stylesonfilms

[stylesonfilms]

main masterlist [h.s]

✼ one shots ✼

(* will indicate smut)

the days are long, the days are hard

behind the pew

drippin' down your body like gold *

✼ ink & innocence (OC, ongoing) ✼

ink & innocence masterlist

♚ where the quiet was (AU, ongoing) ♚

official announcement

[nsfwrry]

250 FOLLOW SPECIAL SCHEDULE

first, i want to say thank you to everyone for following and getting me here. i know 250 does not sound like a lot at all but i've been here 20 days and you have made this scary thing that i was so nervous to do so enjoyable and i look forward to interacting with every single one of you. now, let's get to the smut.

today we will have a ten (10) one shot drops. yeah, i've been working hoes. anyways, starting at 12pm EST the one shots will post, ending at 9pm. I will be here to yap the entire time.

HOWEVER! this post will be your sort of masterlist. under the read more are all of the one shots that will be released today in order with descriptions and word counts, that way if you miss a drop, they can all be found here.

*they will be on the main masterlist too, it might just take me a minute to put them on there bc well, i tieddd. anyways, i just thought this would be more convenient, adding my taglist just so that you can all see the announcement*

taglist: @stylesonfilms @sparklejumpropequeen1113 @boredhsblog @luna-sol-aries @littlesunshinebunny @sassamanda77 @angeldavis777 @harrysflorist @discohoee @sincerely-yours-marsbar @harrystyleshotwife @pleasantearthquakecowboy @fangirl509east @vikiii07 @spinninc @aileen1237 @meetmeinthehallwayenthusiast @bethiegurl19 @lomlcamy @fallingwillow @mads3502 @wtvrevie

12PM─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───JUST RELAX; 3k

Y/N returns home after an exhausting 12-hour workday. Her boyfriend, Harry, greets her, full of energy and desire. Despite her extreme fatigue and desire only to sleep, she reluctantly agrees to let Harry "have his way with her" while she tries to relax, implicitly giving him control.

1PM─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───WHAT A BUZZ; 3k

Y/N gets her first tattoo, a delicate lavender sprig on her breast, by the renowned artist Harry Styles. Initially nervous, the experience takes an unexpected turn when the professional boundaries between them dissolve into passionate intimacy on the tattoo table. After their encounter, they decide to finish the tattoo, which now holds a dual meaning of serenity and an unexpected, wild passion.

2PM─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───SPECIAL FOR YOU PT. 2; 3k

A passionate night between Y/N and Harry after his birthday party. Y/N decides to fulfill Harry's long-standing desire to explore anal sex, despite her initial hesitation. Harry's gentle and patient approach is key as he introduces her to this new experience leading Y/N to ultimately surrender to the intense pleasure, culminating in a powerful climax for both of them, deepening their trust and love for each other.

3PM─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───MY EYES ONLY; 3.1k

Y/N, a global pop icon, performs a daring concert while her boyfriend, Harry, watches from a private box. Harry experiences a mix of pride and intense jealousy as he witnesses her provocative performance and the crowd's adoration. After the show, he confronts her backstage, his possessiveness escalating into a raw, aggressive encounter in a secluded corridor.

4PM─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MR. STYLES; 3.7k

A passionate night between Y/N and Harry after his birthday party. Y/N decides to fulfill Harry's long-standing desire to explore anal sex, despite her initial hesitation. Harry's gentle and patient approach is key as he introduces her to this new experience leading Y/N to ultimately surrender to the intense pleasure, culminating in a powerful climax for both of them, deepening their trust and love for each other.

5PM─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───BETTER NOW; 3.8k

Harry endures a terrible day, from an early alarm to a dreadful commute and work, returning home utterly drained and in a foul mood. His partner, Y/N, intuitively understands, preparing a calming lavender and rose bath. Her silent, comforting presence slowly eases his tension. Later, in bed, she expresses appreciation for his strength, leading to an intimate encounter where she lovingly caters to his desires.

6PM─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───I'LL TRY IF YOU DO; 4.2k

Harry initially expresses curiosity, but Y/N agrees only on the condition that he experiences it from the receptive end first. Despite Harry's initial reluctance, Y/N patiently guides him through the experience, leading to a profound orgasm for him. The next night, Harry takes the lead in exploring Y/N's boundaries, using the same care and dominance to bring her to an intense climax.

7PM─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───SUCH AN ACHE; 4.5k

Their intensely passionate reunion, characterized by Harry's primal desire and possessiveness. He immediately initiates a powerful sexual encounter, first bringing Y/N to multiple orgasms through oral sex.

8PM─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───CABIN IN THE WOODS; 5k

Y/N and Harry transform from bitter rivals to passionate lovers during a ski trip. Their initial animosity gives way to a deep connection after they are stranded together on a broken ski lift during a blizzard, forcing them to confront their vulnerabilities. Upon their return, their interactions evolve into playful banter, culminating in a passionate encounter when Harry helps Y/N stretch.

9PM─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───HANDS UP; 5.3k

Y/N's obsession with Harry's hands escalates from admiration to a desire for his dominant control, specifically around her throat. Harry, aware and sharing these fantasies, confronts her, leading to an intense sexual encounter where he fulfills her desires, gripping her throat and eliciting her surrender.

[nsfwrry]

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───YOU UP?; because you're on my mind.. | pairing: soft sub!harry x fem!reader | wc: 4.6k | | tw: language, phone sex, begging, masterbation!male | synopsis: Harry, a touring musician, who, despite fame, feels profound loneliness. A late-night "You up?" text to his girlfriend sparks intimate messages and a call, culminating in a powerful, distant climax driven by her words, revealing their deep emotional and physical bond. taglist: @stylesonfilms @sparklejumpropequeen1113 @boredhsblog @luna-sol-aries @littlesunshinebunny

The flashing lights, the roar of the crowd, the electric energy that pulsed through his veins – Harry loved every single moment of being on stage. This tour was everything he’d dreamed of, a kaleidoscope of adoring faces and the shared joy of music. He truly did love it.

But as the final encore faded and the adrenaline slowly ebbed, a different kind of ache settled in. He walked off stage, the cheers still echoing in his ears, and the first thing he did was reach for his phone. No new messages. He scrolled through pictures, landing on one of his girlfriend, mid-laugh, her eyes crinkling at the corners. A pang of longing shot through him.

It had been weeks. Long, solitary weeks of hotel rooms and soundchecks and interviews. He missed her easy smile, her quiet presence beside him, the way she could make him forget the chaos of his life with just a glance. He missed their late-night talks, their ridiculous inside jokes, even just the comforting weight of her hand in his. He was lonely. He was needy. He was desperate.

The ride to the hotel felt long and over drawn, and when Harry finally got done to the bare minimum, he felt the weight of everything settling in. He found himself in the hotel bed, the sound of the city, a low constant hum in the dark room. 

He couldn’t get her off of his mind, as if she rented her own personal space there.

He stared at her contact, his thumb hovering over the ‘message’ icon. It was late. She was probably asleep. But what if she wasn’t? What if she was just thinking about him too? A nervous flutter in his stomach, he typed it out, the age-old, slightly cringey, undeniably hopeful plea:

You up?

He pressed send before he could overthink it. The blue bubble appeared, small and insignificant, yet it held the weight of his entire touring loneliness. He tossed the phone onto the bed, then picked it up again almost immediately, staring at it as if willing it to vibrate. 

Minutes stretched into an eternity. He paced the plush hotel room, the silence amplified by the lingering echo of thousands of screaming fans. He walked to the window, pulling back the heavy curtains to reveal a blurry cityscape, lights twinkling like a million distant stars. None of them felt as bright as the thought of her.

He imagined her apartment, quiet and warm, the faint glow of a bedside lamp perhaps, or total darkness, her curled up under the covers. Was she dreaming? Was she restless? He missed the simple intimacy of knowing those things, of being physically present to witness them. His life on the road was a constant performance, a carefully constructed facade of rockstar cool. But behind the glitz and the glamour, there was just Harry, a guy who missed his girlfriend.

A soft chime. His heart leaped into his throat. He snatched the phone.

Just got home. Long day.

Relief washed over him, so potent it almost made his knees buckle. She was awake. She was home. And she had replied. He quickly typed back, his fingers flying across the screen.

Thought you might be. Missing you like crazy.

He waited again, though this time the anxiety was replaced by a warm, hopeful current. He pictured her, perhaps kicking off her shoes, dropping her bag by the door. Maybe she’d already changed into sweatpants, her hair in a messy bun. He smiled at the image, a genuine, unforced smile that hadn't touched his face in days.

The next message came almost instantly.

Missing you too, H. This tour is epic though! So proud of you.

A knot in his chest loosened. Her unwavering support, even from afar, was a constant source of strength. He didn't just miss her physical presence but he missed her quiet understanding, her ability to ground him amidst the whirlwind of his career.

Yeah, it's wild. But it’d be even better if you were here.

He held his breath, wondering if that was too much, too needy. But then, a picture popped up. It was her, snuggled under a blanket, a sleepy smile playing on her lips. She looked tired but beautiful, and the sight of her brought a fresh wave of longing mixed with profound tenderness, and even desire. She looked so beautiful.

The accompanying text was simple: Wish you were here.

He took a quick selfie, shirtless, flexing slightly, and sent it. He knew it was a risk, a little provocative, but he was feeling bold, riding the wave of relief and connection. He wanted to feel closer to her, even if it was just through a screen. He waited, a nervous excitement bubbling in his stomach. What would she say? Would she tease him? Would she respond in kind?

The dots appeared almost immediately, then disappeared, then reappeared. She was typing. He held his breath.

Oh, Harry. Are you trying to kill me?

A laugh escaped him, loud and unrestrained. He loved her quick wit, her playful nature. He imagined her biting her lip, a smirk playing on her face as she typed.

Maybe a little, he replied, adding a winking emoji. Just wanted to give you something nice to look at while you’re missing me.

You’re insufferable, she wrote back, but the next message wiped the playful smile from his face and replaced it with a slow, genuine grin. And it’s working.

His heart hammered against his ribs. This was it. This was where the conversation could go. He leaned back against the headboard, phone held loosely in his hand, his eyes fixed on the screen.

Good, he typed, letting the single word hang in the air, weighted with unspoken meaning. Because I’m definitely missing more than just your smile tonight.

He waited, the silence in the hotel room suddenly thick with anticipation. He could almost feel her presence, her warmth, the scent of her skin. His mind drifted to memories of their nights together, the quiet intimacy, the fervent passion. He remembered the curve of her waist under his hand, the soft brush of her hair against his cheek, the taste of her lips. A familiar ache began to spread through him.

Oh? And what, pray tell, are you missing, Mr. Styles?

Her playful tone was still there, but beneath it, he detected a subtle shift, a hint of something deeper, something reciprocal. He closed his eyes for a moment, picturing her, trying to imagine the expression on her face as she read his words. He knew she was teasing him, pushing him, daring him to be bolder. And he was more than willing to oblige.

Everything, he typed, letting the honesty pour out. Your laugh, your scent, the way you fit against me. The way you make me forget everything else when we’re together. He paused, then added, Especially when we’re alone.

He could almost hear her sharp intake of breath. He was pushing the boundaries, venturing into territory they usually saved for whispered conversations in the dark, when the physical distance between them was nonexistent. But tonight, that distance felt more isolating than normal, and he craved the illusion of closeness, even if it was just through suggestive messages.

The dots appeared again, staying for a longer time this time. He could tell she was formulating her response carefully.

You’re really playing a dangerous game, Harry. You know I have a show tomorrow, right? I need my beauty sleep.

He chuckled. You don’t need beauty sleep. You’re already the most beautiful woman I know.

He knew it was cheesy, but he meant it. He meant every word. He imagined her blush, a slight smile playing on her lips.

Flatterer, she replied, but then, the next message sent a jolt through him, a fire igniting in his veins. But I wouldn’t mind staying up a little longer for you. If you were here.

He felt a primal urge to be there, to bridge the distance, to pull her into his arms. He could almost feel the phantom touch of her skin against his, the warmth of her breath on his neck.

Believe me, he typed, his fingers trembling slightly. I wish I was there. I wish I was there right now, showing you just how much I’m missing you. He knew she understood what he meant. The subtext was thick, heavy with desire.

Another picture popped up. It was a close-up of her lips, slightly parted, a faint smile on them. The lighting was soft, intimate, and he knew instantly that she was in bed. His breath hitched.

aThe accompanying text was even more potent: What are you going to do about it, Harry?

A groan escaped him, a low, guttural sound that echoed in the quiet room. She knew exactly what she was doing. She was a master of subtle provocation, always had been. He stared at the image, his gaze lingering on the curve of her upper lip, the slight hint of teeth. It was a silent dare, an invitation that set his blood ablaze.

You have no idea what you're doing to me right now, he typed, a tremor in his hand. I'm half a world away, and you're sending me pictures like that. It's cruel.

Her response was swift, and laced with a teasing darkness that thrilled him. Is it? Or is it exactly what you need? A reminder of what's waiting for you when you get home.

He imagined her biting her lip again, a mischievous glint in her eyes. He could almost hear her low chuckle. He pulled off his sweats, tossing them onto the floor, feeling the cool air against his heated skin. The image of her lips was burned into his mind.

A reminder is one thing. Torture is another, he shot back, his fingers flying across the keyboard. I'm picturing you right now, in that bed, just like that. And it's killing me.

Another picture appeared, this time a shot of her hand, delicate fingers splayed across her bare collarbone, just the hint of her soft skin visible. It was artfully suggestive, a subtle reveal that was far more impactful than any overt nudity. He swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry.

Is it? she wrote, her message a whisper through the screen. Good. Because I'm picturing you too, Harry. Alone in that hotel room. Imagining what you're doing right now.

His breath hitched. She was mirroring his desire, pushing him further. He took a deep breath, trying to steady his racing heart. This was dangerous, exhilarating territory.

I'm doing exactly what you think I'm doing, he replied, his voice would be hoarse if she could hear it. Staring at my phone, wishing it was you in front of me instead of a screen. Wishing I could reach out and touch you.

He waited, the silence stretching, filled with the frantic beat of his own pulse. He could almost feel the electricity arcing between them, bridging the miles.

Then, a video. A short, blurry clip, just a few seconds long. It was her, turning slowly in bed, the blanket slipping just a little, revealing the curve of her hip, the faint outline of her breast. She was looking at the camera, a soft, seductive smile on her face, her eyes half-closed, heavy with sleep and something else. She whispered something, too soft to hear, but he knew. He knew what she was saying. Come here.

He closed his eyes, a wave of pure, blinding longing washing over him. This was it. This was the tipping point, the edge of control. He wanted to throw his phone across the room, buy the first flight home, anything to be with her.

You are absolutely unreal, he typed, his thumbs shaking. Do you have any idea what you're doing to me right now? I'm going to lose my mind.

Her next message was a single word, accompanied by another picture. The picture was a close-up of her eyes, dark and heavy-lidded, full of an almost palpable desire. The word was: Good.

He groaned again, the sound raw and involuntary. He felt a fierce, consuming hunger, a desperate need for her. He sent a quick selfie, his hair messy, his eyes dark with longing, a stark contrast to his earlier playful image. He didn't bother with a witty caption. He just sent it, letting the image speak for itself. It was a raw, unfiltered expression of his craving.

Her reply was a single, long text. Harry, I swear to God. If you were here right now, I wouldn’t let you sleep. Not even for a minute. I’d show you exactly how much I'm missing you. Every single inch of you.

He pressed himself further into the bed, the phone clutched in his hand, a profound, aching tenderness mixing with the burning desire. She understood him, completely. She reciprocated his need, amplified it. The distance was agonizing, but their shared longing, channeled through these illicit messages, was almost a physical presence in the room.

