myself i wouldn’t post until i’d finished the whole thing but i’m just too excited :D Words: 10k

This is not what Y/N had planned for the evening.

This is not what Y/N had ever planned for any evening but, of course, Niall had to go and make her feel all sad for him because he had no one to go out with. And, of course, he persuaded her to dress up all pretty in her cutest mini dress—white with embroidered strawberries—that moulded to her body perfectly, in case someone caught her eye.

(When Niall had specified that, Y/N rolled her eyes so hard they might have truly become stuck in the back of her skull.)

Y/N loves dressing pretty, she really does, but in the context of doing so to have heads turn her way makes her chest tighten unpleasantly. Speaking to just one person at a time was enough to stress her out, let alone a whole roomful of people that may potentially be eyeing her up.

And she’s hardly kind enough about herself to believe anyone would be enamoured by her in the first place, so Y/N had to bite her tongue in order to stop herself from telling Niall that she would go only for him and that she needn’t worry about attracting attention.

What Niall had failed to mention in his—elaborate but still vastly lacking—party plan is that he was setting up a cruel and targeted ambush. That’s what it feels like, anyway, when they step foot inside the sweaty, vibrating, and garishly fluorescent club. Now, Y/N had prepared herself for this moment, sure. Tried to hype herself up and slip into the headspace where she’d be less overwhelmed in this environment.

What she hadn’t prepared herself for is the immediate introduction to perhaps the most attractive man she’s ever seen in her life.

Y/N is a reserved woman. Always has been and probably always will be. She thinks Niall might be her only proper friend and maybe even the first she’s ever had (not including her ex boyfriend but Y/N likes to ignore the fact of his existence) after starting as the receptionist for the office he works at. He took her under his wing and wasn’t deterred by her shy nature—which has been her downfall in the past—unbeknownst to Y/N as she was never bothered by her lonesomeness. But he stuck with her, and taught Y/N to open up; to accept that he liked her and wanted to be her friend.

And she’s grateful for him—she really is. But perhaps this occasion won’t look too good on his Friend of the Year application.

“Harry!” Niall grins, hurrying over to where the man (angel, Y/N thinks) sits at a circular table in a slightly less crowded part of the club.

“Good to see you, Niall,” Harry smiles, accepting his friend’s bear hug.

As soon as they pull away, Niall is motioning Y/N to step closer. She’s sure her heart stutters when she looks up timidly and is met with piercing green and hard brows. “Harry, this is Y/N. Y/N, this is Harry,” Niall says before leaning closer to whisper in her ear (purposefully loud enough for Harry to hear him). “He’s got that psychopath vibe about him because he’s a big, mean businessman.”

Y/N doesn’t quite react. Can’t giggle because that would be rude, and can’t smile because that might be seen as her agreeing with Niall and his perpetuating stereotype.

But Harry just rolls his eyes, “Sod off, mate. That’s no way to introduce me, is it? It’s lovely to meet you, Y/N.” He holds out his hand—his large hand—and Y/N rushes to bring her own up as they slot together in a firm shake. (Harry does the shaking, Y/N can only concentrate on the feel of his fingers swallowing hers.)

“And you,” she replies, far too quietly for the inside of such a place but Harry doesn’t ask her to repeat herself.

From beside her, as Y/N regretfully lets her hand fall away, Niall gasps and Y/N immediately sees where his eyes are directed. “I’ll be back!” he exclaims before Y/N can even open her mouth. And then he’s hurrying off towards a group of beautiful, tall women and Y/N is left to surely set herself on fire from the heat of her cheeks alone.

“You want to sit?” Harry gestures to the stool opposite him, very aware of the girl’s discomfort—it was practically rolling off her in waves—but hoping to quell it.

Y/N looks at him, and then looks away, scanning the club for something…anything. But no immediate distractions arise. So clumsily, she hoists herself up… and, oh God. Sitting in front of him, the full of his face completely available to gaze upon, Y/N feels her stomach drop.

He’s beautiful.

Before, when she’d been standing by the table, he’d been at an angle and had shadows obscuring the definition of his features. But now, she can see that he’s all hard lines. Strong jaw, sharp cheekbones, perfect nose. Contrasted by his pillowy lips that are framed by a subtle stubble. His hair sits fluffy atop his head, short enough to maintain shape but long enough to start to hint at curling around the edges.

And his eyes. Intense and unwavering but captivating all the same; made to hypnotise with every flutter of his pretty lashes. She feels like prey underneath his stare.

Y/N is stunned. And makes it obvious by her blatant ogling. She knows it’s rude, deep down in the murky depths of her ignoring subconscious, but she’s not sure she’s ever been favoured enough in life to witness anyone as perfectly sculpted as him. They don’t teach you how to talk to pretty people in school.

“Y/N?” Harry’s voice breaks through her foggy head. His lips are upturned. “Have I got something on my face?” He swipes at the corner of his mouth with a thumb.

Her cheeks burn, eyes zeroing in on the way his tongue peeks out to wet the digit in order to clean the nonexistent stain, “No! Nothing, I— sorry,” she looks down, fidgeting in her seat.

He makes a noncommittal noise that suggests he’s not bothered in the slightest and leans forward on his forearms. If Y/N’s eyes could speak, they’d be begging and pleading with her to look at the way they flex under his weight, and bulge at the inside of his elbows. Where his shirt has been rolled up—tactically, Y/N is sure. 

“What’s a sweet girl like you doing talking to me, hm?” Harry drawls. And logically, Y/N knows he’s teasing, but there’s something about him (his intimidatingly beautiful face and assured demeanour, most likely) that has her all flustered and panicked, words flying out of her mouth.

“Oh! I’m sorry, Niall just brought me over and—” 

A warm hand is placed on her forearm when she moves to stand. “I’m joking,” Harry smiles—and Y/N’s tummy flips. She relaxes on her stool some but her body flushes with embarrassment. “You’re ever so nervous,” he observes, “would you like to get a drink?” nodding towards the bar.

Y/N hesitates, knowing she doesn’t handle her alcohol very well but yes, she supposes she does want one. Anything to loosen her up a little and make herself seem less moronic around him.

“Yes, please—” she pauses. How could she politely ask that he doesn’t meddle with her drink? Oh well, you’re a man so I’m automatically untrusting of you, I’m sorry, that’s just how it is! And Y/N finds this to be true nearly one hundred percent of the time but she’d rather not put Harry off. If not because she wants to stay sitting with him then because she doesn’t want to be left alone in a club.

It seems, however, that she needn’t worry. “You can come with me.” He stands, offering a hand to help her step down. “I feel it important to tell you,” he leans down to her level as they walk over to the bar, “that I don’t engage in those activities.” Y/N feels herself believing him, no matter how much of a stranger he still is. Something about the way he commands himself stirs up a want to listen and nod along; respect him undoubtingly.

So Y/N does. She nods but Harry isn’t looking—is already ordering. “I’ll have a G&T and—” he turns to her, “what would you like?”

This panics Y/N some because she hadn’t been prepared for him to place their orders together. For him to buy her drink. But she doesn’t argue, looks up at Harry with a polite smile. “A passionfruit martini, please.”

“And a passionfruit martini. Thanks.”

Y/N feels it necessary to apologise once they’re sitting back down. For not offering to pay.

Harry simply shakes his head, “It’s not a problem, I like paying on the first date.”

Y/N blanches—she malfunctions, she can’t help it—she asks, “Date?”

The man opposite her demonstrates his self-assurance by not seeming even an ounce embarrassed. “Niall didn’t tell you?” Y/N shakes her head, and then takes a sip from her drink to distract herself. “I see.”

Niall had done it on purpose; set them up like this and not tell Y/N, Harry understands. Clearly hadn’t wanted to overwhelm the poor thing, who had already been flustered before they’d even locked eyes.

So Harry withholds some details. He doesn’t mind. Knows that Niall had done this for Y/N’s good more than Harry’s, (after the conversation they’d had a few weeks prior) and Harry likes to think of himself as a nice person. Weaves his way around the matter in a way that doesn’t have her head spinning.

“He’s a sneaky bastard, that one.”

Y/N doesn’t know what to say. Date? So it really had been a targeted ambush. Niall couldn’t have picked someone even a little bit in her league?

“I hope I haven’t made you uncomfortable.”

“No!” She rushes, much less worried about how it may look, because she’s rather relieved (that Harry was prepared for this if not her, and that Niall must’ve made her sound worthy enough to go on a date with)—she supposes—and relief always makes her a little hyper. “Not at all, you’re the opposite of uncomfortable.”

“Comfortable?”

“Yes, you’re— I am very comfortable.”

“Well, that’s good.” Harry smiles and Y/N can’t help but return it, undeniably bashful. “Would you stay?”

ㅤㅤ

Y/N finds that her drink helps her considerably—holds her hand and strokes its thumb across the back in soothing motions. She’s hardly tipsy, and maybe it’s just the knowledge of having ingested alcohol that is boosting her confidence, but she can actually hold Harry’s gaze for longer than a couple seconds without her face heating up and having to look away.

Don’t get her wrong, her heart is still beating rapidly and she can feel the way her body yearns to connect with his—a magnetic pull that only gets stronger the harder she tries to resist.

But she is visibly engaged in the conversation and able to reciprocate without stuttering and fumbling like a fool… and Harry had liked her before they’d even exchanged words but now he was practically on the edge of his seat. He knows his stare is intense but he refuses to look away even for a second. Eyes trailing over her lips that she wettens with her tongue after every sip of her cocktail and then down her neck as she swallows the sweet liquid.

If Y/N notices then she doesn’t say anything.

(And she thinks she does but she’s still not convinced that he’s even attracted to her as obviously as she is him so the observation doesn’t plant itself very deeply in her mind.)

