Summary: Harry Styles is a young billionaire and CEO of his own company. He mostly keeps to himself, he is stern and very meticulous when it comes to business. He also likes to keep his personal life very private for the sake of his newly born son Oliver Styles. It isn't until he meets Y/N Y/L/N that everything changes. She becomes his new nanny after his previous one quits due to personal reasons. She is young, caring, and sweet. Will they ignore their feelings? Will Harry's girlfriend accept their love and leave them? Will she be able to cope with his busy agenda? What about Oliver's mother? Where is she? Who is she?
CHARACTER’s cast list
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54 (early access only on Patreon)
Chapter 55 (early access only on Patreon)
Chapter 56 (early access only on Patreon)
Chapter 57 (early access only on Patreon)
Chapter 58 (early access only on Patreon)
Chapter 59 (early access only on Patreon)
Chapter 60 (early access only on Patreon)
Chapter 61 (early access only on Patreon)
Chapter 62 (early access only on Patreon)
Chapter 63 (early access only on Patreon)
Chapter 64 (early access only on Patreon)
Chapter 65: Final Chapter (early access only on Patreon)
Chapter 66: Alternative Ending (early access only on Patreon)
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A/N: im back with some filthy smut, it took me way too long to finish this fic but here we are!
WORD COUNT: 6.7k
WARNING: sexual content
SUMMARY: Harry is a lot of things. A talented business man, a known name in the industry, a dedicated CEO and a fucking goner for his assistant. He knows he shouldn't be having dirty thoughts about Y/N and he fights them as much as he can, but when one drunken email gets sent to the worst person possible he completely loses his mind. But maybe, just maybe, that email wasn't the worst thing to happen.
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This meeting is stretching way too long. Harry knew it would be useless to talk about these topics for an entire hour when he walked into the meeting room, but apparently it would be rude to tell everyone to just email him the numbers and don’t bother him. So here he is, staring at his laptop screen, pretending he is reading something, but really, he is just zoning out while the fourth person is presenting something he couldn’t care less about.
He checks the time, just ten more minutes and he is free to go. He has an entire hour for lunch today and he is not meeting up with anyone either, which is a rare occasion. And it also means he is spending it with Y/N, his assistant.
At the thought of her his eyes jump over to the glass wall that separates the meeting room from the hallway and he instantly spots Y/N sitting on a sofa, typing away on her laptop with a focused look on her face. It makes him smile, wondering what she could be working on currently. Her eyebrows are furrowed and her eyes are jumping rapidly on the screen as she reads something and then starts rapidly typing again.
He finds himself chuckling under his breath before returning his attention to the meeting, now wanting it to end even more to talk to her. The thought comes to him so easily and fast, he fails to catch himself from sinking further into it. He just starts daydreaming about the smile she’ll gift him once he walks out of the room, about her perfume that will fill his nostrils once he is standing close to her and the way she’ll giggle when he urges them to leave for lunch as quickly as possible.
This has been quite frequent lately, Harry finding himself thinking about her, at work, at home, in meetings and at events, whenever she is not with him, but also when she is right beside him. He has no idea when things shifted in his mind, when she moved from just being his assistant to occupying almost all of his thoughts. It’s been tearing him up, if he is being honest, because he knows he shouldn’t be thinking about her this much and in this way. Because his thoughts are often straight up fantasies.
It’s been a reoccuring event lately: Harry waking up after a rather steamy dream that featured Y/N, sporting the worst case of a morning erection which he had to take care of in his shower and then pretend none of it ever happened when he walks into his office and sees her bright smile.
Fuck, he feels like an actual piece of shit for having dirty thoughts about his sweet, young assistant who does her job so well and he definitely shouldn’t ruin things because of his horny thoughts.
An email notification pops up on his screen when there’s only five more minutes left of the meeting and as soon as he sees the sender his eyes jump up to the person sitting across from him at the oval table.
Niall, his CFO, is grinning smugly at him, like he is daring Harry to open the email, though he already knows it’s nothing work related.
With a soft sigh Harry opens it and reads the single line Niall sent him.
Stop jerking off to your assistant in your mind.
Harry shoots him a murderous look over his laptop, but Niall just shrugs with a grin and then pretends to be listening to the presenter. Harry shakes his head and types a quick response.
I’ll call compliance on you if you don’t stop.
He deeply regrets that one drunken night when he and Niall drank way too much sake and he ended up confessing his attraction towards Y/N, which Niall is not letting him live down ever since. This is the downside of running a company with your best friend, who also tends to be a big pain in the ass. He tells Niall one little thing in a weak moment and he’ll bring it up at the worst possible moments.
“Our time is up, thank you for your attention, I’ll send you all the slides and schedule a follow-up meeting soon.”
That snaps Harry out of his thoughts as the room comes to life and everyone starts packing and he does the same. Niall walks over to him, leaning closer so only Harry can hear him.
“Just bone her already, dude.”
“Shut the fuck up or I’ll make sure you end up jobless,” he groans, but it only makes Niall laugh as he pats him on the back.
“In all seriousness, I’m getting tired of seeing your pining. Just ask her out already!”
“Niall, already told you to quit with it,” Harry sighs as he grabs his laptop and phone and the two men start walking out of the room side-by-side. “We both know it’s just… It’s not gonna happen.”
“You’re just making it way too complicated, when it’s not.” Niall rolls his eyes as they step out of the room. Y/N is already standing, holding her laptop to her chest, a bright smile on her face as the two men approach her.
“Just… let it go, will you?” Harry hisses to Niall, but he just snorts out a laugh before walking away.
“How was it?” Y/N asks Harry as he stops in front of her.
“Boring. Let’s eat.”
She giggles with a nod and he ignores the tug in his chest as they head out.
There’s a sandwich place near the office they both like and it’s not as crowded during lunch time as all the other places in the neighborhood for some reason. That’s where they settle, Harry with a veggie sandwich and an iced tea, Y/N with a club sandwich and a lemonade, their usual.
“How is the book hunting going?” he asks between bites. Y/N has been trying to find a first edition of Little Women, a book she loved so much growing up.
Y/N shakes her head with a soft chuckle.
“Not good. I thought I found one the other week, but it turned out to be a scam.”
“What about that auction piece? Have you signed up for that?”
“There’s no way I can buy that. The price starts at twenty-six thousand, my budget is fifteen at best,” she shakes her head sadly.
“Told you, I can pa–” Harry starts, but she cuts him off instantly.
“You’re not paying the rest, Harry.”
“Why not? Take it as a bonus,” he shrugs, taking a sip from his tea. He has offered to buy the book all together, but she just refused to accept his help every time.
“So then I won’t get my usual bonus at the end of the year?” she arches an eyebrow at him.
“Of course you will.”
“Then I’m not taking ten grand from you just randomly,” she chuckles. “I’ll find one that I can afford, I just have to be patient,” she adds and with that Harry knows her mind is set.
He wishes she would stop being so stubborn. He would buy it without hesitation if it means it makes her happy. He already thought of just getting it, ignoring all her protesting.
“Anyways, I made your schedule for next week. Did anything new come up that I need to fit in?”
“Nothing I know of.”
“No parties or dates maybe?”
“You know the answer to that, Y/N,” he gives her a look that makes her laugh.
Parties haven’t been his thing in a while and dating… He can’t remember the last time he went on a date. Even if he wanted to, he wouldn’t have anyone to ask out, because he simply doesn’t talk to women in that way. Hasn’t been in a long time and he is not ready to admit it, but it’s been since he started to compare everyone to Y/N.
The rest of lunch goes by without any work talk. Y/N tells him about the trips she has planned with her sister and Harry listens like it’s his favorite podcast. Really, she could be talking about anything and he would be drinking her words, he just absolutely loves listening to her.
Returning to the office is painful, but at least Harry manages to focus for a while as he buries himself in work. It’s a temporary fix, but a welcomed one.
It’s not unusual for him to stay late, but he noticed that Y/N tends to work late too when he does. As the building starts to empty out Harry is still deep in a task, but he looks up and spots Y/N still sitting at her desk, typing away on her laptop.
“Let me remind you again that you can leave before me.” He stops at her desk, hands tucked in his pockets as he looks down at a sleepy-eyed Y/N.
“I have stuff to do.”
“Can it wait until tomorrow?” She bites her lip with a guilty look that answers his question. “Alright, then you’re done for today,” he simply says, shutting her laptop.
“Bossy,” she chuckles under her breath, but doesn’t protest as she pushes her chair away from the desk.
“Well, I am your boss.”
“Thanks for the reminder,” she chuckles, throwing her things into her bag and rounding it to meet him at the front. “Tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow,” he nods and then watches as she walks away to the elevators, a heavy feeling settling over his chest that he wishes she was going home with him.
Harry returns to his desk to finish up so he can finally go home as well, but when Niall appears he knows his plans are about to get destroyed.
“Want to grab some drinks?” he asks, throwing himself down to the sofa in the corner of his office.
“I’m tired and it’s Thursday, we have work tomorrow.”
“When did you become absolutely no fun?” Niall groans, but doesn’t wait for an answer. Instead, he stands and walks over to the minibar where Harry keeps some good whiskey and two crystal glasses. It’s usually for when they close a deal, a little ritual they’ve been doing since the start of the company. “Alright, then let’s just drink here.”
“Any particular reason for that?” Harry sighs, but takes the glass Niall hands him, leaning back in his chair.
“It’s Thursday,” Niall simply shrugs, clinks his glass to Harry’s and then they both take a sip.
Harry had a suspicion that Niall wanted to bug him about Y/N again, but surprisingly, he doesn’t bring her up. They unwind a little, talk about work stuff and then anything but work as they both empty their glasses before Niall refills them.
“Oh fuck, it’s already past eleven,” Harry growls after the second glass that already made him kinda tipsy. He hasn’t eaten anything since lunch, so it’s hitting him like he’s lightweight.
“Again, when did you become absolutely no fun?” Niall snorts. “But alright, I’ll call us a car.”
The building is eerily empty when they make their way out of it, laughing at something Niall said in the elevator. They bid goodbye to the night guard stepping out into the breezy night, the car already waiting for them.
“Ah man,” Nial sighs, sliding down on the seat as the driver heads to his address first. “Are you really not gonna do anything about the Y/N situation?”
“Not this again!” Harry groans. “I told you, it’s not happening.”
“But you didn’t even try! I think you have a good shot with her.”
“Doesn’t matter,” he shakes his head, that familiar tug in his chest back again, but he brushes it off. “She is my assistant, I’m her boss. It’s not happening.”
“You wouldn’t be the first person on Earth to fuck an employee,” Niall grins at him wickedly.
“I won’t even be one,” Harry retorts.
“Okay, but I need to know something.” Niall says, sitting up straight, as if he is about to say something serious. “You’re fantasizing about the nasty stuff with her, right?”
“Jesus,” Harry rolls his eyes, just as the driver pulls up in front of Niall’s apartment building. “Good night, Niall!”
“Have you thought about fucking her in your office?” Niall’s grin widens as he opens the car door, but doesn’t get out.
“I’ll see you tomorrow!” Harry pushes on him, urging him to get out.
“Come on! Just give me a crumb!” Niall begs, climbing out of the car.
“No! Good bye!” And with that Harry shuts the door, cutting his friend off.
It’s only a few minutes drive to his place and those minutes are occupied by thoughts of Y/N thanks to Niall’s prying. He wonders what she is doing right now. Is she already in bed? Or maybe having a bath? What did she have for dinner? Is she the kind to lay her clothes out for the next day? His guess is not.
Her bed must be full of pillows and it smells just like her. He wonders what it would be like to lie next to her, pull her into his arms, kiss her…
“Fuck,” he groans when the driver stops at his building and he’s already feeling himself getting hard.
His head feels dizzy as he rides the elevator up to the penthouse, thoughts of Y/N racing in his mind. His phone pings just as he steps into his home. It’s an email from Y/N.
Found the contracts you’ve been looking for. I’ll have them printed and on your desk by the morning!
He smiles seeing her picture on the screen next to her email address, but then realizes that she must be working at home this late as well. Settling on one of his kitchen stools he types a reply.
If you don’t stop working right now, I will fire you!
He sends the email, but then quickly sends another one.
Hope you know I’m kidding, I would never fire you.
Her response came at the same time another email arrived, the second one from Niall. First he opened the one from Y/N.
Never? That’s a brave statement! Should I put it to the test?
He barks out a laugh before opening Niall’s email.
So like on your desk? Or her desk? I bet you fantasize about fucking her in the kitchen!!!
Harry groans and decides to ignore him as he goes back to Y/N’s email to reply, but first he needs some water. He leaves the phone on the counter and grabs a bottle from the fridge while his thoughts start racing again.
He did think about fucking her on his desk. Several times. On hers too. And he would be lying if he said the kitchen never came up in his dirty daydreams, though the one that keeps haunting is fucking her from behind by his floor-to-ceiling windows, her sweet moans filling his office.
And just like that, he is hard again. All because stupid Niall wouldn’t leave him alone.
With a frustrated groan he goes back to his phone and starts typing.
Of course I think about fucking her on every possible surface in the office and in my home, it’s literally all I can think about all the time, especially when she comes in wearing a tight dress or a blouse with a low cut or those goddamned short skirts that make me want to slide my hand under it and feel her warmth between her smooth legs!!! Happy? This is what you wanted me to admit???
He sends the email with an angry tap on his screen, then tosses the phone back onto the counter as he tries to control his reaction to the thoughts.
But then his heart skips a beat.
His eyes snap to his phone, the screen still unlocked as he grabs it and checks who he just sent the email to, his worst nightmare staring back at him from his phone. He didn’t send it to Niall, his detailed fantasy just ended up in Y/N’s inbox and there was nothing he could do about it.
“Shit!” he shouts, dropping the phone as he stares at it with bewildered eyes, hands gripping his hair so hard he almost rips his locks out. “Fuck! No!”
He grabs the phone and checks again, but nothing changes, his pornographic paragraph was sent in reply to her last email and by now he is sure she’s read it, judging from how quick her responses have been. In a frenzy he quickly sends her another email.
Shit Y/N, I’m sorry, this wasn’t meant to you!! I was emailing Niall at the same time and sent it in the wrong thread, I’m sorry!
He waits, holding his breath as a minute passes by, then another and she finally replies.
It’s okay. I’ll see you tomorrow.
“Fuck. I’m so fucked,” he groans, his forehead dropping against the hard surface of the counter and he even smacks his head against it a few more times, like some kind of punishment for being such an idiot.
He has no idea what to do, how to handle it. What’s the protocol for when the CEO sends a dirty message to his assistant about wanting to fuck her on every surfice in the office? Is this a matter for HR? What if she quits tomorrow? He wouldn’t blame her, not wanting to work for such a pig.
He fucked up, big time. But he also knows there’s nothing he can do now, he’ll have to face the consequences of his actions tomorrow.
***
He didn’t sleep, not even for a second. Harry laid in bed all night, thinking about the worst possible scenarios that could happen because of his mistake. He is on the verge of losing his mind by the time he arrives at the office in a wrinkled shirt and his hair looking like a bird’s nest.
He ignores the weird looks he is getting on his way up, only thinking what he should do or say if Y/N is already in. But when he sees her desk abandoned, relief spreads in his veins, however it’s rather short-lived.
Is she not here because she is about to quit? Or is she already talking to HR about the email? What can HR do to him? Nothing, he is the CEO. Right?
The spiraling continues as he forces himself to start his usual morning routine of checking his mails and schedule. He manages to sit still for a whole 10 minutes, but then he spots her walking towards her desk.
He jumps to his feet as if catching him sitting would get him into even bigger trouble. She is reading something on her phone while walking, so she doesn’t spot him right away and Harry has a few moments to look at her.
She looks like she always does. Beautiful and effortless, no signs of distress, so that might be a good sign. Then when she’s just a few steps away from her desk she looks up and their eyes meet.
“Hey,” Harry breathes out. “Can–Um… Can we talk?”
For a second she looks hesitant, but she nods, dropping her bag onto her desk before heading into his office with him.
She stops in the middle of the room, at the same spot she always does when she comes in to talk, but her usual cheery vibe is missing today. Harry notices how stiff and uncertain she looks and he hates that it’s because of him. He stands by his desk as he looks at her.
“Look, I’m really, really sorry about that email. That was… So unprofessional and I swear I didn’t mean to send that to you, I hope you know I would never put you in such an awkward situation on purpose.”
“It’s fine,” she says, keeping her gaze down at the floor, her voice so quiet he almost doesn’t hear her.
“It’s not fine and I’m really fucking sorry, Y/N.”
“No, let’s just… Let’s move past it,” she shrugs, but still wouldn’t meet his eyes.
“I really hope we can do that, I would hate it if my stupidity ruined our dynamic. I’m officially promising not to ever reply to Niall’s awful emails,” he adds with a bitter chuckle and that at least pulls a small smile out of her.
“You often email about stuff like that?” she asks, finally looking into his eyes.
“He likes to be a pain in the ass,” he chuckles. “We had a few drinks yesterday and he started his usual game of bugging me on the way home. I thought once we parted ways I would be free of him, but then he started emailing me. That’s something he likes to do recently.”
The words are flowing out of him like he has no control over them. It’s like he needs to say all of this in order to attempt to move on, so he continues.
“So he sent me a very inappropriate email about you right when you were emailing me and I guess I had enough drinks to finally give him a crumb of what he’s been trying to pry out of me, but then I messed up the emails and—”
“Wait,” she frowns, confusion taking over her expression. “About me?”
Harry stops, unsure what she is asking about. “What?”
“The email… It was about me?”
“Yeah, it’s… Shit.”
That’s when Harry realizes that in that message, he didn’t name her, Y/N had no idea he was talking about her. It was only obvious to him, since he knew he was talking about her. But now he just made it clear to her as well.
For a second he feels like he is about to pass out. All along Y/N thought he was just talking about someone, any woman in the office, but now she knows it was particularly about her.
Her expression changes, but he can’t read it. She opens her mouth to say something two times, but ends up staying silent.
“Y/N, I’m sorry. I thought you knew it was about you. I’m really sorry, I don’t want this to fuck things up between us.”
“No, it’s…” she shakes her head, as if she is just now snapping out of her thoughts. “It’s… fine.”
He wants to talk more. He wants to apologize more, he feels like he needs to, but then Carla, his marketing manager appears at the door.
“Knock-knock! Hey, sorry to interrupt, but there’s a few things I need your insight about like right fucking now.”
“I’m coming, just a minute,” he says, turning back to Y/N. “I’m really sorry. Are we good?”
“Yeah,” she breathes out, her tone is not quite convincing, but he has no time to push it further.
“I’ll… Let’s talk later, okay?”
“Sure,” she nods and then walks out as Carla takes her place and business takes over.
Harry hates how the conversation ended, he is debating blowing everyone off just to talk to her until everything is resolved, but that’s not happening.
In fact, he barely speaks to her until late afternoon, jumping from one meeting into the other, emergency calls and last minute tasks, the whole day is just one stressful blur.
When he finally finishes his last meeting of the day he heads back to his office and sees Y/N in one of the meeting rooms, pacing the floor while talking on the phone. It’s past five, she should be heading home, but as always, she is working overtime. When Harry returns to his office he finds Niall lounging in his chair.
“I’m not in the mood for your games today, Niall,” he bites out.
“Woah, someone is pissed today. What’s gotten your panties in a twist?”
“Remember your stupid emails last night?”
“I’m still waiting for your reply on that,” Niall grins, which just pisses Harry off even more.
“I did reply to it. Only problem is that I didn’t send it to you, I accidentally sent it to Y/N!”
Niall’s jaw slacks, staring back at his friend before the most hysterical laugh bursts out of him. It takes several minutes for him to even calm down.
“And what now? What did she say?”
“She didn’t realize it was about her, which I didn’t know and when I started apologizing like a maniac in the morning I revealed it to her.”
“Oh my God, this is like the best comedy ever!”
“I’m glad my misery is so entertaining to you,” Harry grumbles under his breath, massaging the bridge of his nose. He is so tired, he feels like he ran a marathon today, that’s how much all this stress affected him.
“And what’s going on right now? I saw her today, so I’m guessing she didn’t quit.”
“We didn’t have more time to talk, she said we were good, but I don’t know…”
“Dude, this is your time. Just tell her you meant whatever you wrote, send me those deets by the way, and finally get your girl!”
“I can’t believe you’re still on this shit,” he shakes his head, giving up. “Just leave, Niall. I’m too tired for… I’m too tired for you right now.”
“Ouch!” Niall places a hand over his chest dramatically, but stands from the chair. “Alright, I’ll let you sink into your guilt for a little longer, but just know that I think you’re missing out of the best opportunity ever.”
“Leave already!” Harry groans, gesturing towards the door. Niall shakes his head with a quiet laugh and walks out.
He collapses into his chair, a headache already throbbing in his skull from this day. He closes his eyes and lets his head fall back for a bit, hoping to gather some energy to carry on for the rest of the day.
He doesn’t even hear it when Y/N appears in his open door, only snaps his eyes open when he hears her knocking on the doorframe.
“Hey!” he sits up straight right away. “Come in. Sorry for being MIA all day.”
“It’s fine, I know how it is,” she smiles softly as she walks in and stops in her usual spot.
“And I’m sorry for cutting things short in the morning,” he adds, clearing his throat. “I know you said we’re good, but I just wanted to apologize again.”
“Really, it’s all good,” she shakes her head dismissively.
“Can we just forget about it?” he suggests. She freezes for a moment, like she is considering it, but at last she nods.
“Sure. Forgotten.”
He exhales in relief, leaning back in his chair.
“Okay, good. Now go home, I don’t want to see you working overtime on a Friday,” he smiles at her, which she returns, but there’s something different about it this time, though he can’t put a finger on it.
“Then you should head home too,” she challenges him, a soft chuckle slipping past his lips as he nods, standing from his chair.
“Fair point. I’ll see you on Monday, Y/N.”
“Yeah, see you,” she nods, voice quiet as she turns around and starts walking towards the door while Harry gathers his stuff from his desk, ready to leave as well.
But then just a step away from the door she stops.
“And what if… What if I don’t want to forget about it?”
Her voice is quiet, but Harry hears her, loud and clear. He stops mid-action, gaze jumping over to her figure, her back facing him.
“What?” he asks, heart thumping wildly in his chest. Y/N slowly turns around, a sheepish look on her face.
“What if… What if I wanted all that too?”
Harry stares back at her, his first thought is that he must have heard her wrong. She definitely did not say that. But slowly, it sinks in that she actually did say that and now she is standing there, waiting for him to say something, anything.
He rounds the table, walks closer, but stops a few feet away from her. He notices how nervous she appears, fingers fidgeting with the hem of her pencil skirt, her chest rising and falling as she draws deep breaths.
And something switches in him.
“Do you?” he asks, voice low.
“What?” she breathes out.
“Do you want all that too?”
She sucks on her breath, a heartbeat passes and then she nods. He almost groans, desire flooding his groin instantly as he walks around her, like she’s a prey he wants to hunt down, while she just stands there, frozen.
“I need your words, Y/N,” he says, now standing behind her. He is not touching her, but she can feel his presence right behind her.
“I want all of that too. What you wrote in that email.”
“Fuck,” he exhales, pushing his body forward just an inch so now his chest is pressed against her back and as soon as she feels him, she leans even more into him.
His hands move to her hips, fingers digging into her soft flesh over the fabric of her skirt, but she is eager to feel him somewhere else, her hands cover his and pull them up, over her breasts, her bluntness sending a shiver down his spine as he palms her.
Even though she is practically offering herself to him, he feels like he needs to be cautious, as if he could scare her away at any moment. Her head rolls back to his shoulder, baring the soft skin on her neck and now he has a great view of her breasts in his palms, a scene he has probably played in his mind a million times before. His erection is growing harder with each second and when she pushes her ass against him he can’t help the moan that slips past his lips.
