summary: “If you want me so bad,” you say, relishing in the sudden control and the way his pupils dilate at your commanding tone, “crawl over here.”
warnings: smut—pegging, bondage, sub!harry (to the three requests in my inbox, i finally delivered). and some feels ofc
The fan whirs as you lay on the motel bed, its velvet blankets tickling your bare back. Despite wearing a cropped lace top and a tiny black skirt, the heat remains rather unbearable. You remain patient, however, busying yourself in channel surfing.
By time he arrives you’re midway through Titanic. His knock is gentle.
“It’s unlocked,” you call, your lazy manner of speaking hiding any excitement.
The first two buttons on his black shirt are unbuttoned, as usual. You’re greeted by the familiar swallows that adorn his collarbones and it hits you that you’ve missed him.
You don’t convey this, however. Instead, you look up, squint your eyes, and say, “There’s mud on your face.”
Harry impulsively reaches to touch his cheek. His face is already flushed from the heat, but the blush deepens as he says, “Yeah, ‘s from shooting. We had a busy day today.”
He flops onto the bed, his hair bouncing as he does so. “That’s why you were late? I thought shooting ends at 4,” you ask, pretending to be watching the advertisements.
Your disinterested tone spurs him to reach for your thigh, but you jerk your leg away. He pouts slightly. “Well, we—we went for a pint. Me and the rest of the cast.”
Silence. It’s thick and heavy until he adds, rather nervously, “Sorry ‘bout that, really. Should’ve called but my phone died. You’re not actually mad, are you?”
You move your head so you can stare at him. Of course you’re not actually mad—a little bit annoyed, but that’s about it. Part of the reason he’s drawn to you, you’re sure, is your aloof manner and seeming neutrality to his fame. But that’s not the case at all. Ever since you started hooking up with Harry Styles, you’ve been amazed by the absurdity of it, how he’ll fuck you after performing for hundreds of people or, like in this case, after shooting for a whole Christopher Nolan film.
His versatility is not just limited to his career. Harry can be a gentle lover, languid and sensual thrusts threatening to take you over the edge until it finally, blissfully does, or rough and domineering, his large hands leaving bruises on your hips. You shudder at the thought of imprints of his rings painted all over your thighs and ass. You really, really enjoy those sides of him, but you suddenly decide to explore another one today—one you’re quite sure he has.
This is a man who has everything (and rightfully so, of course), but this evening, you’ll make him work for it.
He’s still staring at you, eyes wide and head tilted. You pull him closer by grabbing his shirt. His warm breath hits your nose as he blinks rapidly, taken aback.
“This place isn’t a usual accommodation for you, is it?” you say tauntingly. “A little motel in the middle of nowhere.”
“No,” he says, leaning in to kiss you, but you put a finger on his lips instead, your touch featherlight.
“Go freshen up,” you say. “Then I’ll teach you a little lesson on punctuality, Harry.”
He licks his lips before obeying you, quickly making his way into the bathroom. The sound of running water doesn’t last long, and when he returns, a low-hanging towel wrapped around his waist, he drops the rag he’s using to dry his hair when he sees you.
“Christ, angel,” he whispers in awe (you find that nickname incredibly endearing—you’ve never really asked why he calls you that). His bulge is now extremely noticeable, and you wonder what’s turning him on the most. Maybe it’s the sheer red bra, your breasts pooling out of the thin fabric. Or maybe it’s the soaked panties on the floor, replaced with a brilliantly pink strap-on.
“We talked about doing this before, didn’t we?” you ask. “You want to do this?”
He nods, his chest rising and falling.
“Words, Harry,” you say, dangerously soft.
“Yes—fuck, yes, Y/N. I want you to…” He exhales, then swallows. “I want you to fuck me. And then I want to fuck you.”
You let out a slight laugh. “I don’t know if you deserve it, though. I was waiting for hours and…”
“Let me prove how good I can be.” He licks his lips, inching forward, but you hold up a finger and he stops in his tracks.
“If you want me so bad,” you say, relishing in the sudden control and the way his pupils dilate at your commanding tone, “crawl over here.”