“—doesn’t the life of a receptionist just thrill you?” Harry realises he hasn’t really been listening to her answer—which is undeniably rude considering he’d asked her a question in the first place—but it matters none, as Y/N rests her chin in her palm and swirls the straw around her now empty glass. She sighs. “I know it’s not very progressive of me but… I think I’d just love to cook, and clean, and garden, and never work ever again,” and then she laughs, as if she wasn’t serious but they both know, “I’m a poor excuse for a feminist.”

Harry shakes his head, “Not everyone has to have grand work ambitions.”

“You don’t think it’s weird? O-or regressive?” Y/N looks up at him.

“Not at all. If that is how you want to live, and you are able to decide that for yourself—you’re not forced in some sort of coercive relationship—then I don’t see the problem... And there are no rules that state feminists must hate cleaning.” He smiles.

Y/N sighs again. “I suppose… I don’t have the money unfortunately but… I’ve tried so many things, Harry,” and then she clears her throat. “I’m sorry! I’m such a buzzkill. What is it that you do?”

He smiles at her reassuringly, “I work in finance. I’m… a CEO, actually.” He hates to say it, but he hates lying by omission more.

I like paying on the first date, Y/N recalls his earlier words, surely understanding what he had truly meant now. I have far too much money to comfortably let anyone else pay for anything. “A CEO? Oh. That— That’s very impressive,” she admires. Then she scoffs, “and here I am complaining about having no ambitions, how mortifying.”

“You think I was wishing to own a finance company when I was a little boy?” Harry asks, nudging Y/N’s shin with his foot under the table.

“I don’t know!” she laughs, “Everyone has a dream! Well…except me,” she smiles at him.

Harry leans forward, “You know, in the spirit of being honest—”

“—Y/N!” Niall appears seemingly out of nowhere, drunken grin, mussed hair, and a hint of smudged lipstick across his jaw. Harry pulls back, bemused by their friend. “Is Harry being nice?”

“Yes,” she laughs, half embarrassed and half entertained.

“Nice enough to take you home?” Niall opens his eyes to plead and then leans forward to whisper-shout. “Think I’m gonna have the night of my life with those two redheads,” she follows the direction of his finger when he points. “Threesome!” he unnecessarily adds and Y/N chokes in surprise.

“That’s lovely, Niall, I’m really happy for you. B-but I can’t ask Harry—”

“It’s no bother,” Harry interjects. “Really. Drink ‘s worn off by now.”

“I—”

“Come on, babe, he says he’s happy to. Please.”

And Y/N is a people pleaser. So, it goes without saying that she would do anything to make Niall happy. “I hope you have a really good night, Niall.”

“Thank you! I love you! Be safe!” He beams, smothering her cheek with a wet kiss before hurrying back to his business.

“Love you too…” Y/N replies, but Niall is already too far away to hear. “I’m sorry,” she cringes, turning back to Harry who is looking at her with a knowing smile.

“It’s alright, darlin’.” His words sizzle inside her—convinced she isn’t making up the way his voice drops, velvety and smooth, with the pet name. “You wanna go now?”

Silently, Y/N nods, guilt nibbling away at her as she follows Harry out of the club. The late night chill has goosebumps forming on her arms and Harry is quick to notice.

“C’mon, I’ll get it nice ‘n’ warm f’you in the car.” How was he so observant? Y/N had barely registered she was cold before he’d pointed it out, resting a hand on her back for a second.

And Y/N doesn’t know much about cars, but she can tell that this one is expensive. So much so that she feels too scared to get in it—worried she’ll scratch or dent it. “In y’get then,” Harry holds the door open for her.

It’s quiet as they drive. But not uncomfortably so. Harry has gentle music playing, nearly inaudibly, and he only speaks to check with Y/N that she’s a good temperature and to put her address into his satnav.

She spends the journey trying not to stare at his hands, and his forearms, and his biceps, and his jaw… Turning away to look out her window is the only thing that works. And closing her eyes to inhale the deep, rich musk that has been subtly emanating off Harry—that Y/N is now bathing in—and she truly wishes she could. Wants to go to Lush or The Body Shop and peruse the shelves; open the caps and be transported via smell until she finds the closest creme that matches the scent of his car. Y/N shrinks in her seat some. Creep, she thinks, cheeks scalding. Harry smiles to himself as he notes her body language out of the corner of his eye. Cute, he thinks.

He’d been about to admit more about himself before Niall had come barging over. Y/N hadn’t been even a little subtle with her glances the whole night and Harry is just itching to kiss her but he doesn’t know how to bring it up; the detailed version of his and Niall’s conversation.

ㅤㅤ

“You’re not seeing anyone at the moment, are you?”

Harry shakes his head, running a hand through his hair as he sits across from Niall, nursing a pint in their favourite pub.

“My friend, Y/N…” Niall sighs, “I think she would benefit from someone of your…expertise.”

Harry laughs, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know…your…sex stuff.” He quietens his voice, lips stretching over the last two words in an over exaggerated manner.

Harry cares not to lower his tone, “It’s not just about sex, Niall.”

“Okay, well she could benefit from the whole package. She’s really unhappy but she’d never admit it and I’m the only one that really sees it, I think. Hates work, has no idea what she wants to do with her life long term—is so stressed all the time. I worry about her. Doesn’t take proper care of herself, you know? Would you let me set you up on a date? Even if it’s just to give her something pretty to look at for a couple hours.”

Harry ignores Niall’s last sentence. “Sure, sounds like she needs to get out of her head for a bit.”

“Thank you. She’s real lovely, I promise. And cute.”

ㅤㅤ

And cute she was; trying so hard not to gawk at him with no success, clad in a sweet little dress, and quick to open up to him—in perhaps a way that suggests she’s not close with many people. Niall had hinted that.

She sits with her hands in her lap, absentmindedly fiddling with her fingers, not even noticing when Harry starts to slow to a stop. “We’re here, love.”

“Oh!” Y/N turns to him, whipping her head round a little fast. He smiles. “Thank you so much, Harry.”

“Let me walk you up,” and Y/N goes to assure him it’s okay but he just raises his eyebrows and she shuts her mouth. Supposes she’d really love him to do that, actually. Doesn’t want to say goodnight yet.

Her nerves start to get the better of her again now, with Harry so close behind her. Enough to catch her foot on a step and gasp as she prepares to fall, only to have Harry’s warm hands grab her around her waist.

“Are you always this jittery, love?” he asks.

Y/N’s face burns, “Um…think so. Sorry,” voice small.

Harry looks thoughtful for a moment, giving her a delicate look that doesn’t quite reach his eyes; mind elsewhere. “Don’t apologise. I meant to talk to you about something actually.”

And suddenly she remembers him leaning over at the club, ready to share something in the spirit of being honest. “Okay,” she replies quietly, taking the steps much slower now.

The keys to her flat feel much heavier and colder than they usually do in Y/N’s palm. She nearly drops them to the floor but fumbles clumsily in the air to catch them. Behind her, Harry tries not to laugh but Y/N refuses to turn around to see, surprising herself at just how pathetic she’s appearing. This is why she doesn’t go on dates. This couldn’t be attractive to anyone.

“Do you want to come in?” She asks. “B-because you said—you said you wanted to ask me…something.” Keep it together.

“If that’s okay with you.” Y/N nods. And she only sort of half realises she’s inviting a semi-stranger into her home… but if Niall trusts him then Y/N supposes she can too.

“Please—uh—sit, or stand, or whatever you want. Do you want a drink? Or something to eat? Or—”

“Just you is fine.”

Y/N struggles not to visibly react to that. “Oh, right, okay.” She moves to sit on her sofa and Harry mirrors her, angling his body towards her.

Harry wants to positively swaddle her right now. He can tell she’s completely oblivious to how adorably ditsy he thinks she’s being. She looks comparable to someone sitting in the dentist’s waiting room—eyebrows tight with nerves. He starts, “Niall didn’t set us up to have an ordinary date. He asked me to help you relax a little, get out of your head because it all gets a bit much for you sometimes.”

Y/N fidgets in her seat. She wasn’t expecting that. She didn’t even know Niall had noticed she was struggling again. Or that she was still struggling. “How—how would you do that?”

Harry decides to just say it. He’s done this before. Not with someone quite so timid but being transparent was always best, he feels. “I’m a dominant, love.”

And Y/N’s seen Fifty Shades of Grey so she’s got a pretty intense picture going on in her head—one that is abysmally inaccurate, she’s sure, but it’s a picture nonetheless.

“D’you know what I mean by that?” She nods, eyes wide and tongue poking out to wetten her drying lips. “People give their control to me, and by doing so they get to feel as stress free as possible. Don’t have to worry about anything because they hand it all to me.”

“You want to do that…to me?”

Harry smiles. “If you wanted that. I think it would make you feel really good. But it wouldn’t happen yet, not fully. Not without talking it through.”

Y/N feels herself nodding, head dancing in filth from the moment he said dominant. And Harry can see it in her eyes. See the way they unlock somewhat, nerves turning into anticipation, and imagination.

“You like the sound of that, pup?” She fills with heat—both embarrassed and turned on by his degrading choice of words. “Excited like I’ve just said it’s time for walkies.” All Y/N can do is look at him, pupils getting bigger by the second and warmth in between her thighs spreading. 

Her hands come up to cover her face, overwhelmed by all the different things she’s feeling—and by how much she likes the sound of Harry’s proposition. 

“Answer me, darling,” Harry strokes a large palm over her knee and trails the fingers on his other hand across her wrists. She lets him pull them down from her face. “Most important thing to me is communication.”

“Okay,” Y/N squeaks. “What was the question?”

Harry grins. “Will you let me kiss you?”

“You want to?” She recoils, eloquence lacking but she can’t care.

“Wanted to all night,” he brushes a knuckle across her cheek and Y/N’s eyes flutter shut, goosebumps rising in his wake.

“Not just because Niall asked?” She whispers. Harry’s breath fans against her mouth.

“Because I want to. Because I think you’re beautiful, and sweet.” Y/N exhales as he speaks, positive she could tear up if he keeps talking. So she leans forward blindly, unaware of how close he is but hoping he’ll take the lead.