Leaning down he runs his nose down the side of her neck first, teasing her a bit with the feather-like touch, but then he can’t hold himself back any longer, practically latching onto her neck, kissing, sucking, biting the soft skin, making her arch from the sensation. When he pulls back he is happy to see the mark he left on her, bright and clear, almost screaming his name.
He moves a hand up her chest, cradling her jaw to turn her head until she is facing him. For a second she looks nervous, almost like a deer caught in headlights, but then he sees the pure desire in her eyes and realizes it’s excitement that has her all worked up, unsure what’s coming next, but also quite thrilled.
He takes a moment, just admiring her this close, the want and need in her eyes directed at him, it’s making him go feral.
“Fuck, you’re so beautiful,” he breathes out before leaning in and kissing her.
He goes in hard, demanding, wanting to devour her and she willingly kisses him back with just as much fever, twisting in his arms until she is facing him with her body as well, arms locking around his neck while his hands grab onto her ass, pressing her even more against him. She moans into his mouth, grinding against him when she feels his erection pressing into her stomach and he starts walking her backwards without breaking their hungry kissing, right until the back of her legs bump against his desk.
Blindly, he pushes everything to the side on the tabletop before picking her up and sitting her on it, her legs caging his waist in an instant as they keep kissing wildly. It feels like a fever dream, Harry thinks, but he doesn’t want to wake up.
His hands tug her shirt out of her skirt, then he leans back just enough to rid her from it, throwing it behind him as he looks at her exposed chest, now that she is only wearing her lacy bra on the top. The sight of her is so beautiful he needs to take another moment to just admire her. Sitting on his desk, her breasts almost spilling out of her bra as her chest is heaving from her panting. Her lips are swollen and parted and her eyes… they are bewildered, full of lust and want, only for him. The sight of her alone could make him come, he swears.
Then he returns to kissing her, hands pushing up her skirt to reveal even more of her soft skin on her thighs until the fabric bunches around her waist. Her hands roam his body through his shirt, but soon she starts unbuttoning it, only reaching the button under his pecks, because she is so impatient to touch him she simply starts clawing at his pecks, reaching into the shirt as far as she can.
Harry steps back, a disapproving groan slipping from her lips once he is not pushed up against her, to which he just chuckles softly.
“Take your skirt off, baby,” he says as he unbuttons the rest of his shirt as well. Y/N jumps off the table, fumbles with the zipper of her skirt before she can slip it off. It pools around her feet, she steps out of it and then simply kicks to the side. Harry has got ridden of his shirt as well and he is now taking his pants off, leaving both of them only in their underwear. His mouth goes dry seeing the matching set on her, part of him wants to leave it on, but another part of him wants to tear it off her body with his teeth.
She leans back against the desk, pushing her thighs together, clearly to get some friction between them as she eyes him standing there in only his boxer briefs, palming himself through the fabric while his hungry eyes are eating her up. Then, with confidence she hasn’t seen from a man before he simply takes himself out and pushes his underwear down, leaving him in all of his naked glory. He gives himself a few lazy tugs while watching her with hooded eyes, sending a shiver down her spine. She pushes herself away from the desk, hooks her thumbs into the elastic of her panties and pushes they down while keeping eye-contact. Once the fabric pools around her ankles she kicks the underwear to the side as well and then… and idea pops into her head.
With Harry still standing there she simply turns around and bends over his desk, peeking over her shoulder to see his reaction, which doesn’t disappoint.
He stops moving, maybe even stops breathing, eyes glued to her exposed cunt, glistening from her arousal that’s all for him. His cock twitches in his hand and he lets out a long, shaky breath before stepping closer and dropping to his knees, mouth latching onto her in an instant.
“Of fuck!” she cries out, grabbing the edge of the desk to stabilize herself.
He shows no mercy, hands grabbing her ass cheeks while his tongue works wonders, almost making her see stars. If it was his last meal, he would go as a happy man, he thinks.
But as much as he would love to spend hours with his face buried in her cunt, he is also aching to have his cock buried in it too. When he stands and yanks her up as well, kissing her vigorously she can taste herself on his lips, but it just makes her want even more of him.
With skilled moves he easily unhooks her bra and tosses it to the side before grabbing the back of her thighs and picks her up with ease, walking over to the sofa in the corner of his office where he sat and daydreamed of her so many times before. Holding onto him she starts kissing a path on the side of his face until she reaches his lips, kissing him so deeply he stops in his track for a second.
Sinking onto the soft cushion of the sofa he pulls her onto his lap, her wet pussy meeting his erection, making them both moan at the same time and she involuntarly grinds against him, making his cock glide between her lips.
“Fucking hell,” he curses, head falling back, his fingers digging into her hips. “You have no idea how many times I thought of having you like this.”
“How many?” she asks with a coy smile as she keeps grinding her hips gently, just enough to drive them both insane. “Did you fantasize about me during meetings?”
“Yes,” he answers shamelessly right away.
“Did you get hard?”
“Always.”
With each answer her confidence keeps growing, she loves seeing him so gone for her. One of his hands comes up, cupping her breast, making her moan in pleasure, then he leans forward and takes her hard nipple in his mouth, sucking on it hard. Y/N whimpers, fingers sinking into his hair, scraping his scalp with her nails which makes him groan against her skin.
“Have you ever been hard, hiding it under your desk when I was in here?” she asks, almost out of breath. Harry nods against her chest, then tilts his face up just enough to look at her, while he swirls his tongue around her nipple.
“Many times,” he whispers and she swears she almost came just from those two words and the look on his face.
“I need you,” she whimpers, pulling his face up so their lips can meet. “I need to feel you.”
“Feel me as much as you want, baby,” he mumbles against her lips.
“No, I want to feel everything,” she says, hoping he’ll finally understand what she is trying to imply. It takes him a few seconds, but he finally does.
“Are you on–”
“Yes,” she nods eagerly. “And I’m clean.”
“Me too.”
“I trust you,” she says and the words tug on something in his chest.
“Come here,” he whispers, cradling her jaw in his hand as he pulls her face close, kissing her passionately, his other hand reaching down between them, tugging his cock so it lines up with her entrance.
She sinks down on him not too slow, not too fast, both of them moaning against each other’s mouth as he fills her up inch by inch. Once he is in fully, she takes a few moments to adjust to his size, gently circling her hips slightly.
“Want to ride me, baby?” he asks, giving her hips a squeeze.
“Yes, boss,” she breathes out and then starts moving.
Up and down. Back and forth. She is bouncing on him, nails digging into his pecks, surely leaving marks, but neithe rof them cares. He’ll happily wear them and then once they fade he will have her redo them again and again.
When she can feel her orgasm nearing Harry wraps his arms around her and pulls her tight against him, lips crashing messily but she just keeps moving even when her thighs start shaking.
“Harry,” she pleads gasping.
“Let me feel you come on my cock, Y/N,” he growls against her lips, his arms locked tightly around her.
Then he starts thrusting up, meeting her rhythm and a few seconds later he feels her walls gripping his cock as her orgasm washes over her. He doesn’t stop moving, watches her ride through her pleasure before he reaches his high as well, his thrusts staggering. She can feel him pumping inside of her and seeing him completely lose himself in her is something she will never forget.
They stay like that, Harry is slowly softening, but he is still inside her as they lazily kiss. When she leans back she reaches down and collects some of his cum that has dripped out of her with her finger and he watches as she sucks it off before letting her her finger go with a pop.
“Jesus, you’re killing me,” he growls, head falling back, but she just chuckles and kisses his chin.
“Mm don’t tell me you’re done for today,” she smiles at him coyly. Harry looks up at her in awe.
“Not at all. But why don’t we go back to my place? I have quite some fantasies to fulfill with you there as well.”
She leans closer, but stops before their lips could meet, then whispers:
“Yes, boss.”
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riding harry in the hotel bed after he got hard on stage in sao paolo 😛
you’re still in the clothes you wore to the show when the hotel door clicks shut behind you both. the roar of são paulo is still ringing in your ears, the stage lights still burned into the backs of your eyelids, and harry’s hand is already under your shirt like he can’t wait another second. he’s hard. you felt it the second he pulled you against him in the elevator, the thick press of him against your stomach while the rest of the team pretended not to notice. now he’s got you backed against the wall of the suite, breathing hard against your neck, and you can feel how desperate he is.
“need you,” he mutters using the calm voice he uses when he’s trying not to lose it in public. “right fucking now.”
you giggle all soft and sweet, and let him walk you backward toward the bed. the sheets are already turned down. he peels your clothes off then his own, and when he’s naked you both pause for a second just to look. he’s flushed all the way down his chest, cock heavy and flushed dark against his stomach, the tip already shiny. you make a little sound in your throat like you’ve never seen it before.
“you’re hard!!!” you gasp, eyes big and round, the picture of innocent surprise even though you were staring at it the whole ride back.
harry’s jaw ticks. “yeah. i fucking noticed.”
he sits on the edge of the bed and pulls you into his lap so you’re straddling him, knees on either side of his hips. you settle your weight carefully, teasing, just letting the head of him nudge against your entrance without taking him in. he’s hot and thick and you can feel him twitch every time you rock a tiny bit. his hands land on your waist, thumbs stroking the soft skin just above your hips.
“c’mon, baby,” he says, still trying to sound calm. “don’t make me wait.”
you pout, lower lip stuck out, and roll your hips so the head of his cock slides through your wetness without sinking in. “but it’s fun.”
“it’s not fun,” he says, and his voice cracks just a little on the last word. “you’re being very rude right now, missy.”
you freeze like you’ve been scolded, then melt into a soft little giggle. “am not.”
“you are.” he squeezes your waist. “i’ve been hard since the second verse of the second song and you’re sitting here playing with me like we’ve got all night.”
you lean in and kiss the corner of his mouth, sweet and sticky. “we do have all night.”
“not if you keep this up.”
you sink down just enough that the tip pops inside, then lift right back up again. harry’s head tips back, a low sound escaping him. his fingers dig into your soft thighs. you do it again, and again, taking just the head, just enough to make him feel the heat and the squeeze before you pull off. every time you do it his breathing gets a little more ragged.
“sweetie,” he warns, still trying for that calm tone. “you’re gonna make me lose my mind.”
“good,” you whisper, and sink down a little further this time, halfway, before lifting off again. the wet sound of it is filthy in the quiet room. you watch his face the whole time, the way his lashes flutter, the way his mouth falls open. he’s so pretty when he’s suffering.
you keep going like that for what feels like forever. up and down, just the tip, just a little more, never enough. every time his hips start to twitch up to meet you, you pull away. every time his hands try to push you down you go pliant and soft and wiggle free, kissing his cheek or his jaw or the side of his neck like you’re the sweetest thing in the world. you call him soft names between giggles while you edge him within an inch of his life.
his cock is shiny with you, throbbing, and you can feel the way it jumps every time you sink down. his stomach is tight. his thighs are shaking under yours. after a while he stops trying to guide you and just holds on, forehead pressed to your collarbone, breathing like he’s running a race.
“please,” he says eventually, voice so quiet it’s almost a prayer. “baby, please. i need to come. i’m gonna fucking cry.”
you make a soft sympathetic sound and pet his hair. “aww. poor thing.”
you sink down all the way this time, slow, until he’s buried to the hilt and your hips are flush against his. he makes a broken noise against your skin. you stay there, not moving, just squeezing around him, and his whole body goes rigid.
“don’t,” he breathes. “don’t just sit there-”
you lift up again. he actually whimpers.
you do it for another ten minutes. maybe fifteen. time gets blurry when he’s this close and you’re having this much fun, when every little movement makes him twitch and curse under his breath. you keep your movements soft and sweet, bouncing just a little, rolling your hips in tiny circles that make the head of him drag against the perfect spot inside you. every time his breathing speeds up and his hands start to shake you slow down or lift off completely, sitting back on his thighs and looking at him with big innocent eyes while he throbs in the open air.
“you’re so mean,” he says once, voice cracking. “you’re so fucking mean to me.”
you pout. “am not. i’m being nice. I’m literally riding you right now, no?”
you reach down and stroke him, spreading the mess, and he jerks like he’s been shocked.
“bun,” he says, and it’s almost a sob. “please. i can’t- i’m so close. just let me-”
you sink down again and ride him slow, the way you know he likes when he’s trying not to come, long deep strokes that make his eyes roll back. you watch him the whole time, the way his chest heaves, the way his lips part. you lean in and kiss him soft open mouthed, and he kisses back like he’s drowning.
you feel him start to pulse inside you, that tell tale flutter, and you lift off completely. he makes a wounded sound and his hands fly to your hips, trying to pull you back down, but you stay up on your knees, looking down at him with your lower lip between your teeth.
“not yet,” you whisper.
harry’s eyes are glassy. “i’m gonna die.”
“no you’re not.”
“i am. you’re killing me. you’re the meanest little thing-”
you giggle and kiss his nose. “what? only you get to be mean?”
something in his face shifts. the calm cracks. for a second he just stares at you, breathing hard, and then his hands tighten and he flips you.
the world tilts. your back hits the mattress and he’s over you in a heartbeat, shoving your thighs open with his knees. one hand plants beside your head. the other comes down in a sharp slap against the soft inside of your thigh, loud in the quiet room. the sting blooms hot and you gasp, eyes going wide and wet.
“only i get to be mean? is that right?” he repeats
you nod, lower lip trembling, already getting teary because the slap surprised you and because he’s looking at you like that. “y-yeah. only you.”
“then why have you been torturing me for half a fucking hour, huh?” another slap, same spot, and you jump. “sitting on my cock like it’s a toy. pulling off every time i get close. making those little sweet sounds like you’re not the one driving me insane.”
you hiccup. the tears spill over. “i was just playing-”
“you were being a spoiled little brat,” he says, and he lines himself up and sinks in with one long thrust that punches the air out of your lungs. “and i’m done. you don’t get to play anymore.”
he starts fucking you. every thrust makes the bed creak and your breath stutter. you try to say something, maybe an apology, maybe his name, but he leans down and covers your mouth with his hand.
“you fucking shut up until i come. not a peep. not a sound. you had your fun. now it’s my turn.”
your eyes go huge. another hiccup tries to escape and you swallow it, nodding frantically under his palm. he keeps his hand there while he fucks you, watching your face, watching the way your eyes water every time he bottoms out. the slap marks on your thigh are already pink. you can feel how wet you are, how easy he slides in and out, the filthy sound of it filling the room.
he lasts longer than you expected. maybe because you edged him so hard, maybe because he’s stubborn. he keeps the same relentless pace, hips snapping, free hand gripping the back of your thigh to keep you open. every time a little sound tries to slip past his fingers he presses harder and gives you a look that says don’t you dare.
you stay quiet. you stay good. the only sounds are the wet slap of skin and his breathing and the occasional broken groan he can’t quite swallow. your tears keep slipping out the corners of your eyes and he leans down once to lick one away
when he finally starts to lose it you feel it in the way his rhythm stutters, the way his hand flexes against your mouth. his forehead drops to yours. his eyes are squeezed shut.
“gonna come,” he breathes, almost like he’s warning you. “gonna fill you up. you’ve been so fucking mean and now you’re gonna take it.”
you nod under his hand, eyes wet and shiny, and he thrusts once, twice more before he buries himself deep and comes with a long, wrecked sound against your cheek. you feel every pulse of it, the hot spill inside you, the way his whole body shudders. he keeps his hand over your mouth the entire time, riding it out, until the last tremor leaves him and he collapses over you breathing hard.
for a long minute neither of you moves. then his hand slips away from your mouth and he kisses you soft, apologetic almost, tasting the salt of your tears.
“okay,” he murmurs, voice gone gentle again. “you can talk now, baby.”
you hiccup once more, soft and watery. “wasn’t trying to be mean by the way.”
he laughs, quiet and tired, and presses a kiss to your forehead. “i know. you’re just a little spoiled thing who likes to see me suffer.”
you nod against his cheek. “only a little.”
he stays inside you while he softens, stroking your hair, murmuring soft things against your skin until the hiccups stop and your breathing evens out. when he finally pulls out the mess spills between your thighs and he makes a quiet sound of satisfaction at the sight of it.
he cleans you up with a warm washcloth from the bathroom, gentle now, careful around the pink mark on your thigh. then he pulls the sheets up over both of you and tucks you against his chest, one big hand spanning the small of your back.
“remind me to never let your ass on top again,” he says into your hair already half asleep.
Exposition - The Reviews Are In... (Harry Styles Smut)
The Reviews are In... Masterlist, Main Masterlist, or join my tag list
Summary: In the summer of 1987, Charlie is promoting her debut novel, traveling across America in her beat up car, trying to make a single sale. Notorious book critic, Harry Styles, has just published his negative review of her book and Charlie is starting to feel disillusioned with her dreams. Emotions run high when Harry shows up at her signing, grilling her about the plot holes in her story, and Charlie refuses to let him have the last word.
19.4k words (uuuuuuhhhhhhh my bad?)
A/N: so this kinda took over my life for a while 😅 i really feel i put my whole fucking pussy into this one so i hope y'all enjoy it! based on this request
C/W: smut, dry humping, degrading talk, grinding on a shoe, hate fucking, p-in-v penetration, doggy style, smoking, drinking, Harry's an asshole, cursing
”Are you sure?” Ruby asked, nervously glancing at her old playmate. He’d grown since the last time she’d seen him, his nose fit better on his face, his eyes didn’t seem so far apart now. But when he met her gaze, he still held that childlike whimsy that she had fallen in love with all those years ago.
“No,” Jonathan said. “But I’m game for one last adventure, if you are.”
“And that’s the end of chapter one,” Charlie announced, closing the book. It was still surreal to see it, her own name printed across the bottom of the cover in swoopy, white font. “Traumatized” by Charlotte Hewitt.
After reading through the first chapter, her throat ached less than it did the first time, she only messed up one word, and, this time, no coughs or snores interrupted her. While she was taking a sip from her water bottle, soft applause from the sparse crowd began, waking up the homeless man who had fallen asleep in the back row. It was a little louder today, a tiny accomplishment she’d convinced herself was important.
“I think we’ll open it up to questions, now,” the book seller prompted, nodding toward the crowd, where a few eager hands leapt up into the air. “Yes, the gentleman in red.”
Standing up, the young man tugged nervously on the hem of his red sweatshirt, a college logo stitched across his chest, pushing up his glasses as he cleared his throat. “Yeah, um- I’m an aspiring author myself, and I was wondering, what was the hardest part about getting your book signed?”
Charlie offered a pinched smile at the stranger, recalling her agent’s advice. The crowd's going to be mostly stragglers, people looking for a seat or people who want to know how to get their own books published. They’re not going to ask about the book, they don’t care about your book, they care about their book. At the time, the advice felt harsh yet realistic, and that was exactly why she had chosen Janet as her representation, so she would give her the hard truth. But Charlie had underestimated her warnings, a hopeful flutter that she would be different, that her debut novel would be an instant success. The childhood dream of a best selling book, of ending up on the New York Times’ Best Seller’s List, of having captivated the entire world with her story was a difficult one to let go of, at first. Reality’s harsh slap was still hard to face.
Fifteen stops into her book tour and she still hadn’t been asked a single question about her book.
“Well, personally, I thought the hardest part was selling the story. Publishers aren’t going to want to publish your book, you have to convince them that they want to publish your book. I’d recommend taking a course in sales, just to be safe,” she joked. Charlie had workshopped that one on the road between trips six and seven, having been asked some variation of the same thing over and over. If she were going to be answering the same questions, she might as well have her fun with it.
No one laughed.
“I’m already in business school,” the stranger deadpanned, his face scrunching in confusion.
“Right,” she nodded. She'd have to keep workshopping that one.
Hands shot back up in the air, more questions people want answered about their stories, their writing process, their struggles in getting published. While she sympathized with them, familiar with how it felt to be on the other side, she wanted more. She wanted questions that dug deeper into her character’s motivations, she wanted fans that asked about her writing process or about her inspirations, she wanted people who cared about her story an inkling as much as she did.
Years of work, countless late nights spent over her typewriter, careful with each letter pressed, weaving together the story of Ruby Wright and Jonathan James, old schoolmates who revisit the haunted house that plagued their morning walks to school. Both of them get trapped inside, having to relive their worst childhood memories until they can work through them and escape.
After mailing in her first draft to her publisher, it then took another year of back and forth with their in-house editor, tearing her story to shreds, removing segments she had lovingly crafted, using multiple bottles of whiteout to erase her hard work, scrubbing the whole book until it was unrecognizable. They knew better, though, she told herself, while reading one of the final drafts of her story which only retained half of the original work. If she wanted to be successful, she had to follow their advice. The final project ended up feeling like a shell of the story she had originally made, a doppelganger of her work, familiar but with an undercurrent of something foul and wrong. Yet it was still her baby, her precious, little child, and in the end, she was proud of herself for publishing it.
“Hi, um, my name’s Felicity,” the next person said, waving as they introduced themselves. “Which authors would you recommend reading?”
Again, Janet’s voice rings in her head. They don’t care about your answers, they just want to be told they’re reading the right things.
“I recommend reading anything you can,” she encouraged, her fake smile wavering a bit at the answer, “from Kurt Vonnegut to Stephen King to Kathleen Woodiwiss, anything's good so long as it gets your brain flowing.”
The guest sat back down, satisfied with the sanitized answer.
While Charlie was laying in the uncomfortable motel bed the previous night, she ran through the list of questions she wished she were being asked, rehearsing the answers she wanted to give. What section of the book was the hardest to write? The scene where Ruby had to watch herself lash out at her father the night before he died. What was your inspiration for the story? The book’s an attempt to solve a childhood mystery. Growing up near a haunted house, she wanted to brag, she always wondered what was inside. If you could change one thing about the book, what would it be? The romance at the end, the one thing she regretted letting her editor talk her into. But they said a woman-written story was a harder sell without romance, that it was expected of her sex, so she complied, manipulating the two leads into some corny romcom knockoff version of themselves.
Pointing towards the back, the book seller leaned to the right to make eye contact with her intended target, her beige cardigan slipping off her shoulder. “And you, sir, in the blue jacket in the back?”
He doesn't even stand. “Yes, I had a question regarding Ruby’s decision in chapter 28.”
Instantly, Charlie perked up in recognition, her spine straightening as she twisted in her seat, trying to get a good look at the first person to talk about her book. He knew the character's name and that was enough to make her believe she had a fan. Plus, that deep accent lured her in like honey to flies. “Yes?”
“Up until that point, Ruby had been very honest, almost obnoxiously so, but when she sees an opportunity to escape without Jonathan, she chooses to leave him behind, and at no point does she show remorse for this choice, nor do we see her face any consequences. Are we supposed to read Ruby as an unreliable narrator or did you forget about her entire character halfway though?” As soon as he's done asking, he leaned to the side, his smug face appearing behind one of the other attendees.
Harry Styles, one of the literary reviewers for the New Yorker, was currently sitting in at her author meet-and-greet, interrogating her on her story.
Most authors hoped to avoid the wrath of Styles' strict star system, his thoroughly scathing reviews known to tank a career before it began. And published just that morning, it was her turn to face his judgement.
Waking up extra early to avoid the New York crowds, braving the chilly dawn, she had picked up the brand new edition, the glossy paper crinkling between her fingers as Charlie read what he thought about her book.
This debut novel is hopefully the last time we'll be subjected to Charlotte Hewitt’s boring ideas and trite endings. Hewitt jumps around from scene to scene, never allowing the audience to just sit with the characters and get to know them, thus making them resemble shallow husks of people. Instead of making the audience reflect on their past, it leaves the reader with the question of why should I care? Why should I care to follow a couple of whiny twenty-somethings who spend most of the novel navel-gazing at each other instead of working through their childhood trauma like the book promises? The true horror isn’t in the house, it’s the sloppy writing within this book. ★☆☆☆☆
One hundred words is all it took to kill her career. If she had known it would be so easy, Charlie would’ve written them herself.