For some reason, you expect him to laugh and not take you seriously. You can hardly take yourself seriously. But he drops to his knees, the towel around his waist shaking slightly, looks up at you and does exactly that—he crawls.
There’s an earnest hunger in that verdant gaze, and it’s so arousing you can hardly contain your excitement. Thanks to his rings, there’s a sound of metal scraping across the hardwood floor. You wonder how much it’s hurting his knees.
Harry pauses between your legs, and you use his hair to yank him up, to which he responds by wrapping his hands around your waist, the force of your colliding touches landing the two of you on the bed. You finally tear that towel off of him and he unhooks your bra, reaching down. You’re on top of him and he giggles.
“Your hair’s tickling m’nose,” he explains, and that makes you giggle too. You reach down to kiss him, the smell of lavender soap reaching your nostrils.
“Are you ready for your lesson, Harry?” you say slowly, observing the way he trembles ever-so-slightly.
“Yes,” he breathes back, his lips swollen.
“What should your safeword be?”
“Same as yours—candy.” You love the way he says the word. Cahn-dee.
“Hm.” You scoot so you can open the bedside drawer, where you packed an assemble of things you hoped you both would use today. There’s a bottle of lube, condoms, and—
“Rope,” Harry says, raising an eyebrow.
Last time, he had tied you up. This time, you’re hoping for the opposite. “What do you think? You’re okay with your wrists being bound?”
And of course he rasps, “More than okay.”
The image of him laid out for you is too much to handle. “Turn around,” you demand. He does so immediately, lying down on his stomach and raising his hips.
“Good boy,” you praise, delighted by the way he blushes. “Hands behind your back now.”
“Feel like ‘m getting arrested.”
“Well.” You work the rope between his wrists, tightening it just enough for him to gasp from shock and not pain, “maybe that’ll teach you to be on time.”
He says something witty in response but you can’t focus; the sight in front of you is too distracting. His bound wrists, smooth back, and wet hair creeping down his neck aren’t even the best parts; it’s his quivering creamy thighs and heavy cock lying between his legs, practically begging for attention.
You reach for it, stroking it gently and he bites his lip. “Y/N—”
“Did I say you could talk?” you say exactly the words which he’s told you before, words that shut you up immediately.
He stays quiet then, doesn’t remark as you let go of fully erect cock, already glistening with pre-cum. You can tell he wants to grind against the mattress so bad.
Your attention goes to his ass instead. It looks like a treat, solely made for you. You uncap the bottle of lube, taking more time than necessary to dip your finger in.
He opens his mouth to speak but releases a gush of air instead, burying his face in the pillow. You finally bring your pinky finger along his tight entrance, teasing it slowly.
After around three minutes, upon which you added two more fingers to tease his hole, he stops letting out gushes of air to lift up his face and say, “Angel, please—”
You smack his ass. “Really, baby? I waited for you for hours, but you can’t even wait five minutes.”
“Fuck,” he groans miserably. “Told you m’phone died—”
You smack his ass again. “Maybe I should get a cock ring and leave you in this position for hours. You can watch as I shove my fingers up my pussy, as I come over and over again. What do you think?” He groans and you yank his hair to lift up his face. “I asked you a question, Harry.”
“No, want you to fuck me, angel.”
“Then be patient, baby.” You push all three fingers in deeper, causing him to gasp. “Patience is a virtue, after all.”
“Yes, yes, you’re right,” he pants, his thighs and wrists trembling. “Ah, fuck, Y/N—right there, yes right there—”
You redact your fingers immediately, leaving his pretty hole open and fluttering. He lets out a drawn-out, miserable moan. “Glad to know we agree, baby.”
“Please, Y/N, please,” he begs. His cock is so hard it’s dripping on the white sheets. You hope this motel does wash them thoroughly.
“So needy, baby. What do you think the world would say if they saw you now? Your distinguished actor colleagues? Harry Styles, can’t last two minutes without begging to be fucked. Pathetic.”
You know your words are only turning him on more, and you love him for it. He whimpers, his gaping entrance begging to be filled. So you finally put your tongue in.