He knew what he had to do. Texting wasn’t enough anymore. He needed to hear her voice. His thumb found her contact again, this time hitting the call icon. It rang once, twice, three times, and then her soft voice answered.

"Harry?"

"Hey," he breathed, his voice rough. "Did I wake you?"

"No," she murmured, a soft rustle audible on her end, as if she was shifting in bed. "Just… thinking." Although there was an etch of sleep in her voice, a soft hum, it’s as if he could also hear a faint smile. 

"About what?" he asked, already knowing the answer, but needing to hear it from her.

A soft chuckle. "About you, Mr. Styles. And about all the trouble you just caused."

"Good," he said, letting the word hang in the air, loaded with meaning. "Because you caused me a lot of trouble too."

"Oh? What kind of trouble?" she teased, her voice lower now, a little playful, a little husky.

"The kind where I can’t stop thinking about you, about being with you, about touching you," he confessed, his voice barely a whisper. He closed his eyes, picturing her, trying to feel her presence through the phone. "I… I need you."

The line was silent for a moment, and he held his breath, suddenly unsure if he’d gone too far, revealed too much of his vulnerability. But then, she spoke, her voice laced with a tenderness that made his heart clench.

"I know, H. I feel it too." A sigh. "It’s been too long."

"Too long doesn’t even begin to cover it," he said, his voice cracking slightly. "I’m… I’m desperate for you. I’m so needy right now, baby. You have no idea."

"I think I have some idea," she replied, her voice soft, almost a purr. "Tell me, Harry. What exactly are you desperate for?"

He swallowed hard. This was it. The moment to truly lay himself bare. "Everything. Your hands on me. Your mouth. I just… I want you to tell me what you’d do to me if I was there. I want to hear it." He shifted, burying his face in his pillow, the phone pressed to his ear. "Please. Tell me."

"Harry," she breathed, a hint of surprise in her tone, mixed with something darker, more alluring. "You really want me to?"

"Yes," he practically begged, the word escaping him in a rush. "Please. I’m yours. Just… tell me." He felt a thrill of submission, a deep longing to be completely at her mercy, even from across the world. He just needed to hear her voice, guiding him, teasing him, commanding him.

"Alright," she said, her voice dropping to a low, husky whisper that sent shivers down his spine. "If you were here, Harry… the first thing I’d do is trace every single one of your tattoos, slowly, with my fingertips, all the way down your chest…"

"And then what?" he managed, his voice barely a croak. Every word she uttered was a caress, a promise, igniting a fire in his very core. He imagined her fingers, light as feathers, tracing the intricate designs etched into his skin, each line a pathway to deeper sensation.

"Then," she continued, her voice a seductive purr, "I'd kiss each one. Slowly. Lingering on the ones that mean the most to you, letting my lips tell you how much I cherish every piece of you." He could almost feel the warmth of her mouth against his skin, the soft pressure, the subtle tug. His imagination, already running wild, conjured a vivid scene. Her eyes, half-lidded, gazing up at him as she worshipped his body with her touch and taste.

"Don't stop," he pleaded, his breath catching in his throat. He shifted on the bed, his body responding to her words with an urgent ache. The distance between them was a cruel joke, but her voice, so close and intimate in his ear, made it almost bearable.

"After that," she whispered, and he could hear the smile in her voice, a mischievous, knowing smile, "I'd move lower. My hands would find the waistband of your shorts, slowly, deliberately, pulling them down, inch by agonizing inch, until they pooled around your ankles. And then… I’d remind you exactly how much I love the way you’re made, Harry. With my mouth."

A guttural sound escaped him, a mixture of frustration and pure,hot and burning desire. His hand clenched around the phone, knuckles white. She was playing him like a finely tuned instrument, extracting every raw, visceral reaction. He felt utterly exposed, completely at her mercy, and he loved it. "God, Y/N. You're killing me."

"Am I?" she teased, her voice dropping another octave, becoming even more intoxicating. "Good. Because I'm just getting started. Once you're completely exposed, Harry, I wouldn't rush. I'd take my time. I'd explore every curve, every dip, every taut muscle. My hands would roam, learning your body anew, rediscovering every sensitive spot." He imagined her fingers, cool and soft, gliding over his heated skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. He pictured her eyes, dark with desire, fixed on him, drinking in every inch of his nakedness.

"And then?" he urged, his voice desperate. He needed more. He needed to hear every explicit detail, to feel her presence through her words.

"Then," she murmured, her voice husky with unspoken promises, "I'd whisper things in your ear. All the things I've been missing. All the things I want to do to you. I'd tell you how much I crave your touch, your kiss, your strength. I'd tell you how beautiful you are, how perfectly you fit against me." Her words were a warm hug to his lonely soul, a direct hit to the core of his longing. He imagined her lips, soft and warm, brushing against his earlobe, sending shivers down his spine.

"Y/N," he groaned, his voice thick with emotion. "I can't take much more."

"Oh, but you can, Harry," she purred, her confidence radiating through the phone. "Because after all of that, after I've driven you absolutely wild with my words, my touch, my mouth, I'd finally give you what you're truly desperate for. I'd pull you closer, until there's no space left between us. I'd feel your heart hammering against mine, your breath warm on my neck. And then, Harry, I'd kiss you. A real kiss. A deep, soul-shattering kiss that reminds you of everything we are together, everything we've been missing. And I wouldn't stop kissing you until we were both breathless, until we'd forgotten about the tour, about the distance, about everything but each other."

He was trembling, his entire body alight with a desperate need. Her words were a living, breathing presence in the room, filling the emptiness, bridging the miles. He felt as though she was truly there, her scent in the air, her warmth pressed against him.

"And then what would happen, Y/N?" he managed, his voice barely a whisper, though he knew the answer. He needed to hear her say it.

"No, Harry," she sighed, a playful lilt in her voice, but a firm resolve underneath. "That's where the story ends for now. The rest, my dear, you'll simply have to come home to find out."

A desperate, guttural groan tore from Harry's throat, a sound of pure frustration and unbearable anticipation. "No! Y/N, please," he pleaded, his voice cracking with raw emotion. "Don't do this to me. You can't just stop there, not when you've painted such vivid pictures in my mind. I'm begging you. Just… tell me. I need to hear it. Every single detail." He was completely undone, a willing captive to her tantalizing game, lost in the erotic fantasy she had so expertly, so cruelly, woven. His body thrummed with a need that bordered on agony, every nerve ending alive and screaming for release.

"And why should I, Mr. Styles?" she teased, her voice a low purr that sent shivers down his spine, laced with amusement, yet holding an unyielding line. "Where's the fun in giving away all my secrets before I have you exactly where I want you?"

"Because… because I'm yours," he choked out, the admission tumbling from him without thought, a desperate plea for mercy disguised as surrender. "I'm completely yours. You own me, Y/N. Just tell me what you'd do to me. Describe it all. I'll… I'll do anything. Anything you ask. Please." His free hand, trembling with a mixture of desire and desperation, moved instinctively, seeking relief, finding solace in the rhythmic motion that mirrored the desperate ache building within him. He closed his eyes, her voice, her words, the images she had conjured, fusing with the growing, almost unbearable intensity. 

He was picturing her, her hands on him, her mouth tracing paths of fire across his skin, every exquisite detail she had promised, every tantalizing sensation she had evoked. The silence, the deliberate withholding of the culmination of her tale, amplified his need to an almost unbearable degree, making the eventual release an agonizingly distant, yet inevitable, prospect. He pressed the phone tighter to his ear, needing to capture every nuance of her voice, every soft breath she took, as if by doing so, he could somehow extract the rest of the story from her. 

"Just… tell me everything. Please, Y/N. I can't… I can't take much more. Tell me. Please, tell me what you'll do to me when I'm finally back in your arms. Tell me how you'll make me beg, how you'll make me scream your name. Tell me every wicked thought running through your mind. I need to hear it. I need to know." His breath hitched, his body trembling, as he waited, suspended in a delicious torment, for her next words, for the release only she could grant.

"Harry," she whispered, her voice a low, knowing murmur, finally relenting, though with a mischievous undertone that promised even greater delights. "You're really going to make me say it all, aren't you? Even knowing you're halfway across the world?"

"Yes." he groaned, a desperate plea. "Every single word. Don't leave anything out. I need to know what's waiting for me. It's the only thing keeping me sane."

She chuckled, a soft, seductive sound that vibrated through the phone. "Alright, Mr. Styles. If you insist. Once I've finished kissing you senseless, once we're both aching and breathless, I'd trace the lines of your abs, feel the hard planes of your chest under my fingertips. I'd lean in close and whisper how beautiful you are, how much I adore every single part of you."

Harry's breath hitched. He could feel it, almost taste it. His free hand instinctively moved, sliding down to the insistent swell beneath his pajama bottoms, a tentative touch that quickly became more assured. "And then?"

"Then," she continued, her voice dropping to a truly wicked purr, "I'd let my hands drift lower, over your hips, guiding you against me. I'd make sure you felt exactly how much I was longing for you, how wet and ready I am. And I'd make you wait, just a little longer, just enough to drive you completely insane, to make you tremble with need."

He was trembling now, a delicious, agonizing tremor that shook his entire body. His fingers tightened their grip, mimicking the desire she was so expertly stoking. "You're evil, Y/N."

"Only for you, Harry," she teased, a hint of steel in her voice. "Only for you. Then, when you're absolutely begging, when you're practically shaking apart in my arms, I'd guide you inside me, slowly. I'd savor every inch of your entrance, the way our bodies click into place, the deep sigh that escapes us both."

A moan tore from his throat, muffled by his hand as he pressed against himself, the imagined sensation almost too much to bear. He was picturing it so vividly, the sensation of her skin against his, the intimate press of their bodies.

"And then," she concluded, her voice laced with the promise of pure ecstasy, "I'd ride you, Harry. Slow and deep at first, feeling every stroke, every glorious friction, until we're both mindless, lost in each other. I'd whisper your name, over and over, as you fill me, as we chase that explosive climax together. And when it comes, Harry, when we're both shattering, I'd hold you close, so close you couldn't tell where I end and you begin. I'd kiss away your cries, and tell you I love you, until we finally drift off to sleep, tangled together, completely satiated."

Her words, soft and intimate yet carrying an unspoken weight, were enough for Harry. They were the final, delicate push that sent him cascading over the edge he’d been hovering on, teetering on it for what felt like forever, just to get that utter surrender. A choked gasp escaped him, not of pain, but of profound, overwhelming release, as his body began to convulse with a pleasure so intense it bordered on agony. It was the release he'd been so desperately craving, a hunger that had gnawed at him for days, finally consumed him entirely.

He groaned her name, a raw, ragged sound torn from the depths of his chest, barely audible above the drumming of his own heart. Each syllable was a testament to the waves of exquisite pleasure that rippled through him, each undulation pulling him deeper into the swirling vortex of sensation. His fingers, still tightly clutched around the phone, dug into the soft fabric of the sheets as if to anchor himself to reality, but reality was dissolving around him, replaced by the all-encompassing tide of sensation.

When it was over, the echoes of her voice fading into a gentle hum in his mind, he lay there, completely breathless and completely spent. His muscles, which had been coiled taut with anticipation, now felt boneless and heavy, sunk into the mattress. In the quiet room, the ghostly echo of her voice still lingered, a warm, lingering presence that promised more, a soft whisper that hinted at the boundless depths of their connection. He felt a profound sense of peace settle over him, a calm born from the storm, and a quiet gratitude for the woman on the other end of the line who held such power over him.

"Y/N," he finally managed, his voice raspy, thick with emotion and exhaustion, the last tremors of pleasure still echoing through him. "God, I… I love you."

[stylesonfilms]

#ficrec !

[nsfwrry]

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──BREAK YOU IN; because you're mine...only mine.. | pairing: harddom!harry x fem!reader | wc: 4.1k | | tw: language, jealousy/possessive behavior, humiliation, degrading, begging, fingering, nipple play, light choking, rough intercourse | synopsis: Jealous after Y/N flirts with another, Harry takes her home, systematically breaking her defiance with commands and intense sexual acts. Y/N experiences a confusing mix of fear, humiliation, and forbidden desire. The story culminates in a rough sexual encounter where Y/N finds herself in submission, leaving their dynamic forever altered. taglist: @stylesonfilms @sparklejumpropequeen1113 @boredhsblog @luna-sol-aries @litttlesunshinebunny

She knew what she was doing. She knew that she was pushing his buttons, twirling her hair around her finger while batting her eyelashes at the guy across the bar. Harry's jaw was clenched so tight he thought it might shatter, his knuckles white as he gripped the glass in his hand. He watched her laugh, a bright, tinkling sound that usually melted him, but now only fueled the fire in his gut.

When she finally strolled back to him, a sly smile playing on her lips, he grabbed her arm. "What do you think you're doing?" he hissed, his voice low and dangerous.

Her smile faltered slightly. "Just having some fun, Harry. Like you always do."

Technically speaking, sure, they are not together officially and maybe this has been a fling-type situation that has gone on for too long to the point it was fully teetering on relationship. But Harry, usually calm and caring and loving, was seething. Because in that moment he realized the truth. Y/N was his.

"Not when it comes to you," he snarled, pulling her closer, his eyes dark with a possessiveness she hadn't seen this intensely before. "You're mine, Y/N. And it's time you remembered that."

He dragged her out of the bar, ignoring her protests, and practically threw her into the car. The drive back to his place was silent, thick with a tension that hummed between them. The moment the door slammed shut behind them, he was on her, his kiss bruising, demanding. She found herself against the wall, his hands roaming her body, his breath hot against her ear as he whispered, "You're going to learn tonight who you belong to."

Her mind reeled, a confusing mix of fear and a strange, thrilling anticipation. This wasn't the playful Harry she knew, the one who indulged her every whim. This was something darker, more primal. His eyes, usually so full of warmth, now burned with an intensity that promised both punishment and a twisted sort of pleasure.

He didn't wait for a response, his mouth still locked on hers, forcing her head against the cool plaster of the wall. Her protests were swallowed by his kiss, her struggles only serving to fuel his dominance. He tasted of whiskey and raw desire, a potent combination that left her breathless and dizzy. His hands, no longer gentle, gripped her hips, hoisting her up until her legs wrapped instinctively around his waist. He carried her, still kissing her, through the hallway and into the dimly lit bedroom.

He didn't bother to turn on the lights, the moonlight filtering through the blinds casting long, distorted shadows across the room. He let her slide down his body until her feet touched the floor, but he didn't release her. Instead, he spun her around, pushing her gently but firmly towards the bed. She stumbled, catching herself on the edge, her heart hammering against her ribs.

"On your knees, Y/N," he commanded, his voice a low growl that sent shivers down her spine. There was no room for argument, no hint of the familiar tenderness. This was an order, pure and unadulterated. She hesitated for a fraction of a second, her gaze meeting his in the gloom. His eyes were unyielding, a silent dare. Slowly, her knees buckled, and she sank to the floor beside the bed, her head bowed.

He stood over her, a formidable silhouette against the faint light. "Look at me," he ordered, and she lifted her head, her eyes wide and vulnerable. "You think you can play games, don't you? Make a fool out of me in public?" He took a step closer, his shadow engulfing her. "You think you can just flirt with any man you want, with no consequences?"

She tried to speak, to offer an explanation, but he cut her off with a sharp shake of his head. "No. Not tonight. Tonight, you listen. Tonight, you learn." He reached out, his fingers tangling in her hair, pulling her head back slightly, exposing her throat. It wasn't a harsh tug, but it was possessive, a clear assertion of control. "You belong to me, Y/N. Every inch of you. And you will respect that."

His gaze raked over her, making her feel exposed and vulnerable, yet a strange warmth bloomed in her stomach. It was wrong, she knew, to feel this thrill, this primal rush of submission. But it was there, undeniable, a silent hum beneath her fear.

"Get up," he said, and she scrambled to her feet, her gaze still fixed on his. He backed away a step, gesturing towards the center of the room. "Strip."