And he does.

Harry presses their lips together softly, careful to take it slowly. He thinks she’ll need that. Kissing her feels like sinking into the plushest of mattresses. But the mattress is in a meadow, overlooking the seaside, and the sun is beaming down on them, and there’s still the taste of strawberries remnant in her mouth.

Y/N sighs into Harry’s mouth, painting a similar picture in her mind—only in her daydream they’re in her bed and Harry is leaning over her, pushing her further and further into the sheets. She’s only kissed one person before (two if you count Niall during a drunken night which Y/N firmly doesn’t) and it’s immediately clear to her that Harry is infinitely better. Doesn’t shove his tongue in her mouth straight away and slobber his lips all over hers. No, Harry is delicate and it makes her heart flutter. Because she can feel how much he cares to do it just right.

When Y/N pulls away it’s because she absolutely has no other choice. Her heart was pounding before the kiss but now it’s threatening to tear right out of her chest as she (not so) subtly inhales as deeply as she can. Harry presses his lips against the corner of her mouth and she can feel the way he’s smiling into her face. 

He’s been doing that all night—smiling at her. And Y/N thinks that it’s been stoking the fire in her belly since they met; so obvious now that he’s been amused this entire time. Yet, the idea that he’s laughing at her deters her none—it’s exciting, in fact—and Y/N is learning more about herself tonight than she has done in the entirety of her adult life.

Harry hums, tongue poking out to tease her bottom lip. “Y’taste so sweet, darlin’. G’na give me a sugar rush.”

Y/N’s insides twist and turn at his words, face on fire. “Harry,” she breathes, “You’re making me—” dizzy? hot? wet?

“Making you what?” Harry asks, trailing his fingers along the exposed skin of her shoulder and down her arm agonisingly slowly. Her body shudders.

“B-butterflies.”

“I’m giving you butterflies?” He smiles. “How adorable is that?  Has no one ever told you how good you taste, Y/N?” He runs his fingers back up.

She doesn’t miss the double meaning, shaking her head. “No. No one’s ever— I’ve never—” the words don’t come out (and she’s far too aware of just how akin to the plot of Fifty Shades this is getting). What if her lack of experience turns him off? She thinks she’d do crazy things to make herself desirable.

“God,” Harry exhales and Y/N opens her eyes hesitantly. He holds her gaze, brows pinched and hand stalling on her arm. “No one’s ever made you come?”

And she panics when he says it, rushing to make sure he still wants her. “I can give you a blowie! My ex used to make me give him blowies.” She thinks nothing of it—a little humiliated perhaps at the desperation to suck him off but too turned on to care.

Harry removes his hand from her skin and Y/N’s stomach drops at his expression. An undeniable frown. “He used to make you?”

“He—” Y/N pauses, because she’d never really thought about it before. “He got annoyed when I didn’t so it was easier…” she starts fiddling with her hands; can’t look at Harry, can’t speak the words and maintain eye contact—it’s not possible.

“And he never returned the favour?” He ducks down to catch her eyes.

She closes them, shaking her head again. “He always made excuses as to why he couldn’t… No time, too tired, not in the mood.”

“What a fucking piece of shit,” Harry lets out a humourless laugh. “You deserved so much better than that, darling. I’ll show you, yeah. Will you let me?”

Y/N looks at him, eyes open all the way to confirm he really was still there. “What do you want me to do?” she says.

“I don’t want you to do anything. Just wanna show you how good it feels. Don’t want you to think about anything we’ve discussed tonight—we won’t play or perform. And you don’t even have to see me again if you don’t want to. I can still leave now.”

“No!” Y/N grabs his wrist. “Don’t leave.”

Harry smiles, removing her grasp to slot their fingers together instead. “Where’s your bedroom, love?”

ㅤㅤ

Y/N doesn’t know what to expect when Harry hoists her up and gently throws her onto the middle of her bed—as he relishes in the squeals and giggles—before crawling up to kneel in front of her body. 

He’d said to ignore their previous conversation but did that mean to forget that he was a dominant? Would he be dominant with her now? Or would he just be normal? Whatever that meant, Y/N doesn’t know. She doesn’t know what’s supposed to happen in this situation—how much or little to rely on her film and book knowledge about sex. Not when her ex never cared to get this far.

But Harry is bewitched, he’s sure. Staring down at the girl before him, little dress riding up her thighs as she presses her legs together tightly and fidgets with the sheets nervously. Even he doesn’t know where to start. Wants to overwhelm her in every way but knows he needs to take it slowly, needs to treat her like glass—make her first experience one she’ll never forget.

But not without trying to fluster her first. That’s half the fun, after all.

With soft hands, Harry starts at Y/N’s feet, slipping off her delicate heels before smoothing his palms up her silky calves. Her chest is already heaving and when he stares at her anxiously awaiting face for too long she hides away underneath her hands.

Slowly does Harry slide up higher, cupping the crease of her knees and then her thighs under her dress. He squeezes and rubs his thumbs and watches as Y/N tentatively uncovers her eyes, looking down at an encouraging Harry.

“Still got those butterflies?” She nods jerkily. “Your tummy warm?”

“Mhm,” Y/N’s fingers curl into the sheets as she watches Harry’s wrists disappear under her dress as he dares to move higher up her thighs.

“If my hands were to find the middle of your thighs, would they be wet?”

“Harry,” she turns her face into the mattress, too embarrassed to look at him or even think about granting him an answer.

“Mm, sorry,” he hums, “so shy, aren’t you, darlin’?” as the tips of his fingers brush against her underwear.

Y/N’s conflicted—excited but scared. Entirely unprepared for this to be happening today. “Will you kiss me, please?” she forces out, so desperate to relax.

Harry pulls his hands back, moving to hover over her. “We don’t have to do anything, love,” he reminds her.

“I want to,” Y/N assures, “m’just nervous, sorry.”

“It’s okay to be nervous,” Harry leans closer, “but it’s supposed t’be fun, yeah? G’na have fun.” He sponges his lips to hers, parting with a soft noise and watching the flutter of Y/N’s lashes as she waits for more.

He gives to her without hesitation; is already looking down at her with an overwhelming urge to just give, give, give—anything and everything she could ever want—as her skin heats up and her lips plump from his kisses.

Slowly, ever so slowly, as Harry skillfully pulls Y/N in and gets her lost in his kiss, does he start to ruminate on the best way to please her. He’s sitting on her thighs, pinning her to the bed as gently as he can whilst being a fairly heavy man—but she likes it. And she doesn’t have to say so for him to notice.

With each passing minute that their lips lock, Y/N’s body relaxes further and further against the sheets, soft hands coming up to rest beside her head in an innocent, natural act of submission. Harry has to fight the urge to push hard against her—to shove her hands up higher, above her head, and ruck her dress up to her ribs.

Instead, a large paw cups her cheek, mouths parting an inch so he can rub his thumb along her spit-slicked flesh. Her bottom lip is springy against his finger and welcoming as he slips it along the inside, watching her face attentively for any sign of discomfort. She’s overwhelmed, sure, and alert to his every move, but he can feel the way she’s starting to accept the feelings—to fall into them.

Harry’s thumb breaches her mouth, pad teasing the tip of her tongue before pushing further to rest against the full of the muscle. Y/N opens up for him nervously, holding her tongue out slightly so it rests on her bottom lip.

Harry smiles, “Clever girl,” heart hammering at her small, accomplished expression as he starts to explore her mouth. He’s in no rush at all; happy to spend a torturous amount of time just stroking her tongue and slicking her spit over her lips as Y/N loses more and more composure.

He thinks it funny, a little, how naturally submissive she is. So obviously desperate that he moves on but never daring to say a thing. Just letting him do as he pleases with her. It’s exciting. And adorable. He thinks she deserves so much.

“You wanna know what I’m thinking?”

Y/N nods, knocking his thumb down her chin.

“I’m thinking about when I first saw you. So cute as you came over, like a little deer in the headlights. Knew you’d be so sweet. So eager.”

She gives an involuntary buck of her hips, “Harry, are— are you going to t-touch me now, please? I’m ready—”

“You don’t want to hear what else I’m thinking? About how the way you were staring at me all night was making me tighten in my trousers? Thinking about all the things I wanted to do with you?”

“God,” she breathes, eyes closing and brows furrowing. Bless her.

“Are you aching, love?”

“I’m— I’m…”

“You’re shy, I know, it’s okay. You want me to touch you now? Make you feel good? Make you come?”

Y/N nods, slowly at first, and then faster as Harry leans back—sure to press his lips against her mouth one last time before trailing his hand down her body.

His thick thighs stay firm around her own, angling back a little for the perfect access. Gently, does he hike her dress up and up, bunching the material around her waist and revealing the entirety of her flimsy underwear.

“So pretty, darlin’,” Harry promises, eyes struggling to tear away from the wet patch to meet her anguished eyes. “Feel so lucky to see you like this.”

“T-thank you,” Y/N cringes, uncomfortable with the compliments—still feeling unworthy of them.

“I mean it,” he holds her stare. And then he shifts the tiniest bit, just enough to rest the thick bulge in his trousers against her mound. She gasps. “All because of you.” He leans back again, content with the way Y/N’s eyes have shut slightly, inhibitions starting to slip away.

Harry runs his knuckles across her stomach, down her thighs and back up again, smiling at the way her attempt at taking a deep breath falters with his feather light touch. She watches him with eagle eyes, fighting the urge to just let them shut as she’s taken care of. 

His being above her, strong body pinning her down is wetting her underwear considerably—she’s comfortable and safe; she’s unknowing but he makes her feel small enough to fit in his palm. It’s a good feeling.

Finally, Harry touches her where she wishes most. A light thumb swiping over her covered clit, and she jolts.

“So sensitive,” he mutters, irises sparkling in delight. “Never been touched…can’t believe it,” he shakes his head, and Y/N thinks he might be talking to himself, the way he doesn’t look at her. “Is that right?” Harry’s gaze suddenly burns into her. “He never even touched you, did he?”