She hadn’t yet paid the newsstand for the magazine, and she wasn’t about to pay $2 to own this thorough ass-beating in print. So when the newsstand owner was helping another patron, Charlie had turned around, ripping out the page when a bus passed by, using the loud engine to cover up the sound of her crime. Then she stuffed the magazine back on the rack, crumbling the torn page between her fist and hiding it in her pocket. She hung around the stand a while longer, hoping she came off as inconspicuous before heading back to the motel, where she read the review until she had it memorized.
The worst part was she didn’t disagree. When she had first finished writing her book, she had been so eager to get it published, to finally realize her dream, it was only now that Charlie realized just how much of her story she had given up. She recalled the plotlines she dropped in favor of a romance she didn’t want, little moments that she was told bloated the story too much despite the details she thought they provided. Ruby’s addiction, for example, a trait that had to be erased in order for the book to sell, so she’d been told.
She almost cancelled the event today, wanting to wrap herself up in the shame of her first review instead of facing another lackluster crowd of disinterested readers. Until her emotions shifted.
Who the hell was Harry Styles? Why did he hold so much weight over her book? Who even reads the New Yorker? So what if he didn’t like it? If he couldn’t see the layers of depth she weaved into the story, it was his loss. That frustration built into something sharper, stronger, a surge of undue confidence powering her to get out of bed, put on the businesswoman attire her agent insisted she buy (It'll make you seem more professional!), and attend her book signing with her head held high.
Sitting in that cherry red plastic chair, staring down at the man responsible for her career death, Charlie felt all that frustrated energy return.
She recognized him from the tiny headshot they printed next to his review, smiling as if he was proud of his work, proud of his rating, proud of the decimation of her book. He’s wearing that same smile now, framed by his thick mustache, goading at her with a raised brow. His hair was cropped short up top with more length at the back. For a pompous asshole, he wasn’t dressed like one. With a blue windbreaker zipped up all the way, a pair of Wayfarer sunglasses sitting atop his head, he looked like he’s prepared to go to the gym, like his decision to ruin her event happened on a whim. His jeans were distressed with wear, the color washed out and the ends frayed. It was his shoes that broke the casual illusion, though. Leather loafers donned his feet, and not the fake stuff Charlie bought from thrift stores, real leather.
Someone cleared their throat, the crowd growing wary as Charlie sat there silently. Janet’s words rang through her head. If someone gets angry, or bored, just respond neutrally and deflect. We cause problems, we don’t sell books.
Charlie blinked once, twice, buying herself some time, trying to come up with an answer, completely unprepared to defend her book in front of an audience. “I-um…” she stalled, tugging on the sleeves of her blazer before clearing her throat. “I think it shows how sometimes, our um,” she swallowed, starting over. “It shows how, in certain situations, people can be pushed to a point of breaking… parts of themselves th-that they thought were um… really important to them. We’ve all gone through… something like that, right?” She nodded, like it would add more levity to her answer.
“Sure, but,” he argued back, sitting up in his seat, “Ruby is rewarded for this behavior. Jonathan still loves her even after she almost abandoned him to die, no question?”
Sensing the brewing tensions, the bored crowd grew more interested, looking between the two of them.
“Maybe Jon um…” she paused, waving her hand around to try to make an answer appear. “Maybe Jon is more forgiving than you give him credit for. Let's move on to someone else,” Charlie nodded at the book seller, who had also become enrapt with their dispute.
“Oh!” she squeaked, running a hand through her brunette waves. “Yes, that's right, more questions.” She clapped her hands together, like a teacher getting her students' attention.
No hands raised. Harry's questions broke the illusion that Charlie knew what she was doing. They didn't want to take advice from a bad author. The longer the silence remained, the more awkward and embarrassed Charlie felt, shifting nervously in her seat.
Then an arm in the back, with a blue jacket sleeve, tentatively lifted into the air, his smirk barely restrained.
The book seller looked back to Charlie, wide-eyed before turning back to the audience. “Yes, sir?”
“I had another question regarding chapter 16. Unless, of course, Miss Hewitt isn't interested in answering my questions,” Harry said, placing a hand over his chest in a mockery of insult, offering her a foxlike smile.
Swallowing down the insults she wanted to yell at him, Charlie held back her eye roll as she nodded her head. “Go on.”
“You said Jon is more forgiving?”
“Yes. Next-”
“But chapter 16 is him dealing with the fact he hasn't forgiven his mother for walking out on him and his dad, and then Ruby abandons him, and that doesn't affect him?” Harry questioned. “Why not?”
The real answer was because the scene had been deleted, discarded to streamline the romance ending her publisher wanted. When the story was first written, it was a moment of testing their friendship, showing a relationship pushed to the very brink after a very tense fight. But when the romance had been added, the fight had been dropped in favor of a sex scene her publisher had insisted on. What had meant to be a commentary on the limits of friendship and loyalty, had become, as Harry pointed out, a completely out of character moment for an otherwise honest do-gooder like Ruby. She remembered the note her editor left in the margins, a red pen slashing through the pages. Don't need all this, it's going to bore them.
“Well, the point of him going through that was so he could learn how to forgive his mom, so that's how he can forgive Ruby.”
“That doesn't come through in the writing.” He shook his head. “The book feels too rushed, like it's racing toward this ending it hasn't earned.”
“According to you,” she mumbled too loudly, the words slipping out.
Surprised intrigue flashed across his face before a bite of laughter came out like a scoff. “Excuse me?”
Clenching her hands together tighter, Charlie stared down at him, her gaze blazing with simmering rage. “Did you ever consider that maybe you’re not the target audience of this book, and that’s why it didn’t connect with you. It’s not a story meant for those who are, y'know, devoid of human emotions.”
A susurrus of laughter bubbled among the crowd, covering their mouths in an attempt to mask the sound, to make sure they didn't miss anything. Their entertainment did nothing to soothe Charlie’s anger, though, fury radiating off her skin like steam.
“Oh, so you want people without brains to read your story?”
“No, I want people who have empathy to read it.”
“Yet, you don’t give empathy to your characters,” he challenged. “If you wanted people to empathize with Ruby, you should’ve made her a real character, not this infallible, selfish person who gets rewarded for her shitty behavior.”
“And what would you like me to do about that now,” she nearly shouted through her clenched teeth, scooping up the bits of her remaining professionalism to tack on a pointed, “…sir?”
Harry looked around the room, at the audience who was drawn into every syllable, enjoying the fight like it’s prime time. Lifting his shoulders in an arrogant shrug, he said, “Write a better book next time.” Then, he stood up, and walked away, hands stuffed into his jacket pockets. He couldn't even do her the courtesy of leaving. Instead, he lingered around the book shelves, perusing through the aisles like he was going to buy something, straggling close enough to overhear the silence he had left behind.
Charlie’s body vibrated with furious shame. The crowd, without their provided entertainment, lost their interest once again, their attention waned, looking for something new to preoccupy them. Harry had convinced them that she’s a fraud, their already low opinion of her had stooped even lower. That public beatdown was certainly not going to convince anyone to buy her book.
The kid in the red sweater got up and jogged after Harry, pulling a small notepad out of his pocket, nervously handing it over to him. Charlie watched as Harry nodded with a smile, looping the pen across the blank page before offering the young man a handshake.
She couldn't fucking believe it, he was giving an autograph at her book signing.
“Um… I think…” the book seller stammered, scrambling to think of what to do next, but Charlie was already standing up, walking off the platform, her kitten heels clicking on the wood. “Um… we’re going to take a ten minute break and then we’ll have a table ready for autographs with the author if anyone would like to snag a copy-”
Charlie made her way to the back of the book store, entering into the Employees Only room, where she had previously stashed her purse. It was no movie star green room, but applying her hot pink lipstick in the finger-streaked mirror, she had felt something akin to that level of stardom, deluding herself that this event would be different, this would be the one to change everything.
In a way, she wasn’t wrong.
Tearing through her faux leather handbag, her hands brushed over old gas station receipts, gum wrappers, and a bunch of other trash she always said she was gonna deal with but never did. When she still couldn’t find her cigarettes, she gripped the bottom of the bag, where a large crack ripped across the fabric, turning it over and shaking out all of its contents, letting her things spill onto the linoleum as she searched for the carton. Eventually, it tumbled out, landing on top of the pile of garbage, the cellophane wrap making it appear shiny in the fluorescent light. Grabbing the box, she opened it to reveal all that remained were the old, spent filters.
“Dammit,” she cursed, throwing the box across the room, clattering uselessly on the ground. Leaving the mess where it lay, she headed for the exit, leading into an alley between shops, hoping she could find a stranger who’d be willing to bum her a cigarette.
Charlie hated thinking about how many strangers she owed for their past generosity. The publisher wanted to spend as little money on this book tour as possible, so all the costs fell on Charlie's shoulders to pay. Still, she was determined to do whatever it took despite the hardships. Traveling on the road by yourself sounds fun until you're living it. It wasn’t living in motel rooms and surviving off of fast food that was killing her spirit, it was this constant feeling of waiting, of being stuck in the same loop, wondering when something was going to change.
Her days consisted of waking up on a lumpy mattress, letting the shitty free coffee brew while she showered, brushing her teeth at the same time. Then she’d be out on the road, her Aviators blocking out the harsh sun as she drove across America in her Ford Pinto. The windows would be down because the AC was broken, the state map would be laid out across the passenger seat, held down by cassette tapes and greasy fast food bags, and Charlie would belt out Heart’s new single every time it came on the radio, her voice discordant with Ann Wilson’s. Whenever she'd stop at gas stations, she’d have her fingers crossed that she’d have a dollar to spare so she could buy a pack of Pall Malls. More times than not, she wouldn’t. Thus began her ongoing streak of asking strangers, relying on sheer dumb luck that she’d find some kind soul generous enough to be willing to part with one.
Of course, she wouldn’t be so lucky today.
“Hey.” The accent that had lured her in earlier, now scratched along her back like nails on chalkboard. Leaning up against the wall, cigarette dangling between his lips, was Harry Styles, again.
“You fucking dickweed!” Charlie slammed the door shut, stomping over to him with an accusatory finger pointed at him. Without an audience, she felt free to truly rip into him. “What’s your fucking problem, dude?”
“Whoa, I don’t-” he tried to interject, but she didn’t let him get another word in.
“Who the fuck do you think are? Who died and made you the fucking king of literature? Do you get off on ridiculing people in public, is that it? How often are you doing this shit, huh? Stalking people whose careers you just ruined and then harassing them in front of an audience just to get your rocks off. You’re fucking sick dude, like mentally or something.” He raised a finger, but she continued. “No, and y’know what else, the idea that you're some fucking paradigm of reading, like if we don't please the Book Overlord, then-then our careers are fucking over? That's it, game over, man? Who gave you that authority?” Harry breathed smoke out through his nose, making her itch stronger, only frustrating her more. “And what do you know about writing a book, huh? You only write a paragraph- a hundred words a week, and you think that's an accomplishment? Middle schoolers do that for homework, okay? And just because you think my book is shit, it doesn't mean I do. It doesn't mean someone else won't like it, so who gives a shit what your opinion is? Because who the hell even are you?!”
His brows raised, Harry’s face was otherwise unchanged as he looked down at her, not swayed a bit by her rant. Plucking the cigarette from his lips and releasing a thick plume of smoke, he asked, “Are you done?”
“Blow me!”
“Anything else?”
Releasing a forceful breath, Charlie crossed her arms across her chest. “No.”
“Okay. Can I say something?”
Eyeing the cigarette between his fingers, she bit her lip then sighed. “Only if you give me a cig.”
Harry shook his head, taking another pull. “It's my last one, unless you feel like sharing.” With a smirk, he breathed out the smoke slowly, teasing her with the slow exhale of swirling, grey clouds, extending the half spent drag to her.
Charlie took it without thinking, her need outweighing her pride. The smoke bloomed in her lungs, extending throughout her body in an instant relief of bliss, closing her eyes as she savored the burn. She took her time releasing the smoke from inside, making it linger, unsure of when she'd next feel its gentle embrace. “Go ahead,” she said in a wispy voice, smoke weaving around her teeth as she spoke.
He watched her for a moment, transfixed as her lips curled around the cigarette again, wrapping around the same spot where her lipstick had imprinted into the paper.
“Did you actually forget about Jon’s abandonment issues-” Charlie rolled her eyes, already dreading giving him this much allowance. “-or did your editor tell you to get rid of it?”
Her head quirked to the side, looking him up and down, considering whether to answer truthfully or not. “Why?”
“Because if you forgot about it, then you’re a bad writer. That’s fixable, at least, you could take a class or something,” he said, taking his cigarette back. When he stretched out his arms, Charlie caught the curve of a tattoo jutting out past his watch, concealed by his sleeve. “But if you let your editors convince you to remove a crucial plot point, then that’s worse.”
“Worse how?”
His brow twitched knowingly, catching onto what she wasn't saying. Staring her down, his eyes hardened as he said, “It means you’re spineless.”
Charlie's jaw dropped, taking a step back from him. “Excuse you?!”
Nodding his head, Harry said, “Yeah, you let someone else tell you how your story should be told, published it in that sloppy state, and expected to be praised for compromising like a good, little girl.” He sneered at the last bit, his face scrunched up in mockery. “Well, news flash, you don't have the talent to hide your mistakes and you apparently don't have the backbone to fight for your ideas either, so getting out now, before you make a real fool of yourself, is for the best, really.”
“H-how dare you?!” Mouth agape, Charlie scrambled to come up with a rebuttal, some defense of her book, but he had her dead to rights. Back then, she justified it, telling herself that once she was published, then afterwards, she could write books the way she wanted. Once she was established, she could argue back, fight for the story she wanted to write. But that was all assuming she’d even get that far. “You don't… you don't know me.”
“No, but I know a million people like you,” he pushed back, “who settle, who let others tell them what to do, and they expect that by following all the rules, they'll be handed everything they ever wanted just like that.” He snapped his fingers to emphasize his point. “Without going through any suffering, or struggles at all.”
“You have no idea what I've been through-”
“No, but I can tell you what your book says about you. You think we should forgive everyone and hold hands singing Kumba-fucking-ya, like it's an episode of ‘The Brady Bunch’ or something. And if I'm not the right demographic, then you might wanna drop that scene with Jonathan's rippling abdominals, that's not exactly kid appropriate.”
With a groan, she snatched the cigarette back. “God, don't remind me of that scene.”
“See, that's what I mean!” he exclaimed, laughing when she glared up at him through her lashes. “You shouldn't be upset that a scene exists in your book.”
“Oh, and you're such an expert?” she said sarcastically, speaking around the drag.
“That's what my paychecks say.”
“Then why haven't you written your own book? If you think it's so easy, why stick to writing reviews?” Lifting her hand to her mouth and faking a gasp, Charlie took on a mocking tone. “Is it because all you're good at is criticizing others and you don't have any original ideas of your own?”
Harry scoffed, though something unpleasant twinged across his face. “For your information, I am writing my own book. I just don't want to rush it.”
Charlie let out a harsh clap of laughter that echoed off the brick walls. “So you're paid to criticize people who are doing the very thing you're too scared to do yourself. How ironic. No wonder no one can live up to your standards, you can't even meet them yourself.”
“Now hang on,” he growled, but Charlie didn't give him the space to argue.
“No, y’know what, thank you,” she said, grabbing his hand and shaking it enthusiastically. “Truly, I mean that, thank you, it means so much to know that I've accomplished something you won't. You've really turned my day around, so thank you for that.” Pulling one last hit from the cigarette, she flicked the remainder into a nearby puddle, letting the rest of it degrade in the water. “If you’d like a book signed by a published author, feel free to stop by, I'll be here until 6.” Smug and self-satisfied, she turned to go back into the store, her head held high.
“You're still just a spineless bitch!” Harry called after her, scowling as his last cigarette disintegrated in the water.
Grabbing onto the doorway, she gave him an arrogant smirk. Resorting to name calling meant he had no rebuttal, it meant she won. Victorious, Charlie parted from him with, “And so are you.”
The pointed tip of Charlie's kitten heels pinched her toes together with each step, making the walk back to the motel agonizing. Charlie would have to hope she could find the time to stop by a thrift store before her next stop, hope she'd have enough money to buy some shoes that actually fit, to make her walk of shame from the book store less excruciating. She'd hate to have to call her mom again and ask for another loan, no matter how often her mom reassured her it was fine.
After leaving Harry in that alleyway, Charlie had felt like she was walking on air heading back into the bookstore. For the first five minutes, that elation carried her through the empty signing, eventually sliding back into that sour emotion she was used to, and wallowing in it for the remaining hour. Usually, she'd use the free hour to imagine a different outcome, one where her headshot wasn't from the JCPenney's photo studio, one where her publisher believed in her story enough to finance the book tour, one where she didn't have the time to think of what-could've-beens.
Once again, no one stopped to ask for an autograph, no one bought her book. At this point, it seemed the only people who owned a copy of her book were herself, her mother, and Harry Styles. She wondered if Harry should even count, since he didn't buy the book, it was sent to him for free from her publisher, a special copy delivered to him. Knowing how strongly he felt about the story, she wouldn't be surprised if he had already burned it, banishing her work to hell.
Now that her uninterrupted hour was up, Charlie was headed back for the motel, for another restless night on an uncomfortable bed, the drone of the television rocking her to sleep.
Except she couldn't get Harry's words out of her head.
Write a better book next time.
You're spineless.
His harsh commentary clung to the crevices of her brain, rooting themselves in the grooves, sowing more seeds of doubt. Charlie had always figured that getting published first would be the hard part, that if she could surpass this one roadblock, that it would be smooth sailing from then on. She believed getting her name out there was most important, that she could focus on the quality later, once she had established herself. Harry's perspective made her question her beliefs.
Would it have been better to fight for the version of the story she wanted to be told? Had she blinded herself with the gilded allure of fame and fortune only to sacrifice her vision?
Maybe her plan was flawed, not as thought out as she had once believed, but it was too late to be worrying about the mistakes she might've made. The book was published, it was already out there, there was nothing she could do about it now. What she needed to focus on was getting Harry's obnoxious accent out of her head.
So when she turned onto the street where her motel loomed, instead of turning in and locking herself away for the night, keeping the cockroaches on the ceiling company, she detoured over to the even seedier looking pub across the street, the flickering neon sign calling to her like a moth to a flame. Stained glass windows adorned the top of the building, high enough to not risk breaking during a bar fight, dark mold crowding around the edges. Years of vomit stains littered the ground, long since baked into the concrete, their crude smell revived under the hot sun. Smoke wafted out from the door as someone slipped out, fisting some change from their pocket as they stumbled over to the payphones on the corner of the street.
Charlie knew the only way she would be able to afford a drink or two was if someone took pity and bought them for her. Sneaking off to the side of the building, she fished out her compact mirror, assessing her makeup with a critical eye underneath the overhead light. Her foundation had started to melt in some places but the low lights of the bar would help to cover that up. Reapplying another layer of lipstick, she made sure none of it spread to her teeth before flipping her head back and forth, causing her curly hair to poof out more. Tugging off her blazer jacket, she pulled out the additional shoulder pads she had added on with velcro, stuffing the puffy fabric down the front of her dress, adjusting her breast to make the enlarged curve appear more natural. Satisfied with her enhancements, Charlie patted her bolstered breasts for good luck and headed inside.
The pub carried the exact level of grime Charlie was looking for. Dusty fingerprints collected on top of the jukebox, something sticky on the floor clung to the bottom of her heels, and the man at the bar looked as if he’d been working there all his life. There was a permanent haze of smoke, the smell thick as she walked through it. Most of the patrons were older men with graying beards and burgeoning beer bellies. They were nursing their second or third drink, inebriated enough to become pliable in Charlie's hands. Here is where she would find someone who would make her forget all about non-existent book sales and asshole British reviewers.
Casting a glance around the room, she looked for her target, the man she could temporarily woo long enough to get a couple of free drinks when she spotted an all too familiar face, and his stupid blue jacket draped across the table.
In the back of the pub, hiding away in a booth, Harry leaned in to whisper to the older woman sitting next to him, her manicured hand covering her mouth as she giggled. His fingers were already weaving into her dyed red hair, twirling the wispy strands to pull her closer into him. They were sitting so close together, they were passing breaths between them. Her leopard print dress was so tight on her body, her large boobs squished up against her chest in a ridiculously obscene way, and Harry kept unsubtly peeking at them.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Charlie muttered to herself before storming over to his booth, raising her voice so she could be heard over the Billy Joel song booming from the speakers. “So what, you're actually stalking me now?”
“What the fuck are you doing here?”
“No, this is some serial killer shit, like what the hell is wrong with you?” Turning to the red head beside him, Charlie gave the older woman a warning. “You need to watch out for him.”
“Don't talk to her,” he snarled but Charlie ignored him. Stuck physically in between them, the woman's head swiveled back and forth, trying to keep up with both conversations.
“He's been following me around all day, harassing me-”
“No, I haven't!”
“He's seriously disturbed!”
“Shut up!”
“Don’t tell me to shut up, you dick!”
“You’re the one who followed me, creep! I was here first!”
“Yeah, probably waiting for your prey to show up!”
“Is there a problem here?”
Spinning around, Charlie found herself face to face with the bartender. His long white hair was tied back in a ponytail, his shirt was completely clean of any stains, and his glare was as sharp as the knife on his belt, his thumb grazing along the handle in a quiet threat.
“We’re fine, Cliff,” Harry said with a tight voice, his finger tapping impatiently against the table, suddenly aware of the crowd that was watching the whole altercation.
Cliff crossed his arms across his chest, giving them all a disapproving glance. “Well, I suggest we all decide if we wanna shut the fuck up and buy a drink or if we wanna get the fuck out of here.”
"Yeah, I think I'm going to leave,” the red head said, grabbing onto her purse straps as she stood up. With a pointed look, she knocked her shoulders in Charlie's, leaving behind a trail of her powerful perfume.
“Penny, wait.” Harry called after her, but she was already making a beeline for the door, not bothering to look back. Releasing a sigh, he hung his head dejectedly.
“And what about you, miss?” Cliff asked, turning all his attention onto Charlie. “Are you staying or going?”
“Um…” Licking her lips, Charlie looked around the bar, avoiding the gaze of everyone watching. She could pull out her wallet, dramatically count up all her spare change, make a larger spectacle than she already had, but she had been embarrassed enough for one day. “I'll um…” From the corner of her eye, she noticed Harry shift in his seat, only making her embarrassment sharpen. She sighed in defeat, looking down at her feet. “I'll be goi-”
“Get her something cheap and put it on my tab.”
Charlie didn't dare look at him, pursing her lips to hold back the curse on the tip of her tongue. Did he believe swooping in to save her like a knight in shining armor was supposed to win her over, that it was going to make her forgive him for earlier?
Cliff uncrossed his arms, raising a bushy brow at Harry. “You mean you're actually gonna pay your tab?”
“I mean, eventually,” Harry shrugged, a friendly smile pulling on his lips. “C'mon, Cliff, I owe her.”
“Now that I believe,” Cliff said with a deep chuckle. With the bartender put at ease, the regulars returned to their own conversations, complaining about the humdrum of their lives or repeating jokes from last night’s episode of Cheers. Cliff patted her shoulder as he passed by, “Anyone who keeps him in line is welcome here.”
Shuffling in her spot, Charlie remained standing, pretending to play with her purse strap, pretending to be interested in the music transitioning from Billy Joel to Roy Orbison, pretending Harry's stare wasn't burning into the side of her head.
“You could say thank you.”
That made her turn around, scowling at him. “And you could be less of an asshole.”
“And I could change my mind about the beer,” he threatened. When Charlie offered him no rebuttal, he indicated to the seat across from him in offering, moving his jacket off the table, and into the empty space beside him.