Her breath hitched. "Harry, no…"

"Strip," he repeated, his voice colder, more insistent. "Or I'll do it for you. And I promise you, I won't be gentle."

Her fingers trembled as she reached for the buttons of her blouse. Each movement felt agonizingly slow, her humiliation mounting with every discarded piece of clothing. She felt his eyes on her, a physical weight, dissecting her, claiming her. When she stood before him, naked and trembling, she wanted to cover herself, to hide from his piercing gaze, but she resisted, knowing it would only provoke him further.

"Good," he murmured, his voice a low rumble. "Now, turn around."

She obeyed, her back to him, her shoulders hunched. She heard the rustle of his own clothes as he undressed, the soft thud of fabric hitting the floor. Then, she felt the warmth of his body behind her, the brush of his skin against hers, and a shiver ran through her. He was shirtless.

His hands settled on her hips, pulling her back against him until there was no space between them. His erection pressed hard against her backside, a stark reminder of his intentions. "You think you can just walk away from me, don't you?" he whispered, his lips close to her ear. "Flirt with other men, make me jealous? That was a mistake, Y/N. A very big mistake."

His fingers traced the curve of her spine, sending shivers down her body. "You need to be reminded of your place," he continued, his voice dangerously soft. "You need to understand what it means to be mine." He ran his hands down her thighs, cupping her ass, his grip squeezing slightly. "Every curve, every inch. All of it. Mine."

He turned her around to face him, his hands still on her hips. Her eyes, filled with a mixture of apprehension and reluctant desire, met his. His face was a mask of stern dominance, his jaw still tight, but there was a flicker of something deeper in his eyes, a raw hunger that mirrored the one stirring within her.

"Tonight," he said, his voice dropping to a near whisper, "you will learn the meaning of obedience. You will learn to crave my touch, to beg for my approval. You will learn to submit." His thumbs stroked her skin, and she felt a tremor run through her. "And by the time I'm done with you, you'll never look at another man again without remembering whose you are."

He leaned in, his lips brushing against hers, a teasing, tormenting touch. "Do you understand, Y/N?" he breathed, his voice a low command.

She nodded, a small, almost invisible movement. She was lost, caught in the intoxicating web of his dominance, a prisoner of her own growing and burning desire. She knew, with a terrifying certainty, that tonight would change everything. And deep down, in a place she dared not acknowledge, a part of her was desperate for it.

He devoured her response, a dark satisfaction flaring in his eyes. He deepened the kiss, a fierce possession that left no room for doubt. His hands moved from her hips, sliding up her sides, tracing the curve of her ribs, before cupping her breasts, his thumbs brushing over her nipples, making them harden instantly. A soft gasp escaped her, and he swallowed it, pulling her even closer until their bodies were pressed together from chest to thigh.

He broke the kiss, his gaze dropping to her mouth, swollen and red from his assault. "Good," he rasped, his voice rough with desire. "Now, say it. Tell me you understand."

She hesitated, her eyes flickering with a flicker of defiance. The thought of speaking the words, of completely surrendering, was a challenge to her ingrained independence. But the heat of his body, the intensity of his gaze, and the raw craving stirring within her, pushed her to the brink. "I… I understand," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

He let out a low growl, a sound of triumph. "Not enough, Y/N. I want to hear it. I want to hear you admit what you are. Mine."

Her cheeks flushed, a deeper blush spreading across her chest. The word, "mine," felt like a brand, searing itself onto her skin. Yet, beneath the humiliation, a strange tremor of excitement ran through her. "I'm… I'm yours, Harry," she finally managed, her voice trembling slightly.

A slow, possessive smile spread across his face, a smile that sent shivers down her spine. "That's right," he murmured, his voice a silken threat. He tightened his grip on her hips, pulling her flush against his hardness. "And you will never forget it again."

He lowered his head, pressing his lips to the hollow of her throat, trailing hot kisses down her collarbone. His touch, though firm, sent exquisite pleasure through her. She gasped, her head falling back, exposing herself further to his claiming. He bit gently at her sensitive skin, then sucked, leaving a growing mark that would serve as a visible reminder of his ownership.

"This," he whispered against her skin, "is for every man you looked at tonight. Every glance, every smile. This is what happens when you forget your place."

He moved his attention to her breasts, his mouth closing over one nipple, drawing it deep, sucking with a fierce hunger that made her arch into him. Her knees felt weak, and she clung to his shoulders, her fingers digging into his skin. He alternated between the two, his tongue lashing, his teeth nipping, driving her to a frenzy of sensation.

"You like that, don't you, my little disobedient?" he growled, pulling back slightly to look at her, his eyes blazing. "You like being punished, don't you?"

She couldn't speak, only managed a choked sound, a mixture of pleasure and shame. The sheer audacity of his words, the raw accusation, yet the undeniable truth of the pleasure he was inflicting, left her breathless.

He smiled, a dark, knowing curve of his lips. "I thought so."

He lifted her into his arms, easily carrying her weight as she instinctively wrapped her legs around his waist again. He walked towards the large armchair in the corner of the room, a deep leather piece she usually found comforting. He dropped her into it, not roughly, but with a deliberate firmness that communicated his control. She landed with a soft thud, her legs still splayed around his waist. He didn't release her, but instead, positioned himself between her thighs, standing over her, his hands still gripping her hips.

"Still defiant, aren't you?" Harry rasped, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that seemed to vibrate through the very air between them. His eyes, dark and predatory, burned into hers, a silent challenge in their depths. He didn't just look at her, no, he devoured her with his gaze, asserting his dominance with every flicker of his intense stare.

"You think you can challenge me from this position." he continued, a cruel twist to his lips. It wasn't a question, but a statement laced with contempt, a stark reminder of her vulnerability. He shifted, his powerful frame moving closer, and she could feel the heat radiating from him, a tangible threat.

Then, without warning, he tightened his grip on her hips, his fingers digging in just enough to convey his absolute control. He pressed her further into the plush leather of the armchair, the soft material offering no resistance to his force. The movement was deliberate, calculated, designed to make her acutely aware of his imposing presence, the sheer power he wielded. Every inch of him, from the taut muscles beneath his tailored suit to the unyielding set of his jaw, screamed authority.

"Let me show you how foolish that defiance is," he murmured, his breath warm against her ear. It was a promise, dark and chilling, of the consequences that awaited her. The unspoken threat hung heavy in the air, a suffocating weight that pressed down on her, leaving no doubt that her defiance would be met with a ruthless display of his will. He intended to break her, to strip away her will, and he would relish every moment of it.

He watched her, a slow, predatory smile spreading across his face as he saw the fear, and something else, flicker in her eyes. It was a challenge, a silent defiance that still lingered despite her precarious position. He reveled in it, in the knowledge that he was chipping away at her resistance, piece by agonizing piece.

"You think you can still look at me like that?" he purred, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that seemed to vibrate through the very air between them. "Like you have a choice? Like you have any say in what happens next?"

He leaned down, his face inches from hers, his eyes, dark and predatory, burning into hers. "Let me remind you, little one," he murmured, his breath warm against her ear, "you lost that right the moment you decided to play games. The moment you decided to forget whose you are."

His hand moved from her hip, trailing slowly up her side, his fingers tracing the curve of her ribs, sending shivers down her body. She gasped, a small, involuntary sound that he relished in, his smile widening. He enjoyed the raw honesty of her reactions, the way her body betrayed her lingering defiance.

"Every gasp, every shiver," he whispered, his voice laced with dark satisfaction, "is proof of your submission. Proof that even when you fight, your body knows its master."

He leaned back slightly, his gaze dropping to her chest, her breasts rising and falling with her ragged breaths. "You're a beautiful creature, Y/N. A tempting, frustratingly defiant creature. But tonight, you're just mine. A plaything for my pleasure."

His words, meant to degrade, only ignited a strange, perverse thrill deep within her. It was wrong, she knew, to feel this rush, this forbidden excitement at his cruelty. But it was there, undeniable, a silent hum beneath her fear.

He lowered his head, his lips brushing against hers, a teasing, tormenting touch that left her aching for more. "Still holding back?" he taunted, his voice a low growl. "Still clinging to that pride? It's wasted on me, Y/N. Absolutely wasted."

He lowered his head, pressing his lips to the hollow of her throat, trailing hot kisses down her collarbone. His touch, though firm, sent exquisite pleasure through her. She gasped, her head falling back, exposing herself further to his claiming. He bit gently at her sensitive skin, then sucked, leaving a growing mark that would serve as a visible reminder of his ownership.

"This," he whispered against her skin, "is for every man you looked at tonight. Every glance, every smile. This is what happens when you forget your place."

He pulled back, his hands still on her hips, holding her captive. He stepped back further, enough to allow her to see him, to see the hard line of his jaw, the stern set of his mouth, the blazing possessiveness in his eyes. He slowly unzipped his trousers, the sound a sharp rasp in the quiet room. Her eyes widened, a mixture of apprehension and reluctant fascination. She watched, transfixed, as his erection sprang free, hard and imposing. It was a raw, primal display of his masculinity, a stark reminder of the power he held over her.

"This," he said, his voice a low, guttural growl, "is what you earned tonight, Y/N. Every inch of it. And you will take it all."

He took another step closer, his knees bumping against hers. He reached out, his hand wrapping around her ankle, pulling her leg up and over his shoulder, exposing her even further. She gasped, her body tensing, but he paid her no mind. He repeated the action with her other leg, until she was fully splayed open to him, vulnerable and exposed. Her cheeks burned with shame, yet a fierce heat bloomed between her legs, a silent testament to the contradictory desires warring within her.

"Look at you," he murmured, his gaze raking over her, a possessive gleam in his eyes. "So open, so ready. You're already begging, aren't you? Even without words."

He knelt between her legs, his powerful thighs pressing against hers. His fingers brushed against her wetness, a fleeting, teasing touch that made her squirm. "Such a good little slut," he purred, his voice laced with contempt, yet a strange admiration. "Always wet for me, even when you pretend you don't want it."

He didn't wait for a response, his fingers delving deeper, exploring her, making her writhe against the leather. She cried out, a choked sound of pleasure and protest, and he silenced her with a harsh glare. "Quiet," he commanded, his voice sharp. "You will not make a sound unless I tell you to. Do you understand?"

She nodded, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes, her breath coming in shallow gasps. She was at his complete mercy, and the realization, as new as it was, also brought with it a strange, dark sense of liberation.

He pulled his hand away, and she whimpered at the sudden loss. He chuckled, a low, mocking sound. "Impatient, are we? Don't worry, little one. You'll get what's coming to you. And you'll beg for more. I promise."

He rose to his feet, his gaze piercing, his chest heaving with controlled aggression. He reached down and grabbed her by the arm, hauling her off the armchair and pushing her back against the cool, unforgiving wall. The impact jarred her, and a sharp gasp escaped her lips, quickly stifled by the sudden pressure of his body against hers. He trapped her there, his powerful frame a cage, his breath hot against her temple.

"You think this is a game?" he snarled, his voice a low, dangerous growl that resonated through her very bones. "You think you can challenge me and then expect mercy? You don't get mercy, Y/N. You get what you deserve. You get me."

His hand clamped around her throat, not enough to cut off her breath, but firm enough to assert his absolute command. She swallowed, her eyes wide and pleading, but he saw no surrender, only a stubborn spark of defiance that only fueled his rage, his need to completely break her.

"Look at me," he commanded, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin of her neck, a perverse comfort in the face of his aggression. "Look at the man who owns you. Look at the man who will remind you, with every thrust, every moan, that you are nothing but my possession."

He leaned in, his lips brushing her ear, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "Tonight, you will be my whore. My willing, screaming whore. And you will love every moment of it."

Without another word, he gripped her hips, tilting her, and then, with a brutal thrust, he buried himself deep inside her. A choked cry tore from her throat, a mix of pain and shocked pleasure, as her body stretched, accommodating his immense size. He didn't wait for her to adjust, didn't allow her a moment to catch her breath. He began to move, a relentless, punishing rhythm that slammed her against the wall with every stroke.

"Fight me," he gritted out, his teeth bared, his eyes blazing with a primal hunger. "I dare you to fight me. Because the harder you fight, the harder I'll take you." And something that alone thrilled her.

Her hands instinctively went to his shoulders, her nails digging into his skin, not in an attempt to push him away, but to hold on, to brace herself against the onslaught. Her hips bucked involuntarily, meeting his thrusts, and he saw it, that desperate need that mirrored his own.

He leaned back, his eyes fixed on her face, contorted with a mixture of agony and ecstasy. "See? Your body knows. Your body craves this. Craves my dominance. You're a slut, Y/N. A desperate, begging slut, just waiting for a man to take you. And I'm going to take you completely."

He reached between them, his fingers finding her clit, rubbing, teasing, circling, each stroke a lightning bolt of sensation that shot through her already overstimulated nerves. She gasped, her head falling back against the wall, her body arching into his relentless rhythm.

"This is your punishment," he snarled, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "Every single exquisite bit of it. This is what happens when you stray. This is what happens when you forget who you belong to."

He picked up his pace, a fierce, driving rhythm that blurred the lines between pleasure and pain, submission and defiance. Her legs wrapped tighter around his waist, her moans growing louder, less choked, more desperate. He pushed deeper, harder, grinding into her, demanding everything she had to give.

"Beg," he commanded, his voice raw. "Beg for it. Tell me you're mine. Tell me you're nothing without me."

Tears streamed down her face, not from sorrow, but from the overwhelming intensity, the brutal pleasure that consumed her. "Please, Harry," she sobbed, her voice broken, "I'm yours. I'm yours. Don't stop."

Her body convulsed, a scream tearing from her throat as a blinding orgasm ripped through her, seizing every nerve ending. Her nails dug deeper into his shoulders, her hips bucking wildly against him as wave after wave of exquisite pleasure crashed over her, obliterating everything but the burning, consuming sensation. 

A primal cry escaped her lips, echoing in the confines of the room as her muscles seized, quivering under the intense release. The world narrowed to this singular, electrifying point, every sensation heightened, every breath a desperate gasp for air. 

Her vision blurred, spots dancing before her eyes, and a delicious weight settled over her limbs, rendering her temporarily helpless in the throes of such profound ecstasy. It felt as if her very soul was being wrung out, cleansed and reborn in the furnace of this shared fire, leaving her breathless, spent, yet utterly alive in a way she'd never known.

A triumphant growl ripped from his throat. "Good girl," he rasped, and then, with a final, earth-shattering thrust, he spilled himself deep inside her, his body shuddering with the force of his release. He collapsed against her, his weight pinning her to the wall, his breath coming in ragged gasps against her neck.

He stayed there for a long moment, his erection slowly receding, still buried deep inside her. When he finally pulled back, his eyes were still dark, still possessive, but there was a flicker of something else there too, a satiated triumph.

"Remember this," he whispered, his voice still hoarse with desire. "Remember who you belong to."

He kissed her then, a softer, lingering kiss that was no less possessive. It was a promise of future lessons, of continued ownership that echoed through her very being. The intensity of his presence filled the space between them, a silent declaration of his claim. He pulled her away from the cool, unyielding wall, her legs still weak and trembling beneath her, a testament to the raw power of his touch. He carried her to the bed with an effortless strength, laying her down gently onto the soft mattress, as if she were the most fragile and precious thing.

He climbed in beside her, the mattress dipping under his weight, and pulled the duvet over them, a cocoon of warmth and intimacy. She snuggled into his side, her body aching in a way that was both exhaustion and exhilaration, yet curiously content. The rhythm of his breathing was a soothing hum against her ear, and the steady beat of his heart beneath her cheek was a reassuring anchor in the whirlwind of her emotions.