Y/N shakes her head, frown pulling her lips down.

“Fucking idiot,” Harry says, and then he’s rolling her clit underneath his thumb and Y/N is gasping out, hips pushing up but Harry holds her down softly.

“Oh—uh!”

“How’s that feel? Good?”

She nods hard, torn between looking up at Harry’s beautiful face or down to where his thumb is working her. She goes for the latter, eyes trailing down his arm and near sighing at the sight. Harry’s thumb stroking her as his hand splays out atop her abdomen; big, so big. It’s hypnotising.

But then it stops. And Y/N is surprised at how quickly she’s ready to whine at him to keep going.

“Sit up a sec, love.” He has every intention just to reposition her, but as she kneels up and gets closer to Harry’s height, he can’t help but surge forward and smear their lips together in a rushed kiss—pulling back before Y/N can melt too much.

Harry sits back against her headboard, patting the space between his legs. Y/N knees over shyly, dress still pulled up around her middle. 

“Jus’ sit back against me, there you go,” he drawls, lips brushing her ear as she settles in his arms. In this position, Harry tucks his legs over hers, gently forcing them to open, and stay open. 

“Why did you stop?” Y/N breathes, words mere pants as Harry kisses along her shoulder absentmindedly. 

“This is much more comfortable, no? Much better angle for me to touch you, baby.”

And Y/N can’t help it, she lets out a little mewl and her head tilts back until it meets his shoulder. “Sorry,” she pants.

“What for? Want you to make those pretty noises. Want you to turn to mush in my arms, that’s how I know I’m doing a good job.”

You’re doing more than a good job, she thinks, lungs working harder when he brings his fingers back to her underwear.

“Shall we take these off, darlin’?” Harry trails his finger along the elastic on the inside of her thighs. Y/N twitches. He could’ve probably asked her anything and she’d give the same answer.

“Yes, okay. It’s just…no one’s ever—”

Harry cuts her off, “I know. And I’m so lucky to be the first, baby. You’ve got nothing to worry about.” 

When she nods, he lifts her hips up and tucks his fingers into the waistband of her panties, tugging them down her legs and putting them to the side on the bed. The cold hits her and she wiggles, trying to shift but Harry’s legs are holding her down once again.

A hand smooths across her stomach as the other one taps across her lips, middle and ring finger asking to be let in. Y/N opens for him, much quicker now to present her tongue and Harry kisses her cheek for it, humming when she closes her lips around them and gets them wet—without even being asked.

He doesn’t tease after that; pulls his fingers free and goes straight to her clit. Normally, if it was pussy he had the pleasure of dealing with, he’d build a person up, taunt their hole until it clenched around nothing, brush the inside of their thighs, pull their lips apart—anything to avoid touching their clit. But with Y/N, for her first time at least, he only wants to make her feel good as soon as possible.

And she does. She pants and whines, still a little shy to make too much noise as Harry rubs tantalising circles onto her swollen bud. Y/N has never known it to feel this good. Of course, she is well familiarised with late night fondling, messing two fingers over herself underneath her sheets as she lets out silent cries. 

But she didn’t know how much better it would feel from someone else. And God does it. It feels so good to be touched for the first time, by a gorgeous, sweet, selfless man who has her splayed out in his lap. So good that she’s about to come already and it embarrasses her immensely.

“Oh! I’m— Sorry, I’m g’na—!”

Harry’s cock leaks in his boxers. “Oh, that’s so cute,” he sighs, manoeuvring his hand under the tight material of her dress, searching for her tits. When he finds them, free of a bra, and squeezes his big hand over one, Y/N clenches around nothing.

“Are you g’na cum f’me, pretty girl? Give me your first proper orgasm? Finally touched like you deserve for the first time and you’re cumming in seconds, baby.”

It’s humiliating, and it's stirring her insides up even more. “Uh! Uh, Harry—” she’s breathless, voice tight and directed right into his ear as her head lays leaden on his shoulder.

“That’s it, show me how beautiful you are when you come.”

Y/N’s sure if she wasn’t about to orgasm, she’d burst into tears. Maybe she still will, as Harry’s fingers break the dam and carry her through the flood that is the most powerful orgasm she’s ever had. 

“Hhnh, uh, hngh, Ha—Harry,” he slows down considerably but keeps rolling her clit.

“So gorgeous, darling,” he kisses her shoulder. 

“T-too much!” Y/N pants, hips trying to pull back to no avail under Harry’s strength. But he stops; is soft in the way he dances his fingers along the insides of her thighs, pressing kisses wherever he can reach.

“Do you feel okay?” He asks, nudging his shoulder to get Y/N to lift her head up a little, to look at him.

She’s still shy, but there’s no denying how much that orgasm has softened her bones. “Mhm, thank you.” Harry leans down to kiss her again, smiling into her mouth when he cups her pussy and she inhales sharply. Doesn’t try anything, just holds her there. But she likes it all the same, much looser for him now as they lock lips lazily.

She pulls away, “I wanna… wanna suck you off,” she whispers, eyes avoiding Harry.

“You don’t need to do that. I’m not expecting it.”

“But—”

“I want you to let yourself feel good tonight, love. Can you do that for me?”

She looks at him. For a while. Eyes wide and unsure—fighting the habit, the urge to feel like she has to, otherwise she’s not good. Harry understands; he looks right back at her with his gentle, soft, green eyes. No feature on his face is tense and there is no part of him that is lying to her about expecting a blowjob.

“You’ve been so good tonight, you know that?” His hand is still holding her warmth. “So lovely, you’re just wonderful.”

Y/N doesn’t know if it’s possible to fall in love with someone within the first evening of meeting them but she thinks she could be there. So she pushes upwards to sponge their lips together once again, and hesitantly brings a hand up to his cheek; slightly awkward from the position but it feels right. 

“Are you real?” She mumbles into his mouth.

Harry laughs, warm and deep. “Think so, love.”

And as if to prove his very existence, he teases a finger around her hole—that’s still mindlessly pulsating and basking in the aftershocks of orgasming—pulling it back and feeling a string of arousal following him. Y/N gasps, rearing back from his mouth to look down at his movements.

“You want to keep going?”

“Keep going?” 

“Yeah,” he laughs, “y’didn’t think I was done with you, did ya?”

“I— I don’t know, I wouldn’t be offended if you were, that was…pretty good.”

“Oh darlin’, you’re so easy to please,” Harry smiles. slipping out from underneath Y/N to lay her back. He moves onto his knees, looking down at her malleable body affectionately. “We can stop now, if you like. I’ll give you a cuddle and tuck you in.”

She giggles a little, insides melting at the thought. This beautiful acquaintance of hers… was definitely an angel. Or something equally as special.

“Or…” he starts, lips upturning at the sight of Y/N’s eyes twinkling with curiosity, “I can work your pretty pussy open with m’fingers, get you all soft and wet, ‘n’ ready for my cock. And then I can fuck you all deep, right into your tummy, ‘n’ then I’ll give you a cuddle and tuck you in.”

He’s smiling down at her, eyes crinkling at the look of pure astonishment on her face. Astonishment, and intrigue, and lust. Pure, carnal levels of lust.

It’s then that Y/N realises that Harry is still completely, fully clothed. Shirt sleeves still deliciously rolled up to his elbows, and tight slacks still hugging his strong thighs. He even has his fancy dress shoes on.

All while Y/N has her entire bottom half on display and her once cute dress bunched up under her tits. She must look a mess.

Harry would agree with her there. A beautiful, flustered, glowing mess that he only wants to dismantle further.

“What d’ya think?”

Y/N nods, “Yeah, yes please, that sounds…yeah.”

“Yeah?”

“Can I—” Y/N lifts a hand and then pauses. “Will you— Can I see you please?”

“Wanna get me naked, darlin’?” Harry toes his shoes off, fingers nimble in their unbuttoning of his shirt.

Y/N’s face burns, feeling somewhat scandalous for watching despite her spread legs and naked centre. She can’t stop her ogling though, not when he shucks the material off his shoulders and tattoo upon tattoo is revealed to her.

Sure, she’d known he had ink, from the lean forearms she’d been drooling over from across the table at the club. But she hadn’t known just how much. And it’s stunning; stark and intricate against his skin. Against his hard chest, broad shoulders and defined biceps. But especially on his stomach, a large, detailed butterfly that is demanding of eye contact, complimenting the ridges of his abs that she’s unconsciously reaching out to touch.

Was he made in a lab?

Before her fingers touch his skin, she pulls back with a sheepish smile on her face, “Sorry.”

Harry doesn’t say anything, just shuffles closer on his knees until he’s straddling her again and takes her hand. He stares at her so intensely as he guides her palm to his skin, basking in the coyness she’s exhibiting.

When her skin meets his, he’s convinced she’s affected more by it than he is, and he’s the one with the pretty girl feeling up his abs. As she touches, Harry unzips his slacks, opening the material to reveal his boxers but he leaves her wanting more. Doesn’t want to give her everything at once.

He lets her have her fun, soft fingertips outlining his tattoos, before taking hold of her wrists and holding them above her head. “Dress off, baby?”

She nods, and Harry peels it up and off her body, dragging his palms back down to slide over her breasts and stop on her waist. 

“You can rest your arms back down,” he says.

Y/N’s naked. As naked as one can be. For the first time, in front of anyone. It’s only natural that she covers her chest with her arms. Harry shakes his head.

“Don’t be shy. I’m near bursting through the seams at the sight of ya, there’s no need to hide, darlin’.”

So in a contrasting burst of confidence she blurts, “Take your trousers off first.”

Harry grins, leaning over her so his broad chest squishes her arms and his plush lips tickle her ear. “Make me.”

And well, that didn’t quite work, did it? Y/N’s mouth opens and closes—guppy-like—pouting at Harry’s smug expression when he pulls back. But it’s a sort of game now, isn’t it? And Y/N has always been a little competitive.