Not willing to put her drink at risk, Charlie repented, sliding across the vinyl seat. “… Thank you.” Her feet knocked into his as she slid across the bench, but he said nothing about it, taking a sip from his own beer.
Cliff returned, only remaining long enough to twist off the top of the chilled Budweiser bottle, before returning to the bar. Charlie had an easier time thanking Cliff than she did Harry, sounding much more sincere in her gratitude. Lifting the bottle to her lips, the alcohol doesn’t even burn her throat on the way down.
Reaching into his jacket pocket, Harry pulled out a new box of cigarettes, tearing the cellophane tab off. Charlie couldn’t stop her gaze from following his hands as they plucked out a fresh drag, bringing it up to his lips, making her skin feel itchy with need. Trying to curb her desire, Charlie took a long swig of her drink, waiting for the buzz to kick in, to muddle her desires. His thumb flicked across the lighter, sparking to life as he lit the cigarette. The smoke unfurled from the burning tip, floating up towards the light above. Charlie tracked its movement as it stretched, swirling in the lampshade before dissipating.
Still, Harry says nothing, occasionally swiveling his head between the cigarette in one hand and the beer in the other. Charlie tapped the table with her nail, antsy for him to say something, anything! He didn’t even offer her a pull from the cigarette, hoarding the cancer stick all to himself.
While waiting for him to do something, she watched him through the cigarette haze. In the soft yellow light, his harsh features had softened. The pale green eyes that had accosted her from across a room with a burning passion had simmered, dragging over her with mild interest. When his rosy pink lips wrapped around the filter and he breathed in the nicotine, his face slimmed marginally, making his jawline appear more defined. Then he brought the bottle up, his facial hair shaping around the lip of the drink. He wore a black knit sweater, the collar of a button down sticking out the top, a much more refined look than his jacket advertised.
Charlie wasn’t sure how long she sat there, how long she entertained his ignorance, how long she remained his silent company before she started to feel like a fool. She found herself asking what she was doing here? Why was she giving in to him? Was he just wasting more of her time, and if so, why?
Eventually, she sighed, reaching for her belongings laid out beside her. “Well, thank you for the drink, but I think I’m gonna go-”
“That scene when Ruby sees her mom in the hospital, and for a moment, her mom becomes her grandma? Was that just to show the repeated cycle of death or did your editor cut something there?”
Charlie’s eyes shot back up to him, a feeling reminiscent of that hopeful flutter in her chest from the signing beating in her chest again. It was indescribable, the instant connection she felt with him when he mentioned details from her book, her story tethering them together, like a secret amongst friends. His knowledge of something that existed only in her head for so long, something he and only a handful of other people knew about, made her feel like he knew an intimate part of herself. “You… noticed that?”
“Of course I did. I read the bloody awful thing, didn’t I?”
The back and forth was going to give her whiplash. He played with her feelings like a cat, baiting her with questions about her story to keep her around for long enough to ambush her with his criticism. “Is it impossible for you to keep your thoughts to yourself?”
Bringing the cigarette to his lips, he flicked his eyes up to her as he inhaled, his cheeks sucked in, elongating his face. Releasing the smoke with a barely contained smirk, he raised a brow as his heated gaze ran over her body before locking back onto hers, his shoulders lifting casually. “Sometimes.” He let the word hang in the space between them, let it marinate in the tension, before shifting his gaze. “But, seriously, the hospital…”
She didn’t want to answer him. There had to be some trap he was laying, ready to snap and make her doubt her writing skills but then she asked herself When will there be another opportunity to talk about my book? So, Charlie conceded. “Yeah, that was meant to show that Ruby's repeating the same patterns as her mom. She doesn't want to be like her mom, but her mom didn't want to be like her mom. There was going to be this throughline about addiction running through her family and I wanted to have Ruby see herself in the hospital bed, but uh…” Charlie paused, before begrudgingly admitting, “…my editor said to drop it.”
“Really?” Harry asked incredulously, a laugh tacked on at the end. “Who the fuck is this editor and why the hell did you go with him?”
“I didn’t choose her, she’s my publisher’s editor.”
“And who's your publisher?”
“Pony Club Publishing.”
He huffed out a breath of smoke. “Never heard of them.”
She was long used to that answer, along with giving her usual response. “They're a small publisher from Iowa focusing on uplifting new voices-”
“No, I'm saying, I haven't heard of them, which means you’re wasting your time being signed with them,” Harry said. “You’re better off getting signed to one of the big publishers before My Little Pony Publishing goes out of business.”
Charlie scoffed. “Yeah, that sounds nice, in theory. But it’s not so simple,” she explained. “They have to want to sign you.” Talking about it brought up those hurt feelings, the months of rejection letter after rejection letter. As the rejections piled higher, she wondered if she should quit, her dreams unachievable, her writing subpar. When the letter from Pony Club Publishing came in, eager to publish her work, Charlie thought she was finally about to make her dream a reality.
Harry shrugged, unmoved by her explanation. “Doesn’t sound that hard.”
Lifting her beer, Charlie pressed the chilled bottom to her forehead, hoping it would help cool the angry heat rising in her body. “Sure, yeah, y’know what, you’re right, I wasted months of my life trying to get my book published when I should’ve just gotten signed the very first time. Thank you for the advice.”
“I’m pretty sure if you had dropped that shitty romance, it would’ve been picked up sooner,” he said confidently.
She laughed mirthfully, cocking her head to the side. “Shows what you know. The publisher insisted on the romance ending.”
“Are you serious? Is your publisher allergic to good ideas?”
“Careful, you almost said I have good ideas,” Charlie pointed out, finishing off her drink.
Again, he shrugged. “Never said you didn’t.”
Charlie barked a laugh so loud, it rang out throughout the whole bar, making Harry blush furiously as people turned to stare at them. “You made an absolute fool of me, ridiculing me in front of an audience, telling everyone I’m a shitty writer-”
“I never said that.” He took a deep sip of his drink nonchalantly.
“You said I should write a better book.”
Swallowing down his beer, he hummed, nodding his head. “Yeah, better than whatever the hell it was you published, but the idea itself was sound.”
That made Charlie pause. The first compliment her book received and it was wrapped in utter contempt.
Harry took her silence as permission to continue. “When I read your synopsis, I was hooked,” he said. “I wanted to like it, but then it sucked, like really, it blew chunks.” Charlie's face drooped, annoyed with his constant need to attack. “And yet, I still keep thinking about it, like there’s something just beneath the surface that I’m missing. Turns out, there is, but you let yourself be talked out of those interesting ideas and cowered to your publisher, even though I can't think of a single other book they've published.”
His argument made too much sense. Charlie had been so excited to be signed, she ignored a lot of warning signs and she had complied all too willingly. Never once had she considered they had no idea what they were doing. Because Harry was right, what other books had they published? Charlie remembered the promotional material they sent once she agreed to work with them, with a list of names touted as their other clients, proof of their success. But as she racked her brain, none of the names were familiar, not a single title recognizable.
“And that's why I'm waiting to publish my own book, so I don't make rookie mistakes like that.”
Just like that, all her self-pitying vanished. Harry wasn't being helpful, he wasn't earnestly offering her advice, he was just being a dick!
Charlie scoffed. “Yeah, is that the excuse you tell yourself? Y’know, it's really fucking pathetic to act all high and mighty about people making mistakes while they do the very thing you're too scared to do yourself.” His smug smile disappeared, his dimples melting back into his cheeks while he glared at her. “You're such a fucking hypocrite, criticizing the people who put themselves out there, who actually share their stories, all while you pretend like you're holding onto this bullshit literary ‘masterpiece' that no one is going to read, because you don't want to face the re-fucking-ality that your book might ‘blow chunks’ too.”
“It’s not going to blow, because-”
“You don’t know that! And you never will if you never publish it! But that’s the thing, isn’t it?” Charlie propped her arms up on the table, leaning closer to him, her voice dropping low into something threatening. “It’s safer to not get it published, because in your mind, it’s a fucking hit, it’s an instant best-seller. And even though you try to talk yourself down, and say that you’d be satisfied with a couple of sales, so long as people really enjoyed the book, there’s the possibility it doesn’t. There’s the possibility that your book doesn’t sell a single copy, that no one gives a shit about it. But, so long as you don’t publish it, you can remain in the fantasy that you’re a better writer than you actually are.”
Harry’s eyes blazed with fury, his nostrils flared with each deep, fiery breath that forced itself out. He sat in his booth glaring at her from across the table, frozen in his rage.
A sense of pride bolstered Charlie’s mood, feeling a smidge better having put Harry in his place. Satisfied with herself, Charlie grabbed her purse, lifting the straps onto her shoulder, before shuffling across the bench seat.
“Where the hell do you think you're going?”
“To the bathroom,” Charlie answered. “And I don't trust you to not go through my shit.” Seeing the cigarette between his fingers, she let her impulsivity win and she snatched the drag from his fingers, taking a long deep inhale before shoving the remainder into his beer.
He rolled his eyes as she walked past him, into the darkened hallway behind him, dirty signs pointing towards the restrooms. Charlie didn’t have to go, she just needed to steal a moment away for herself, to indulge in the vanquishing of her foe. There were two doors at the end of the hall, the right one closed shut with a sickly wet sloshing sound coming from behind it, and the left one slightly ajar and blessedly silent. Shutting the door, Charlie went to lock it only to discover the lock was broken, perpetually spinning the knob to no avail. Giving up, Charlie threw her purse to the ground, throwing her head back as her lips trilled in exasperation.
The bathroom smelt horrifically bad. A couple bugs fluttered around the light, attracted to the bulbs. Years of pee stained the urinal until the porcelain was no longer white and the toilet looked just as filthy. Fingerprints crowded the mirror’s edge, creating a halo.
Walking up to the sink, Charlie turned on the faucet, wetting her fingertips. Looking at her reflection, she pressed her dripping fingers to her forehead, releasing a little groan at the chilled relief. Droplets fell from the top of her head, cascading down her face, tracing around the curves of her cheeks before falling into the basin below.
What was his fucking problem? And what were the odds that Harry just so happened to come to the same bar that was across from her motel? He seemed to be close with the bartender, implying some kind of friendship. Honestly, she was surprised he was capable of making friends. And why did he keep pretending to be interested in her book? Did he really think she had good ideas or was that just a lie? Her mind ran through a million thoughts per minute, trying to puzzle the enigma that was Harry Styles.
Running her hand under the running water again, she repeated the motion, closing her eyes, sighing with a moan, when the door slammed open, startling her.
“You have no idea what you’re talking about!” Harry bellowed, storming up to her with a stern finger.
“What the fuck?!”
“Just because you’re book is a failure-”
“Get out of here!”
“-doesn’t mean mine will be!”
Charlie snorted as she spun to face him, meeting his fierce gaze with her own. “Oh, did I hit a nerve?” she asked, crossing her arms in front of her.
“No!” he argued, his voice pitching defensively before he cleared his throat. “No, you’re just upset that your book-”
“Jesus, you’re obsessed!”
“-was a fucking disaster-”
“You are such a-”
“-and you’re hoping that I-”
“-fucking coward, dude!”
“-end up just- did you call me a coward?”
“Yes, I did!”
Harry huffed out an annoyed laugh. “If I'm a fucking coward, then so are you!”
“Okay,” she shrugged, unbothered by his insult. “Guess we’re both fucking cowards.”
“You're a coward who doesn’t stand for anything.”
“And you're a coward who doesn't go for what he wants.”
“Really?” he seethed, his teeth clenched tightly, stepping closer, encroaching onto her personal space.
Nodding her head, Charlie smirked up at him, repeating herself. “Yup, you're a fucking coward who doesn't go for what he wants and-”
She doesn't get the chance to finish her sentence because Harry's lips smashed into hers, his lips colliding against her teeth before connecting with her lips. The force of the kiss pushed her, taking a step back which Harry matched, intruding into her space. Charlie took another step and so did Harry, repeating the pattern until the sink basin hit the base of her spine, gasping into Harry’s mouth in surprise.
Charlie was acting on pure instinct, naturally responding to the kiss. He tasted so strongly of cigarette smoke, her addiction felt satiated just from his breath. It made her pull him in closer, trying to inhale every bit she could. Her hands dragged through his cropped hair, twisting the short strands in her grip, keeping him there. She could feel his hands move over her body, curving around her hips, cupping her ass and squeezing at the flesh, making her moan.
Harry went to pull back but Charlie followed after him, dipping her tongue out to run across his bottom lip. It’s not until Harry grabbed her chin, his fingers pinching into her cheeks so hard that she had to let him go, whimpering at the loss.
Blinking her eyes open, she’s confronted with something terrifyingly attractive. His lips were shiny with her spit, his hair disheveled from her hand, and his pupils were blown out, making his heady gaze more intense. Then a smirk pulled on his lips. “Still think I’m a coward?”
She didn't want to answer him, her prideful ego not wanting to kowtow to his smug question. A part of her wanted to slug him, and leave. But when his grip tightened, pressing harder on her jaw, testing her limits, she couldn't stop the whine, couldn't stop the clenching of her thighs, couldn't stop the word slipping out pathetically. “Yes.”
“Oh, yeah?” he taunted, tilting her head to the side. Charlie let him, pliant under his touch. Leaning in, Harry's nose trailed up her jawline until his lips were at her ear, whispering, “What makes you say that?” Then, with a low growl, he nipped at her lobe, teething at the skin before releasing with a hot breath.
Charlie shivered when his teeth made contact, swallowing down the moan that dared to escape her. Her brain fought for her to think rationally, reminding her of who he was, the insults he had thrown at her, but her pussy didn't care about any of that. “Is-is that… is that all you wanted?” she panted, trying to sound like she still had a semblance of control over the situation. “Just a-a shitty little kiss? Or are you still holding yourself back?”
His chuckle rumbled deep in his chest, his smoky breath fanning across her collar bone before he clicked his tongue. “Oh I'd love to do more to you, kitten.” Thrusting his hips forward, Charlie gasped at the bulge in his pants that pressed into her pelvis. “Got me all riled up over here. I swear, I've spent half of the day imagining my cock down your throat, just to get you to shut up.” Harry rolled his hips into hers, humping her leg like a dog.
She was salivating at the thought, her own hips starting to move against his, desperately seeking any kind of friction to relieve the ache between her thighs. When she couldn't find any, she petulantly stomped her foot, a weak mewl eking out.
“What is it, kitten?” Harry hiked her leg around his hip, causing her dress to ride up her body, spreading her open more. “You have to use your big girl words and tell me what you want.” Lifting his leg, he pressed his thigh into the open space, forcing her still but the pressure did offer her a modicum of pleasure.
“Y-you can’t-” Charlie swallowed, starting over. “You can’t tell what I want?”
“I want to hear you say it.”
Charlie could feel tears prickling at the back of her eyes. She needed some solace from the arousal twisting in her belly. Her hips wriggled, trying to maneuver themselves in a way to rub against Harry’s thigh but she couldn’t find the right angle, just missing where her clit throbbed. There was only one way to get what she wanted, but her cheeks burned at the idea of giving in to him, of surrendering herself to his whims, of rewarding his behavior.
“I… I want…”
“There you go,” he encouraged with a smirk, roving his lips down her neck.
“I want… to come.” She thought she found a loophole, a work around to get what she wanted while maintaining some integrity.
But it didn’t work out how she planned.
“Well if that’s all you want, I’m sure a big, strong, independent woman like you can figure that out for herself.” Harry started to move his leg, he ever so slightly released his grip on her jaw, gradually backing away from her.
“Wait, no, I-” Charlie grabbed his arms, using her leg to yank him back. She felt a flash of fear at him leaving her in the middle of this lust-fueled frenzy. Her breath shortened, her mind ran through a bunch of different arguments as to why she should let him leave, but all she wanted… “I want you to make me come…” She hated how quickly she bent to him, how demanding she sounded, but she couldn’t risk him walking away, so she added, “…please.”
His dimples dipped into his cheeks as he smirked at her begging. “Since you asked so nicely…” he teased, dragging her crotch over his thigh, finally satiating her desires.
Charlie threw her head back as her body surrendered to his touch, sighing contentedly while her pussy leaked arousal. She let him have control of the rocking of her hips over his jeans, letting him set the pace, the pressure. Her clit mashed into the meat of his leg, rubbing against the denim.
“That's it, kitty.” Harry dipped his head to kiss down her neck. “Does that feel good?” Charlie hummed, making his lips vibrate against her throat, the sound echoing off the tiles until Harry stopped, forcing her hips to a halt. “C'mon, kitten, use your words and tell me how good it feels,” he demanded with a growl, nipping at her jaw.
Most of the men Charlie had been with didn't care for her opinion, they'd just manhandle her into their preferred position and have their way. She wasn't used to her sexual partners asking for her input. “Y-yeah, it feels good, feels really good,” Charlie rushed out, willing to agree to anything, so long as he'd go back to ruining her.
“Really good, huh?” Harry hitched his knee, making Charlie bounce on the muscle, her whines coming out in time with each hit. “Now do you want it like this…” Then he adjusted, pressing his thick shaft along her pelvis, causing her to grind on his cock. “… or do you want this?”
The head of his dick brushed over her pulsating clit, her nerves going wild over the contact. Even through her cotton panties and her bright colored tights, the weight of him pressed on her sensitive bud. She could feel herself slipping, her hold on reality loosening, relinquishing to the pleasure as it spread throughout her body. Closing her eyes, her brain started to shut down, succumbing to Harry’s thrusts.
Until Harry pinched at her chin again, redirecting her gaze to his own. “C’mon pet, don’t get dumb on me now. Tell me how you want it.”
She blinked up at him, her mouth flapping uselessly as she tried to come up with an answer. Charlie never had to tell a man how to pleasure her, they usually made their best guess, pumped themselves a few times and then finished, leaving Charlie to sort herself out once they had left. Yet, here Harry was, insisting she be an active participant in her orgasm. Maybe foreplay did exist outside of Penelope Neri’s books.
“Um… I-I-I like it um… when you um…” She couldn’t say it. Her tongue got all twisted up as she tried to speak, unable to say the words aloud. It was one thing in writing, putting down the dirty thoughts in her head onto the page, the keys typing out each filthy word, imprinting them onto the paper, but to speak it aloud, to ask for it, to beg for it, that was a humiliation Charlie hadn’t expected to face, especially after all the embarrassment she’d already been through today. She swallowed thickly, casting her gaze down in shame.
“You’ve got it,” Harry encouraged her, nudging his nose against hers. “You like it when I… do this?” Rolling his hips, he rutted into her, the head of his cock playing with her clit.
Moaning at the movement, Charlie nodded. “Yeah, yeah, I like that.”
“Tell me why.”
With an irritable whine, Charlie shook her head. She didn’t want to narrate her pleasure, she wanted to get lost in it.
“Tell me or I stop.”
It was an effective threat, the mere suggestion made her knees weak. Reaching back, Charlie braced herself on the sink basin, gripping onto the porcelain for support. “I-it feels good when-when you um-” Clearing her throat, she powered through her discomfort and made herself continue. “When you hump me and-and-and you rub up a-against me.”
“Like this?” He gave her a deep, slow thrust, languishing himself over her clothed crotch. Her body shivered as his shaft prodded at her clit, her hips shook with their own desire. The tease was nice but she needed more if she wanted to come. As if sensing her needs, Harry said, “If you need something, kitten, you gotta ask for it.”
“More,” she pleaded.
“More what?” He wasn’t going to make this easy on her.
“All of it!”
Tutting at her tantrum, Harry shook his head. “You can do better than that. Do you want it slower…” Pulling his hips back, he demonstrated as he pressed back into her, taking his time as he ran his cock over her. “Or do you want it faster?” Now, his hips snapped quicker, grinding into her swiftly, his pace gradually speeding up before he came to a complete stop. “How do you want it?”
“Faster!” She didn’t even think about it, already addicted to the quick, repeated brushes along her nerves. “And harder.”
Harry cooed at her sudden boldness, his eyebrow quirking. “Oh, does my pretty kitty think she can take it?” Charlie opened her mouth to argue, but Harry gave a few testing thrusts, causing her to interrupt herself with a gasping groan. “Wants it fast and rough, huh?”
Charlie babbled in agreement, trembling with need, eager for his weight, his heat to press back into her. Before Harry gave in to her pleas, he rushed his lips to capture hers, silencing her rambles. When his hips knocked into hers, Charlie couldn’t stop the bucking of her own hips, matching his rhythm until they were grinding into each other. Her moan vibrated against his lips, making him reciprocate, swallowing each other’s sounds.
Dry humping was something Charlie figured was better left to pre-pubescent kids who were too scared to go all the way, for the timid teens who were having their first make out session on their parent’s couch. Turns out, she had been wrong. When Harry drove his hips into her, it wasn’t with the trepidation of a first-timer, it was with expert precision, with the knowledge of how to give, how to please.
Harry pulled back from the kiss and dived in her neck, sucking feverishly on her pulse point.
“Ooo, baby, ri-right there, ah!” Charlie purred into his ear, yelping when his teeth bit down, one hand coming up to caress his hair, tugging on the longer strands at the base of his neck. As she grinded down onto his cock, she imagined how it’d feel without their clothes in the way, how deeply he’d penetrate, how much her lips would have to stretch around his girth. Her pussy slicked up even more at the mental image, seeping through the mesh of her pantyhose.
Harry’s throat rumbled with a growl, releasing her neck with a wet pop. “Jesus, kitten, you’re absolutely soaked. Staining my jeans like a whore.” Charlie went to pull back, abashed by her leaking arousal, but Harry only reveled in it, looking at the growing wet spot on his crotch with pride. “Someone might think you’re into this. That you like being fucked, even in a filthy bathroom.”
The answer was obvious, no matter how much Charlie wished she could deny it. Even if her cunt wasn’t leaving a mark on his jeans, he’d be able to tell from the way her nails dug into his scalp, the way her breathing hitched, the way her hips chased after his, magnetized to him. But how could she expect her body to respond normally when it was experiencing abnormal levels of passion and desire?
So, instead of giving him a response, she smeared herself on him, leaving a bigger trace of herself, making his smile grow.
“Should’ve known you’d be a dirty girl.” Then he was kissing her again, tonguing at her bottom lip.
She opened up to him, dropping her jaw, widening her legs, pulling him in so tightly, she couldn’t feel any space between them. The tongue in her mouth that tasted of beer and smoke, the hands that massaged her ass, the heat of his bulge, everything was building up towards her release. A brief wave of panic washed over her, not used to this intense pressure mounting with someone else around. Should she warn him, tell him about her upcoming orgasm, or would that only make him run? He never said anything about getting her off, or getting himself off, for that matter. He never said what he wanted out of this little bathroom tryst. There was a chance he’d leave her high and dry, that his plan all along was to wind her up and then dip before finishing what he started.
With too much at stake, Charlie kept quiet, rutting against Harry, focusing on her impending climax.
Her hips slowed as she neared her release, but Harry wouldn’t let her slack off, guiding her hips to the rhythm he set, making her keep up with him. He mumbled into her lips, “C’mon kitten, keep up,” before reconnecting their mouths. “Almost there kitty, c’mon.”
She would deny it, but hearing him admit to his own orgasm, admitting to being close, really stirred something deep in her belly. The idea that she was turning him on, that she was making him weak, was exhilarating, thrilling, even.
That was all it took, her body collapsing into a shuddering release as she came, her hips stuttering against his in tingling aftershocks. She grasped onto Harry, his body becoming her lifeline to reality as she crested through her climax. Her chest puffed out with a big inhale that she released with relieved whines, each one timed with the pulse of her cunt. Charlie was used to only experiencing those eye-rolling, toe-curling orgasms with her imported sex toy, but Harry had done so without even getting her naked.