She was his, undeniably and completely, and tonight, he had made sure she would never forget it. Every touch, every word, every stolen breath had been a reinforcement of that truth. And deep down, nestled in the quiet corners of her soul, she knew with a certainty that both thrilled and terrified her, that she wouldn't want to forget it. This possessive devotion, this undeniable connection, was a new landscape she was just beginning to explore, and for all its intensity, it felt like coming home.

[stylesonfilms]

#ficrec #authorrec

[digistyles]

linger - part two [h.s]

word count: 3.3k warnings: mentions of bpd, mild anxiety attack (if you squint)/derealization. ♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1qZ590WfJvRX2NqZMyONOh?si=313024e7a77649a5  a/n: please see my masterlist for a link to the story's introductions which dives into the warnings for the overall story.

“It sounds like you might have BPD, Harry.”

“BPD…?”

“Yes. It stands for borderline personality disorder.”

“I don’t… I don’t understand. I’m not splitting between personalities. I mean, I’m still me. I always have been.”

“Well, yes, but that’s not what that means. Borderline personality disorder is a mental health condition that is often characterized by unstable moods, behaviors, and relationships. Individuals with this disorder often experience intense emotions, impulsive actions, and a distorted self-image.” 

“Oh.”

“Mhm. It usually leads to difficulties in various aspects of life, including work, social interactions, and personal relationships.”

“Personal relationships?”

“Yes. It can often be difficult for you to fully enjoy it. Rapid mood swings that can last from hours to days often have negative impacts on these relationships.”

“What? Like I PMS?”

“No, silly. Like… like one day you’ll be happy. The best day with your partner, and then they say something that your brain doesn’t like. You can… how do I put this, overexaggerate your feelings, take things to the extreme.”

“Well, I don’t like that. I don't want to do that.”

“You already do, Harry. That’s why we’re here today, why I am officially diagnosing you.”

“I still don’t… I still don’t understand.”

Harry’s eyes flickered across Dr. Anderson's features. Green swarms twisted with an anxious look as he gained knowledge of this new disorder. A frown sat on his lips, brows pulled down in deep thought. Something was suddenly wrong with him, and it wasn’t the typical anxiety. He didn’t like that. He couldn’t handle change.

Harry’s knee bounced where it was planted against the floor, boot tapping too quick, too loud in the quiet of Dr. Anderson’s office. His mouth felt dry but his palms were slick, clammy against the fabric of his trousers as though he’d just walked in from a storm.

“Harry,” Dr. Anderson said gently, leaning forward just enough so her voice reached him without pressing. “I want to be very clear. Borderline personality disorder isn’t about having multiple personalities. You are you. Always. But your emotions… they can feel sharper, more extreme than the average person’s. They can change quickly, and sometimes it can be difficult to trust them—especially in relationships. Does that make sense?”

Harry swallowed, hard, the sound of it too loud in his own head. His voice cracked when he spoke. “I… I don’t know. It’s like you’re tellin’ me I’m—broken. Like I can’t—like I don’t know myself.”

“No,” she said quickly, softly. “Not broken. Misunderstood. And hurting.”

His eyes flicked up to hers, desperate and disbelieving all at once. “Hurting?”

“Yes,” she said. “Everything you feel, you feel so deeply. That can be a gift in some ways—it makes you empathetic, intuitive. But it can also make the world unbearable at times. The fear of abandonment, the push and pull between wanting closeness and being terrified of it… that’s why relationships are so hard. It’s not that you don’t love. It’s that you love too much—too hard, too fast. And it scares you.”

Harry’s chest felt like it was caving in. His breath hitched, shallow, and suddenly he couldn’t tell if he was hot or cold. His body shivered as though he’d stepped into winter, but his skin burned with sweat. His hands trembled where they gripped his thighs, knuckles whitening with the effort.

Dr. Anderson noticed immediately. “Harry. How are you feeling right now?”

His voice was small, shaky. “Cold. Like, shivering cold. But my palms are sweating. And my head feels… floaty. Like I’m not really here.”

She nodded gently, grounding her tone. “That’s called derealization, Harry. A form of dissociation. It happens when the body and mind are overwhelmed by something new, something frightening. You’re in this room, but part of you is trying to protect itself by stepping back, almost as if it’s not real.”

His throat worked around a lump. “So I’m—what? Losing it?”

“No,” she said firmly. “You’re protecting yourself. Your body is saying, ‘this is too much, too fast.’ And that’s okay. What you’re feeling right now makes sense. It’s your system adjusting to new information, trying to keep you safe.”

Harry pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, as if blocking out the light would stop the swell inside him. His voice cracked again. “I don’t—I don’t want this. I don’t want to be like this.”

“I know,” Dr. Anderson said quietly. “And that’s why we’re here. You don’t have to go through it alone.”

Harry let out a broken laugh, muffled behind his hands. “Feels like I’ve always gone through it alone.”

The room fell quiet for a long moment. His chest rose and fell in uneven rhythms, his body trembling, but for the first time he realized he wasn’t being told to stop. No one was telling him to “calm down” or to “get a grip.” The silence, the space she left for him, felt terrifying and relieving all at once.

The memory still pressed sharp against his chest, even six months later. Sitting in that chair across from Dr. Anderson, his palms damp, his heart racing as the word disorder rearranged everything he thought he knew about himself. He remembered the hollow chill that had settled in his bones that day, the way he’d wanted to run and crawl into a hole at the same time.

Now, though, he could look back with different eyes. Not softer, not exactly, but steadier. He’d spent months sitting in that same office, sometimes furious, sometimes in tears, sometimes silent for the full hour. Slowly, painfully, he’d learned to sit with feelings instead of letting them drown him. Learned that the terrifying swings in his head didn’t have to define every part of his life. Some days were still brutal, he knew they always would be, but he wasn’t adrift anymore. 

Dr. Anderson had given him an anchor.

Harry exhaled through his nose, dragging the palm of his hand down his jaw as he studied himself in the mirror. His hair had been combed back in loose waves, not too neat, not careless either. A simple white linen shirt fell soft against his skin, sleeves rolled at the forearm, collar left open just enough to catch the sea breeze later. He smiled faintly, dimples flashing at his own reflection before he shook his head, tucking his phone and keys into his pockets.

This was different. River was different. No dogs, no flying frisbees this time—just the two of them and the quiet hush of the ocean. He’d insisted on cooking, wanting to put a little bit of himself into the evening, and the basket waiting by his front door was proof: grilled chicken tucked between slices of fresh bread, a simple salad, a bottle of white chilled just enough. He’d even packed chocolate-dipped strawberries, embarrassed with how long it had taken him to make them without smudging the kitchen counters.

It wasn’t just a picnic. It was him showing up, trying. He wanted to mangle that disorder by the throat and stop it out of his system.

As he bent to lace his boots, he felt that old flicker of doubt tug at him, the echo of the voice that told him he wasn’t cut out for connection. But then he pictured River’s grin, that laugh spilling out of her when she told the crumpet story at her Jeep, her eyes bright with mischief. The way she’d called out to him, nervous but sure, asking if he wanted to go out.

Warmth spread through him, a low thrum under his skin, stronger than the summer evening bleeding through the open window.

He grabbed his phone from his back pocket as he slid into the driver’s seat, fingers moving faster than his nerves. The engine’s hum rose up, cutting into the faint chatter of the boardwalk behind him.

H: On my way! Be there in ten.

He tossed the phone down on the console, glancing toward the passenger seat. A bundle of white daisies and vibrant yellow sunflowers leaned lazily against the wicker picnic basket, their petals glowing soft in the last stretch of daylight. The sight made his mouth tug into a grin, dimples etching deep. He had this. He had to.

The screen lit again.

R: perfect! can’t wait. X

He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, steadying his hands on the steering wheel before pulling out into the street.

The ocean stretched out before them, a coppery wash of light where the sun was dipping low, painting the horizon in soft golds and bruised purples. The air was cooler now, salted breeze licking at their hair as gulls cried faintly in the distance. They sat close on the blanket River had brought, plates balanced on their laps, the wicker basket half-emptied between them.

Harry swirled what was left in his glass of wine, the pale liquid catching the glow of the setting sun. River popped a grape into her mouth, chewing thoughtfully before tipping her head at him.

“So,” she began, voice light, curious, “what is it that you do, exactly?”

He glanced over, lips quirking. “Ah. Tricky question.”

“Tricky? C’mon, how’s that tricky? Everyone’s got a job, right?”

“Mhm.” He gave a small nod, then shrugged. “I write music. Songs, mostly.”

Her eyes lit. “Really? That’s… that’s amazing.”

Harry snorted softly, ducking his head to look at the sand instead of her face. “Don’t get too excited. I don’t put them anywhere. Absolutely not.”

“Why not?” she pressed, eyebrows raised.

“Because,” he said quickly, chuckling at his own defensiveness. “I’m insecure as hell about it, that’s why. Writing’s one thing, but sharing it? Nah. No one needs to hear me whine with a guitar.”

River shook her head, smiling, though there was a softness to it. “I’d disagree. But fine. What else do you do, then?”

He tipped his glass toward the basket. “Work at a French bookstore downtown sometimes. Just helping the owners. They’re older, could use the extra hands.”

“That sounds… kind of wonderful, actually.”

“It is.” He leaned back on one hand, toes digging into the sand. His boots sat beside her birkenstocks, collecting sand along with each smooth breeze. “Quiet. Smells like paper and coffee all the time. Perfect place to hide.”

River tilted her head. “But it can’t pay much if you’re only there occasionally. Yet here you are, with your own house and car. I’m curious.”

Harry’s smile faltered a little, but he forced it steady. “The house was passed down. From my mum. She, uh… passed away a while back.” His thumb traced the rim of his glass, voice low. “I only moved in about a year ago, after bouncing around for a bit. Love it, though. Feels… hers, but mine too.”

River’s expression softened, her body angling toward him, but she didn’t crowd. Just listened.

“As for the car,” he went on with a small grin, “had it since I was eighteen. Bit of a relic now, but I keep it running. Sentimental, I guess.”

She laughed gently, reaching to pluck a sunflower petal from the basket where it had fallen. “You sound like someone who doesn’t like to let go.”

His green eyes flickered to her face, something unguarded flashing across them before he smirked faintly, leaning back again. “Yeah. You could say that.”

The tide hissed against the shore, pulling back as the sun bled lower, and for a moment the silence between them felt easy.

Harry leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, glass dangling loosely between his fingers. The sound of the tide filled the space as he glanced at her, a small smile tugging at his mouth.

“So what about your lot?” he asked. “The dogs. How long’ve you had ’em?”

River brightened a little at the mention, her gaze flicking toward the dunes as if picturing them there. “Both four years now. Got them around the same time, actually.”

Harry’s brows lifted. “Together?”

“Not exactly.” She pulled her knees up, wrapping her arms loosely around them. “Gideon—he was supposed to be a service dog. Didn’t quite make the cut. Too distracted, too… himself, I guess.” Her lips curved with affection. “So I took him in.”

Harry chuckled softly. “Can’t imagine him being much good at sit-still-and-listen.”

“Exactly,” she said, smiling back. Then her tone shifted, quiet but steady. “He’s also got a condition. It means he won’t be around forever. Year, maybe year and a half, if we’re lucky.”

Harry blinked, his smile fading into something softer. “I’m… sorry.”

River shook her head gently, eyes on her wine glass now. “It’s alright. I’ve made peace with it. He’s had a good life. Gets spoiled rotten. He’ll keep getting spoiled until… well.” She trailed off, then exhaled, the corners of her mouth lifting again. “That’s the deal when you love something with a clock on it, right?”

Harry swallowed, gaze steady on her. There was something about the calm way she said it that struck him deeper than if she’d cried. “That’s tough, though. Knowing the time’s coming.”

“It is,” she admitted, her voice low but sure. “But it also makes every day feel important. I don’t take him for granted. Not once. And honestly, I think that’s the best gift he could’ve given me.”

Harry sat with that for a moment, watching her, the sincerity in her eyes, the steadiness of her voice. He thought about his own mother, about loss and how it could carve you out in places you never expected, and he felt the heaviness of her words settle in his chest.

He cleared his throat gently, trying to bring back some lightness without brushing past what she’d shared. “And the other one? Not a failed service dog, I hope?”

River’s mouth curved again. “Nope. Just a rescue with way too much energy. Between the two of them, they keep me moving.”

Harry laughed softly, leaning back into the blanket. “Yeah, I’ve seen that. Pretty sure they nearly pulled your arm off last week.”

River laughed too, the sound carrying easily on the breeze, and for a moment the heaviness eased.

Harry tipped his glass back for another slow sip, eyes glinting as a grin tugged at his lips. “Well, maybe that’s a good thing then. Keepin’ you movin’. Otherwise you’d just be sittin’ at home, gettin’ all old and creaky.”

River let out a laugh, incredulous, and immediately swatted his arm with the back of her hand. “Excuse me? Old and creaky?”

He laughed at the indignant look on her face, holding his free hand up in mock surrender. “What? I mean—someone’s gotta keep your joints from lockin’ up.”

She shook her head, still laughing, a flush of pink rising across her cheeks. “I’m twenty-five, Harry.”

“Exactly,” he teased, leaning closer. “That’s practically ancient.”

River rolled her eyes, but she was grinning too wide to hide it. “Oh, shut up. You act like you’re not right behind me.”

“Behind you, sure,” he said, smirking, “but not nearly as creaky.”

She laughed again, shaking her head.

Harry let his smirk soften, resting his arm across his bent knee as he looked at her. “Alright then, ancient one,” he teased once more before letting his voice mellow. “D’you enjoy it? Workin’ at the café?”

River glanced down at the stem of her wine glass, twisting it between her fingers as if weighing the truth. “I do,” she said after a moment, eyes flicking back up to meet his. “I love it, really. The people, the rhythm of it—it feels… I don’t know, steady.”

Harry nodded slowly, taking that in. There was something grounding in the way she said it, like she wasn’t trying to dress it up for him.

“But,” she went on, a little laugh tumbling out, “if we’re talking about dreams… it was never coffee I wanted to pour. I always wanted to pick up hair.”

Harry blinked, then tilted his head, amused. “Pick up hair?”

She grinned, catching his confusion. “I mean—be a stylist. Work some magic with scissors, color, all that. Make people feel… well, beautiful, I guess. Like they could walk out the door and take on the world.”

Something about the way her smile softened at that made Harry’s chest tighten. He leaned back on his hands, studying her like she’d just revealed a part of herself no one else had seen. “So makin’ other people happy would make you happy.”

“Exactly,” she said quietly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, her eyes skimming the horizon before darting back to him.

Harry hummed, a small smile pressing at his lips. “Sounds like a bit of magic to me.”

River laughed, shaking her head at herself. “Yeah, I didn’t really sell it well, did I? ‘Pick up hair.’ Sounds like I’d just sweep the salon floor for a living.”

Harry smirked into his wine. “Oi, don’t knock it. Maybe you’d be the best hair-picker-upper in town.”

She leaned toward him, nudging his arm with her elbow. “Oh, shut up.”

His grin widened at the warmth in her voice. “Alright, alright. But seriously… you’d be brilliant at it. Bet you’ve seem t’got that eye for detail. Like you can look at people and see what’d make ’em shine.”

That quieted her for a second, her lips parting like she wanted to argue, but instead, she ducked her head and smiled. “Maybe. One day, I’ll make it happen.”

“Good,” he said simply, then shifted the focus. “So, what else? Outside the café and dogs, what fills your time?”

River toyed with her bracelet as she thought. “I read a lot. Walk the boardwalk when I can. I’m trying to learn how to paint, but… I’m mostly terrible.”

Harry chuckled. “S’pose we all need something we’re terrible at. Keeps us humble.”

She raised a brow. “And what’s yours?”

“Mm.” He leaned back, pretending to think hard. “Basketball. Tried to play once and tripped over m’self so badly, banged the damn ball into my face so hard that I swore off ever touchin’ a ball again.”