Carefully, Y/N hides as much of herself as she can with a singular arm, much less bothered now than she had been initially. The excitement of seeing Harry is conquering her nerves significantly. With her free hand, she reaches out for his open slacks, attempting to tug them down his hips with limited success.

Harry looks down at her, bemused. She thinks he’ll let her struggle—faff about for minutes until she’s satisfied—but his laurel tattoos are barely exposed before he’s taking hold of her wrist near his pelvis and the one hiding herself and pins them down beside her head.

“You wanna play, darlin’?” He’s so close to her. “Because we can…but I’ll always win.”

Y/N doesn’t really know what he means by play—guesses her little act of defiance (that can barely even be called that) has tickled his senses; his desire to control. But she assumes he doesn’t mean like… play play… or however he’d described it earlier.

Harry notices her little stray thoughts.

“Hey,” he brushes the hair away from her face. “They’re just words, love, told you—nothing more until we talk about it. If you want to.”

Y/N looks into his eyes, admiring their colour and their unique flecks, as she nods her head. “Want your…trousers off.”

He smiles, nodding, “Okay, fine. I think that’s fair.” Harry empties his pockets, throwing his wallet down someway beside them before standing up to shuck his slacks down his legs.

The sight before her is unfathomable. He’s… well he’s perfect, surely. And the bump in his boxers is certainly intimidating.

Harry crawls back on top of her, now much more naked, to Y/N’s delight. He presses a sweet kiss to the round of her cheek. “How are you feeling? Still good?”

Y/N nods. “Still good. Very good.”

To that, Harry smiles, leaning down to teasingly brush his mouth along hers, stubble scraping deliciously.

“Is there anything…” a kiss to her bottom lip, “you want to…” another with an open mouth, “try?”

Y/N’s a little preoccupied so her response is delayed. “What do you… what do you mean?”

“I’m sure you must have fantasies, no? Kinks you want to discover?”

She struggles to kiss back now, face heating up considerably.

“I— S’embarrassing… to say.” But she is thinking of some things. Desires she’s been pushing down, unable to soothe the frustration or heal the ache. Things she’s been just waiting for. Counting down the days for.

“Why don’t you show me then?” Harry suckles on her bottom lip, pulling back and watching the way her flesh bounces back. Succulent and spit-slicked.

Y/N inhales shakily, nodding slowly—almost as if to herself. She feels him smile, opening her fluttering lashes and leaning away some to catch her breath as she finds one of his hands that’s bracing himself. Her much smaller fingers wrap around his wrist, tugging it from the mattress, and up, up, up until his slender fingers ghost against her throat.

She looks up at him, eyes wide and apprehensive—nervous. Harry’s gaze is kind. Undeniably excited but he suppresses it in favour of reassuring Y/N. Slowly, he extends his fingers as they coil around the soft skin of her neck. He applies no pressure—just basks in the way she feels underneath him and the small hitch of her breath that tells him she’s in love with it.

“Yeah?” Harry drawls. “You like that?”

Y/N nods, blinking up at him slowly. Dazed.

“Just needed a man to put his hand around your throat, didn’t you, love?”

She fucking mewls and Harry’s lips curl upwards like a sadist. And never before has she been so turned on by such male arrogance… but in the bedroom? Y/N is sure he could start mansplaining and she’d lap it up.

“God,” Harry looks down at her like she’s made of diamonds. If she squints maybe she’ll see the reflection sparkle in his eyes. “And I didn’t think you could get any prettier…”

She has the audacity to feel embarrassed despite the obvious hand around her throat. Y/N thinks this is the most she’s ever been complimented in a single day. And even when she receives compliments usually, they’re from Niall and they hardly make her all flustered; they go over her head most of the time or she takes them with a pinch of salt.

But Harry is so unabashed with his words. He says what he wants and he means it. Y/N can tell he doesn’t bullshit. And the sincerity of the way he speaks to her is utterly mouthwatering—his voice slinks down her throat and into her belly where it sizzles hot and drips further… and further.

Y/N nods. Harry hasn’t said anything but she nods anyway, a silent plea that he give her more. He mimics her, head moving up and down in a mocking exaggeration, and then he tightens his fingers around the sides of her throat—just a little but enough to have Y/N wilting. 

He leans closer until his breaths mingle with hers and he just… looks at her for a moment. Feels her swallow against his palm and sees the miles of naked skin out of the corner of his eye. His thighs sit thick on either side of her hips and all Y/N can see is him. All she can feel is him.

Harry brushes his lips against hers and Y/N blossoms, mouth unlocking like he’s whispered a secret incantation. All for him to explore. His tongue rolls against hers as he sponges his lips with unbridled enthusiasm. It’s slow and rushed at the same time. Heavy and erotic; a kiss that can only be the precursor to sex.

Y/N’s hands reach out without the permission of her brain, palms meeting the firm muscles of Harry’s chest. He’s warm, and big, and dizzying just to feel.

She kisses him harder.

She doesn’t know how long they’ve been on her bed. It could have been minutes, or hours. It could have days and Y/N wouldn’t have cared. If the world ends right now, this is a pretty good place to be, she thinks.

“I’m ready—ready now,” their lips smack as Y/N pulls away, sucking in a gasp of air. Harry lingers, kissing the corner of her mouth with that ever present smile.

“Not quite,” he mumbles. “Gotta stretch you out first. Don’t wanna hurt you, do we?” Y/N pouts. “Stop tha’, be lovely f’me.”

Harry can tell she’s itching to whine; to retort something like, “Am I not already lovely?” with her big, sparkling eyes. But she holds herself back. Is still too nervous and unsure to let her personality shine through. God, Harry hopes she wants to see him again. So they can blossom together—become symbiotic. He wants to discover every inch of her brain.

Harry flexes his fingers around her throat, pressing kiss upon kiss to the heated skin of her cheek, trailing down past his hand to her collarbones, her sternum, her stomach. Then back up to lave his tongue over her left nipple. 

Y/N gasps, back arching up into his tongue. Harry hums, sucking the peaked bud into his mouth and hollowing his cheeks. She watches the way his long lashes rest against his cheekbones as he enjoys himself against her chest, daring to pinch her with his teeth a little before he pulls off with smiling eyes.

Her breaths are laboured, lungs expanding at a rapid pace as he moves to her right breast to repeat the process. All whilst he maintains his meltingly delicious grip around her neck, squeezing every now and then to remind her he’s still there. 

His other hand dances down her tummy, enormous palm warming against the skin. Y/N might be giggling and complaining that it tickles if not for his other ministrations. (And she should be thankful that Harry doesn’t pick up on that otherwise he would be sure to torture her. Tickle her whilst he’s balls deep inside, perhaps. It’s something he’s always wanted to try.)

Harry’s lips are wet when he pops off of her, pupils dilated to an alarming size as his kisses move down with his hand, leaving his spit against her. Y/N wishes he was wearing lipstick at that moment—just to see the proof of his heart shaped mouth painting her body.

When his breath ghosts over Y/N’s mound, she freezes, nerves rising at a rapid pace once again.

“It’s okay,” Harry coos, both hands now smoothing up her thighs in reassurance. “Don’t be nervous, baby. There is nothing that could stop me from wanting you like this.”

And his words soothe her some, but no one’s ever… tasted her before. It makes her cringe. “What if— What if I… If it’s—”

“You’re making my mouth water, love. Promise you, you’ll taste just as good as you smell.”

Her breath hitches. “Oh God,” she whispers, “you— you’re so—”

“Mhm, I know. So shy, aren’t you?” His nose nudges her right above her clit. Purposely so. “G’na let me taste you, sweet girl?”

Y/N nods suddenly, frantically, “Okay, okay, just—”

Harry flattens his tongue against her. The full of him against the full of her. She gasps, nearly chokingly, and her hips stutter under the weight of his hands.

He hums against her, “So good,” lips closing around her clit in a gentle suck… and Y/N doesn’t even remember what she was so worried about.

“Oh my God,” she squeaks. “Ha-Harry, that’s—”

“Good, yeah?” He speaks against her, and the vibrations shoot through her clit and up her limbs.

“Y-Yes.”

His hands feel like velvet as they caress her thighs—touch feather light but somehow grasping at the same time. He commits her skin to memory, among other things; like the heady tang that coats his tongue and swirls in his nose. But there’s something about the feel of her body under his palms that compels him in a way unusual to his normal experiences.

Making Y/N writhe underneath him as he flicks his tongue, and then flattens it against her in languid motions that speed up teasingly just to slow back down again, has Harry’s insides coiling—blood rushing south despite him already feeling as hard as he can get.

She’s opening her mouth in silent moans, eyebrows furrowed in the depths of pleasure and hands digging tight into the sheets. Harry can’t help but smile against her and hum in satisfaction to make her jolt against his face. As he slides his tongue down and teases her dripping hole; still reacting to the orgasm he gave her with his fingers.

He has to stop himself from getting too ahead. From picturing all the different ways to make her feel good. From bending her body into different positions and sinking himself all the way inside her—to hear her exhale of breath that chokes around a moan. Whilst his tongue is pushing inside of her and his thumb is rolling around her clit as his strong arms pin her down. And he’s fluttering his eyes shut at the image of it all—the one before him and the copious that build up behind his eyelids. Of her beautiful face contorted into an expression that could only be instantly recognisable as deep satisfaction.

Harry moves his tongue back up, soaked in saliva and honey, to make room for one of his slender fingers as he unwraps his arm from around Y/N’s waist and trails it down. He strokes the inside of her thigh in a moment of stillness—as Y/N peels her eyes open and registers his lack of movement against her.

She’s glowing; chest heaving and skin shining. “More?” Harry asks, hot breath fanning against her.

Y/N swallows, answering without hesitation, “Please.”