“Oh God—” he says as you give him another masterful lick.
God can’t save you now. You would say that to him, something he’s said to you before, but you’re too busy torturing him with your tongue. You know he won’t last much longer so you stop, as much as you don’t want to.
“You’re not allowed to come until I fuck you,” you remind him, so you slather on some lube onto the strap-on, beginning the sweet, torturous entrance. He gasps, his chest rising and falling.
You pause to let it adjust. It’s definitely not as big as Harry, but still, you’re nervous. You’ve never pegged him before, or anyone else, for that matter. “Is it okay?”
“More than okay,” he reassures. “Fuck me, God, please.”
Who are you to deny that? You bury yourself deeper in him and he lets out the most wonderful noises as you start to collide against his prostrate again. They go straight to your throbbing clit. And when you finally begin to hit that sweet spot, over and over, he’s coming so hard, harder than you’ve ever seen him come before.
Shit. You’re so soaked, so turned-on. He flops against the bed like a dead fish, relieved and spent. You laugh.
“Should’ve teased you for longer,” you say. You untie his wrists and he flexes them.
“I learned m’lesson,” he counters dazedly.
“No, I don’t think so.” You walk off the bed to sit on a moth-eaten, dusty rug on the floor. He sits up to watch you take off the strap-on and spread your legs. “It’s not over until you prove it.”
He gets up immediately and you cluck your tongue. “Crawl, Harry.”
And so he does, blushing deeply, his rings once again making that scraping sound. His body truly looks like a work of art, topped with the inked masterpieces which are coming closer and closer toward you.
You two kiss for a while, on the floor without a care in the world, his hands roaming everywhere. Part of you wants to tie him up again and tease him when he can’t grasp at you, but you want to feel the warmth of his touch.
“Ride me,” he says, the most controlling he’s been all night. To prove you’re still in charge, you make him get up and back him into the corner, slipping your tongue down his throat as you thumb at his cock.
As if on cue, you jump into his arms and wrap your legs around his waist. He turns around so you’re the one against the wall That’s fine, really—you just want him to fuck you now. You hand him a condom and he adjusts the rubber around himself.
“You’re so fuckin’ wet,” Harry says as he sinks into you. “Wanted this so bad, didn’t you, angel?”
You bite his collarbone instead of responding. He stops talking too, then, both of you tired but immersed in the debauched act, whimpers escaping your throats and mixing with the almost unbearably humid air. His pace increases, slamming you into the wall.
You two make eye contact suddenly, and there’s something in his stare that makes you want him. Not the way you’re having him right now, but dinner-on-Sunday want, waking-up-next-to-him-and-not-having-to-leave want. It’s a familiar feeling you never expected to feel for someone so famous, someone whose life is so different from yours.
Before you continue to dwell on this, you come, his name spilling from your mouth in little whispers. He watches as you do, as if you’re something incredible—as if you’re actually an angel.
His eyes are so green, you think.
You two strip the bed (you both agree it’s probably best to take the sheets down to the laundry room yourselves) and then just lie there, listening to the crickets chirp, the darkened room illuminated by the TV neither of you are watching.
Your head is on his chest, his hand lazily stroking your hair and it feels very intimate. You swallow—this is so stupid. Your tongue was literally in his ass but you’re having trouble to ask him out.
Baby steps. “Whatcha thinking about?” you ask instead. He seems deep in thought and it unnerves you somewhat. Despite being a public figure, despite having incredible sex with him every so often, he’s rather reserved.
You wonder if this is a bad question to have asked. He’s probably thinking about so many things—his first album which he’s in the process of making, his famous friends, his literal movie. But he smiles at you, gently kissing your forehead before answering.
“’M thinkin’ I have to go to the studio. I have a song idea.”
guess which song i listened to while writing this LOL. the lyric “i got splinters in my knuckles crawling across the floor” just awakens something in me.
lmk what you think, i just wrote this all of a sudden bc i was feeling extremely shitty.
any feedback or comments would be appreciated! this is unedited for now so excuse any typos