River burst into laughter, her head tipping back, the sound rolling into the breeze. “No way.”

“Way. Nearly broke m’nose. Then my legs. Not very rockstar, is it?”

“Not at all.” She giggled, then tilted her head curiously. “But… you mentioned music. That doesn’t sound like something you’re terrible at.”

Harry’s jaw ticked slightly, the admission sitting heavier with him than he meant. “I… like writing. But that’s different than showing the world, isn’t it?”

River studied him gently, but she didn’t push. Instead, she let the lull between them stretch, only filled by the sound of waves breaking against the shore.

After a moment, she smiled. “Well, I think the world would be lucky to hear it. But I get it. Some things feel better kept… just yours.”

Harry found himself watching her a little too long, the sincerity in her words nestling somewhere deep. He cleared his throat, nudging the conversation lighter again. “So, Miss Future Stylist—tell me your guilty pleasure. Everyone’s got one.”

River grinned, eyes glinting. “Easy. Terrible reality TV. The trashier the better.”

Harry let out a bark of laughter. “You’re jokin’.”

“Nope. Keeps me entertained, what can I say?”

He shook his head, grinning. “And here I thought you were refined. Can’t believe I’m sharin’ wine on the beach with a reality TV addict.”

“Guess it’s too late to back out now,” she teased, sipping her glass.

Harry hummed, green eyes observing the sight in front of him. The salt air curled around the soft waves of her strawberry blonde hair, her blue eyes captivated by the sea. Her cheeks tinted red—maybe from him and his banter or maybe from the tinge of cold air. The flowers he bought her, the same ones she brought to her nose and twirled, yes, twirled, in delight from, laid half on her lap and half on the blanket beneath. Her fingers would graze through the petals every now and then, glancing a shy look whenever he’d made her blush.

Then, he shook his head. “I wouldn’t want to either way.”

[stylesonfilms]

PART TWO!!! please please support my new story on my other blog! this story is so personal and meaningful to me, and i love sharing my coping with my lovelies! 💕⭐

[stylesonfilms]

Where The Quiet Was - One [h.s]

series summary: In the cold northern kingdom of Alderham, King Harry Styles rules with silence, steel, and a legacy he never asked for. Raised to believe emotion is weakness, he commands with distance—his crown a burden worn without question, his twin brother a shadow he’s long tried to outpace. Far south in the polished courts of Edevane, Margaret Fitzgerald is the daughter no one sees. Quiet, overlooked, and dressed in the remnants of her sister’s life, she exists on the edges of a family that prizes beauty and ambition; neither of which were ever hers. What follows is not a love story. It is a reckoning. A tale of power, silence, and what happens when two people find themselves undone not by war or betrayal, but by the quiet things no one ever dares to say aloud. Based off "Lover, You Should Come Over" by Jeff Buckley. warnings: none, will be posted with each chapter. word count: 6.4k a/n: welcome to chapter 1! sit back and enjoy. forgive me for any mistakes, i've had sleepy brain all day. please don't let me flop!! <3

Margaret woke to the hollow creak of the rafters and the soft clatter of footsteps below. The hour before dawn had always belonged to first light, when the blackened hills surrounding Edevane began to shimmer faintly with the gold of waking lanterns. From her narrow attic window, Margaret could see pinpricks of flame bobbing along the curved roads—the villagers and street workers moving like ghosts across the dark, lifting their torches high to hook them onto the iron posts that lined the sloping hills.

The house was already alive beneath her. Sharp voices floated up through the floorboards—her mother's brisk orders, her sister’s light laughter, the clatter of servants preparing trunks and parcels for the journey ahead. Another maid had mercifully taken the morning shift, sparing Margaret from having to sweep hearths and draw bathwater before she could even think to dress. A small grace, rare enough not to question.

She slipped from her thin mattress, wincing as the creaky bedframe gave a low, protesting groan that seemed far too loud in the stillness of early morning. Her toes met the chill of the attic’s wooden floor, the boards worn smooth with age and dust. The air smelled faintly of moth-eaten linen, old stone, and something else, perhaps something forgotten, like the lingering ghost of candle smoke from nights long past. Here, at the highest point of Briarbourne Hall, it always felt like time had stopped moving.

Margaret gathered the dress she had laid carefully at the foot of her bed the night before, a patchwork of hand-me-downs and salvaged fabrics, lovingly sewn together in the hours no one cared to notice she was missing. The soft square neckline complimented the frill at the bottom. She pressed the bundle of cloth to her chest and tiptoed across the attic, careful to avoid the loudest of the floorboards, until she reached the narrow, rickety stair that led down to the servants’ entrance.

The back door groaned on its hinges as she slipped outside into the pale breath of dawn. The world was still half-asleep; the gardens were blanketed in mist, and the stones of the courtyard were slick with dew. Margaret padded barefoot across the cold, uneven stones to where a fresh bucket of water and clean cloths had been left at the corner by the kitchen maids.

Kneeling beside the bucket, she set her dress safely atop a dry patch of stone and braced herself. The water was bitterly cold, biting at her skin like needles. She splashed her face, her neck, her arms, scrubbing quickly with a coarse linen cloth. The roughness scratched at her skin, leaving it tingling and pink, but it washed away the heavy fog of sleep from her mind.

The world around her stirred to life: the low hum of distant conversation, the rhythmic clink of metal as the lantern lighters worked the hillsides beyond the Hall. She could just make out their tiny figures moving against the horizon, their soft voices carrying on the crisp air as they hooked the last of the night’s lanterns onto tall wooden posts. First light was creeping steadily over Edevane now, spilling pale gold across the fields, catching in the lace of fog still tangled in the hedgerows.

Margaret hurriedly dried herself off, her fingers stiff with cold, and slipped into her homemade dress. It hung loose around her slender frame, the seams slightly crooked where she had sewn them by candlelight. She tied the thin, worn sash around her waist and smoothed the wrinkled fabric with trembling hands, willing it to look presentable—though she knew it never truly would.

For a moment, she lingered outside, drawing in the fresh, damp scent of the morning; the earth, the moss, the faint trace of woodsmoke from distant cottages. She closed her eyes and let herself feel it: the fleeting quiet, the freedom of being unseen.

But there was no time to waste. She turned back to the Hall, pulling open the back door once more, and crept up the narrow servants’ stair to her attic. The air grew thinner with each step, the ceiling slanting sharply until she had to duck to avoid the low beams. The attic was dim and cramped, but it was hers, and that counted for something.

Crossing the tiny room in a few strides, she knelt by the small, battered trunk tucked beneath the eaves. It was her secret trove, the only corner of the world she could call her own. Carefully, she lifted the lid. Inside lay a neatly folded mended shawl, a handful of worn, dog-eared books, and a journal bound in cracked brown leather.

Sitting on the edge of her frail bed, Margaret let the worn journal settle in her lap, the cracked leather cool beneath her fingertips. She opened it carefully, mindful of the fragile spine, and a thin photograph, tucked between the first pages, fluttered free. It drifted down like a falling leaf and landed soundlessly against her skirt.

She stared at it for a moment before picking it up between her trembling fingers.

The photograph was aged nearly to sepia, its edges curling inward, browned and delicate from the slow burn of time. Yet the image it held was stubbornly clear, stubbornly sharp enough to sting. It showed her family standing tall before the pristine façade of Briarbourne Hall in its younger days, when the stone was still new, the paint still bright, the gardens lush and untamed.

There was Nora at the center, poised and regal even then, her hand resting lightly on Thomas’s arm. Thomas stood stiff-backed and unsmiling, a man already heavy with the expectations of legacy. Beatrice was a bright flare beside them, her hair in glossy ringlets, her small face beaming with the easy assurance of someone destined to be adored.

And there—off to the side, almost out of frame—was Margaret.

Three years old, dwarfed by the grandeur around her, her hair a wild tangle that caught the light like spun gold. Her small hand was curled tightly around her mother’s, her round cheeks flushed from play. She looked up toward Nora, wide-eyed, expectant, clinging.

A memory unspooled itself, as fragile as the breath of winter across glass.

They had been running, she and Beatrice, through the tall grasses in the field behind the house, where the earth still smelled sweet and alive and the wind tangled itself in their hair. Margaret remembered the feeling of the grass brushing against her legs, the sun hot on her back, her heart hammering in the way only a child's could—with no fear, only delight.

Beatrice, in a white muslin dress, ran ahead with all the effortless grace that would one day turn heads in every ballroom. Margaret stumbled after her, skirts hiked up awkwardly in both fists, her laughter bubbling uncontrollably from her lips. She could still hear it—the high, shrill giggle of uncontained joy.

Nora had stood by the great oak tree at the edge of the field, skirts gathered in one hand, her other hand shading her eyes as she watched them. There had been no sternness then, no sharp tongue or cutting glance. Only a laugh; light, unguarded, almost girlish.

"Margie, slow down before you topple!" her mother had called, her voice bright with laughter, the smile stretching across her usually severe mouth like a miracle.

‘Margie.’ The name hung in Margaret’s mind like a ghost.

It was a name she hadn’t heard in years, one that now seemed to belong to someone else entirely, a girl who had once been cherished, if only fleetingly. A girl who had once been seen.

The memory trembled like a flame in a breeze, threatening to go out. It felt brittle now, foreign, as though it had been pressed too hard against the waking reality of her life and had cracked under the strain. A dream she wasn't sure had ever truly belonged to her.

Margaret touched the photograph with aching gentleness, her thumb brushing the faded faces. She half-feared that if she looked too long, they might vanish altogether—this brief, golden sliver of a past that had long since been buried beneath years of cold glances and clipped orders.

She closed her eyes and held the photo against her chest, letting herself feel, for just a moment, the ghost of the warmth that had once been hers.

“Margaret Jones!”

Her father's voice, sharp, commanding, and utterly devoid of affection, sliced through the thin attic door like the crack of a whip.

She startled, the photograph slipping from her fingers and landing soundlessly on the worn floorboards. Her heart kicked painfully against her ribs. Fingers fumbling, she gathered the fragile photograph and journal, tucking them hastily back into the battered trunk as if hiding away a guilty secret.

Below, the house had roused into a flurry of activity. She could hear the heavy thud of trunks being carried down the stairs, the shuffle of hurried feet on stone floors, the clipped farewells of servants they would leave behind. First light was brushing up against the horizon now, gilding the attic windowpanes in a thin, cold silver. The carriage would not wait for her.

Margaret smoothed her dress with quick, trembling hands, feeling the rough weave catch against her calloused fingers. She squared her shoulders, drawing in a deep breath to steady herself, and slipped out of the attic.

The air grew colder as she descended the narrow staircase, the grandness of Briarbourne Hall pressing down with every step. The once-warm home of her childhood now loomed with the icy stiffness of a house grown used to her silence.

In the main hall, Beatrice spun before a tall, gilt-framed mirror, her new satin traveling cloak flaring out around her in glossy ripples, catching the light like water. She laughed—a light, tinkling sound rehearsed for the ears of courtiers—and Nora stood nearby, adjusting a fold in her daughter's sleeve, her face soft with approval.

Thomas stood apart, checking the time against his polished pocket watch, the glint of gold catching the edge of his cold gaze. He looked up briefly, his mouth thinning in irritation at the sight of Margaret before snapping the watch closed with a click of finality.

"You lot look lovely," Margaret offered into the charged air, her voice small, careful, the words as practiced as a prayer she no longer believed in. She kept her slim fingers clasped behind her, thumbs fiddling in anticipation. It had been months since Margaret had left the palace past the gates, besides for a usual gather for produce at the markets.

Beatrice turned just enough to catch Margaret's eye, her lips curling into a slow, triumphant smirk that didn’t reach her coldly shining eyes. Nora gave only the faintest of nods in acknowledgment, her fingers already back at work adjusting the angle of Beatrice’s bonnet, ensuring every ribbon and bow sat with effortless perfection.

Margaret bowed her head, murmuring another hollow compliment she knew they would not hear, and accepted the shawl a waiting maid thrust into her arms with mechanical indifference. She wrapped it around her shoulders, grateful at least for the meager shield against the creeping morning chill.

Within moments, they were ushered out into the courtyard. The air was sharp and biting, carrying the fresh scent of damp earth and woodsmoke. Margaret flinched as the cold kissed her cheeks, but she kept her expression still, trained. Before them loomed the family carriage, grand and heavy, its deep blue panels freshly polished and emblazoned with the Fitzgerald crest—a bear rampant, roaring in silent pride.

Margaret climbed in after her parents, tucking herself into the farthest corner of the plush interior. She folded her hands neatly in her lap, her fingers tightening until her knuckles turned white as the horses stamped and frothed impatiently at the bit, their breath pluming in the frosty air.

The carriage gave a lurch, the wheels groaning as they began their long journey northward. Margaret kept her eyes on the road ahead, refusing to look back at Briarbourne Hall, its chimneys silhouetted against the awakening sky.

The path stretched out before them—four long hours through misted hills, along roads that wound through shadowed woods where light struggled to reach. Alderham was waiting at the end of it, a place Margaret had only ever heard of in careful murmurs and wary warnings, a place of power and cold stone and royal blood.

She pressed her palm against the windowpane, watching as the mist thickened, swallowing the world in a pale gray hush.

Somewhere beyond that veil of fog, Wrosley Keep loomed, patient and immovable.

•─────⋅☾⊱♰⊰☽⋅─────•

The great hall of Wrosley Keep stood as still as a tomb, thick with a silence that settled deep into the stone walls. Only the occasional crack of the hearth fire gnawing at its last stubborn logs offered any sign of life, the sound snapping sharply in the heavy air. Morning light, dim and shrouded by Alderham’s eternal mist, slanted weakly through the narrow, arched windows, painting long, wan stripes across the cold flagstone floor. The lingering fog outside made even the bold banners on the high walls seem muted, their colors dulled as if bleached by centuries of waiting.

At the end of the long black oak dining table sat King Harry Styles, solitary at the head, his figure carved out in stark lines against the throne-like chair he occupied. His posture was ramrod straight, every inch the king he had been raised to be, shoulders squared beneath the heavy cut of his dark jacket. The deep blue fabric, trimmed with subtle silver embroidery along the cuffs and collar, caught the faintest gleam of the firelight. As he meticulously adjusted the cuffs at his wrist, the small movements spoke volumes—rituals of control, of composure sharpened to a blade’s edge.

His hair, dark and thick, was neatly combed back from his brow, not a strand out of place. It gleamed faintly in the low light, the rich, natural wave of it tamed into order, like everything else about him.

Across the vast, yawning stretch of table—too long for comfort, too cold for true conversation—his twin brother, Edward, slouched in his chair with a boneless ease that seemed almost deliberately disrespectful. His ankles were crossed lazily beneath the table, boots scuffed with the dust of some unspoken misadventure, and his shoulders slumped as if the very notion of formality was a burden too great to bear.

A young maid, pale, slight, and visibly trembling, moved with silent urgency as she set down the last of the polished silver cutlery. Her hands fluttered like nervous birds. She offered a low, swift curtsey, her head bowed so low the limp ties of her apron brushed the floor. Without daring a glance at either brother, she backed out of the hall, the soft scrape of the door closing behind her like the final note of a funeral march.

Then Edward moved, quick and careless. He seized the metal lid covering his breakfast and tore it free with a theatrical flourish. It clattered noisily across the gleaming surface of the table, spinning and skipping like a tossed shield until it collided with a silver pitcher at the center with a metallic bang.

The echo rolled through the cavernous hall.

Harry’s jaw tightened so sharply a muscle leapt in his cheek, the only betrayal of his irritation. His hand paused mid-motion, fork hovering just above his plate.

"Must you behave like an ungoverned hound?" Harry said without lifting his gaze, each syllable clipped and wrapped in the kind of low, withering disdain that could wither even the boldest spirit.