[patheticallysentimental]

Holy shhhhhhit this is hot

[thestalwartheart]

I love it when people take fic writing seriously. I love when it's not 'Here's this dumb thing I wrote' and instead it's 'Here's this thing I put blood, sweat and tears into. Here's this thing I slaved away at, trying new writing techniques and editing over and over. Here's this dialogue that kept me awake at night. Here's this beautiful turn of phrase I thought up. Here's this thing that I wrote with vulnerability and heart, and I am proud to share it with you.'

[lukesaprince]

The Rich Series H.S

Synopsis: 

Neighbour/Older!Harry. A Summer dogsitting job for Mr. Styles is a dream come true for any broke uni student. He's rich, gorgeous and finally fucks you after your weekly dinner together. A series that follows two neighbours who end up in a sexual relationship.

Warnings: This is an agegap romance, if you don't like it don't read it. MC is 22ish and H is 38/39. Other warnings include smut that features dirty talk, choking, spanking, anal, daddy kink etc. Specific warnings will be written at the start of each part.

Masterlist:

Part 1 The hookup that starts it all

Part 2 The morning after and their weekly dinner. Terms are set and a relationship forms.

Part 3 Harry and y/n run into each other on a night out and an argument begins

Part 4 It's Harry's birthday dinner but food isn't what gets eaten...

Part 5 It's Harry's birthday party and the couple manages to break their once-a-week rule yet again

Part 6 The aftermath of Harry's birthday leaves the pair feeling all kinds of emotions. Harry also discovers how soon y/n returns to university, but an honest conversation and a little fun in the pool solve everything.

Part 7 Harry plans something special for the second last dinner that involves a bluetooth activated toy. The couple takes a bath and goes for dessert that involves some carpool karaoke and ice cream.

Part 8 Phone sex, lunch and an interesting visit to a certain shop.

Part 9 Where y/n and Harry have a confrontation and you get an insight into the people trying to pull them apart.

Part 10 Where y/n and Harry have their last night together.

Part 11 Tensions rise as plots are exposed and lies are spoken.

- Find my General Masterlist here -

[patheticallysentimental]

I don’t CARE if you’re not a Harry GO AND READ THIS FIC

[jawllines]

“Hey, maybe it will do you both some good! You especially –” 

“Niall.” 

“– it might help your obsession with her.” 

“Niall,” Harry repeats, a warning this time, “I’m not obsessed with her, I can’t fucking stand her. This is not going to work,” he shook his head, “There’s no way we’ll be able to stomach each other for more than ten minutes at a time, how the hell are we supposed to practice together?” 

Niall shrugged, “Have you ever considered, I don’t know, not being a dick to her?” 

or 

Harry and Y/N are in the same ballet class, and they hate each other 

Keep reading

[patheticallysentimental]

Fuck me dead, this is hot

[patheticallysentimental]

Back after a year and look what I’m going to have to tolerate on my dash

Lol suck it up

Maybe I’ll convert you??? 👀

[novelistrry]

“I will not give this to you,” Y/N shook her head and furrowed her eyebrows. She almost cringed at the tone of her voice, so abrasive and calloused. Harry brought out the worst in her, he really did. Though, she didn’t understand how Harry could make this frustration brew inside of her when the rest of the Styles were so lovely to be around.

In two long strides, Harry was rounding the writing desk and in front of her. He towered over her, reaching for the crumpled letter in her hands and before she could grasp the paper tighter, it slipped beneath her fingertips and he was reading it aloud.

“I thought you said this wasn’t for me, Princess?” Harry wasn’t asking, it was more rhetorical than anything. The mock in his tone sent a heat through her, plummeting up from where her heart dropped in her stomach to the apples of her cheeks.

Or

Harry is a prince, Y/N is a princess, and Harry is insufferable.

Tropes: Enemies to lovers, forced proximity, tension, etc.

Word Count: 3k

Disclaimer: This is an ongoing blurb. I do write full fics, but this blurb will have multiple parts and be posted in between fics (I am shooting for about 8-10 depending on the word count of each blurb).

Y/N hated Harry.

Actually, she wasn’t quite sure the loathing could run quite as deep as it did. It was almost as if when her eyes locked with his, or she got a whiff of his cologne in the corridor, the hatred would flow through her veins and act as a power source. As if the only fuel she needed was how much she absolutely and utterly loathed that man.

So when her handmaid had told her summertime was officially in action, and she knew what summertime brought, Y/N wanted to stomp her foot like a child and throw herself onto the floor. 

Summer was supposed to be excellent, filled with fruits and sunny skies. It was supposed to be warm and lovely, but when Y/N’s parents invite Harry and his family to the palace every summer, it’s hard to find enjoyment in the season. 

He was beautiful, there was no doubt about that, and Y/N wasn’t one to deny it. Green mosaic eyes, captivating and alluring like a siren sat atop a rock luring sailors in with that beautiful voice. Only instead of using his rhythmic voice to lure her in, he used the gaze of his eyes. Soft features and delicate sculpting to his face that were so perfect it was absolutely infuriating. He was perfect, truly, in every way possible and the people loved his beautiful face and charming personality. 

Except when the large wooden doors shut, leaving Y/N and Harry alone (which wasn’t supposed to happen per Y/N’s request, by the way), his mouth was foul and his charming qualities were consigned to oblivion. Around Y/N, Harry was his worst version of himself and Y/N could not stand him. 

“I don’t want him to come this year, Dorothea!” Y/N exclaimed to her chambermaid as her heels clicked against the large tile pieces. She was pacing back and forth, a nervous tick she’s had since she was little. 

Sweat accumulated in the pits of her palms, a telling sign that she was nervous, though she would never say that to Dorothea or let it be known to Harry because he would never let her live it down. 

See, Y/N and Harry were similar in two ways. One, they were both heir to a royal bloodline. And two, they were both so, so stubborn. 

“I know, dear.” Dorothea, the sweetest old lady the palace could find, spent most of her day assisting Y/N in her needs even though there weren’t very many of those. Y/N was relatively low maintenance and hated to be waited on, “It’s only three months.”

With that sentiment, Y/N sat on the edge of her bed that was just made and fluffed, deciding she would spend her day sulking in her room rather than participating in any of the start of summer festivities. As if Dorothea could tell Y/N just wanted to be left alone, she quietly made her way out of the room, and left Y/N to her own devices.

____

Maybe dreams do come true, because the summer season had officially been in swing for three days and there were no sights of Harry, or his family, lingering around the palace. Eventually, she thought she would turn the corner and catch him chatting up a chambermaid with a devilish smile and eyes that would turn a girl into a puddle of melted candy, but it had been three days and even the girls she passed (who were anticipating him heavily) were whispering about the prince being late.

By the fifth day, Y/N was beginning to feel the weight lift off her chest and the ease flood through her veins. Though she didn’t dare to ask her parents about Prince Harry’s whereabouts because that would come with an agonizingly painful interrogation (they truly believed their daughter would wed the man), and a small reprimand because of her prior years sour behavior toward him, though they didn’t know just how insufferable he was in return. 

Small talk whisked throughout the palace by the seventh day, explaining that Prince Harry would not be attending this summer season because he was to be married by the end of the year to a princess Y/N had never heard of. A small twitch shot through her chest, but she brushed it off feigning it as relief she never had to deal with him again. While Y/N acted oblivious, everyone knew the reason Harry and his family visited the palace every summer is because the families were hoping for an alliance of sorts— for Harry and Y/N to form a union, to form a bond that would end in marriage. As much as she chalked the twitch in her chest and the hollow in her belly as a feeling of relief, she was confused as to why she wished he would have written. Not necessarily her, but at least to her parents, informing that he would not be there this summer (or any summer for that matter because he was getting married) that way she didn’t have to walk around for days on end, thinking there would be a jump scare in the corridor or the dining hall.

A flicker of annoyance lit inside of her, an emotion she was familiar with and actually grateful for at the moment because it took away from the abnormal sensation in the chest and abdomen. Why wouldn’t he write? Or his parents at the very least? What kind of person does that? Y/N knew just how hard the chambermaids, the scullery kitchen, and the people who made the palace function as well as it did were working to ensure their guests were accommodated and comfortable for the three months they were staying with them.

It was very unlike Y/N, usually very polite and soft-spoken to feel that kind of irritation. The kind that was so pent up it was making her breathing slightly erratic and she was puffing breaths in and out through her nose. In a very un-Y/N like fashion, she decided that if Prince Harry wasn’t going to write to her, then she was going to write to him and tell him how distasteful his lack of presence or notification on the betrothal was.

Before she could even process what she was doing, she was in the main library of the palace, sitting at the writing table and crafting a heartfelt message to her dear friend Prince Harry, slightly berating him in each line for his so-called prince ethics (or lack-there-of). 

Dear Prince Harry,

I am sitting here, writing to tell you how distasteful I find your lack of arrival. It is great news within our palace that you are to be married, which in turn, delays your arrival to our annual summer festivities, and possibly inhibits you from attending these festivities ever again.

A true prince, knowing royal ethics, would have written far in advance, revoking his acceptance to my family’s invitation. It seems that, as always, you are too engrossed in your own endeavors to care about the people around you who have taken the time to prepare for your arrival. 

I know our royal household has been working gravely to make certain you and your family have a wonderful stay over the summer, as they have done every summer for the past two years—

“I knew I would find you in here,” his voice, clear and steady, echoed through the library bouncing off the walls and the leather bindings of the books which sat on the shelves of the wall, “You’re always in here doing something or another.”

She knew who it was by the sound of his voice, deep and sultry. He always spoke with such precision and so bluntly that even with her eyes closed, she could tell who it was just by the energy that filled the space. Arrogance and tempting were his two most significant qualities and they always filled the room, leaving her to suffocate in his presence.

Quickly, she jumped up and grabbed the letter, crumpling it in her hands. The ink was so fresh it smeared all over her hands with her rush, and when she looked to see him standing under the doorway, she noted that not a thing about him had changed. He stood with that same arrogance in his posture, his eyes were still that deep sea green, and his lips, chin, and jaw were as beautiful (if not more) as the last time she saw him.