Still in the comedown of her orgasmic high, Charlie chuckled to herself. At the absurdity of it all, of being humped in a bar bathroom by a man who couldn’t stand her. She hadn’t noticed when Harry had stepped away, when he’d started to wash his hands, but she noticed the spot she had left on his pants and the bulge of his hard cock straining against his jeans. “I thought-” Her voice felt unusually loud, breaking through this temporary lull that hung in the air. Clearing her throat, she tried again, softer. “I thought you um…” she indicated towards his pants. “I thought you said you were close.”
Shrugging, Harry said, “I was.” Something in his tone lingered, an awkwardness Charlie couldn’t quite place.
“Um… well, if you need a little help, I wouldn’t mind offering to um-” But she was interrupted by Harry’s laugh, the sound ruthlessly echoing off the tiles.
“Please, I would never debase myself by having sex in a disgusting bathroom like this. You,” he said, indicating towards her, “knock yourself out. But, I have some class.”
Charlie stared at him agape while he dried his hands off, scoffing in disdain. “Are you- are you fucking kidding me? What was the fucking point of all this then?”
“The point is that you scared away my date for the night, and I figured you owed me.” He looked at her like she was crazy. “Are you really complaining that I got you off?”
It was so confusing, it almost made her laugh again. He was right, she had no argument. Was she really going to beg, get down on her hands and knees, and pray until he felt bad enough and let her suck his dick? She’d be admitting to wanting it, wanting to see it, to touch it, to lick it. As he had put it, she had already acted like a depraved slut by letting him have his way with her, she wasn’t about to stoop lower.
“Well, enjoy the rest of your night,” Harry said, heading for the door. “I’m going to get plastered on cheap whiskey since you just saved me about $100.”
“Hey, while you do that, why don’t you go fuck yourself?!” It was cheap, the kind of insult one threw when they had nothing else.
And Harry knew it, scratching at his nose to hide his smug smile. As the door shut behind him, he said, “It’s more fun with an audience.”
Then, he was gone, leaving Charlie alone in the bathroom, the sound of the running sink filling in the silence. Turning around, Charlie looked at her reflection and was horrified with what she saw. Her lips were plumped by Harry’s kisses, her dress raised far above appropriate levels with her whole wet crotch exposed and, moving her hair aside, there was a large red mark on her jugular, a bite that would mark her as taken, like how animals claim their mates. Charlie’s makeup had spread, her mascara bled around her eyes, her lipstick smeared all over her mouth, including onto her chin. Wetting a couple of paper towels, she wiped off the offensive mess and tugged her dress hem down, cleaning herself back into looking publicly acceptable.
The reality of what just happened started to sink in like the stench of the restroom. She had let herself be so consumed by her lust, she gave herself over, practically gift wrapped herself, for Harry Styles, the man who seemed put out to ruin her career. All it took was a stupid kiss and a couple of words, and she had become putty in his soft hands. It must’ve been hidden within the accent, some magic spell he casted to make her ignore every warning going off in her head and succumb to his slimy touch.
But, fuck, that orgasm… When she closed her eyes, Charlie could still feel the ripples of it lingering, coursing through her body. She shivered, whether from the bathroom chill or from the remnants of her climax, she couldn’t tell.
Adjusting her purse strap as she left the bathroom, she planned on just strolling out of the bar, of ignoring the man currently sipping on his drink, already comfortable back in his seat, but her footfalls hesitated as she passed his table.
He was already eyeing her when she turned, a brow raised at her pause.
“If you um…” She didn’t have the luxury of blaming this on any alcohol, her judgement was unimpaired, yet she couldn’t justify what left her mouth. “If you want an audience for tonight for… y’know… I’m in room 1024 across the way.” Charlie lingered for just a moment, waiting for him to outright dismiss her or for her sense of logic to kick in and retract the invitation, but neither happened.
A beat passed, the radio changed to a Pink Floyd song, and Harry just stared at her. Figuring that was his answer, Charlie spun on her heel and headed for the door. If there was a chance for round two, she wanted to be prepared this time.
All her preparation was for naught, it turned out.
As soon as she returned to her room, Charlie ran through the gauntlet of quick beauty routines. She washed her body in the shower, wiping away the sweat and grime, making sure not a drop of water touched her chemically treated hair. Double checking that her pubes were trimmed, she debated cropping the little strip of hair shorter, but decided not to risk turning her landing strip into a parking spot. In the mirror, she played with different hairstyles: up, down, half up half down, in a side pony, she eventually settled with leaving it down, shaking her head side to side to revive the curls. Tugging on the collar of the robe provided by the motel, Charlie pulled it down until it hung off her shoulders, proudly showing off Harry's mark. Then she worried that putting it out on display was too much, too slutty, covering up the bruise shamefully. She stayed in the robe though, not bothering to put on anything underneath. In her mind, she planned this sultry dance where she slowly disrobed herself, ending with a sexy flourish.
Okay, maybe the flourish was a bit much.
She was giddy as she pampered herself, feeling like she was getting ready for a first date. In a way, she was, just the more mature version of it, she thought as she spritzed some perfume between her breasts. Charlie even turned on MTV, singing to her reflection along with Whitney Houston, both of them pining over someone to dance with.
The longer she waited, the more time she spent getting ready, now just having fun with it. More blush, hair fluffed higher, wiping off one color of lipstick and trying on another, puckering her lips and blowing kisses at her double in the mirror. After the fifth song ended, the Genesis music video transitioning into Starship’s newest single, Charlie began to worry. It’d been, what, forty minutes since she propositioned Harry, maybe closer to an hour. Where the hell was he?
After that first beat of doubt, she couldn’t drop the sinking feeling in her stomach. As her giddiness morphed into bitter dejection, her exaggerated makeup now looked clownish, her hair looked like it was defying gravity, and she couldn’t stop asking herself why she was going to all this effort for a man who couldn’t even do her the courtesy of telling her he wasn’t going to show.
Charlie washed everything off, removing all her hard work. She changed into her old high school exercise tee and the last clean pair of high waisted underwear, and changed the channel to QVC. Rummaging through her luggage, she pulled out her secret stash of Cheez Balls, popping open the can as she flopped onto the bed. Later, she could convince herself to pull out her vibrator, let the rabbit ears diddle with her clit, pretend like she wasn’t spending another night alone, but her feelings were still too raw, too demanding. She’d rather work through them now than give herself an unsatisfactory orgasm.
And so she remained for the next hour, passing the night away snacking on puff balls drenched in powdered cheese flavoring, the drone of the shopping channel replacing the silence. It’s when the blonde saleslady is touting off the benefits of some brand new pair of jeans, wriggling her butt for the camera to show off their glute retention, whatever the hell that meant, that Charlie rolled over to her bags. She was too lazy to stand, even as she flung her belongings around her room as she hunted for her toy. Her fingers brushed over a familiar shape, wrapped inside a large plastic bag.
That’s when someone knocked on her door, the wood rattling in the frame.
With her heart beating in her chest, Charlie got up slowly, licking the cheese dust off her fingers, hoping whoever stood outside her door couldn’t hear the creaking of her mattress. She didn’t want to be bothered, especially right now, and she knew better than to open the door at night for a stranger. Opening the plastic bag quietly, she pulled out the jelly toy, her pussy clenching at just the touch.
Three more raps against her door startled her, a small yelp escaping her.
Continuing to ignore them, Charlie flicked the switch, making sure the batteries were still good. Once or twice, she might’ve switched out the dead batteries with the ones in the TV remote, but luckily, she didn’t have to this time, the rabbit vibrating to life. Placing the toy over her clothed crotch, she let the rabbit’s ears prod at her clit, the two prongs coaxing the more sensitive button to appear from within the hood. She liked to tease herself, treat herself to a little foreplay before fucking herself silly on the device.
Again, and with much more urgency, someone pounded on her door. With an annoyed groan, Charlie turned off the TV, stood up, and marched over to her door, lifting up onto her tiptoes to peek out the peephole. The man outside was turned around, so she couldn’t make out any specific features in the dim lighting, but she would recognize that stupid fucking blue windbreaker anywhere.
Opening the door marginally, she stuck her head out. “What do you want?” Charlie demanded, crossing her arms over her chest.
Harry spun around, a slow, easy smile blooming across his face. “Hey-” he stopped himself short, pointing at her chest. “Is that… one of those vaginal pleasure toys?”
Sure enough, in her grasp, the purple jelly rabbit was still buzzing. Flicking the switch, Charlie paused the vibrations, still glaring at him. “What are you doing here?” she asked through gritted teeth.
“I came to take the place of that,” he said, indicating her toy. He took a step closer, but Charlie blocked the door, barring him entry. “Oh, c’mon, I brought a peace offering.” Raising his arm, he showed off the tips of two beer bottles sticking out of two paper bags. She couldn’t help but notice how tight his grip looked, the vein on the back of his hand jutting out, imagining that grip elsewhere…
“Well, it’s too late.”
“I didn't know it was a limited time offer.”
“Yeah, the deal expired when you didn’t show up.”
“I’m here now, aren’t I?”
“No, too late, I don’t even want to suck your dick anymore.”
“Is that what you were going to do?” Harry’s face lit up like a boy’s. Charlie rolled her eyes, going to shut the door, but he leaned against it, bracing it with an outstretched hand. “Whoa- hold on, hold on, hear me out!” he insisted with a laugh.
Huffing out a breath, Charlie raised her brows expectantly. She hoped his excuse would be worth letting the cool night air into her room, she could feel goosebumps already prickling across her bare legs.
“I’ve been sitting at that shitty little bar all night-” He ran a sluggish hand over his face, his words muffled behind his palm. His gaze shifted, looking everywhere but at her. “-trying to convince myself that I’ve had enough of you for one day.” Charlie’s glare tightened. “But it’s-it’s… I don’t know, I was over there, telling myself ‘Just one more drink and then I’ll go home’, but when I finished my drink…” Throwing his hands out wildly, he shrugged. “I don’t- I don’t know, I didn’t want to go home so then I ordered another drink and I said the same thing but… I’m still not home, am I?”
“Is there a point to all of this?” Her mother would tell her she was being rude for being so callous to him, but Charlie had to remind herself of all the makeup wipes currently sitting in her trash can.
“The point is…” Harry sighed, then looked up at her with a flicker of hope, “I wanna get you off again.”
Charlie's knees nearly gave out, having to grab onto the doorframe to stabilize herself. Blinking rapidly, she couldn't stop staring at him, her mouth creating a litany of shapes without a single sound coming out. She raked her brain for an argument, one single fucking argument to push back against him, a reason to tell him to leave, but her mind wouldn’t cooperate. Her brain’s logic was being overruled by her pussy, the muscles constricting in titillating anticipation. A shiver ran through her, easily explained away by the cold, but, in truth, she was remembering the dizzying orgasm he gave her earlier. Most of the men she had been intimate barely cared about whether she got off or not, meanwhile Harry had made her a quivering mess while they were both clothed. Charlie couldn’t dismiss the curiosity that plagued her brain. She was the one who took risks, she was the one who went for what she wanted, she was the one who was pushing the door open, shrugging as she conceded. “Okay.”
At first, he didn’t move, frozen with shock at her answer. She thought he probably expected her to put up more of a fight, to perform the usual back and forth that went hand-in-hand with these kinds of encounters. Then, Harry chuckled, shaking his head. “Thank God,” he muttered in a husky voice. In a blink, he was in her space, walking into her room and kicking the door shut behind him. Stealing her vibrator, he tossed the device across the room, mumbling something about not needing it tonight, before he grabbed her waist and yanked her into him. “I’m not done playing with you, kitten.”
The kiss in the bathroom was full of clashing teeth and prideful passion. As he leaned down, claiming her mouth with his, this one was no less full of heat, but there was a tenderness that was missing last time. There was nothing to prove now, no argument to win, it was pure emotion, raw intimacy.
She reached out for him, her fingers brushing over the nylon in search of the zipper, desperate to remove the godawful jacket. As Charlie tugged it over his shoulders, she rolled her body into his, groaning when she felt the bulge straining in his pants. Eagerly, she dragged her hands down his chest, tracing over the knit pattern until her fingers grazed his belt. Just as she brushed the leather, Harry grabbed both of her wrists, restraining her single-handedly.
“Uh-uh,” Harry teased, nipping at her lower lip. “Not yet.” Using his hold on her, he pulled her along as he walked back towards the bed. Plopping down onto the mattress, he jerked on her wrists, yanking her in between his spread legs, then nuzzling his face into her belly. He panted hot breaths that penetrated through the thin cotton as his hands slipped beneath her shirt. His nails scraped over her flesh, leaving a trail of goosebumps behind. “I was thinking…” Lifting up the hem of her shirt, he pressed a kiss above the band of her underwear. “…since you have such a hard time asking for what you want, maybe you could let me be in charge, yeah?” Hooking a finger beneath the elastic, he snapped it against her belly, smirking when she flinched, a naughty glint in his eye. “You think you can pay attention and be a good little kitten for me? I promise I’ll be better than your little toy.”
A whine squeezed at Charlie’s throat as she looked down at Harry. She brought her hand up to the back of his head, scratching at the little curls that lifted away from his neck. “Y-you sound so sure… that you can do better.”
“Money back guarantee.”
Charlie laughed nervously, then nodded. “O-okay, I can- I can… yeah.”
“Good, now take your shirt off,” he ordered, a growl rumbling deep in his chest, taking to his role quickly.
She didn’t put on a show as she disrobed herself, deciding he had forfeited any kind of special performance by being late. Plus, he didn’t tell her to, she justified. As Charlie lifted her shirt, Harry’s hands chased after the rising hemline, exploring over the newly exposed skin. When they cupped under the curve of her breasts, he marveled at their weight, massaging at the fatty flesh. His thumb brushed over her nipple carelessly, the featherlight touch making her stiffen. Leaning forward, his breathing deepened, taking long inhales and releasing them in stutters, the warm air blowing across Charlie’s body, tickling at her sensitive skin.
“And now you’re soaked panties.”
Her thighs clenched at the accusation, the wet fabric squelching between them. “I-I-I don’t-I’m not-” she stuttered, embarrassed to be called out.
“Kitten, I can smell it,” he said through gritted teeth, making heat crawl over Charlie’s cheeks. Pressing his nose above her crotch, he took in a deep inhale, then groaned. “God, it’s so thick, I can practically taste it. Now, get these off, I need to see the mess you’ve made.”
Charlie had never seen a man act so feral before. Never before had a man smelled her crotch and reveled in its stench, never before had a man growled into her pelvis, and it made her even wetter.
Pulling down her underwear, she was now completely bare in front of him, releasing a shaky exhale as she stood on display for him. Harry leaned back across the bed, propped up by his elbows, biting his lip as he fully took her in. His gaze lingered over her tits before traveling down to the strip of pubes, directing his sight to her glistening pussy. The laidback stance gave Charlie a chance to look him over, too. How his sweater stretched across his shoulders, how his hands kept balling into tight, white-knuckled fists, and how his jeans stretched over his crotch, his zipper straining.
Harry sat back up, drawing in a breath. “How would you like to earn a drink?” Charlie hadn’t seen when he had stashed the bottles to the side of the bed, probably distracted as he nuzzled into her stomach, but now as he reached over, she remembered his little peace offering.
With a hum, Charlie nodded. Now that he was in charge, she didn’t know if she was allowed to speak, and she wanted to be good, she wanted to earn her prize.
In a deep, breathy voice, he said, “Then get on your knees, kitty.”
Sinking down onto her knees, Charlie’s mouth began to water, preparing to lather his cock with her saliva. Since feeling his cock grinding into her, she wanted to see it, needed to confirm it was real.
But as she lowered herself, Harry didn’t reach for his belt, he reached out and grabbed her arms, suddenly halting her movements. “Hold on,” he instructed, sliding his left foot along the carpet until his shoe nudged between her knees. “Scoot forward, just like that, okay, and sit.” Pushing down on her shoulders, Harry forced her down until her cunt slotted along his loafer. “Now, I wanna see you get yourself off.”
Instead of doing as she was told, Charlie looked up at him with a confused stare. She had to wrap a hand around his calf to keep herself from falling over, her other hand grasping onto his knee. Just as she went to ask him to explain what exactly he wanted her to do, her pussy slipped across the smooth leather, her clit catching on the ridge. Releasing a surprised moan, her nails bit into Harry’s jeans, as she tried to understand what just happened. She hadn’t expected a shoe to feel… good. Charlie glanced up at him nervously, waiting for him to scold her, as if she did something wrong.
“That’s it, kitten. Keep going.”
Her chest tightened as she realized she wasn’t in trouble, that she was allowed, encouraged even, to continue. Sliding along his shoe, the raised edge dragged over her clit, her eyes fluttering at the sensation. Her pussy glided along the previous trail of arousal, smearing her slick over herself. Rocking her hips back and forth, Charlie grinded her clit into the shoe tip again and again. Little groans of pleasure freely flowed out of her open mouth.
"Tip your head back." Harry's whispered instruction cut through her low moans.
Charlie tilted her head, letting her tongue loll out. Harry's finger dipped under her chin, holding her steady as he raised the bottle, hovering it over her lips. Tipping it forward, the liquid flowed into her mouth, cascading over her tongue with the prickly tang of cheap beer. As Harry lifted the bottle away, a couple drops slipped out the corner of her mouth, dribbling down her neck as she swallowed the rest. Charlie went to wipe away the excess, but Harry slapped her hand away, focused entirely on the trajectory of the stray droplets. When the bead ran over the curve of her breast, that's when Harry reached out, massaging it into her tit, painting her nipple with the beer. The ministrations of his thumb over her nipple made Charlie's hips quake, stuttering over Harry's shoe in quick, rapid motions.
"Such a disgusting little thing you are." Even though his words were disapproving, he couldn't have sounded more proud. When Charlie dared to look up at him, he was smiling down at her, his pupils blown out with hungry desire. "Do you like making a mess all over my shoes?"
Rubbing her face along the denim, she nodded, whining in affirmation.
"Words, kitten," he reminded her, "use your words."
"Oh-h yeah, ye-ah I like it." She could hardly remember the question, but she answered as best she could. Her speech came out choppy, interrupted by her pleasured groans as she kept grinding into his foot.
Brushing some of her hair aside, Harry let out a chiding tsk. "In a bar bathroom, on a filthy shoe, hell, I'm pretty sure you would've let me take you in that alleyway. Would’ve let me bend you over a dumpster and fuck you silly like a worthless little slut, wouldn't you?"
"Ye-yeah, I wo-uld!" At this point, it didn't matter what he asked, Charlie would've agreed to it, so long as he kept his foot pinned under her.
"Do you like being played with, being treated like a little toy?"
"Y-yeah, play with-with your toy.” This, Charlie could do, playing into his ego, mindlessly repeating his words back to him so that would keep him going.
“You're not my toy, you're my little sex kitten.”
The sound Charlie let out was an unattractive mix of a mewl and a moan, a primal grunting that made her slap a hand over her mouth, to cover up the egregious noise.
Harry's hand, which had been softly petting her head, grew tight in her hair, giving it a tug in warning. “Oh no you don't. I want to hear all your pathetic little sounds.” Ever so slightly, he raised his foot, shifting it underneath her, making her rock to his rhythm.
Charlie felt like she was losing control of herself. She was used to restraining herself during sex, performing the same girlish routine and pitching her voice like how all the porn stars did. It was lousy but it got the job done, that's what Charlie figured sex was. Now, she could feel sweat pebbling on her lower back as she continued to chase after her own orgasm, groaning with animalistic abandon. With other guys, she would constantly worry about the details, pulling the right faces, arching her back at just the perfect moment. But Harry encouraged her feral behavior, rewarding her for it with sloppy sips of Budweiser.
Pouring her another drink, he said, “There you go, kitten, drink up. Wouldn't want you to make another mess. You didn't even clean up the first one.” To demonstrate, he pinched at her nipple, the old sticky beer stain melding them together. Charlie squeaked when he peeled his finger off, that tingle of pain dissolving into pleasurable ripples that surged throughout her body.
“Oh, I'm close, oh fu-uck.” Her orgasm crept up without warning, brewing low and heavy, the pressure becoming unbearable.
“Aw, is my pretty kitty going to ruin herself on my shoe?”
“Yeah, yeah, oh fuck yeah!” As she rubbed her face into his leg, Charlie couldn't stop herself from biting down on the denim, teething at his pants while whimpering like a dog. It was like she was possessed.
With a violent shudder, Charlie's scream was absorbed into Harry's jeans as she came undone. Her hips jerked back and forth, rubbing her clit over the seam, coaxing the full orgasm out. Panting through her nose, her groans softened into soft, mewling whines. Her senses gradually returned, the first being the dull taste of denim. When she pulled away, there was a wet spot where she had drooled on his pants. Underneath her, Harry's shoe was now slippery with her arousal, and when he moved it beneath her, Charlie slid off, slumping into a breathless heap on the floor.
Harry tucked a finger under her chin, murmuring, “Here, take another sip.” This time he brought the bottle to her lips, the glass rim cool compared to her burning skin. The sweat from her upper lip mixed with the beer, adding a salty twist to the drink. “Careful, not too fast. That's good, kitty.”
After he removed the bottle, Charlie blinked her eyes open, finally returning back to some version of herself. She was still panting, the effects of the orgasm lingering in the very edges of her body. At the slightest movement, her whole body seized up with residual aftershocks, everything felt connected, every motion rigged to set off another. When she went to glance up at Harry, Charlie had to stop when she saw it. The left shoe was saturated in her juices, creamy streaks of her arousal painted across the leather. It didn't look like the same shoe anymore, no longer matching with its twin.
Clicking his tongue, Harry shook his head disapprovingly despite the smirk widening across his face. “Look at the mess you made, kitten. Such a naughty, little thing, ruining my expensive shoes.” He sounded almost joyous, delighting in the ravaged shoe. Lifting his gaze to meet Charlie’s, he cocked his head to the side. “Did you tucker yourself out humping my shoe?” he cooed, his thumb petting along her cheek.
Charlie nuzzled into his touch, sighing as she nodded.
“Does kitty need a break before she lets me fuck her?”
Her eyes shot open, revitalized with a sudden burst of energy. “No, no, I’m ready but um… but I don’t…” Charlie didn’t bring any condoms on her trip, regretting not grabbing one of those safe sex pamphlets that were given out for free at the bookstore. She was on the pill, but it wasn’t just a baby she was trying to avoid. ”Do you have a um…”
“Yeah, don’t worry, kitty. I’ll keep you safe.” Harry pressed his lips to hers, reassuring her with soft pecks. Pulling back, his voice was low and husky, dipping back into his domineering role, as he ordered, “Now get on the bed, and spread your legs.”
The way he could shift from soft and caring into demanding and sexy was disorientating but Charlie followed his instructions dutifully, wanting to be good for him. After scrambling across the mattress, she leaned back against the headboard, pulling her knees up so she laid completely exposed to him.
Harry stood up as Charlie got comfortable in her spot, adjusting the pillows behind her. Reaching up, he pulled his sweater over his head, carelessly tossing the shirt across the room, leaving him in just his white button up. Whereas Charlie refused to put on a show, Harry savored the performance, taking his time to undo each individual button. As the shirt opened, Charlie could make out dark etchings on his body, a hidden collection of tattoos that had both her jaw and her legs falling open. Halfway through, he stopped, the wings of a large butterfly inked into his belly just peeking out, and he lowered his hands to unbuckling his belt. Watching his large hands delicately yet deftly work the buckle made Charlie’s pussy flutter, biting her lip as she imagined him touching her that intricately. Harry unzipped his pants, releasing a quiet yet relieved sigh. Undoing the rest of his shirt, he revealed even more artwork on his arms, practically covered in black ink.
Charlie wasn’t sure where to look, overwhelmed with his beauty. Rounded pecs that she wanted to rest her head upon, defined arms that didn’t bulge with too many muscles, he somehow looked like the perfect balance between soft and firm, toned yet plush. There was no thought going on in her head as her fingers drifted down her body, barely registering when she started to rub at her clit.