Edward only chuckled, a deep, lazy sound, utterly unfazed by the rebuke. He speared a thick slab of meat with a single, cavalier jab of his fork, dragging it toward himself with a scraping sound that made Harry’s teeth grind.

"Morning to you as well, brother," Edward said around a mouthful of food, his voice warm with amusement and irreverence.

Harry returned to his meal with the same rigid, silent discipline with which he did everything else. His knife sliced through the ham with clean, efficient strokes, movements so precise they might have been measured with a ruler. Every bite was deliberate, not a crumb or smear of sauce left as evidence of indulgence.

In sharp contrast, Edward wielded his utensils with the gracelessness of a street brawler—switching hands without care, sawing into bread and meat with the same dull knife, elbows planted firmly on the table as he leaned forward like a boy who had never been taught a single table manner. He lounged and sprawled and ate without shame, his dark hair tied back haphazardly in a leather cord, the ends curling rebelliously against the nape of his neck.

After several minutes of taut silence, broken only by the muted scrape of silver against china and the distant whisper of the fire, Edward flung his fork down with a clatter that rang out across the cavernous hall. He leaned back in his chair with an exaggerated sigh, the legs of it creaking beneath his lazy sprawl. His long hair, having worked itself free from its earlier binding, spilled in unruly waves over the crumpled shoulders of his shirt, the loose strands catching the weak light like dulled copper. His collar was undone at the throat, exposing the smooth, bronzed skin of his collarbone, and his sleeves were shoved up past his elbows in a careless, half-drunk sort of fashion.

"So," Edward drawled, his voice rough with sleep and sarcasm, "the illustrious Fitzgeralds are due to arrive today?"

Harry did not immediately respond. He merely gave the smallest nod, so slight it might have been mistaken for the tilt of a shadow, his attention never once wavering from the careful, measured cuts he made into his meal. His movements were slow and deliberate, each slice of his knife a whisper against the plate.

Edward shifted, reaching for the nearest loaf of bread. He tore at it absently with long, calloused fingers, shredding the crust as a hawk might rip into a hare, his posture slouched and feral despite the grandeur around him. The pieces fell onto his plate in a rough pile, forgotten as quickly as they were made.

"What’s the fuss about, then?" Edward said, tossing a scrap of bread into his mouth and speaking around it. "Bit far to travel just for tea and pleasantries, isn’t it?"

Harry’s hand paused. He set his utensils down with almost surgical care, the faint clink of polished silver on fine china disturbingly soft. Without a word, he lifted his gaze; cool, commanding, and edged with warning.

"They need our help," he said simply, each word clipped and weighted, his tone stripped of any warmth or sympathy.

Edward snorted into his goblet, the low, derisive sound ricocheting off the stone walls. He tossed another piece of bread onto his plate with a bored flick of his fingers.

"Help?" he echoed, his mouth curling into a smirk. "Why would we waste our time bailing out a family with more pride than sense?"

Harry offered no immediate reply. Instead, he resumed his meal with mechanical precision, methodically cutting into another slice of ham. The blade of his knife bit through the tender meat with a quiet, clean hiss, like the sound of a sword being drawn from its sheath.

"It is not a matter of want," Harry said at last, his voice low and implacable, like the slow shifting of stone beneath a mountain. "It is a matter of duty."

Edward tilted his head, studying his twin as if he were some curious artifact, grinning as though Harry’s words were the punchline of a particularly dry jest.

"Ah yes," Edward said, leaning forward with a theatrical air. "Our sacred duty. To lift the burdens of lesser houses. How terribly noble of us."

For the first time, a flicker of real irritation crossed Harry’s face. His fingers tightened minutely around the handle of his knife, the knuckles whitening, but he gave no other sign that Edward’s mockery had landed. He finished the bite he had prepared with methodical grace, then reached for the linen cloth beside his plate, dabbing the corner of his mouth with restrained, practiced elegance.

"You will remember your place when they arrive," Harry said after a beat, each syllable sliding out slow and deliberate, like the grinding turn of a rusted key in a stubborn lock.

Edward only grinned wider, raising his goblet in a mock salute that dripped insolence. His hair fell untamed around his face, the wild strands catching the muted gray light and turning it to glinting fire.

Harry’s eyes narrowed, sharpening into a cutting stare that could have chilled molten iron.

"And for God's sake," Harry said, the words bitten off as coldly as the northern cliffs outside, "bind your damned hair. You look like some half-bred poet loitering at court doors."

Edward laughed a low, reckless sound that spilled far too loudly into the solemn vastness of the great hall. It was the laugh of someone who cared little for consequences, who had built a life on poking at the sharp edges of his brother’s patience.

Still, under the weight of Harry’s blistering gaze, Edward eventually dragged a hand through his hair with exaggerated compliance, shoving the tangled mass back from his face and tying it off with a rough leather thong he fished from his pocket. His movements were slow, deliberate, mocking.

"You do love your little spectacles of propriety," Edward mused, voice full of half-hearted admiration as he slouched even farther down in his chair, the picture of unruliness disguised as nonchalance.

"And you," Harry said, returning to his meal with a cool finality, "love humiliating yourself."

With that, the room lapsed once more into a brittle, strained silence, broken only by the steady scrape of knife against plate, the low pop of the hearth, and the distant, hollow thrum of the banners outside Wrosley Keep flapping against the oncoming storm.

The Fitzgeralds would arrive by afternoon. And Harry intended to be ready.

•─────⋅☾⊱♰⊰☽⋅─────•

The carriage rattled over the uneven roads that wound through the countryside of Edevane, the early morning sun now fully risen and casting pale gold across the fields. Dust and the sweet, heavy scent of wet earth kicked up in their wake. The horses' hooves clattered rhythmically against the stone-laid roads, a steady drumbeat beneath the low chatter of birds darting from the hedgerows.

Margaret sat tightly beside her sister, her shoulder brushing against the overstuffed skirts of Beatrice’s traveling gown. The silk and tulle ballooned against the cramped quarters, forcing Margaret to shrink inward all the more. She folded her hands primly in her lap, her patched dress of stitched scraps looking even sadder beside her sister’s fine lavender silks, the fabric catching the light like mist.

Their parents sat across from them, poised and straight-backed despite the jostling of the carriage wheels. Lord Thomas Fitzgerald barely moved a muscle, his gloved hands resting on an ivory-handled cane, while Lady Nora kept herself busied with small, constant adjustments—pulling her shawl closer, smoothing the folds of her gown, glancing sharply now and then toward Beatrice.

"Remember," Nora said sharply, her voice slicing through the confined air, "head high. Shoulders back. Speak with care and caution. You are not merely our daughter today, you are the future face of this family."

Beatrice gave a demure nod, twirling the end of one pale glove between her fingers with a casual grace that was well-practiced.

Margaret said nothing. She pressed her forehead lightly against the cool windowpane, letting her gaze blur over the endless roll of green and gold hills, the shadowed woods beyond them. Occasionally, a village boy or a weary farmer would pause to watch the passing carriage, hats tugged low over their brows, but Margaret hardly saw them. She let the rhythm of the horses, the creak of the wheels, the distant shushing of the bushes along the roadside lull her into a quiet fog.

"How grand it shall be," Beatrice said, breaking the stillness with a voice touched by barely restrained excitement. "To show my face properly this time. To be seen not as a child, but as the next heir. Imagine it… the future of Fitzgerald resting in my hands."

She smiled, the kind of smile that was all white teeth and ambition hidden behind a curtain of charm.

Lady Nora offered her daughter a thin, pleased smile in return. "You have been groomed for this, Beatrice. Do not forget it. And should fortune favor us..." She leaned slightly forward, voice dropping low and intent, "you may well have the opportunity to become Harry Styles’ missus."

At this, Beatrice's cheeks pinked with barely concealed glee. Margaret sat still, her gaze dropping to her hands folded tightly in her lap.

"The more the brothers, moreso Harry, favor us," Nora continued briskly, "the better our standing. We require their allegiance as much as they require the appearance of unity. Do not embarrass us. And do not think for a moment they will forgive carelessness."

Thomas grunted in vague agreement, his eyes still trained out the window.

A sudden tap of fingers against the carriage wall snapped Margaret back to attention.

"And you," Lady Nora said sharply, her steely gaze fixing on Margaret like a hawk's on a mouse. "You will speak only if you are spoken to. When you greet the brothers, you will curtsy politely and say nothing more unless addressed."

Margaret turned her head, sitting straighter, folding her patched skirts beneath her with aching care.

"Yes, my lady," she murmured, her voice low, nearly lost beneath the clatter of hooves.

"You will stand behind us," Nora continued, voice crisp. "You will not interfere. You will not embarrass yourself, or us. Should you be asked to leave, you will do so without hesitation."

Thomas said nothing. He never did when it came to Margaret. His gaze remained pinned out the opposite window, as though she were merely another piece of luggage making the journey.

Margaret bowed her head obediently, feeling the familiar flush of shame rise up the back of her neck. Her palms, folded tightly in her lap, left small damp prints against the fabric of her skirt.

"Of course, mother," she whispered, offering a curt nod.

Beatrice gave a small, satisfied smirk and returned to adjusting the lace cuffs at her wrists, as if the matter were settled beyond all dispute.

The carriage jostled sharply over a rut, and Margaret’s head knocked lightly against the wooden frame of the window. She hardly flinched. She only turned her face back toward the glass, watching the misty hills of Alderham grow nearer with each lurching turn of the wheels.

The air seemed to grow colder the farther north they traveled, the fields giving way to long stretches of moorland, where the wind bent the grasses low and dark clouds loomed distantly along the horizon. Somewhere ahead, hidden among the hills and cliffs, lay Wrosley Keep—the seat of the House of Styles.

Margaret pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders, but it did little to chase away the chill creeping into her bones.

•─────⋅☾⊱♰⊰☽⋅─────•

The long hall of the north wing was chilled with the breath of the early morning fog, a low mist pressing against the tall windows like ghostly fingers. Beyond the glass, the fields of Alderham stretched out in a pale, colorless sprawl, the sun straining through the mist in gauzy ribbons of gold, as if the world itself was still waking, hesitant to embrace the new day.

Harry Styles stood in stillness at the window, one gloved hand resting lightly on the cold stone ledge, his eyes lost in the view that had become so familiar it barely registered anymore. His reflection, sharp and princely, stared back at him through the pale glass, the contours of his face sharpened by the dim light. His dark blue coat, cut sharply across his broad shoulders, swept neatly to the tops of his polished black boots, the fabric rich and heavy, like the weight of his title. A brooch bearing the House of Styles sigil, a lion crowned with ivy, clipped his heavy velvet cloak at the throat, glimmering faintly under the low sun. Beneath the cloak, a crisp white cravat was tied precisely at his collar, the folds symmetrical and flawless. His black waistcoat fit snug against his chest, the fabric stitched with faint embroidery in thread so dark it was barely visible unless caught in the right light, a detail most would miss but one that only added to the meticulous perfection of his appearance.

A pocket watch gleamed in his hand, the silver casing flashing briefly as he thumbed open the lid and checked the time. They were due any moment now.

The Fitzgeralds.

Their meeting had been arranged through a careful back-and-forth of handwritten letters, sealed with too much wax, and couched in the kind of formalities that Harry found irksome but unavoidable. The need for this meeting was not one born of mutual respect or kinship, but necessity. The Fitzgeralds needed money after the unfortunate, very public collapse of a portion of their estate wealth. It had become a scandal, one that could not be ignored, especially given how they had once been among the most influential families in the kingdom.

Harry, urged by Edward’s strange, persistent prodding, had agreed to this... display of generosity. At first, it had seemed like nothing more than an act of diplomacy, an arrangement to maintain the delicate balance of power between noble houses. But Edward had insisted, his voice heavy with persuasive charm, that this could be more, much more. Pity, Edward had argued, was not weakness if wielded properly. It was power: the power to bestow favor, to raise up those who could not stand on their own, and in doing so, show the kingdom that King Harry Styles was not just a ruler but a savior.

The thought of it left a bitter taste in Harry's mouth. It was so very... calculated. So very Edward. He had always been the one to see power in places where others saw only weakness, to turn the very act of charity into a tool of dominance. And Harry, always the more cautious, had reluctantly agreed. There was no real danger in extending a hand to the Fitzgeralds. They would remain beneath him, as all others did. Their presence at Wrosley Keep was a show, nothing more—proof of his strength disguised as kindness, as benevolence.

The thought lingered in his mind, cold and steady, until a sharp voice echoed down the hall, dragging him from his thoughts.

"Your Majesty."

The voice was unmistakable. Edward.

Harry didn’t bother to turn, his expression already sliding into a mask of polite restraint.

Edward emerged from the west wing archway, his wild hair now tamed into a neat bun tied with a slim ribbon of red silk at the crown of his head. He wore a white shirt with billowing sleeves tucked into a black waistcoat, silver buttons gleaming, and fitted dark trousers tucked into knee-high riding boots. There was a rakish elegance about him, like a man pretending at courtly behavior but unable, or unwilling, to hide the scoundrel underneath.

"You’re late," Harry’s lips tightened, the words slipping out like the snap of a drawn bowstring. His hand flexed once around the smooth casing of the pocket watch before he snapped the lid shut with a sharp click and tucked it back into the inner pocket of his waistcoat. The movement was crisp, exacting, as if even small gestures could not afford to be careless.

With a slow, practiced stillness, he turned toward the direction of the voice, his frame rigid beneath the heavy drape of his cloak. His face, honed into an expression of distant resolve, betrayed none of the irritation that simmered low beneath his skin.

Edward grinned in response, wide and unbothered, his stance a study in irreverence. His dark cloak hung open and loose at his sides, the finer points of his attire rumpled with a careless charm that somehow only made him look more princely, not less.

"I’m early by my own clock," Edward said lightly, voice lilting with amusement as he strolled forward, hands tucked lazily behind his back.

Harry’s eyes flickered once, a brief roll of temper he was too well-trained to fully show. "You don’t have a clock," he muttered under his breath, more to himself than to Edward, as he brushed an invisible crease from the sleeve of his coat and adjusted the cuffs with slow, deliberate precision.

"All the more reason I’m never wrong," Edward replied with a shrug, his voice rich with self-satisfaction. He came to stand beside Harry, their twin reflections caught faintly in the dim glass of the window—two halves of the same whole, yet impossibly different.

The hall stretched wide around them, a cavern of stone and echo, lined with suits of armor that glinted dully in the thin, reluctant light. Tapestries bearing the ancient crest of their house stirred slightly from the draft seeping through the cracks in the stone walls. Every sound, the scrape of a heel, the breath of the fog beyond the windows, seemed amplified by the vast emptiness.

Harry exhaled slowly through his nose, the breath controlled, tempered, as he turned his gaze toward the distant outline of the main gates, barely visible through the thick white gauze of mist that clung to the outer courtyard. The carriages would be there soon, he knew. The sound of wheels grinding over gravel, the snort of impatient horses, the flutter of banners—he could almost hear it already, ghosting through the cold air.

Without looking at Edward, Harry lifted one hand, a sharp, commanding gesture, and called out, "Open the gates. They’ll arrive shortly."

His words cracked across the space like a whip. Down the hall, the guards straightened at attention, the polished steel of their armor flashing briefly in the dim light. With practiced efficiency, they bowed low, the motion deep and synchronized, before sweeping away toward the outer doors with the hollow thud of boots against stone and the low, rhythmic clank of armor plates shifting.

The brothers remained where they stood, silent as sentinels.

For a moment, there was nothing but the hush of the empty hall, thick with waiting, and the soft, ceaseless groan of the wind pressing against the high windows. Somewhere farther off, the faint metallic moan of the gate mechanisms starting to turn echoed up through the stone like the slow stirring of some great beast waking from slumber.

Harry watched without moving, his posture a portrait of patience sharpened into a weapon. Edward, beside him, rocked back slightly on his heels, humming a soft, tuneless sound under his breath, as if the moment's gravity did not touch him at all.