Quirking his eyebrows, he couldn’t help himself. “Now I need to know what was in that letter you were writing. Are you in love, my dear Y/N.”

He took a step forward, and she realized he thought she would just hand the letter over to him, like it was his property to be read. And even though it technically was, the letter was now void because he did, in fact, show up for the summer season. While it may have been intended for him, the content of the letter did not matter, and because he expected her to walk over and drop the letter in the palm of his hand, that absolutely infuriated her.

“I will not give this to you,” Y/N shook her head and furrowed her eyebrows. She almost cringed at the tone of her voice, so abrasive and calloused. Harry brought out the worst in her, he really did. Though, she didn’t understand how Harry could make this frustration brew inside of her when the rest of the Styles were so lovely to be around.

In two long strides, Harry was rounding the writing desk and in front of her. He towered over her, reaching for the crumpled letter in her hands and before she could grasp the paper tighter, it slipped beneath her fingertips and he was reading it aloud.

“I thought you said this wasn’t for me, Princess?” Harry wasn’t asking, it was more rhetorical than anything. The mock in his tone sent a heat through her, plummeting up from where her heart dropped in her stomach to the apples of her cheeks.

He held the letter above the both of them, the words still readable even though the ink was smeared on the page. As he read aloud, Y/N wanted to drop to the floor and cover her ears from listening to speak her foolish words out loud. If anything, the letter was an act of catharsis. She probably would have never actually sent it to Harry, even if she said she was going to, but writing the words on the paper and pretending like she was going to send it to him was semi-therapeutic. By the second line, she was jumping in the air like a fish out of water, trying to grasp the letter from his hands so he couldn’t continue. To make matters worse, he was chuckling between words and flashing wide grins in her direction when he paused.

Eventually, the way she was jumping and frantically trying to snatch the letter from him was just as humiliating as the strong words she had put on that piece of paper he held in his hands, so she stopped and turned away from him so that he could not see the look of horror on her face as he finished reading the letter.

Finally, he got to the part where he walked in and startled her from her writing desk, her thoughts coming to an abrupt halt on the paper when his voice echoed throughout the room, and even though he was done reading the letter, she couldn’t bear to look at him. If there was one thing about Harry, he always had the upper hand with her. Always.

“I wish I hadn’t interrupted your thoughts when I came in here a few moments ago. I’m positive the rest of this letter would have been a great read, and you print your thoughts so eloquently, Y/N.” He was trying to get under her skin, even though he knew he had already burrowed himself under the flesh like a mite the second he walked in the room. That was another one of Harry’s traits— he wanted to see just how much he could push her until she snapped, because he loved watching her snap.

“Enough,” she spoke, barely turning to look at him. She caught a glimpse of him from the corner of her eye, enough for her to squint just barely and for him to know she was giving him a dirty look.

“Well, Y/N, clearly this letter was for me. Was it not?” He was doing it; pushing and pressing until the temper within her flicked on a light and her thoughts rifling through her brain started spewing like fire, the world around them turning to ash with each word that fell from her lips and targeted him like a huntsman and its prey. 

“It wasn’t for you—” She began, getting cut off by the prince.

“It clearly says ‘Dear Prince Harry, I am sitting here, writing to y—”

Within under a second, she was turning on her heels to face him once more and trying to pry the letter from his fingers. To no avail, she didn’t think she could handle him reading the letter out loud once more, so she covered her ears and began begging him to stop. The worst part was the feeling she had in her gut, the feeling one gets in their gut and their throat before the tears start forming in their eyes. While Harry had many horrid qualities about him, one of her terrible qualities were tears that formed, not out of sadness, but out of anger. Deeply, she inhaled to smooth out her thoughts and quiet her mind. “Stop, stop, stop.”

Grinning like the devil, he spoke slowly and quietly so any chambermaids passing by could not hear the words he was about to speak to her, “Are you embarrassed, Princess? The girl everyone thinks is so ladylike and polite writing words that would tarnish that sweet reputation.”

“I was never going to send it, and I think you know that,” she countered, and even though she knew he knew that letter was never going to leave her possession, she felt like she needed to reiterate that point.

Carefully and slowly—almost painfully slowly— he brought his finger to her cheeks and swiped across to feel the heat radiating off of her skin and she knew he was gaining even more satisfaction at the heat in her cheeks confirming his question, that she was embarrassed by him finding her letter. To rub salt in the wound, he folded the letter up and stuffed it in the pit of his pocket where she would not dare to fish out, as it was not very polite to stick your hand in someone else’s pocket, “For safekeeping,” he stated.

Those two words made her want to do it— stick her hand in his pocket and fish the letter out, tear it to little tiny pieces, and then stomp on the shreds of paper right in front of him, but she wouldn’t do it because she, unlike him, did not lack manners.

“You are absolutely unbearable, Prince. Do not think my opinion on you has changed. I can assure you it has not,” she wanted to get under his skin the way he got under hers, so she added, “Where is your betrothed?” 

He paused for a moment, searching for the words, “I am not to be married, Y/N.”

The tone was cut and brief, not the same tone he had when she was pushing his buttons, but a clear line was drawn showing her this is where the boundary was placed, and as much as she wanted to upset him the way he upset her, Y/N did not want to pick and pry about his presumably failed engagement. Though, she did not blame the girl for not wanting to marry someone with such an insufferable attitude. And maybe, just maybe, she also didn’t want to hear about the girl. She didn’t want Harry to talk about how beautiful she was, or what her hobbies were. She didn’t want to know a thing about her or how she wormed her way into the heart of someone so aloof and out of touch with the idea of love. To put it plainly, she didn’t want to hear about their courtship and what he did to make her swoon.

Y/N would never admit it, but the first time she ever met Harry, she was taken with him. And then he opened his mouth, all-knowing and witty bordering intolerable.

“Well, then,” Y/N didn’t quite know what to say in response, seeming to be more uncomfortable with the idea of him getting married than he was.

With a mere couple inches between them, he leaned down to whisper something in her ear. Soft lips grazed the tops of her ears, a warm heat shooting through her, and though she was disgusted with herself for having such an instinctual reaction to his body and his lips so close to her skin, she was graceful enough to remind herself that it was only natural for her core to stir and her stomach to flip.

And when he finally spoke, his lips moved against her ear, “I am going to enjoy playing with you this summer, Y/N.”

She wanted to scream. She almost did.

Instead she took a step back, gasping and brushing out the wrinkles in her dress, “I absolutely loathe you.”

“I love that you loathe me,” he replied before turning on his heels and walking out of the library.

Y/N knew it was going to be a long summer filled with taunts from Harry.

And much to her dismay, that night she dreamed about his lips pressing against her.

[patheticallysentimental]

Cuuuuute!!!!!

[harrysblackcoat]

This almost feels too personal 🫠🫠🫠

[patheticallysentimental]

And so we begin my Harry Tumblr era

[patheticallysentimental]

Oh my GOD life has been knocking me out lately - finishing up at this hellfire job this week. Hopefully my new role will leave enough energy for me to be active here 🥲

[thekzolainitiative]

KEEP STRONK COMRADE

[patheticallysentimental]

OKAY THANK U

[patheticallysentimental]

Oh my GOD life has been knocking me out lately - finishing up at this hellfire job this week. Hopefully my new role will leave enough energy for me to be active here 🥲

[homunculus-argument]

Enemies-to-lovers, but instead of featuring a villain redemption arc, the heroic one is getting progressively more corrupt, unhinged and fucked up, and the one who was originally the clear-cut villain out of the two is just like “well mark me down as scared and horny”

[cunninglinguist-69]

bald rdj 😭 I'm sobbing I don't want to grow up 😭

[patheticallysentimental]

U know what… he can still get it 😳

[shewhohangsoutincemeteries]

on your knees

One of Thirty-One

Tony Stark x F!Reader

Prompt: “get on your knees.”

Summary: tony’s supposed to be hosting a party, but the idea of having you on your knees in front of him in the next room is far too tempting to resist.

Warnings: smut, oral sex (male receiving), dom!tony, dom/sub

Word Count: 1,328

follow my fanfiction side blog || challenge masterlist

Keep reading

[patheticallysentimental]

Oh my GOD WHY DID YOU HAVE TO END IT THERE

This was so hot. THIS TONY - just. This is the best Tony. I love cocky, Dom Tony. My brain is mush. Sos. You did this so well. But I’m mad because I want mORE

[patheticallysentimental]

STICKY-SWEET

PART THREE: La familiarité

Pairing: Vampire!Tony Stark x Reader

Warnings: 18+ Vampire!Tony Stark, swearing, a reference to dub-con, drinking.

A/N: UGH! FINALLY!! It took a lot of brain power to finally get this one out. My fuel is your feedback!! ❤️

WC: 2K

CHAPTERS

MASTERLIST

Rich and thick. Smooth. All-encompassing. Her scent was soothing to the nagging scratch at the back of Tony’s throat yet it had spread a need down into his stomach. It had turned the colours of the room brighter - his focus dialled up - and had filled his mouth with saliva, his body preparing for a meal.

He’d tried to wash away the feeling with whiskey but then she’d accepted his offer of a glass too. He’d known that the alcohol would bring her smell to the surface of her skin. Part of him had been excited about that. That part of him - that selfish part of him - had made him reckless. He’d told her everything. While the whiskey had no effect on his processes, the heavy warmth of her flushed cheeks had literally made him dizzy.

He couldn’t make sense of her reaction. He’d seen the fear in her eyes; it was as though her brain was working overtime to try and rationalise the situation. He understood that - the fear. But then he’d watched as she sifted through her thoughts and calmed her breathing. He’d watched as she tentatively accepted the facts that he’d laid out, then finished off her drink before requesting another. He'd watched as the fear in her eyes gave way to curiosity. And then that curiously gave way to the smell of arousal that flooded his senses - turning him more drunk and reckless than he had been for a very long time.