“Looks like you’re enjoying yourself a little too much, huh kitten?” Delirious with desire, all Charlie could do was nod her head. With an endeared scoff, Harry pulled out his wallet, plucking out a foil packet and flinging the silver square at her. “Here, if you need something to keep you occupied, play with that.”
Picking up the condom from where it landed on her chest, she played with the crimped edges, not wanting to take her eyes off of him, especially when his hands dipped into his pants, pushing both his jeans and his underwear down in one quick motion.
When Harry stood back up to his full height, toeing off his shoes as he stepped out of his clothes, Charlie’s eyesight was immediately drawn to his cock. It wavered in the air, fighting with gravity as it raised up, stretching towards the two laurel branches tattooed at his hips. Her head toppled to the side as she stared at it. The tip was burned red, aching and leaking a little. Harry stroked himself, gathering the come to spread over himself, a low growl rumbling in his chest as he squeezed. Glancing up at her through his eyelashes, Harry smirked at the dumb look on Charlie’s face, mesmerized by his large member. “Are you gonna stare at it all night, kitten?”
His mocking tone broke through her dick-induced haze, dragging her eyes up to meet his. With a surge of confidence, Charlie bit down on the foil wrapper, crawling across the bed until she was up close with his crotch. Tearing the condom open with her teeth, she rolled the rubber down his shaft. She was surprised at how warm his cock was in her grasp, her grip fluctuating between light and rough, touching him experimentally. Even as she held it, she couldn’t believe it was real, couldn’t fathom the idea that he was going to fit it inside of her. In some twisted part of her brain, Charlie thought the best way to test that would be to see if it would fit in her mouth. Experimentally, she stuck out her tongue and lapped at the tip, the rubber sliding across. Harry didn’t stop her, which gave Charlie all the permission she needed to wrap her lips around him, suckling on his head.
Harry groaned above her, his stomach tightening as her head bobbed. He indulged her, let her lather him in her saliva. “Greedy little thing, just needed to have my cock in your mouth, huh?”
Moaning around him, Charlie took him in deeper. She could feel his hand resting on top of her, the little pressure he applied pushing her down further, taking more of him in, until his dick tickled at the back of her throat.
“Okay, okay,” Harry said, twisting his hand in her hair to pull her off of him. “You had your fun, now it’s my turn.” Bending down, he went in like he was going to kiss her, but at the last second, he flattened his tongue, dragging the wet muscle up her face. “Just wanted a taste,” he whispered before kissing her for real. “On your knees, kitten.”
Rolling over onto her knees, Charlie propped herself up, arching her back like she’s used to. In her experience, most one night stands preferred this position. The lack of intimacy was the point, staring off into space as someone pounded into her from behind, her partner staring at her jiggling ass the whole time. It was also easier to fake it this way, maintaining a bored expression on her face while she moaned obscenely. And then as soon as he left, she’d flop back onto the bed and let her rabbit finish the job.
She’s looking for it now, trying to find where Harry had thrown the purple toy when she felt wet pressure applied to her clit. The touch was so surprising to her, she hadn’t noticed when Harry had wrapped his arm around her hip, his middle finger rubbing circles over her sore bud. Her body reacted instinctively, pushing back, rocking her pussy towards him, and her elbows shook underneath her, threatening to give out. Then two of his fingers shoved into her pussy, scissoring them through her muscles. That’s when her face slumped into the bed, her back curving even more.
“Jesus, you’re practically presenting yourself, kitten. Like the good little slut I knew you were.”
Charlie’s moans were muffled by the bed spread. This attention on her was unusual. She wasn’t used to her clit aching from exertion, nor was she used to being called degrading names in bed, yet it only made her more aroused. Another orgasm was already twisting inside of her, his fingers running over this one spot again and again that made her pussy quiver.
Extracting his fingers, she heard him moan as he loudly suckled on them, her cunt clenching at the sound. Then Harry grabbed himself, running his tip through her lips. “Ready?”
Knowing that he expected a verbal response, Charlie lifted her head, nodding wildly. “Yes, yes, please fuck me,” she pleaded, her voice pitchy and whiny.
Pressing into her, his cock split her open. Charlie could feel her body tense up at the intrusion, closing her eyes and whimpering at the stretch.
Harry hissed as her cunt clamped around him. “Easy, kitten,” he soothed, his fingers rubbing circles over her clit, making her loosen up. “That’s it,” he said as his cock dipped further in, his sigh twinged with a growl.
The stretch of her pussy sent shockwaves of pain and pleasure, the two commingling into a spine-tingling lust hysteria. Charlie started to push herself back, taking him in deeper. The hurt fed into her desire, chasing after both. “Ooo, Harry, oh fuck,” she whined. “It-it-you just mhm- oh it feels…” Charlie wanted to tell him how good it felt, but she couldn't find the words, couldn't concentrate long enough to form a complete sentence. It's not until he bottomed out, slipping in fully, his hips bouncing off her ass, his balls slapping against her clit, that she blurted out, “You're so big.”
His laugh rumbled deep in his chest. “Yeah? So big and so deep inside you.” To prove his point, he gave a few shallow thrusts, barely moving his hips, just punctuating the same spot over and over. “Taking it so well, just like I knew you would. Fuck, your cunt feels good.” Harry leaned back enough to watch his dick disappear inside of her, the yellow condom coated in Charlie’s arousal. “Look at the mess you’re making, kitty. Such a messy little thing you are.” Harry’s dick glided through her easily as her pussy slicked over him, his thrusts becoming faster and rougher.
The bed creaked with their movement, the headboard banged against the wall, matching their rhythm, but all Charlie could hear was the pants and grunts Harry made as he pounded into her. His balls clapped against her pussy, the wet slapping punctuating each thrust. One of his hands groped her ass, his nails puncturing into the flesh. Charlie’s senses had dulled themselves until all they could focus on was Harry. His cock pulsing through her cunt, his musky vanilla cologne, his sweat dripping onto her back, his cigarette-tinted breath, his degrading name calling, it consumed every bit of her. As her climax mounted, she felt she couldn’t claim it as hers. Her orgasm belonged to Harry, he was in control of it.
“Oh, Harry, I’m-I’m close, oh fuck I’m c-close.”
“I know, kitten, can feel you squeezing me,” Harry groaned, leaning over her to grab at her tits, rolling her sticky nipple in his pinched fingers. “C’mon dirty girl, do what you do best, and make a fucking mess already.”
Charlie cried out as she came, her pussy pulsing while Harry kept pumping into her. Her toes curled, her nails dug into the bedding, and her body tensed up before it all came crumbling down, flowing through her in one great release. She felt her pussy drool, leaking out excess juices, something she had never experienced before.
“Fuck, kitten, fuck, turn over,” Harry ordered her, pulling out of her and slapping her ass to get her to move quickly. It was more of an awkward tumble, collapsing onto the bed and forcing herself over onto her back, and then Charlie was greeted with a glorious sight. Harry had ripped the condom off, wetting his hand with his tongue before he began furiously stroking himself. “Come closer,” he begged through clenched teeth. Scooting closer, she watched as he worked himself over. Sweat beaded at his forehead, his teeth bit into his lower lip, and his stomach seized up with each breath, making the butterfly flutter. Tossing his head back, his breathing stuttered before he groaned, his cock spurting out ropes of come over Charlie’s chest. Harry kept stroking, forcing out all that he could, letting it drip over Charlie’s body. “Fuck… fuck, okay.” Running a hand through his hair, Harry tried to get his breath to settle. Shaking his head, his lips trilling in exhaustion, Harry finally looked down at Charlie, her body painted with his jizz. “I’ll uh… I’ll get you something for that.” Clearing his throat, he walked over to the bathroom vanity, turning on the faucet.
Reality started to set in, now that the sexual fog dissipated. Had that all just really happened? Any doubt in her mind was assuaged by the semen on her breasts, the air conditioning turning it chilly against her skin. Charlie tried to run through everything that had just occurred, piecing back everything that had happened. Grinding on his shoe, admiring his little strip tease, and squirting? She didn’t even know she could do that!
A wet thump next to her head broke her out of her thoughts. Harry had thrown a damp wash cloth at her, just missing hitting her in the face. Still naked, he walked across her room like he had paid for it, bending over to pick up his jacket, not giving a care that he was exposing his asshole to Charlie, who looked away a moment too late. He fished out his cigarettes and lighter, grabbing the ashtray as well, bringing everything back over to the bed.
Charlie wiped away Harry’s come, rubbing away the sticky beer residue as well, before tossing the dirty cloth back over towards the bathroom. Harry sat down next to her on the edge of the bed, placing the ashtray between them, acting as a barrier between them. Lighting up one of his cigs, he passed it to her. She mumbled a thank you, and he only grunted in return, preparing another for himself.
Silence fell over the room. Neither of them knew what to say, too afraid to interrupt this temporary peace between them. Compliments would’ve felt patronizing, and insults wouldn’t have landed as harshly. So, they sat there, naked, side-by-side, breathing in the same smoky air. For a few moments, it was almost nice.
Until Charlie asked the question that had been nagging at the back of her head. “What made you show up?” Harry raised a brow at her, the tip of the cigarette burning red as he inhaled. Charlie rambled on to fill the empty space. “I mean, it took you two hours to figure out whether you wanted to come over or not, what made you decide?”
Blowing out the smoke, he shrugged, his eyes drifting away from her. “I figured I’d never see you again…”
She didn’t know what kind of answer she was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t an honest confession like tha-
“And you were a guarantee lay, I couldn’t pass that up.”
Yeah, that made more sense.
“Gee, thanks,” she deadpanned. Charlie stood up then, putting some distance between them. Crossing an arm across her chest, she pressed him as she breathed out her puff of smoke, “What does that mean though, you figured you wouldn’t see me?”
Harry looked at her like it was the most obvious answer. “It’s not like you’re going to publish another book.”
“What?!” Charlie shrieked, accidentally inhaling too much smoke and choking on it, coughing roughly. Pounding a fist against her chest, she hacked up the rest of the smoke, scowling at him with red rimmed eyes, repeating herself in a husky voice. “What?”
“Look, you tried and you failed. Might as well quit while you’re ahead.” He said it so casually, so dismissively, as if he wasn’t telling her to just give up on her dreams.
“Jesus Christ,” she scoffed, running a hand over her face. “Y’know, your opinion is not the only one that fucking matters.”
“No, but at least people actually read the things I write.”
Charlie rolled her eyes. “Oh, please like people actually pay two fucking dollars just to read your shitty reviews.”
“Most people can afford the two fucking dollars.” He glared at her, wagging his finger in her direction as he added on, “And it’s not just my opinion, okay, none of the major publishers liked your work either. You had to go to some tiny little publishing house in bumfuck Idaho that’s probably gonna close down in a year.”
Ignoring his ranting, Charlie stormed over to the bathroom, grabbing the robe that she had hung back up on the wall, covering up her body. If he was going to be an insulting prick, then he didn’t get to see her naked anymore.
“Look, no one can fault you for trying,” Harry said, attempting to soothe his harsh words, trying to make her see his point of view. “But you can’t always make your dreams come tr-” He stopped when his stupid jacket whacked him in the face. Ripping it away, he shouted at her, “What the hell?!”
“Get out!”
Raising his brows, Harry stared agape. “Are you serious?”
Charlie bent over to grab his sweater, throwing it as well. “Yes, I’m serious! I want you to fucking leave!”
Harry scrambled to get his pants on while trying to avoid being hit with any more clothing items, his flaccid penis flopping around as he hopped into his jeans sans underwear. “Alright, alright, bugger, chill out!”
“Don’t tell me to chill out, just get the fuck out of here!” Stomping around the room, she started tossing all his things into a pile, trying to expedite his departure.
Her neighbor started beating against their shared wall, clearly annoyed.
“You’re fucking mental!” he grumbled as he looped his belt around his jeans.
“Y’know, it makes sense why you’ve got such a big dick, it learned from watching you!”
“Thank you. You do realize you just gave me a compliment, right? Or have all those chemicals melted your brain cells!” They were standing so closely, they kept accidentally touching, his hand whacking into her arm, her chest brushing up against his.
The knocking grew louder and more insistent as their voices raised.
“You’re just a pig-headed, ass-clown elitist who pretends like he’s so fucking smart!”
“Oh that’s rich coming from a backwater, trailer trash bitch like you!”
“I bet you don’t have a single original idea floating in that fat head of yours!”
“And your ideas are just the same hackneyed bullshit as everyone else!”
“Shut up!” came a muffled shout from beyond the wall.
“You shut up!” they shouted at the offending wall in unison.
Still shirtless, Harry gathered up the rest of his clothes in his arms. “I’m out of here.”
“Good!” she smiled at him, throwing her arms out to the side. “Run away, like the coward you are!”
As he opened up the door, he accosted her with a hard glare. “You’re never going to be a successful author,” he vowed, slamming the door behind him.
Charlie raced over to the door, tearing it open and yelling after his retreating figure, “And you’ll never be an author, period!” Then she slammed the door shut again, collapsing to the ground in a frustrated, tearful heap.
She sat there seething, willing herself not to cry. That narcissistic asshole was not worth crying over. As much as his words stung, what hurt the most was that awful nagging thought that she allowed this to happen. Charlie had invited him over, had let him into her room, had let him fuck her. She had opened up to him, exposed some of her vulnerabilities, then acted shocked when he turned around and stabbed her in the back. Even before they had been intimate, he had been nothing but cruel to her and she rewarded him for it. How fucked was that?
Standing up on wobbly legs, she trudged over to her bag, rummaging through her shit until she found her notebook. Flipping through, she found her pen, tucked next to a brand new page. Biting off the cap, she sniffled as she sat down on the floor started writing.
Listen to The Teacher, and everything will be fine. From Heaven’s mouth to His ears, it’s for the greater good.
Caution- Read warnings before each post, sensitive material will be included in all parts. I am not an expert on cults nor religion. Sensitive topics will be present and discussed, please prioritize your mental health over reading!
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After a stranger on a London side street yells at Harry to put a bell on his bicycle, it becomes the inside joke that follows them all the way to Amsterdam — sixty thousand people laughing, and only you knowing why.
Word count: 4.3k
Warnings: Harry almost being hit on a bike, cursing
You were tired. Your feet hurt from the shops on Oxford Street, and Harry kept insisting you look at one more store, one more thing, like he hadn't just spent forty minutes in a bookshop while you sat on a bench waiting. The afternoon had turned golden and lazy, the sort of day that made you want to be home on a couch instead of still wandering around London.
"We could get the tube," you said, not for the first time.
"It's packed on Fridays."
"It's not that bad."
"Could be worse," Harry said, and then he was pulling out his phone. "Let me see if there are any lime bikes around here."
You looked at him. "You want to bike home?"
"Yeah. Why not? It's nice out. Better than standing in the tube with fifty other people." He was already looking at his map, his thumb moving across the screen. "There's three blocks over. Come on."
"Harry, I'm wearing shop bags."
"So put them in the basket. They have baskets."
He said it like it was obvious, like he did this all the time. And he did. You'd learned pretty quickly that Harry's preferred method of getting around London was a lime bike. He'd pick one up, ride it somewhere, leave it, and grab another one when he needed to go somewhere else. It was efficient and he liked it. You'd watched him text people about meeting him somewhere and then show up on whatever rental bike was available nearby. He knew the routes, knew which streets were better for biking, knew how to lock them and where the stations were.
You followed him toward the side street where the bikes were parked. Three lime bikes were lined up near a small park, their bright green frames glowing against the grey concrete. Harry went to the nearest one without hesitation, unlocking it with the practiced efficiency of someone who had done this hundreds of times. He didn't even look at the seat or test the pedals. Just swung his leg over and waited for you.
"You do this like, constantly," you said, going to the second bike.
"It's the best transport in the city. Why would I not?" He was already on his, looking completely at ease. His hair was falling into his eyes and he had that slight smile he got when he was being deliberately stubborn about something. "Come on. It'll be faster than you think."
You unlocked your bike and tested the seat, though you had no idea what you were testing for. Harry was patient, not rushing you, just sitting there waiting like this was the most normal thing in the world.
"Ready?" he asked.
"Not even slightly," you said.
"Good. Let's go."
The first block was fine. You got the hang of it, found your rhythm, pedaled alongside him while the sun beat down on your shoulders. But then the street got busier and there were more pedestrians and suddenly you felt like you were going to crash into literally everyone.
"Oh my god, I'm shit at this," you yelled, wobbling around a woman with a stroller.
"You've been doing it for ninety seconds," Harry called back, not even breaking his rhythm.
"Yeah, and I hate it. How are you so smooth about this?"
"Practice. And years of not crashing into people."
"That's not helpful, Harry."
He laughed, that easy laugh that meant he wasn't taking any of this seriously. You pedaled faster to catch up with him, nearly clipping a parked car in the process. Your heart was racing and you were sweating and your feet kept slipping on the pedals because you were wearing the wrong shoes for this.
"You're doing fine," he said, glancing back at you.
"I'm doing terribly. I feel like I'm going to die."
"You're not going to die. You're being dramatic."
"Because I'm about to die dramatically," you shot back.
He grinned at that, and you had to focus on the road because looking at him made you lose concentration entirely. The bikes were heavier than you expected, and stopping was somehow harder than going. You had to plan ahead, which seemed like a design flaw in your opinion. Nothing should require this much forward thinking just to brake.
The buildings shifted as you rode deeper into the neighborhood. You were getting slightly better at it, or at least you were crashing into fewer things. Harry rode like someone who'd done this hundreds of times, which he had. He navigated around parked cars and pedestrians with an easy confidence that made it look simple. Meanwhile you were gripping the handlebars so hard your knuckles were white.
"Relax," he said. "You're tensing up."
"I'm trying not to die, Harry. Forgive me for tensing."
He slowed down a bit so you could catch up properly, and the two of you rode side by side for a stretch. A car turned onto the street ahead of you, and Harry shifted slightly to the right, giving it space. You copied him instinctively, following his lead like he was a guide through this concrete maze.
"See, you're getting it," he said.
"I'm just copying you."
"Same thing."
The street opened up a bit and there was less traffic. Your legs were starting to burn in a way that suggested you were going to pay for this later, but the afternoon was still beautiful and Harry was still beside you and there was something about moving through the city like this that felt separate from real life. Like for just a few minutes, you were both regular people on rental bikes instead of whoever you were supposed to be.
You were just starting to feel less terrified when the car appeared.
It came from a side street without signaling, sliding into your path with the kind of aggressive confidence that suggested the driver had no idea you were there. Harry swerved left, hard, and you heard him shout something that got swallowed by the screech of tires.
"What the fuck," you breathed, your heart suddenly in your throat.
The black car slowed down maybe ten meters ahead, and the driver's side window rolled down. A man stuck his head out, his face red and angry.
"You absolute wanker," he yelled at Harry. "Put a bell on your bicycle, you don't wanna hit someone. Fucking moron."
Your first instinct was to laugh because the bell line was so absurd. But then you saw Harry's jaw clench and he was pedaling faster, trying to leave it behind.
Except the anger was bubbling up in your chest now. That guy had cut him off. That guy had almost hit you both, and he was acting like Harry was the problem.
"Hey," you shouted after the car. "Watch where you're going."
Your New York accent cut through like a knife. You heard it in your own voice, that sharp edge that only came out when you were truly angry. The flattened vowels, the hardness that living in London had mostly smoothed away coming roaring back.
The driver turned back to look at you, and you could see the sneer on his face before he said anything.
"Why don't you go back to New York and have your boyfriend stick up for himself, you stupid twat," he yelled.
The words landed like a punch. Your boyfriend. Like Harry couldn't defend himself. Like you were both supposed to just disappear and apologize for existing on his road.
You screamed. Actually screamed. "Hey. Fuck you."
The car pulled away, accelerating down the street with the urgency of someone who was done with both of you. You stood up on the pedals, still moving, your heart pounding so hard you thought it might break through your ribs.
Harry was ahead of you, slowing down. He turned back to look at you with a stunned expression on his face, like he couldn't quite believe what had just happened.
"What just happened," he said.
It wasn't a question.
"These bikes have bells, Harry," you said, your words tumbling out fast and angry. "They have fucking bells. I could hit the bell right now if I wanted to, but you know what? We don't need bells because that guy almost hit us. That's not a bell situation. That's a 'watch where you're fucking driving' situation."
You were still pedaling, still moving, your hands shaking on the handlebars. The adrenaline was still coursing through you, making everything feel sharp and bright and terrible.
"He was the one who cut us off," you continued. "He came out of nowhere with no signal and then he has the nerve to yell at you about bells? And then he calls me stupid, tells me to go back to New York like I'm the problem here. Like you're the problem. You weren't even doing anything wrong."
"Hey," Harry said quietly. He'd slowed down to ride beside you now. "Hey, breathe for a second."
"I am breathing. I'm fine. I'm just angry. That guy was such a dickhead, and he doesn't even know it. He's just going to drive around London being a complete asshole to people who are just trying to get home."
"I know," Harry said.
"He called me stupid. He called you a wanker. And then he acts like we're the ones in the wrong."
Your accent was still there. You could feel it and you didn't care. Let it be thick. Let it be harsh. You were angry and you had earned the right to sound it.
"You're right," Harry said. "He was a complete asshole. But you need to calm down a little."
"Don't tell me to calm down," you snapped, but your voice was already starting to lose some of its edge. The pedaling was hard work and you were burning yourself out.
"I'm just saying you're going to give yourself an aneurysm over some guy who doesn't matter."
You wanted to argue with that too, but he was right. Your chest was tight and your hands were still shaking and all of this energy had to go somewhere. You pedaled harder, letting the physical exertion burn through some of the anger.
"He was so rude," you said, quieter now.
"He was. Completely rude."
"And he didn't even know who you were."
Harry let out a small laugh at that. "Probably better that he didn't, honestly."
You rode in silence for a moment, focusing on the pedaling, on the rhythm of it. Your anger was cooling now, turning into something else. Something closer to shock.
"He really thought the bell was the issue," you said eventually. "Like that was the problem with the situation."
"That's the funniest part," Harry said. "Like he doesn't understand how cars work."
"Or bikes. Or basic road safety."
"Or any of it, really."
You turned a corner and the street opened up a bit. There was less traffic now, and the sky was still that perfect golden color. Your heart had stopped racing. The adrenaline had worn off. What remained was something quieter. A kind of electric awareness that the two of you had just been through something together.
"I yelled 'fuck you' at a stranger," you said.
"Yeah, you did."
"In London. Where I live."
"He was leaving anyway."
"But what if he wasn't? What if that was someone I see at the grocery store?"
Harry laughed. Properly laughed. "Then he'd know not to mess with you."
You felt your mouth twitch. It was ridiculous. All of it was ridiculous. You'd been having a nice afternoon and then some guy in a car had turned it into something confrontational, and then you'd screamed profanities at him like you were back in New York for the first time in years.
"My accent came back," you said.
"I noticed."
"Did it sound weird?"
"It sounded angry," Harry said. "It sounded like you were genuinely furious."
"Because I was."
"I know. It was hot, actually."
You glanced over at him and he was looking straight ahead, pedaling easily, like he hadn't just said that. Like he wasn't deliberately making this situation worse in the best possible possible way.
"Did you just call me hot while we're on lime bikes after getting yelled at by a stranger?" you asked.
"I said your angry accent was hot. That's different."
"It's really not."
He finally looked at you and there was something in his face now. The shock was wearing off and something else was taking its place. Amusement. Or maybe relief. Maybe both.
"That guy had no idea who you were," he said.
"Does it matter?"
"No. But he should have. Because you just defended me to a complete stranger and then told him to fuck off. That's pretty impressive."
You rode past the park near your flat, the one where you sometimes sat on a bench with a coffee. Everything looked normal. The world hadn't changed even though something in you felt different now.
"Come on," Harry said. "The bike station is just up here."