As Edward rocked idly on his heels, the soles of his boots made the faintest creak against the flagstones. He tilted his head, casting a sidelong glance at Harry, who stood rigid as a drawn sword beside him.

"Tell me again why we’re offering a lifeline to a family that couldn’t even keep their coffers guarded?" Edward asked, his voice low, coaxing, almost playful.

Harry’s jaw tightened, a muscle feathering beneath the skin as he remained unmoving, his gaze locked out toward the mist-veiled road. The fog lay thick and heavy, muting the edges of the world beyond the gates into little more than ghostly outlines.

"Because it is our duty," Harry said at last, his tone clipped and cool as a blade's edge. "A king does not merely conquer. He uplifts, when it suits him."

His words held the weight of a rehearsed lesson, something he had long ago carved into himself with careful precision. Yet even now, the bitterness laced subtly through his voice, a reminder that duty rarely tasted sweet.

Edward smirked, slow and crooked, the kind of smile meant to provoke. "Sounds like you’re going soft," he drawled, the corners of his mouth twitching with barely concealed mischief.

In a single, fluid motion, Harry turned to face him. His cloak snapped behind him with the sharp crack of heavy velvet slicing the cold air. The movement was so sudden, so forceful, that Edward instinctively straightened, the lazy smirk lingering but his posture subtly less mocking.

Harry’s glare pinned him where he stood; cold, searing, and honed with the precision of a dagger’s thrust.

"Say that again at court," Harry said, his voice low enough to be a warning, "and see how fast you find yourself posted to the borderlands."

The threat, though spoken softly, hit like a slap. The borderlands, windswept, treacherous, and crawling with unrest, were not where one went to bask in favor. It was where inconvenient men were sent to fade into obscurity, or die.

Edward raised his hands in an exaggerated gesture of surrender, the chain at his wrist glinting faintly as it caught the dim light. Laughter flickered in his dark eyes, the easy, reckless kind that had always marked him as Harry’s greatest frustration, and perhaps his only true equal.

"As you say, Your Majesty," Edward teased, sketching an irreverent half-bow that was far too casual to be respectful. His tone danced on the edge of mockery, but there was an acknowledgment buried beneath it, a deference neither of them would ever admit aloud.

Harry said nothing in return. Instead, he rolled his shoulders back beneath the heavy drape of his cloak, adjusting the set of it until it fell in precise, commanding folds. His gloved hands smoothed down the front of his coat, each movement methodical, controlled.

Without another word, the two of them turned and began to move in measured strides down the long hall toward the main entrance. Their boots struck the stone floor in a steady rhythm, echoing faintly through the cavernous space.

The air between them, though outwardly casual, thrummed with an electric tension—the constant, unspoken current that ran deep between twin brothers who had been raised together yet shaped by the crown to walk entirely different paths.

Outside, the ancient iron gates had begun to groan open, the sound deep and grating, like the yawning of some slumbering beast. Mist coiled greedily through the widening gap, spilling over the gravel like thick smoke from an unseen fire.

From beyond the wall of fog came the soft, rhythmic crunch of hooves meeting gravel, steady and deliberate.

The horses slowed, their breath misting the cold air in great silver plumes. A black carriage, lacquered to a mirror shine and bearing the Fitzgerald family crest, emerged slowly from the mist and drew to a halt before the steps of Wrosley Keep.

Their guests had arrived.

[stylesonfilms]

Where The Quiet Was - One [h.s]

series summary: In the cold northern kingdom of Alderham, King Harry Styles rules with silence, steel, and a legacy he never asked for. Raised to believe emotion is weakness, he commands with distance—his crown a burden worn without question, his twin brother a shadow he’s long tried to outpace. Far south in the polished courts of Edevane, Margaret Fitzgerald is the daughter no one sees. Quiet, overlooked, and dressed in the remnants of her sister’s life, she exists on the edges of a family that prizes beauty and ambition; neither of which were ever hers. What follows is not a love story. It is a reckoning. A tale of power, silence, and what happens when two people find themselves undone not by war or betrayal, but by the quiet things no one ever dares to say aloud. Based off "Lover, You Should Come Over" by Jeff Buckley. warnings: none, will be posted with each chapter. word count: 6.4k a/n: welcome to chapter 1! sit back and enjoy. forgive me for any mistakes, i've had sleepy brain all day. please don't let me flop!! <3

Margaret woke to the hollow creak of the rafters and the soft clatter of footsteps below. The hour before dawn had always belonged to first light, when the blackened hills surrounding Edevane began to shimmer faintly with the gold of waking lanterns. From her narrow attic window, Margaret could see pinpricks of flame bobbing along the curved roads—the villagers and street workers moving like ghosts across the dark, lifting their torches high to hook them onto the iron posts that lined the sloping hills.

The house was already alive beneath her. Sharp voices floated up through the floorboards—her mother's brisk orders, her sister’s light laughter, the clatter of servants preparing trunks and parcels for the journey ahead. Another maid had mercifully taken the morning shift, sparing Margaret from having to sweep hearths and draw bathwater before she could even think to dress. A small grace, rare enough not to question.

She slipped from her thin mattress, wincing as the creaky bedframe gave a low, protesting groan that seemed far too loud in the stillness of early morning. Her toes met the chill of the attic’s wooden floor, the boards worn smooth with age and dust. The air smelled faintly of moth-eaten linen, old stone, and something else, perhaps something forgotten, like the lingering ghost of candle smoke from nights long past. Here, at the highest point of Briarbourne Hall, it always felt like time had stopped moving.

Margaret gathered the dress she had laid carefully at the foot of her bed the night before, a patchwork of hand-me-downs and salvaged fabrics, lovingly sewn together in the hours no one cared to notice she was missing. The soft square neckline complimented the frill at the bottom. She pressed the bundle of cloth to her chest and tiptoed across the attic, careful to avoid the loudest of the floorboards, until she reached the narrow, rickety stair that led down to the servants’ entrance.

The back door groaned on its hinges as she slipped outside into the pale breath of dawn. The world was still half-asleep; the gardens were blanketed in mist, and the stones of the courtyard were slick with dew. Margaret padded barefoot across the cold, uneven stones to where a fresh bucket of water and clean cloths had been left at the corner by the kitchen maids.

Kneeling beside the bucket, she set her dress safely atop a dry patch of stone and braced herself. The water was bitterly cold, biting at her skin like needles. She splashed her face, her neck, her arms, scrubbing quickly with a coarse linen cloth. The roughness scratched at her skin, leaving it tingling and pink, but it washed away the heavy fog of sleep from her mind.

The world around her stirred to life: the low hum of distant conversation, the rhythmic clink of metal as the lantern lighters worked the hillsides beyond the Hall. She could just make out their tiny figures moving against the horizon, their soft voices carrying on the crisp air as they hooked the last of the night’s lanterns onto tall wooden posts. First light was creeping steadily over Edevane now, spilling pale gold across the fields, catching in the lace of fog still tangled in the hedgerows.

Margaret hurriedly dried herself off, her fingers stiff with cold, and slipped into her homemade dress. It hung loose around her slender frame, the seams slightly crooked where she had sewn them by candlelight. She tied the thin, worn sash around her waist and smoothed the wrinkled fabric with trembling hands, willing it to look presentable—though she knew it never truly would.

For a moment, she lingered outside, drawing in the fresh, damp scent of the morning; the earth, the moss, the faint trace of woodsmoke from distant cottages. She closed her eyes and let herself feel it: the fleeting quiet, the freedom of being unseen.

But there was no time to waste. She turned back to the Hall, pulling open the back door once more, and crept up the narrow servants’ stair to her attic. The air grew thinner with each step, the ceiling slanting sharply until she had to duck to avoid the low beams. The attic was dim and cramped, but it was hers, and that counted for something.

Crossing the tiny room in a few strides, she knelt by the small, battered trunk tucked beneath the eaves. It was her secret trove, the only corner of the world she could call her own. Carefully, she lifted the lid. Inside lay a neatly folded mended shawl, a handful of worn, dog-eared books, and a journal bound in cracked brown leather.

Sitting on the edge of her frail bed, Margaret let the worn journal settle in her lap, the cracked leather cool beneath her fingertips. She opened it carefully, mindful of the fragile spine, and a thin photograph, tucked between the first pages, fluttered free. It drifted down like a falling leaf and landed soundlessly against her skirt.

She stared at it for a moment before picking it up between her trembling fingers.

The photograph was aged nearly to sepia, its edges curling inward, browned and delicate from the slow burn of time. Yet the image it held was stubbornly clear, stubbornly sharp enough to sting. It showed her family standing tall before the pristine façade of Briarbourne Hall in its younger days, when the stone was still new, the paint still bright, the gardens lush and untamed.

There was Nora at the center, poised and regal even then, her hand resting lightly on Thomas’s arm. Thomas stood stiff-backed and unsmiling, a man already heavy with the expectations of legacy. Beatrice was a bright flare beside them, her hair in glossy ringlets, her small face beaming with the easy assurance of someone destined to be adored.

And there—off to the side, almost out of frame—was Margaret.

Three years old, dwarfed by the grandeur around her, her hair a wild tangle that caught the light like spun gold. Her small hand was curled tightly around her mother’s, her round cheeks flushed from play. She looked up toward Nora, wide-eyed, expectant, clinging.

A memory unspooled itself, as fragile as the breath of winter across glass.

They had been running, she and Beatrice, through the tall grasses in the field behind the house, where the earth still smelled sweet and alive and the wind tangled itself in their hair. Margaret remembered the feeling of the grass brushing against her legs, the sun hot on her back, her heart hammering in the way only a child's could—with no fear, only delight.

Beatrice, in a white muslin dress, ran ahead with all the effortless grace that would one day turn heads in every ballroom. Margaret stumbled after her, skirts hiked up awkwardly in both fists, her laughter bubbling uncontrollably from her lips. She could still hear it—the high, shrill giggle of uncontained joy.

Nora had stood by the great oak tree at the edge of the field, skirts gathered in one hand, her other hand shading her eyes as she watched them. There had been no sternness then, no sharp tongue or cutting glance. Only a laugh; light, unguarded, almost girlish.

"Margie, slow down before you topple!" her mother had called, her voice bright with laughter, the smile stretching across her usually severe mouth like a miracle.

‘Margie.’ The name hung in Margaret’s mind like a ghost.

It was a name she hadn’t heard in years, one that now seemed to belong to someone else entirely, a girl who had once been cherished, if only fleetingly. A girl who had once been seen.

The memory trembled like a flame in a breeze, threatening to go out. It felt brittle now, foreign, as though it had been pressed too hard against the waking reality of her life and had cracked under the strain. A dream she wasn't sure had ever truly belonged to her.

Margaret touched the photograph with aching gentleness, her thumb brushing the faded faces. She half-feared that if she looked too long, they might vanish altogether—this brief, golden sliver of a past that had long since been buried beneath years of cold glances and clipped orders.

She closed her eyes and held the photo against her chest, letting herself feel, for just a moment, the ghost of the warmth that had once been hers.

“Margaret Jones!”

Her father's voice, sharp, commanding, and utterly devoid of affection, sliced through the thin attic door like the crack of a whip.

She startled, the photograph slipping from her fingers and landing soundlessly on the worn floorboards. Her heart kicked painfully against her ribs. Fingers fumbling, she gathered the fragile photograph and journal, tucking them hastily back into the battered trunk as if hiding away a guilty secret.

Below, the house had roused into a flurry of activity. She could hear the heavy thud of trunks being carried down the stairs, the shuffle of hurried feet on stone floors, the clipped farewells of servants they would leave behind. First light was brushing up against the horizon now, gilding the attic windowpanes in a thin, cold silver. The carriage would not wait for her.

Margaret smoothed her dress with quick, trembling hands, feeling the rough weave catch against her calloused fingers. She squared her shoulders, drawing in a deep breath to steady herself, and slipped out of the attic.

The air grew colder as she descended the narrow staircase, the grandness of Briarbourne Hall pressing down with every step. The once-warm home of her childhood now loomed with the icy stiffness of a house grown used to her silence.

In the main hall, Beatrice spun before a tall, gilt-framed mirror, her new satin traveling cloak flaring out around her in glossy ripples, catching the light like water. She laughed—a light, tinkling sound rehearsed for the ears of courtiers—and Nora stood nearby, adjusting a fold in her daughter's sleeve, her face soft with approval.

Thomas stood apart, checking the time against his polished pocket watch, the glint of gold catching the edge of his cold gaze. He looked up briefly, his mouth thinning in irritation at the sight of Margaret before snapping the watch closed with a click of finality.

"You lot look lovely," Margaret offered into the charged air, her voice small, careful, the words as practiced as a prayer she no longer believed in. She kept her slim fingers clasped behind her, thumbs fiddling in anticipation. It had been months since Margaret had left the palace past the gates, besides for a usual gather for produce at the markets.

Beatrice turned just enough to catch Margaret's eye, her lips curling into a slow, triumphant smirk that didn’t reach her coldly shining eyes. Nora gave only the faintest of nods in acknowledgment, her fingers already back at work adjusting the angle of Beatrice’s bonnet, ensuring every ribbon and bow sat with effortless perfection.

Margaret bowed her head, murmuring another hollow compliment she knew they would not hear, and accepted the shawl a waiting maid thrust into her arms with mechanical indifference. She wrapped it around her shoulders, grateful at least for the meager shield against the creeping morning chill.

Within moments, they were ushered out into the courtyard. The air was sharp and biting, carrying the fresh scent of damp earth and woodsmoke. Margaret flinched as the cold kissed her cheeks, but she kept her expression still, trained. Before them loomed the family carriage, grand and heavy, its deep blue panels freshly polished and emblazoned with the Fitzgerald crest—a bear rampant, roaring in silent pride.

Margaret climbed in after her parents, tucking herself into the farthest corner of the plush interior. She folded her hands neatly in her lap, her fingers tightening until her knuckles turned white as the horses stamped and frothed impatiently at the bit, their breath pluming in the frosty air.

The carriage gave a lurch, the wheels groaning as they began their long journey northward. Margaret kept her eyes on the road ahead, refusing to look back at Briarbourne Hall, its chimneys silhouetted against the awakening sky.

The path stretched out before them—four long hours through misted hills, along roads that wound through shadowed woods where light struggled to reach. Alderham was waiting at the end of it, a place Margaret had only ever heard of in careful murmurs and wary warnings, a place of power and cold stone and royal blood.

She pressed her palm against the windowpane, watching as the mist thickened, swallowing the world in a pale gray hush.

Somewhere beyond that veil of fog, Wrosley Keep loomed, patient and immovable.

•─────⋅☾⊱♰⊰☽⋅─────•

The great hall of Wrosley Keep stood as still as a tomb, thick with a silence that settled deep into the stone walls. Only the occasional crack of the hearth fire gnawing at its last stubborn logs offered any sign of life, the sound snapping sharply in the heavy air. Morning light, dim and shrouded by Alderham’s eternal mist, slanted weakly through the narrow, arched windows, painting long, wan stripes across the cold flagstone floor. The lingering fog outside made even the bold banners on the high walls seem muted, their colors dulled as if bleached by centuries of waiting.

At the end of the long black oak dining table sat King Harry Styles, solitary at the head, his figure carved out in stark lines against the throne-like chair he occupied. His posture was ramrod straight, every inch the king he had been raised to be, shoulders squared beneath the heavy cut of his dark jacket. The deep blue fabric, trimmed with subtle silver embroidery along the cuffs and collar, caught the faintest gleam of the firelight. As he meticulously adjusted the cuffs at his wrist, the small movements spoke volumes—rituals of control, of composure sharpened to a blade’s edge.

His hair, dark and thick, was neatly combed back from his brow, not a strand out of place. It gleamed faintly in the low light, the rich, natural wave of it tamed into order, like everything else about him.