He hadn’t been able to stop himself from following the temptation to touch her: just a little bit, his hand cradling the back of her head, fingertips tracing from her temple to the corner of her jaw. The way she’d turned pliant for him was something that he’d expected but hell - it hit him like a punch in the gut, the vibrations of the hit shooting straight to his cock. Which had only amped up the pheromones making her so needy and malleable. She’d let loose such a desperate little sound, like she couldn’t help the need to beg for him, despite the fact that her poor little head couldn’t think up the words…

He closed his eyes and ran the tip of his tongue along the cutting edges of his teeth. He could taste the venom gathered there; he was getting worked up again. And- it wasn’t the time for it. Not when she was expected to enter the restaurant any minute now. Not when his lack of impulse control could have her bent over the table and bleeding from the back of her neck.

He washed the artificially sweet taste down with a sip of water and let his eyes stray back to the door.

He was the one to suggest a restaurant: somewhere public, where the watchful eyes of the public would help to keep him in check - keep her safe. Their gazes would force him to be vigilant of whether he was tainting the air and taunting her in the process. So, he had sent a car off separate from himself to pick her up. It wasn’t something that he’d usually do - not when he was trying to charm someone - but the thought of being trapped in the cabin, tangled up in her thick, rich scent, wasn’t a situation where he could see himself behaving.

He smelled her before he saw her: pear and vanilla, carried in on the breeze from the open door behind the hostess stand. He watched the way her eyes scanned the room like a rabbit entering a lion's den, nervous in the way she held her bag close to her body. Yet, she took him by surprise - again - when her gaze fell upon him and a slow smile rolled across her lips. How was it that she could hold both fragility and confidence in equal amounts? She continued to catch him off guard. Maybe that’s why he was so enthralled with her.

“Hi,” she said, her voice a sigh as she reached her seat and slid her leather jacket from her shoulders. The movement wafted her scent towards him, sweet enough that it took him a moment to respond.

He cleared his throat and pushed himself to his feet to pull out her chair. Wasn’t she meant to be the one that was most affected? “Good evening,” he breathed, tracing his eyes over her frame. A pleased smirk washed across her lips at his ogling. It helped him find his footing. “You look delicious.”

“Good enough to eat?” Humour battled with delight in her eyes.

He tried to fight back his smile. It wasn’t ‘okay’ for him to find that funny. Was it? “That’s a dangerous path to walk, sweetheart.”

She hummed in acknowledgement and lifted her menu. Her fingernails were painted glossy scarlet. He wondered what they’d look like biting into his skin. “I don’t think that’s true,” she said offhandedly, her eyes scanning the menu. “If you wanted to kill me, I’d already be dead.”

His eyes flashed - first across the faces of the nearby diners, then across the relaxed tilt to her lips. “This isn’t the place for that conversation.”

“Oh, I thought that’s why you’d asked me to meet you here - to scare me into silence.” Her brow was scrunched into a confused frown. To be fair, she wasn’t wrong - when he had sent off the text earlier that day, he had convinced himself that he needed to meet with her to… make sure his privacy was secure. Not that anyone would believe her, even if she went straight to her editor with the news: Tony Stark is a vampire. His most valuable insurance was the element of disbelief that came with hearing the truth.

Her eyes had turned softer when she met his gaze again. “Did you just want some company?” She asked, setting her menu down and leaning her elbow on the table. She rested her chin in her hand. “Because that’s okay, too.”

The vulnerability made him bristle. “Maybe I just wanted an easy lay.”

She levelled him with a look as dry as the whiskey in his glass. “Like I wasn’t laid out for taking last night.”

His mouth twitched. She was quick, too. “Yeah, well…” He tilted his glass to her in mock-toast and took a sip, his posture relaxing in defeat. “Why the fuck would you actually show up tonight, then? You’re not stupid. So, what?” He shook his head, his eyes a little bit manic, “Masochist? Do you want money? Are you one of those journos that would put their life on the line? Or are you just fucking crazy?”

She sunk into herself a little, pulling away from him so that her back was against her chair. He breathed in against the feeling that told him to draw her in close again. “I don’t know,” she sighed, “I just thought - you had every opportunity to take advantage, in whichever way… Like I said: if you wanted to kill me-“

“You need to raise your standards, sweetheart,” he scoffed.

“I just wanted to help. For the same reason that I wanted to write the article: I think you’re a good person.”

There was a nervous flutter in his belly. He watched her for a long moment, drumming the tips of his fingers against the table top. There was patience in her eyes as she watched him back.

“Are you ready to order?” The waiter snapped him out of his thoughts - how had he missed him approaching? Regardless, he was thankful for the interruption.

“Another glass of Macallan please. I won’t be eating tonight.” He gestured across to her.

The amused twist of her lips had a sense of calm washing over him. She lifted her menu and rattled off an order. “…and a glass of Pinot, thanks.”

He sighed at that, waiting for the waiter to leave before he leant closer to her again. “I wish you hadn’t ordered wine.”

“Why?”

“It makes you more… potent.”

And fuck, the smell that came with her blood rushing to her cheeks was lethal. “Makes sense,” she nodded, clearing her throat. “Does that make it harder for you?”

“It’s nothing that I can’t handle.”

A curious glint flashed in her eyes. She leant her elbows on the table, looking at his chest as she thought over her words. “What do I… what do I smell like?” Her voice was hushed.

She made him want to scream. He sat back in his chair and ran a hand over his beard as he drew in a deep breath through his nose. The taste of her on the back of his tongue had him blinking slowly. “You smell sweet,” he admitted, his voice rough like gravel. “You’re wearing perfume - vanilla? And I can smell your shampoo. You washed your hair before you came here.”

“I already know what the scent of my perfume is. What do I smell like?”

He couldn’t help the shocked laugh that left his lips. “Jesus, you’re ballsy,” he murmured. She was curious to a fault. “You smell sweet. Rich.” He left it there; there was only so much he could take.

She seemed pleased with that. The corner of her mouth quirked, a new-found confidence in her eyes. “Good to know. It would’ve been weird if you said I smelt like a roast dinner.”

His shoulders shook with his laughter. “No, you’re definitely in the dessert category.”

She laughed before he could start to worry about the weight of his words.

He sat back and observed her when the waiter returned. She had a bubbly sort of grace about her: her eyes turned wide when the waiter asked whether she would like anything else, as though she wasn’t expecting good service. Then, an easy smile pulled at her lips when she looked the man in the eye to politely decline and thank him. She didn’t notice the way her attention flustered him. Was she unaware of her effect on others, or just uncaring towards it?

“How long have you worked for the magazine?” He asked, pinching the material of his suit jacket between his thumb and forefinger. He could hear the waiter talking about her to someone in the back room and couldn’t help but smirk to himself.

She sipped at her wine and licked away the droplets that lingered on her lips. “I’ve been freelancing for them for three years now. It’s only been the last six months that they’ve started coming to me with leads rather than the other way around, though.” She shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal.

“You must be one of the youngest journalists on their team.”

“Yeah, well - I’m good,” she smirked, cutting into her dish. “And persistent. I’ve been pitching to them since college.”

“Where’d you study?”

“NYU.” Her eyes flashed up to him, amused and challenging. “Is this a job interview?”

He narrowed his eyes but didn’t bother to hide his own amusement. “Is there something more interesting you’d like to share?”

“Oh, there’s plenty.” She took a bite of her food and hummed happily, making him wait for her to enjoy her first taste. “I’m a bass player. I have a cat called Flounder. And I'm in the process of writing my first novel.” She cocked her head at him like he’d said something strange. “This is starting to feel like a date, actually.”

“Is this not a date?” He hadn’t meant for it to be a date. Not consciously, at least. He definitely wanted it to be a date now, though.

She grinned and picked up her fork again. “I don’t know, is it? You can’t do the whole mysterious vampire thing but expect me to know what’s going on.”

He pursed his lips to contain his smile. “What ‘mysterious vampire thing’?”

“Oh, give it up,” she laughed. The sound had him leaning in towards her. “Honesty is the best policy - have you heard that one before?”

He chuckled and took a sip. Fuck, she was vibrant. “Yes, this is a date. Happy?”

“Very.”

She looked at him through her lashes. He felt a pulse of life in his chest.

“Good.”

TAGS: @another-stark-sub @letsby @mostly-marvel-musings @boop-le-snoot @slothspaghettiwrites @littlegasps @agustdowney @suchababie @elemephstudies @rdjesus4ever @tonystarkscumslutz @slytherintothedeep @rogerslaufeysonn @wild-rose-35 @dilfostark @underoostarks @arioneway @viva-asgardia @fyreball66 @mcugeekposts

[xoxoviva]

He’d known that the alcohol would bring her smell to the surface of her skin. Part of him had been excited about that. That part of him - that selfish part of him - had made him reckless.

*drools* I love this passage so much! It’s so evocative.

The way she’d turned pliant for him was something that he’d expected but hell - it hit him like a punch in the gut, the vibrations of the hit shooting straight to his cock.

Tony is an absolute menace (I love it).

Her eyes had turned softer when she met his gaze again. “Did you just want some company?” She asked, setting her menu down and leaning her elbow on the table. She rested her chin in her hand. “Because that’s okay, too.”

I love the reader so much, how she sees through Tony’s bravado and responds kindly to his loneliness.

Ooo, I like where this is going. I’m enjoying how thrown Tony is by the reader, and how intrigued he is by her! I’m glad that they stumbled into a date, and I wonder how long Tony will be able to resist her…

[patheticallysentimental]

Omg this comment is a fic writer’s dream 🥲

I’m so, so happy that you like it. I’m putting a lot of effort into this story (hence the slow updates… *wince*) so it’s honestly SO lovely to read some feedback. I’m a slut for praise. Thank u.

This fic is definitely going to take a swift turn - in a good way. In a sexy, vampirey bdsm kinda way. Thanks for sticking around so far 💗