You followed him toward the small cluster of lime bikes parked near the corner shop. Your legs were tired and your hands were sore from gripping the handlebars so hard, but there was something underneath it all that felt good. Cathartic, maybe. You'd been angry and you'd let it out and the world hadn't ended.
Harry pulled up to the station first, dismounting smoothly and locking his bike back into the slot with practiced ease. You did the same, your movements slower and slightly less graceful, but you managed it without falling over, which felt like an accomplishment.
"That was something," you said as you straightened up.
"Yeah. Not exactly how I planned the afternoon to go."
"But you're okay?"
"I'm fine," he said. "Are you?"
You thought about it. Your heart had stopped racing. The adrenaline had worn off. What remained was something quieter. An electric awareness that the two of you had just been through something together.
"Yeah. I'm okay."
You walked home the rest of the distance, your feet still sore from the shops but your mind already moving past it. The incident faded into the background noise of the evening. Dinner, emails, a shower. The evening swallowed up the afternoon and the weird aggression of a stranger in a car became just another thing that had happened.
It wasn't until three days later that you understood it would become something more.
You were in the kitchen when you heard Harry in the living room, on the phone with someone from his team. You weren't paying attention to the conversation until you heard him laugh, that particular laugh that meant he was about to say something he found hilarious.
"Yeah, no, so this guy cut me off on the bike the other day," he was saying. "Just comes out of nowhere, nearly hits us both. And then he rolls down his window and yells at me to put a bell on my bicycle. I mean, can you imagine? Like that's the issue here."
You froze with your hand on the kettle.
"I know, right? But here's the thing. The bikes do have bells. They absolutely have bells. We just don't use them when we're being run over, you know? That's not a bell situation."
You could hear whoever was on the other end laughing.
"No, I'm serious. My girlfriend was furious. Properly angry. Told him to fuck off and everything. It was brilliant. But yeah, the whole thing. Guy's yelling about bells like that's somehow our fault."
You came around the corner, and Harry turned to look at you with this grin on his face. He winked. He actually winked at you like the two of you had just become co-conspirators in turning this random stranger into an inside joke.
"Listen, I gotta go," he said into the phone. "But yeah, bells on bicycles."
He hung up and looked at you.
"You're really going to milk this, aren't you?" you said.
"Absolutely I am. It's perfect. And you were incredible, by the way. The accent. The fury. All of it."
"I screamed profanities at a stranger."
"You defended me to a stranger. That's different."
He was standing there in the middle of your living room with that expression on his face, the one that said he'd already filed this away under things he would remember forever. Things that mattered.
"This is going to become a thing, isn't it?" you asked.
"It's already a thing. Put a bell on your bicycle. We're never going to let this go."
It started small.
The week after the bike incident, a car ran a red light outside the flat and nearly clipped a woman crossing the street. You and Harry both watched it happen from the pavement. He turned to you with that expression, jaw set, eyes lit up, and said in a tone of complete mock outrage, "Put a bell on your bicycle."
You laughed so hard you had to grab his arm.
After that it just lived between you. Someone cut the queue at the coffee shop. A cyclist blew through a crosswalk without looking. Harry burned his hand on a pan because he wasn't paying attention. You turned to him with the most serious face you could manage and said, "You don't want to hit someone."
He pointed at you. "That's not the same thing."
"It's exactly the same thing."
It became the thing you said when the world was being stupid and you needed somewhere to put it. Mock outrage, barely contained laughter, that particular tone that meant can you believe this without having to say any of it out loud. You said it to each other in the car and in the grocery store and once, memorably, in the middle of an argument about something else entirely, which dissolved the whole thing immediately because neither of you could keep a straight face.
Then the tour started, and he left for Amsterdam, and you followed four days later.
The thing about watching Harry perform was that you never fully got used to it.
You'd told yourself you would, that after enough shows it would just become something familiar, something that folded into the background of your life together. But it didn't work like that. It hadn't worked like that in the three shows before this one and it wasn't working now, halfway through Amsterdam, standing at the side of the stage with your arms crossed over your chest and your heart doing something embarrassing in your ribcage.
The crowd was enormous. The sort of enormous that stopped being a number and started being a feeling, sixty thousand people pressing forward toward the stage, their voices rising and falling together like something alive. You'd watched crowds like this before, from this exact position, and it still didn't look real. It looked like something from a film. It looked like the sort of thing that happened to other people.
But it was happening to him. It happened to him every night.
He was in the middle of the stage now, moving through the set with that ease he had up there, the one that was completely different from how he moved anywhere else. Looser. More certain. Like the stage was the one place in the world where everything made sense and he knew exactly what to do with his hands.
American Girl started to build around him.
You uncrossed your arms.
Something shifted in the energy of the stage. You noticed it before you understood it, the same way you'd learned to read him from the wings. A particular quality of attention, like he was holding something back, waiting for the right moment to let it go.
He drifted toward the interlude. The music changed underneath him, loosening into something more spacious, and he moved toward the dashboard mic. The one that looked ridiculous and perfect, mounted there like something out of a 1970s police drama. He leaned into it with his whole body, easy and deliberate, and the crowd settled into a kind of anticipatory quiet.
You watched him.
He had that look on his face. The one you knew. The one that meant he was about to say something he'd been saving.
Your stomach dropped.
He opened his mouth and said, into sixty thousand people, in that exact tone, that specific mock-outraged voice you had only ever heard directed at you in the kitchen, on the pavement outside your flat, in the middle of a disagreement that had stopped being an argument the second he opened his mouth:
"Put a bell on your bicycle."
He paused.
"You don't want to hit someone."
The crowd erupted. Laughter, cheering, the particular roar of sixty thousand people who had no idea what they were laughing at but felt the absurdity of it, the commitment of it, the sheer Harry-ness of it.
You put your hand over your mouth.
You laughed so hard your knees nearly gave out.
Someone next to you, one of the crew, leaned over and asked what it meant. Which made it worse. You shook your head because you couldn't speak, couldn't explain it, couldn't begin to locate the starting point of a story that began with a stranger screaming about bicycle bells on a Friday afternoon on a London side street. There was no version of that explanation that worked standing in the wings of a stadium in Amsterdam while sixty thousand people were still cheering.
So you just laughed harder.
You watched the rest of the show with your arms wrapped around yourself, still smiling in a way that made your face hurt. Every time you thought you'd gotten it under control you'd hear it again in your head, his voice, that specific tone, coming out of the dashboard mic into the Amsterdam night, and you'd lose it all over again.
When it ended you made your way backstage and stood where you always stood. Water, towel, the particular quiet that came after that much noise. Your heart was still doing something funny in your chest.
You heard him before you saw him.
And then there he was, coming off stage still buzzing with all of it, hair damp, chest heaving, and he had a smile on his face that gave the whole thing away before he even reached you. Not the performance smile. The other one. The private one that was only ever for you.
He already knew exactly what he'd done.
You held out the water bottle and he took it without breaking eye contact, that smile still sitting on his face like he'd been waiting hours to see your reaction.
He said nothing. Just drank.
"Harry."
He lowered the bottle. The smile got worse.
"You did that on purpose," you said. "You stood at that mic in front of all of those people and you did that on purpose."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"You absolutely know what you're talking about."
He took the towel from you and dragged it over his face, and when he came back up the smile was still there, unchanged, like it had been waiting underneath the towel the whole time.
"Put a bell on your bicycle," he said, quiet enough that only you could hear it. In the tone. That exact tone.
You made a sound that was not quite a laugh and not quite a groan and grabbed the front of his shirt with both hands and kissed him, mostly because it was the only thing that would make him stop looking at you like that. He kissed you back, warm and easy, still smiling against your mouth.
When you pulled back you kept your hands on his chest.
"You thought that was funny," you said.
"I thought you'd find it funny."
"I did find it funny. I almost fell over in the wings."
"Almost?" He raised an eyebrow. "I could see you from the stage. You were doubled over. I thought you were actually going down."
"I was not doubled over."
"You were completely doubled over. Someone next to you looked concerned."
You opened your mouth to argue and then closed it again because he wasn't wrong. You had been doubled over. Someone had looked concerned. You had waved them off and then laughed even harder.
"Someone asked me what it meant," you said.
He pressed his lips together like he was trying very hard not to look as delighted as he felt. He failed completely.
"What did you say?"
"I couldn't explain it. There's no place to start. Do you begin with the lime bikes? The guy in the car? The bell thing? None of it makes sense without all of it."
"No," he agreed. "It doesn't."
He pulled you into him then, arms wrapping around you properly, the way he did when he wasn't thinking about it, when the performance had burned off and he was just himself again. You could feel the heat coming off him, the particular warmth of someone who'd been moving under stage lights for two hours. His chin came down to rest on top of your head.
"Our little joke," he said quietly, into your hair. "Nobody in that whole stadium knows what happened. Sixty thousand people laughing and not one of them knows about the guy in the car. Or the bikes. Or you screaming profanities on a Friday afternoon on a London side street."
You laughed against his chest.
"Our little joke," you agreed.
He held you a beat longer than he needed to. Around you the backstage noise continued, crew members moving equipment, voices calling to each other across the space. None of it touched this. None of it came close.
"I'm going to do it every night," he said.
You pulled back to look at him. "Harry."
"Every single night. Different cities. Different crowds." He was already smiling again. "And every single time, only you will know."
You became his sugar baby to survive, but Harry’s possessiveness soon turns into something softer. The black card pays the bills, but it’s the unexpected love that threatens to ruin you both.
TITLE: Baby
PAIRING: Harry Styles x Reader
RATING: Explicit (18+)
STATUS: 10 Parts (Completed only on Patreon)
WORD COUNT: > 25,000 words
TROPES: Corporate Sugar Daddy / University Student Sugar Baby , Age Gap (45 & 21) , Forced Closeness (The 40-Hour Weekend Rule) , Strict Contracts / NDAs , Size Difference , Wealth Gap , Dominant/Submissive Dynamic , Academic Mentorship
THE VIBE:
Signing a strict NDA for a £15,000 monthly allowance.
"In the bedroom, I want to be obeyed.".
Getting a MacBook Pro because your broken Dell offends him.
Terrifying public jealousy over a young waiter.
Skipping an Aspen ski trip for a vintage typewriter.
Obliterating his elite ex-wife at an art gallery.
Maliciously complying with the contract until he snaps.
"Do you want to get what you paid for?".
A billionaire hiding in Soho out of pure jealousy.
Watching her graduation from a parked Range Rover.
Dropping the penthouse key and shattering a crystal bow
EXCERPT:
"Do you want to talk about poetry, Harry?" she asked, tilting her head. "Or do you want to get what you paid for?"
The words were a slap in the face.
Harry stopped moving. He looked at her naked body, and for the first time in his life, his desire warred with a crushing sense of shame.
"Don't say it like that," he said roughly.
"Like what?" She stepped closer, placing a hand on his chest. Her palm was warm, but her touch felt mechanical. She began to undo his buttons. "You were very clear, Harry. You pay for my time. You pay for my company. I'm just trying to be... efficient."
She pushed his shirt open and leaned in to kiss his neck. It was a practiced move. A move a courtesan would make.
"Y/N, stop," he said, grabbing her wrists.
She looked up, her eyes wide and innocent. "Stop? Is something wrong? Do you want me to do something else?"
"I want you to stop acting like an employee!" he shouted, the frustration finally boiling over.
Y/N didn't flinch. She just looked at him, and a small, sad smile touched her lips.
"But I am an employee, Harry," she whispered. "You fired the girlfriend. Remember?"
Harry stared at her, his chest heaving. He wanted to shake her. He wanted to scream that he hadn't fired the girlfriend, he had just panicked. He wanted to drag her downstairs and make her pasta and dance in the kitchen.
But the ghost of his own words hung between them. I am not your boyfriend.
He couldn't take them back. Not without admitting he was wrong. And Harry Styles did not admit he was wrong.
Where you’re a week from the altar and a stranger with green eyes at the bar makes you realize you’ve been saying yes to the wrong person.
Word count: 5.7k
You used to think about your wedding like it was Christmas morning.
Not the dress, exactly, though you had opinions about that too. It was the specific image of standing at the end of an aisle with the noise of the world gone completely quiet, looking at someone who looked back at you like you were the only thing worth looking at. You were maybe seven when you first had that thought, watching your aunt cry through her vows on a Saturday afternoon in a church that smelled like candle wax and old wood, and something in your chest had clicked into place like a key turning. This. Someday this.
You carried it with you quietly, not talking about it too much because talking about it too much made it feel breakable. You let it live in the back of you while you grew up and got your heart broken a few times and learned that love wasn’t always soft. You still believed in it though. The aisle. The quiet. The person at the end of it.
And then you met Daniel and you thought, okay. Him. It’s him.
Three years and a ring later you weren’t so sure.
The fight had started over something that felt small on the surface and wasn’t small at all underneath it.
You’d been getting ready in the bathroom, mascara in hand, when he appeared in the doorway already dressed. Good jeans. A button down he’d ironed himself, which he only did when he was going somewhere he actually cared about. He was checking his phone when he said it, almost casually, like he was reading off a grocery list.
“The guys booked Allure for tonight.”
You knew what Allure was. Everyone knew what Allure was.
Rule number one: do not fall in love with your boss.
Rule number two: do not forget rule number one.
Rule number three: when he looks at you like that, pretend it doesn't mean anything.
Summary: When you land a job as the personal assistant to Harry Styles, the calm, charismatic CEO of Fine Line Enterprises, you quickly learn the role is much more than managing a calendar. From early morning calls to last minute flights and being the gatekeeper to one of the busiest men in the industry, your lite becomes completely intertwined with his.
Word Count: 8k
Warnings: Power imbalance, eventual smut, drinking, cursing, mentions of throwing up (no throwing up).
The meeting is exactly what it needs to be and nothing more.
You sit in your usual spot, slightly behind and to the right of him, notebook open, pen moving, doing your job with the quiet precision you’ve spent two weeks building. The room is full of people you don’t know, voices going back and forth over spreadsheets and timelines and numbers that mean things you only half understand, and you keep your head down and write everything important and star the things that will need follow up and do everything exactly right.
And he doesn’t look at you once.
Not in an obvious way. Not in a way anyone else in the room would notice. He’s engaged and focused and asking the kind of questions that make people sit up straighter, and the meeting runs exactly the way it’s supposed to run, and you do your job exactly the way you’re supposed to do it.
But there’s a difference between not looking at someone because they’re not on your mind and not looking at someone because they very much are, and you know which one this is. You’ve spent enough time watching him by now to know the difference. He’s not ignoring the room. He’s ignoring you specifically, which is its own specific kind of thing to sit with for an hour.
You felt it in the car. The clipped answers. The jaw set at that particular angle. The way he said it’s fine in a tone that contained absolutely zero percent fine. You know you earned it. You know exactly why he’s annoyed and the worst part is you can’t even argue with him about it because he’s completely right and you both know it.
So you sit here and take your notes and try not to think about the fact that the last time you were this physically close to him you had your hands in his hair.
You write: follow up on Q3 projections.
You write: confirm delivery timeline with operations.
You write: he’s still annoyed with you and you deserve it.
You cross that last one out before anyone can see it.
You watch him from your seat slightly behind him and you think about things you should not be thinking about in a conference room. The tattoos. The way his voice sounded at one in the morning. The weight of his arm across your waist in the grey quiet before your alarm went off and your brain decided to ruin everything.
You write: stop it.
It does not help.
The meeting wraps up cleanly, the way his meetings always do, everyone shaking hands and gathering laptops and thanking him for his time. He thanks them back, easy and warm with every single person in the room, and you stand up and collect your things and wait near the door while he finishes a brief side conversation with someone who stopped him on the way out.
When he’s done he walks past you into the hallway without breaking stride.
You follow.
The elevator is silent. You stand on opposite sides of it, you staring at the floor numbers like they contain important information, him looking at his phone, and the whole thing lasts approximately forty five years. You study your own reflection in the polished metal doors and think about how you put yourself together this morning with such deliberate, careful effort. The blazer. The trousers. The red lip that felt like armor when you put it on.
It is not doing anything useful right now.
In the lobby he stops and looks at his watch.
“Flight’s not until four,” he says, not quite looking at you. “We have time.”
“I can find somewhere to work if you need a few hours,” you offer quickly, because offering to work is the one thing you know how to do that feels safe right now. “There’s a coffee shop two blocks over, I can get your notes typed up and send them before we leave—”
“I didn’t say I needed you to work,” he says, and there’s that clipped tone again, not mean but not warm either, living in the space between those two things that is somehow harder to navigate than if he’d just been openly annoyed. “Come on.”
You follow him out of the building and into the car without asking where you’re going, because you can tell from the set of his jaw that he’s not in the mood to be questioned and you are smart enough to know when to let something breathe. You’ve learned that about him. He processes on his own timeline. Pushing before he’s ready doesn’t move anything forward, it just makes things worse, and you have already made enough things worse today.
So you sit with the discomfort instead.
You are not naturally good at sitting with discomfort. But you’re doing your best.
The drive takes about fifteen minutes. You look out your window and he looks out his and neither of you says anything and you watch the city move past and think about how Mia said you don’t have to talk yourself out of everything good that happens to you and think about how good things have a way of feeling very complicated the morning after when you’re sitting in the back of a car next to someone who is quietly furious with you and has very good reasons to be.
The car slows and you glance out the window and stop.
It’s a restaurant. Obviously it’s a restaurant. But it doesn’t look like one from the outside. There’s no sign. Just a narrow door in an old stone building on a quiet street, tall windows, flowers in the boxes outside that look like they were arranged by someone who gets paid specifically to make flowers look effortless. The whole front of it radiates a kind of quiet elegance that makes you feel slightly underdressed even in your best blazer and your red lip and all your carefully assembled armor.
You think about what he said on the plane. Restaurants where you can’t get a table without knowing someone. You thought you understood what he meant.
Standing on this pavement right now you understand you did not understand at all.
The driver opens the door and Harry steps out and you follow, standing there for a second just looking at it.
“Come on,” he says, already at the door.
Inside is even more than the outside promised.
You stop just past the entrance and you try. You genuinely try to look like a person who has been somewhere like this before, who has the right expression ready, who can walk into a room like this without your face completely betraying you.
You fail within approximately three seconds.
The ceiling is high and ornate, detailed plasterwork along the edges and a chandelier in the center that throws soft fractured light across everything below it. The tables are spaced wide apart, white linen, heavy silverware, small candles burning low even in the middle of the day. The flowers are simple and perfect. The noise level is a low warm murmur, the kind that expensive places cultivate on purpose, like they’ve asked volume to please keep it down in here.
You turn very slowly taking it in.
Your brain goes quiet in a way it almost never does. Not the panicked quiet of overwhelm. Just the quiet of someone whose frame of reference has temporarily run out.
You are aware that he is watching you do this.
You cannot stop doing it.
A man in a dark jacket appears and greets Harry by name and leads you to a table near the window where afternoon light comes through the glass in long clean rectangles across the linen. Harry pulls your chair out without thinking about it and you sit down and pick up the menu immediately because you need something to look at that is not the room or him.
The menu is in French.
Not entirely in French.
But enough.
You stare at it. You understand duck. You understand something involving truffle. The word butter appears multiple times which feels like a good sign. The prices are not listed anywhere and you have a feeling that is intentional and also that you would not handle seeing them calmly.
Harry sits across from you and opens his own menu and for a moment you’re both quiet and it’s the first silence between you all day that doesn’t feel like something pressing hard against the walls. It just feels like two people sitting in a very beautiful room, which is a sentence you never thought would apply to you specifically and don’t entirely know what to do with.
A sommelier appears and speaks briefly with Harry, and you catch enough to understand that he’s ordered wine without looking at a list, the kind of order that comes from someone who simply knows what they want. You watch him do it and think about your apartment with the heating that takes twenty minutes and the ceiling fan with the dead bulb you’ve been meaning to replace for three months.
You look back at your menu.
You look at the room.
You look at the chandelier for a few seconds longer than is probably normal.
Harry sets his menu down and looks at you.
“Why do you keep doing that?” he asks.
“Doing what?”
He gestures slightly, a small movement that takes in your expression and the way you’ve been looking around and all of it.
You hesitate for exactly one second before deciding honesty is the only thing that has ever actually worked with him.
“I’ve never been anywhere like this,” you say simply.
Something shifts in his expression when you say it. Subtle. Just enough. Like something that’s been held tight all morning loosens slightly at the edges.
“Never?” he asks.
“Never,” you say, and you don’t say it with embarrassment because it’s just the truth. You grew up forty minutes outside the city. Your parents are wonderful people who work hard and love you and the nicest restaurant in your memory has a hostess stand and a kids menu and a parking lot out front. “The fanciest place I’ve ever been had a dress code and a breadbasket. This is—” you look at the chandelier one more time, at the light it scatters across the linen and the walls and everything. “This is something else.”
He watches you look at the room and there’s something in his expression you can’t quite name but want to.
“Good,” he says, and his voice is different now. Still not fully warm, not yet, but closer to it than it’s been since six forty seven this morning. “Then I’m glad we came.”
The wine arrives. The food is ordered, Harry handling the menu the way he handles everything, quietly and without needing to perform it, and you trust him the way you trusted him on the plane and it feels natural in a way you don’t look at too directly.
The first course arrives and it’s genuinely beautiful in the way food almost never is, like someone thought carefully about how it would look before they thought about how it would taste. You pick up your fork and take a bite and close your eyes for half a second because it’s extraordinary, something rich and delicate happening at the same time, and when you open them Harry is watching you with something that is very nearly a smile.
You think about the granola bar you ate in your car on the way to your interview.
You think about how that was three weeks ago and how different three weeks can apparently make a life feel.
The conversation through the first course is easy. The meeting. The flight. Nothing weighted. You start to relax the way you always do around him eventually, one degree at a time, the tension from this morning loosening as the wine settles warm in your chest and the light through the window shifts slowly across the table. You laugh at something he says and the sound of it surprises you a little, how natural it comes out, how much it doesn’t feel like work even when everything around it is complicated.
It almost feels like the plane by the time the second course arrives. The good part of the plane. Before the landing and the hotel lobby and the part where you made a decision at six forty seven that he has clearly not forgotten about.
He lets you have all of it for a while. The food and the wine and the room and the slow unwinding of the morning. You’re grateful for it even though some part of you knows he’s choosing his moment. He’s always choosing his moment. He is extraordinarily patient in a way that would be easier to deal with if it weren’t so effective.
You’ve just set your wine glass down and said something about the light, how it looks softer here than at home, when he looks at you with that expression. The one you know by now. The one that means he’s been waiting and has decided the moment has arrived.
“Can I ask you something?” he says.
“You’re going to regardless,” you say.
The corner of his mouth lifts just slightly. “This morning,” he says. “When you left.”
You go still. Your hands find your lap on their own.
There it is.
You knew it was coming. You’ve been waiting for it since the car, since the lobby, since the elevator when he said better before six forty seven and you felt it settle somewhere in the middle of your chest and stay there.
“I wasn’t ready to talk about it in the car,” he says, his voice even and unhurried. “But we’re here now and I want to understand something.”
You look at him across the white linen and the small candle and wait.
“Last night you came upstairs,” he says. “You knocked on my door. You kissed me. You stayed.” He pauses, letting each piece sit, and you feel every one of them. “And then at six forty seven in the morning you were gone before I could even know you’d left. So I want to know which one is the real you, y/n. The one who knocked on the door or the one who snuck out before sunrise.”
The question sits on the table between you like the candle, small and steady and impossible to ignore.
You look down at your wine glass and turn the stem slowly between your fingers. You think about the hallway outside his room. Three knocks. The way you almost turned back twice. You think about the pale morning light and his arm around your waist and the way morning felt like a deadline you hadn’t agreed to but couldn’t argue with.
“Both,” you say finally. “They’re both me.”
He doesn’t say anything. Just waits. He is so good at waiting. It is one of the more inconvenient things about him.
“I knocked on your door because I ran out of reasons not to,” you say. “I’d been lying there for an hour and I just couldn’t find one good enough reason to stay in that room instead. So I didn’t.” You pause, trying to find the words for the next part. “And I left because I woke up and it was morning and everything that felt simple at one in the morning suddenly felt very large in the daylight.”
“What felt large?” he asks.
You look up at him. “You’re my boss.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because it’s true.”
“It was true at one in the morning too,” he says, and his voice is still even, still patient, but there’s something underneath it now. “Nothing changed between then and six forty seven except the light.”
That lands harder than you expect and you look down again because he’s right and you have nothing to put against it.
“You could have woken me up,” he says then.
You look up at him. “What?”
“If you needed to leave,” he says. “If you needed to get ready or you needed space or you needed anything at all, you could have woken me up and told me. I would have understood.”
“I didn’t want to wake you,” you say.
“Or you didn’t want to have the conversation,” he says, not unkindly, just accurately.
You look at him for a second and then look away because that is also true and you both know it.
“It wasn’t just about the morning,” you say quietly. “It’s the whole thing. What we’re doing. What it means. I woke up and I was in your room and everything felt very real suddenly and I didn’t know how to be inside that much realness at six in the morning so I just—” you stop. “I left.”
He’s quiet for a moment, listening in that complete way he has.
“And now?” he asks.
“Now I’m sitting in a very beautiful restaurant telling you the truth,” you say, “which is probably what I should have done at six forty seven instead of sneaking out of your room like a bandit.”
Something shifts in his expression at that, something that softens the last of the morning’s tension at the edges.
“I told you on that plane what I wanted,” he says quietly. “I was very clear about it. And you said okay. So I need to know if you meant it or if okay was just the easiest thing to say in the moment.”
The candle burns between you and outside the window the street carries on, people moving past with their own lives and their own complications, completely unaware that you are sitting inside this beautiful room trying very hard to be honest about something that genuinely terrifies you.
You think about your apartment. Your car. The passport with two stamps in it. You think about the plane and the wine and his hand warm at the small of your back on the tarmac. You think about his arm around you at six forty seven and the way leaving felt necessary and wrong at the exact same time.
You look at him and you tell him the truth.
“I meant it,” you say quietly. “I’m just… nervous.”
He looks at you for a long moment after that. Something in his expression moves and settles into something quieter and more certain than what was there before. The tension that’s been sitting in his jaw since this morning releases just slightly. Not dramatically. Just enough that you can see it if you know what you’re looking for.
He reaches across the table and picks up his wine glass.
“That,” he says simply, “is all I needed to hear.”
The rest of lunch passes differently after that.
Not drastically different. He doesn’t reach across the table and take your hand or say something that belongs in a film. He just picks up his wine glass and takes a sip and asks you something easy about the food, whether you liked the first course better than the second, and the conversation moves forward the way conversations do when the thing that needed to be said has finally been said and both people can breathe again.
But it feels different.
The tension that’s been sitting in the air between you since six forty seven this morning has shifted into something else, something lighter, and you can feel it in the way he looks at you now. Not the clipped professional distance from the car or the careful neutrality from the meeting. Just him. Looking at you the way he looked at you on the plane before everything got complicated. Like you’re someone he’s made a decision about and the decision is settled.
You eat your second course and drink your wine and talk about things that have nothing to do with work or hotel rooms or what time you left in the morning. He tells you about the first time he came to this city, years ago, before the company was what it is now, when he was young enough to still be surprised by things. You tell him about the first time you left your hometown for more than a weekend, how big everything felt, how certain you were that you were going to get it wrong somehow.
He listens the way he always listens.
Like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.
Dessert arrives without either of you ordering it, just appears at the table with a quiet word from the waiter about the chef’s compliments, and you look at it for a second and then up at Harry.
“Does that happen everywhere you go?” you ask.
“Not everywhere,” he says.
“Most places though.”
The corner of his mouth lifts. “Some places.”
You shake your head and pick up your spoon and take a bite of something that turns out to be chocolate and salted caramel and something else you can’t identify but that tastes like it was made specifically for this moment, and you close your eyes briefly the way you did with the first course.
When you open them he’s watching you again.
“Stop,” you say, though you’re smiling.
“I’m not doing anything,” he says.
“You’re watching me eat.”
“I’m sitting across from you,” he says simply. “You’re in my line of sight.”
You point your spoon at him. “That’s not as convincing as you think it is.”
He smiles properly then, the real one, and something about seeing it after the whole long difficult morning makes your chest feel warm in a way that has nothing to do with the wine.
You sit there for a moment, both of you, the dessert between you and the afternoon light moving slowly across the table and the quiet of the room settled comfortably around you, and you think about how strange it is that this is your life right now. That you are sitting here in this place that you didn’t know existed three weeks ago, eating food you can’t pronounce, drinking wine that costs more than your car payment, across from a man who told you he can’t stop thinking about how your lips tasted and then got genuinely annoyed when you snuck out of his hotel room at six forty seven in the morning.
It’s a lot to have happened in three weeks.
It’s a lot to have happened in one day.
You set your spoon down and look at him.
“Thank you,” you say quietly. “For this. For bringing me here.”
He looks at you for a second and then nods once, small and genuine.
“This is what I meant,” he says. “On the plane. When I said I wanted to share things with you. This is what I meant.”
You nod slowly, letting that settle.
“I know,” you say.
He tilts his head slightly. “Does it feel different? Now that you’re actually in it rather than just hearing about it?”
You think about that honestly, looking around the room one more time. The chandelier. The linen. The flowers. The particular quality of the light and the quiet and the way the whole place feels like it exists slightly outside of normal time.
“Yes,” you say. “It feels very different.”
“Good different or overwhelming different?” he asks.
You consider that for a second.
“Both,” you admit. “But mostly good.”
He nods again like that’s the right answer, like he expected it, and reaches for the wine bottle to top up your glass.
The check never comes. You notice this at some point, the way the meal just ends without the usual ritual of a bill appearing and being paid and receipts exchanged. It simply concludes and then you’re both standing up and Harry is shaking someone’s hand near the door and you’re putting your jacket back on and then you’re outside on the quiet street in the afternoon air.
The car is already there.
You slide in and Harry follows and the driver pulls away from the curb and the city starts moving past the windows again, heading toward the airport now, the afternoon starting to thin out toward early evening.
You sit back against the seat and look out the window and feel the whole day settling over you in layers. The meeting and the car and the restaurant and the conversation and the way he said that’s all I needed to hear like it was simple, like honesty was always going to be enough if you could just manage to produce it.
You’re still looking out the window when you feel it.
His hand.
Finding yours in the space between you on the seat. Not reaching dramatically across the car. Just moving over quietly, his fingers finding yours, warm and unhurried, and settling there like this is a thing that happens. Like this is just where his hand goes now.
He doesn’t say anything about it.
He’s looking out his own window, calm and still, like he didn’t just do something that is currently making your heart beat significantly faster than normal.
You look down at your joined hands for a second and then back out the window.
You don’t say anything about it either.
You just turn your hand over slightly so your fingers can curl properly around his, and you feel his grip adjust in response, easy and warm, and then you both just sit there looking out your respective windows while the city gives way to the highway and the airport appears in the distance.
It’s the most ordinary thing in the world.
It doesn’t feel ordinary at all.
The airport is quick. Security, the private terminal, the tarmac, the stairs up into the plane, all of it moving with the same seamless efficiency as the morning and you follow the familiar routine of it while some part of your brain is still thinking about his hand in the car.
On the plane you take the same seats as the flight out, the small table between you, the city visible through the window as you taxi. The flight attendant appears and takes your drink orders and disappears again and then it’s just the two of you in the quiet hum of the cabin and the plane starts to move.
You look out the window as you lift off, watching the city drop away below you the way it did yesterday in reverse, everything getting smaller and flatter until it’s just a pattern of lights and roads and rooftops stretching toward the horizon.
You think about how you flew into this city yesterday morning as his assistant and nothing else.
You think about everything that happened between then and now.
The plane levels out and the seatbelt sign goes off and the flight attendant brings your drinks and the cabin settles into its cruising quiet. Harry leans back in his seat and looks at you across the small table and there’s something easy about it now that wasn’t there on the way out. Not resolved exactly. But settled. Like something has been acknowledged between you that doesn’t need to keep being said.
“You should sleep,” he says.
You raise an eyebrow. “I’m fine.”
“You had about four hours last night and then a full day,” he says, completely unbothered. “Sleep.”
“You’re very bossy,” you say.
“Yes,” he agrees simply. “It’s the job, remember? I’m your boss.”
You laugh despite yourself and shake your head and lean back against your seat, looking out at the dark beyond the window. The clouds are below you now, lit faintly from the cities underneath them, and the sky above is dark and clear and full of stars that you can only really see from up here.
You look at them for a while.
Your eyes get heavy before you expect them to.
You don’t mean to fall asleep. You’re just going to rest your eyes for a minute, just sit here in the quiet and look at the stars and think about the day and how strange and full it was.
But the next thing you’re aware of is the soft sound of the pilot’s voice announcing descent and the gradual shift of the plane dropping through the clouds and the warm weight of something across your shoulders.
You open your eyes slowly.
Harry’s jacket is draped over you like a blanket, the fabric soft and expensive and smelling like his cologne, and you’re curled slightly toward the window in a way that suggests you’ve been deeply asleep for a while.
You look across the table.
He’s awake. Of course he’s awake. He has his phone out and a glass of water and he looks like a person who has spent the last two hours being completely fine while you apparently passed out in the seat across from him.
He glances up when you stir.
“There you are,” he says quietly.
You blink, still half asleep, and look down at the jacket. “You didn’t have to—”
“You looked cold,” he says simply, and goes back to his phone.
You sit there for a second wrapped in his jacket while the plane descends through the clouds and the city appears below you, your city this time, familiar and lit up and getting closer.
You think about what he said on the plane this morning.
Let me take care of you.
You pull his jacket a little closer around your shoulders and look out the window at the city coming up to meet you.
You think maybe you’re starting to understand what he meant.
The plane touches down smoothly and you sit up properly, folding his jacket carefully and holding it out across the table.
He looks at it briefly and then at you.
“Keep it for now,” he says. “It’s cold out.”
You look down at it in your hands for a second and then put it back around your shoulders without arguing because honestly you don’t want to argue and also because it’s warm and it smells like him and those are two facts you’re choosing not to examine too closely right now.
The plane taxis to a stop and you gather your things while the flight attendant brings your bags from the overhead compartment, and then you’re walking down the steps onto the tarmac with his jacket around your shoulders and the night air cool and familiar against your face.
Home.
It smells like home. Different from the city you just left, some specific quality to the air that you’ve never been able to name but always recognize. You stand on the tarmac for a second just breathing it in while the ground crew moves efficiently around you.
Harry appears beside you.
“Car’s here,” he says.
You nod and follow him across the tarmac toward the black SUV waiting at the edge of the terminal, the same driver, the same quiet efficiency, everything exactly as it was a day ago except that absolutely nothing is the same at all.
You slide into the back seat and he gets in beside you and the door closes and the car pulls away into the Friday night city, streets busier now than they were Thursday morning, people out and moving and living their Friday evenings while you sit in the back of this car feeling like you’ve been gone for significantly longer than two days.
The drive starts quiet. Not the tense silence of this morning or the careful silence of yesterday. Just quiet. The comfortable kind that you’re starting to recognize as its own specific thing with him, the silence that means neither of you needs to fill it.
You watch the city through the window.
He checks his phone once and then puts it away, which for him is practically a declaration.
“What are you doing this weekend?” he asks after a while.
The question catches you slightly off guard. It’s such a normal question. The kind people ask each other all the time. Somehow coming from him in this car after this day it feels like it means more than it probably should.
“Nothing planned,” you say honestly. “Laundry. Groceries. The extremely glamorous life I lead outside of work.”
He smiles a little at that. “No plans.”
“No plans,” you confirm. “You?”
He’s quiet for a second, looking out his window.
“I have some things to deal with tomorrow morning,” he says. “Other than that, no.”
You nod and look back out your own window and the car moves through the Friday night streets and you sit there thinking about the weekend stretching out in front of you. Your apartment. Your regular life. Two whole days with no desk to sit at and no calendar to manage and no reason to be anywhere near him.
That thought does something unexpected to your chest.
Something that feels a lot like disappointment, which is new and not entirely welcome.
The car slows as it reaches your building first, and you look up at the front of it through the window. Same as always. Brick facade and the slightly broken buzzer on the second floor and the parking spot out front that’s always taken by the guy in 4B even though it’s not his.
Home.
It looks exactly the same as it did Thursday morning.
It feels very far away from where you’ve just been.
The driver comes around to open the door and you reach down for your bag and then pause, remembering.
You shrug the jacket off your shoulders carefully and hold it out to him.
He looks at it for a second.
“Harry,” you say, because he needs to take it back and you need him to take it back before you do something sentimental about it.
He takes it from you, his fingers brushing yours briefly in the exchange, and you feel it the same way you felt everything today. Immediately and completely and in places that are becoming inconvenient.
“Get some sleep,” he says.
“You too,” you say.
You look at each other for a second in the back of the car, the city noise filtering in softly through the open door, and there’s that feeling again. The one from elevator doorways and office doorways and hotel lobbies. The feeling like something else is supposed to happen here and neither of you is quite ready to be the one who decides what it is.
Then he leans across the seat and presses a kiss to the side of your head. Soft and unhurried, his hand coming up briefly to your jaw, and it’s such a quiet, gentle thing that it almost undoes you completely.
“Goodnight, y/n,” he murmurs, close enough that you feel the words more than hear them.
“Goodnight,” you manage.
You get out of the car.
You stand on the pavement and the door closes and the car pulls away from the kerb and you watch it until it turns the corner and disappears, and then you stand there for another second in the Friday night air outside your building with your bag in your hand and your heart doing something loud and complicated in your chest.
Then you go inside.
You take the elevator up to your floor and unlock your door and step into your apartment and stand there in the dark for a second before you turn the light on.
It’s the same.
Of course it’s the same. It’s been like two days. Nothing has changed. The cracked bathroom tile and the ceiling fan with the dead bulb and the familiar smell of your own space, all of it exactly where you left it Thursday morning.
But it feels different.
Smaller somehow. Not in a bad way exactly. Just in the way things feel when your frame of reference has shifted and you’re seeing something familiar through slightly different eyes.
You set your bag down by the door and kick your heels off and walk to the window and look out at the street below. Friday night. People walking past in groups, laughing, going somewhere. The bodega on the corner with its lights on. A cab stopping at the light.
You stand there for a long time just looking at it.
Then you pick up your phone and call Mia.
She answers on the first ring.
“I’ve been waiting for twenty four hours,” she says immediately. “Talk.”
You laugh, and the sound of it in your quiet apartment feels good. Normal. Like something that belongs here even when everything else feels slightly shifted.
“Where do I even start,” you say.
“The beginning,” she says. “No. Actually the most important part first and then the beginning.”
You walk to your bed and sit on the edge of it, the same way you sat in the hotel room last night when you called her, except this time the bed is yours and the ceiling is familiar and the city outside the window is home.
“I went to his room,” you say.
A sharp inhale. “You did not.”
“I did.”
“Y/N.”
“I know.”
“You actually went upstairs and knocked on his door.”
“Yes.”
“In your sweatshirt.”
“In my sweatshirt.”
There is a sound from Mia that is not quite a word but contains a significant amount of feeling. Then, “And?”
You lie back against your pillows and stare at your ceiling, at the familiar crack in the plaster near the light fixture, at the ceiling fan with its dead bulb casting its slightly uneven light across the room, and you think about how twenty four hours ago you were staring at a different ceiling in a different city and couldn’t sleep and made a decision you’re not sure you’ll ever fully be able to explain.
“And,” you say quietly, “everything changed.”
You hang up after a while and lie there in the quiet for a long time after, your phone resting on your chest, the city outside doing its Friday night things. The familiar sounds of your building settling around you. The neighbor upstairs. The pipes. The particular creak of the hallway floor outside your door that you’ve learned to sleep through.
You feel different.
You reach over and turn off the lamp and the room goes dark except for the city light coming through your curtains, that specific blue grey shade that belongs to your window and nowhere else, and you lie there looking at it until your eyes get heavy and your thoughts start to blur at the edges.
You’re asleep before you finish your next thought.
Saturday arrives grey and quiet.
You wake up slowly, the way you do on weekends when there’s nowhere to be, consciousness arriving in pieces rather than all at once. You lie there for a few minutes just existing, staring at the ceiling, letting the day settle over you before you have to do anything about it.
Then you get up.
You make coffee. You shower. You put on the kind of clothes that only exist on weekends, soft and comfortable and not intended for anyone else’s eyes. You make a list of errands on a Post-it note because you have always made lists on Post-it notes and some things don’t change regardless of how much other things do.
Groceries. Dry cleaning. The dead bulb in the ceiling fan which you have been meaning to replace for three months and are going to replace today if it kills you.
You go out into the Saturday morning and do your errands with the focused efficiency of someone who needs routine right now, who needs the ordinary rhythm of grocery stores and dry cleaners and the hardware store on the corner where the man behind the counter always calls you sweetheart regardless of whether you’ve ever met before.
You get the bulb.
You come home.
You put the groceries away and hang up the dry cleaning and change the bulb in the ceiling fan, standing on your desk chair in your socks while you do it, and when you flip the switch and the light comes on evenly for the first time in three months you feel a disproportionate amount of satisfaction about it.
Small victories.
You make lunch and eat it on the couch and then just sort of stay there.
Which was not the plan but becomes the plan very quickly because the couch is comfortable and the grey Saturday light coming through the windows is the kind of light that makes everything feel slow and easy, and you’ve had an extremely full two days and your body appears to have decided that this is now the agenda.
You watch something on television without really watching it. You scroll through your phone without really looking at it. You think about the restaurant and the plane and the hotel room and his hand in the car and the jacket over your shoulders, cycling through it all in a soft unfocused way, like turning something over and over without needing to examine it too closely.
You think about Monday.
You try not to think about Monday.
You go back to not really watching television.
By mid afternoon you are so thoroughly couch bound that the idea of moving feels genuinely ambitious, and you’re considering whether cereal counts as a reasonable dinner option when your phone rings.
You look at the screen.
Your heart does something immediate and embarrassing.
You answer it before the second ring finishes.
“Hi,” you say, and your voice comes out more normal than you expect.
“Hi,” he says, and just the sound of it, low and easy, does something to the couch bound lethargy of your afternoon that two cups of coffee hadn’t managed. “What are you doing?”
You look at the television. At the throw blanket you’ve somehow completely cocooned yourself in. At the cereal box on the counter that you were genuinely considering for dinner.
“Nothing,” you say. “Just a quiet day.”
“Yeah?” he says, and there’s something almost amused in it, like he can picture exactly what a quiet day looks like for you and finds it endearing rather than boring. “What does a quiet day look like for you?”
You look around your apartment. At the blanket. At the cereal box. At the television playing something you haven’t actually watched for the last forty minutes.
“Very glamorous,” you say. “Very high powered. You’d be impressed.”
He laughs, quiet and genuine, and the sound of it does something warm to the middle of your chest. “I’m sure.”
“How about you?” you ask. “What does a Saturday look like for you?”
“About the same honestly,” he says, and something about the admission, small and easy, makes him feel closer somehow. “I had some things to deal with this morning like I told you yesterday. Now I’m just here.”
“Just here,” you repeat.
“Just here,” he confirms.
There’s a small pause, the comfortable kind, and you pull the blanket back up around yourself and sink a little further into the couch.
“I was thinking about last night,” he says then, quieter now.
Your stomach does something immediate. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he says. “The kiss on your head. I’ve been thinking about whether that was too much.”
You blink. “Too much?”
“Too much,” he confirms. “Given everything.”
You sit there for a second, genuinely surprised that he’s bringing this up, that he spent any part of his Saturday wondering whether a quiet goodnight kiss was too much when the two of you have done considerably more than that in the last forty eight hours.
“It wasn’t too much,” you say.
“No?”
“No,” you say quietly. “It was the right amount.”
He’s quiet for a second after that, and you can feel him sitting with it the way he sits with things, turning it over, deciding what to do with it.
“Hm. Good,” he says finally.
Another pause, warmer this time.
“Do you want to come over for dinner tonight?” he asks.
You sit up slightly without meaning to, the blanket falling off your shoulders. “Tonight?”
“Tonight,” he confirms, completely calm, like he invites his assistant over for dinner on Saturday evenings all the time. Maybe he does. You’re choosing not to think about that right now.
“Yeah,” you say, and you try to sound casual about it and mostly succeed. “Yeah, I’d like that.”
“Good,” he says, and you can hear something in it, something quiet and warm that makes the Saturday afternoon feel suddenly much more interesting than it did five minutes ago. “Seven o’clock.”
“Okay,” you say.
“And don’t eat anything between now and then,” he adds. “I’m actually cooking.”
You pause. “You cook?”
“Don’t sound so surprised,” he says.
“I’m not surprised,” you say immediately, which is a complete lie and you both know it.
“You’re very surprised,” he says, and you can hear the smile in it.
“I’m a little surprised,” you admit.
“Good,” he says. “I like surprising you.”
Your face gets warm and you are very glad he cannot see you right now sitting on your couch with your blanket and your cereal box and your extremely compromised composure.
There’s a small pause. The kind you recognize now. The kind where neither of you hangs up right away.
“Wear something comfortable,” he says.
You blink. “Comfortable?”
“It’s Saturday,” he says simply. “I’m not making you dress up on a Saturday.”
You look down at your weekend clothes, the soft pants and the old university sweatshirt you’ve had since sophomore year, and think about the fact that apparently Harry Styles has opinions about what you wear to his house on a Saturday night and those opinions involve comfort.
“Okay,” you say again, because that’s apparently your entire vocabulary today.
“See you at seven,” he says.
“See you at seven,” you echo.
The line goes quiet and you sit there on your couch with your phone in your hand and the blanket pooled around your waist and the grey Saturday light coming through your windows.
He cooks.
You did not know that.
You look at the cereal box on the counter and feel genuinely relieved that you didn’t eat it for dinner.
Then you get up and go to your wardrobe because you have three hours and comfortable apparently means something different when you’re going to Harry’s house than when you’re watching television alone on your couch and you need to figure out what that is.
You’re standing in front of your wardrobe staring at it like it might organize itself into an answer when you pick up your phone and type.
You: what do you mean by comfortable exactly
You stare at the message after you send it and immediately feel slightly ridiculous for asking but also genuinely need the information.
The response comes quickly.
Harry: pyjamas if you want
You read it twice.
You: I’m not wearing pyjamas to your house
Harry: why not
Harry: you’ve seen my tattoos
You close your eyes briefly.
You: that’s not the same thing
Harry: if you say so
You stand there holding your phone and shaking your head at it like he can see you, which he cannot, but it feels appropriate anyway. You’re smiling though. You’re very much smiling and there’s nothing you can do about it.
You put the phone down and go back to staring at your wardrobe.
Comfortable but not pyjamas. Casual but not sloppy. Nice but not like you tried too hard. You are looking for a very specific intersection of things that apparently exists somewhere in your wardrobe if you can just find it.
You pull out three options and hold them up one at a time and put two of them back.
Then you pick up your phone again.
You: how am I getting there
You watch the three dots appear immediately.
Harry: I’ll send the driver
And then, a second later, a shrug emoji.
You stare at it.
A shrug emoji.
This man runs a multimillion dollar company and navigates boardrooms and investor meetings and tense international phone calls with complete unflappable composure and he just sent you a shrug emoji about sending a private driver to your apartment on a Saturday night like it’s the most casual and unremarkable solution in the world.
You put your phone down on the bed and look at the ceiling for a second.
Then you pick your outfit back up and go get ready.
amandla
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
germansingergirl