Across the vast, yawning stretch of table—too long for comfort, too cold for true conversation—his twin brother, Edward, slouched in his chair with a boneless ease that seemed almost deliberately disrespectful. His ankles were crossed lazily beneath the table, boots scuffed with the dust of some unspoken misadventure, and his shoulders slumped as if the very notion of formality was a burden too great to bear.

A young maid, pale, slight, and visibly trembling, moved with silent urgency as she set down the last of the polished silver cutlery. Her hands fluttered like nervous birds. She offered a low, swift curtsey, her head bowed so low the limp ties of her apron brushed the floor. Without daring a glance at either brother, she backed out of the hall, the soft scrape of the door closing behind her like the final note of a funeral march.

Then Edward moved, quick and careless. He seized the metal lid covering his breakfast and tore it free with a theatrical flourish. It clattered noisily across the gleaming surface of the table, spinning and skipping like a tossed shield until it collided with a silver pitcher at the center with a metallic bang.

The echo rolled through the cavernous hall.

Harry’s jaw tightened so sharply a muscle leapt in his cheek, the only betrayal of his irritation. His hand paused mid-motion, fork hovering just above his plate.

"Must you behave like an ungoverned hound?" Harry said without lifting his gaze, each syllable clipped and wrapped in the kind of low, withering disdain that could wither even the boldest spirit.

Edward only chuckled, a deep, lazy sound, utterly unfazed by the rebuke. He speared a thick slab of meat with a single, cavalier jab of his fork, dragging it toward himself with a scraping sound that made Harry’s teeth grind.

"Morning to you as well, brother," Edward said around a mouthful of food, his voice warm with amusement and irreverence.

Harry returned to his meal with the same rigid, silent discipline with which he did everything else. His knife sliced through the ham with clean, efficient strokes, movements so precise they might have been measured with a ruler. Every bite was deliberate, not a crumb or smear of sauce left as evidence of indulgence.

In sharp contrast, Edward wielded his utensils with the gracelessness of a street brawler—switching hands without care, sawing into bread and meat with the same dull knife, elbows planted firmly on the table as he leaned forward like a boy who had never been taught a single table manner. He lounged and sprawled and ate without shame, his dark hair tied back haphazardly in a leather cord, the ends curling rebelliously against the nape of his neck.

After several minutes of taut silence, broken only by the muted scrape of silver against china and the distant whisper of the fire, Edward flung his fork down with a clatter that rang out across the cavernous hall. He leaned back in his chair with an exaggerated sigh, the legs of it creaking beneath his lazy sprawl. His long hair, having worked itself free from its earlier binding, spilled in unruly waves over the crumpled shoulders of his shirt, the loose strands catching the weak light like dulled copper. His collar was undone at the throat, exposing the smooth, bronzed skin of his collarbone, and his sleeves were shoved up past his elbows in a careless, half-drunk sort of fashion.

"So," Edward drawled, his voice rough with sleep and sarcasm, "the illustrious Fitzgeralds are due to arrive today?"

Harry did not immediately respond. He merely gave the smallest nod, so slight it might have been mistaken for the tilt of a shadow, his attention never once wavering from the careful, measured cuts he made into his meal. His movements were slow and deliberate, each slice of his knife a whisper against the plate.

Edward shifted, reaching for the nearest loaf of bread. He tore at it absently with long, calloused fingers, shredding the crust as a hawk might rip into a hare, his posture slouched and feral despite the grandeur around him. The pieces fell onto his plate in a rough pile, forgotten as quickly as they were made.

"What’s the fuss about, then?" Edward said, tossing a scrap of bread into his mouth and speaking around it. "Bit far to travel just for tea and pleasantries, isn’t it?"

Harry’s hand paused. He set his utensils down with almost surgical care, the faint clink of polished silver on fine china disturbingly soft. Without a word, he lifted his gaze; cool, commanding, and edged with warning.

"They need our help," he said simply, each word clipped and weighted, his tone stripped of any warmth or sympathy.

Edward snorted into his goblet, the low, derisive sound ricocheting off the stone walls. He tossed another piece of bread onto his plate with a bored flick of his fingers.

"Help?" he echoed, his mouth curling into a smirk. "Why would we waste our time bailing out a family with more pride than sense?"

Harry offered no immediate reply. Instead, he resumed his meal with mechanical precision, methodically cutting into another slice of ham. The blade of his knife bit through the tender meat with a quiet, clean hiss, like the sound of a sword being drawn from its sheath.

"It is not a matter of want," Harry said at last, his voice low and implacable, like the slow shifting of stone beneath a mountain. "It is a matter of duty."

Edward tilted his head, studying his twin as if he were some curious artifact, grinning as though Harry’s words were the punchline of a particularly dry jest.

"Ah yes," Edward said, leaning forward with a theatrical air. "Our sacred duty. To lift the burdens of lesser houses. How terribly noble of us."

For the first time, a flicker of real irritation crossed Harry’s face. His fingers tightened minutely around the handle of his knife, the knuckles whitening, but he gave no other sign that Edward’s mockery had landed. He finished the bite he had prepared with methodical grace, then reached for the linen cloth beside his plate, dabbing the corner of his mouth with restrained, practiced elegance.

"You will remember your place when they arrive," Harry said after a beat, each syllable sliding out slow and deliberate, like the grinding turn of a rusted key in a stubborn lock.

Edward only grinned wider, raising his goblet in a mock salute that dripped insolence. His hair fell untamed around his face, the wild strands catching the muted gray light and turning it to glinting fire.

Harry’s eyes narrowed, sharpening into a cutting stare that could have chilled molten iron.

"And for God's sake," Harry said, the words bitten off as coldly as the northern cliffs outside, "bind your damned hair. You look like some half-bred poet loitering at court doors."

Edward laughed a low, reckless sound that spilled far too loudly into the solemn vastness of the great hall. It was the laugh of someone who cared little for consequences, who had built a life on poking at the sharp edges of his brother’s patience.

Still, under the weight of Harry’s blistering gaze, Edward eventually dragged a hand through his hair with exaggerated compliance, shoving the tangled mass back from his face and tying it off with a rough leather thong he fished from his pocket. His movements were slow, deliberate, mocking.

"You do love your little spectacles of propriety," Edward mused, voice full of half-hearted admiration as he slouched even farther down in his chair, the picture of unruliness disguised as nonchalance.

"And you," Harry said, returning to his meal with a cool finality, "love humiliating yourself."

With that, the room lapsed once more into a brittle, strained silence, broken only by the steady scrape of knife against plate, the low pop of the hearth, and the distant, hollow thrum of the banners outside Wrosley Keep flapping against the oncoming storm.

The Fitzgeralds would arrive by afternoon. And Harry intended to be ready.

•─────⋅☾⊱♰⊰☽⋅─────•

The carriage rattled over the uneven roads that wound through the countryside of Edevane, the early morning sun now fully risen and casting pale gold across the fields. Dust and the sweet, heavy scent of wet earth kicked up in their wake. The horses' hooves clattered rhythmically against the stone-laid roads, a steady drumbeat beneath the low chatter of birds darting from the hedgerows.

Margaret sat tightly beside her sister, her shoulder brushing against the overstuffed skirts of Beatrice’s traveling gown. The silk and tulle ballooned against the cramped quarters, forcing Margaret to shrink inward all the more. She folded her hands primly in her lap, her patched dress of stitched scraps looking even sadder beside her sister’s fine lavender silks, the fabric catching the light like mist.

Their parents sat across from them, poised and straight-backed despite the jostling of the carriage wheels. Lord Thomas Fitzgerald barely moved a muscle, his gloved hands resting on an ivory-handled cane, while Lady Nora kept herself busied with small, constant adjustments—pulling her shawl closer, smoothing the folds of her gown, glancing sharply now and then toward Beatrice.

"Remember," Nora said sharply, her voice slicing through the confined air, "head high. Shoulders back. Speak with care and caution. You are not merely our daughter today, you are the future face of this family."

Beatrice gave a demure nod, twirling the end of one pale glove between her fingers with a casual grace that was well-practiced.

Margaret said nothing. She pressed her forehead lightly against the cool windowpane, letting her gaze blur over the endless roll of green and gold hills, the shadowed woods beyond them. Occasionally, a village boy or a weary farmer would pause to watch the passing carriage, hats tugged low over their brows, but Margaret hardly saw them. She let the rhythm of the horses, the creak of the wheels, the distant shushing of the bushes along the roadside lull her into a quiet fog.

"How grand it shall be," Beatrice said, breaking the stillness with a voice touched by barely restrained excitement. "To show my face properly this time. To be seen not as a child, but as the next heir. Imagine it… the future of Fitzgerald resting in my hands."

She smiled, the kind of smile that was all white teeth and ambition hidden behind a curtain of charm.

Lady Nora offered her daughter a thin, pleased smile in return. "You have been groomed for this, Beatrice. Do not forget it. And should fortune favor us..." She leaned slightly forward, voice dropping low and intent, "you may well have the opportunity to become Harry Styles’ missus."

At this, Beatrice's cheeks pinked with barely concealed glee. Margaret sat still, her gaze dropping to her hands folded tightly in her lap.

"The more the brothers, moreso Harry, favor us," Nora continued briskly, "the better our standing. We require their allegiance as much as they require the appearance of unity. Do not embarrass us. And do not think for a moment they will forgive carelessness."

Thomas grunted in vague agreement, his eyes still trained out the window.

A sudden tap of fingers against the carriage wall snapped Margaret back to attention.

"And you," Lady Nora said sharply, her steely gaze fixing on Margaret like a hawk's on a mouse. "You will speak only if you are spoken to. When you greet the brothers, you will curtsy politely and say nothing more unless addressed."

Margaret turned her head, sitting straighter, folding her patched skirts beneath her with aching care.

"Yes, my lady," she murmured, her voice low, nearly lost beneath the clatter of hooves.

"You will stand behind us," Nora continued, voice crisp. "You will not interfere. You will not embarrass yourself, or us. Should you be asked to leave, you will do so without hesitation."

Thomas said nothing. He never did when it came to Margaret. His gaze remained pinned out the opposite window, as though she were merely another piece of luggage making the journey.

Margaret bowed her head obediently, feeling the familiar flush of shame rise up the back of her neck. Her palms, folded tightly in her lap, left small damp prints against the fabric of her skirt.

"Of course, mother," she whispered, offering a curt nod.

Beatrice gave a small, satisfied smirk and returned to adjusting the lace cuffs at her wrists, as if the matter were settled beyond all dispute.

The carriage jostled sharply over a rut, and Margaret’s head knocked lightly against the wooden frame of the window. She hardly flinched. She only turned her face back toward the glass, watching the misty hills of Alderham grow nearer with each lurching turn of the wheels.

The air seemed to grow colder the farther north they traveled, the fields giving way to long stretches of moorland, where the wind bent the grasses low and dark clouds loomed distantly along the horizon. Somewhere ahead, hidden among the hills and cliffs, lay Wrosley Keep—the seat of the House of Styles.

Margaret pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders, but it did little to chase away the chill creeping into her bones.

•─────⋅☾⊱♰⊰☽⋅─────•

The long hall of the north wing was chilled with the breath of the early morning fog, a low mist pressing against the tall windows like ghostly fingers. Beyond the glass, the fields of Alderham stretched out in a pale, colorless sprawl, the sun straining through the mist in gauzy ribbons of gold, as if the world itself was still waking, hesitant to embrace the new day.

Harry Styles stood in stillness at the window, one gloved hand resting lightly on the cold stone ledge, his eyes lost in the view that had become so familiar it barely registered anymore. His reflection, sharp and princely, stared back at him through the pale glass, the contours of his face sharpened by the dim light. His dark blue coat, cut sharply across his broad shoulders, swept neatly to the tops of his polished black boots, the fabric rich and heavy, like the weight of his title. A brooch bearing the House of Styles sigil, a lion crowned with ivy, clipped his heavy velvet cloak at the throat, glimmering faintly under the low sun. Beneath the cloak, a crisp white cravat was tied precisely at his collar, the folds symmetrical and flawless. His black waistcoat fit snug against his chest, the fabric stitched with faint embroidery in thread so dark it was barely visible unless caught in the right light, a detail most would miss but one that only added to the meticulous perfection of his appearance.

A pocket watch gleamed in his hand, the silver casing flashing briefly as he thumbed open the lid and checked the time. They were due any moment now.

The Fitzgeralds.

Their meeting had been arranged through a careful back-and-forth of handwritten letters, sealed with too much wax, and couched in the kind of formalities that Harry found irksome but unavoidable. The need for this meeting was not one born of mutual respect or kinship, but necessity. The Fitzgeralds needed money after the unfortunate, very public collapse of a portion of their estate wealth. It had become a scandal, one that could not be ignored, especially given how they had once been among the most influential families in the kingdom.

Harry, urged by Edward’s strange, persistent prodding, had agreed to this... display of generosity. At first, it had seemed like nothing more than an act of diplomacy, an arrangement to maintain the delicate balance of power between noble houses. But Edward had insisted, his voice heavy with persuasive charm, that this could be more, much more. Pity, Edward had argued, was not weakness if wielded properly. It was power: the power to bestow favor, to raise up those who could not stand on their own, and in doing so, show the kingdom that King Harry Styles was not just a ruler but a savior.

The thought of it left a bitter taste in Harry's mouth. It was so very... calculated. So very Edward. He had always been the one to see power in places where others saw only weakness, to turn the very act of charity into a tool of dominance. And Harry, always the more cautious, had reluctantly agreed. There was no real danger in extending a hand to the Fitzgeralds. They would remain beneath him, as all others did. Their presence at Wrosley Keep was a show, nothing more—proof of his strength disguised as kindness, as benevolence.

The thought lingered in his mind, cold and steady, until a sharp voice echoed down the hall, dragging him from his thoughts.

"Your Majesty."

The voice was unmistakable. Edward.

Harry didn’t bother to turn, his expression already sliding into a mask of polite restraint.

Edward emerged from the west wing archway, his wild hair now tamed into a neat bun tied with a slim ribbon of red silk at the crown of his head. He wore a white shirt with billowing sleeves tucked into a black waistcoat, silver buttons gleaming, and fitted dark trousers tucked into knee-high riding boots. There was a rakish elegance about him, like a man pretending at courtly behavior but unable, or unwilling, to hide the scoundrel underneath.

"You’re late," Harry’s lips tightened, the words slipping out like the snap of a drawn bowstring. His hand flexed once around the smooth casing of the pocket watch before he snapped the lid shut with a sharp click and tucked it back into the inner pocket of his waistcoat. The movement was crisp, exacting, as if even small gestures could not afford to be careless.

With a slow, practiced stillness, he turned toward the direction of the voice, his frame rigid beneath the heavy drape of his cloak. His face, honed into an expression of distant resolve, betrayed none of the irritation that simmered low beneath his skin.

Edward grinned in response, wide and unbothered, his stance a study in irreverence. His dark cloak hung open and loose at his sides, the finer points of his attire rumpled with a careless charm that somehow only made him look more princely, not less.

"I’m early by my own clock," Edward said lightly, voice lilting with amusement as he strolled forward, hands tucked lazily behind his back.

Harry’s eyes flickered once, a brief roll of temper he was too well-trained to fully show. "You don’t have a clock," he muttered under his breath, more to himself than to Edward, as he brushed an invisible crease from the sleeve of his coat and adjusted the cuffs with slow, deliberate precision.

"All the more reason I’m never wrong," Edward replied with a shrug, his voice rich with self-satisfaction. He came to stand beside Harry, their twin reflections caught faintly in the dim glass of the window—two halves of the same whole, yet impossibly different.

The hall stretched wide around them, a cavern of stone and echo, lined with suits of armor that glinted dully in the thin, reluctant light. Tapestries bearing the ancient crest of their house stirred slightly from the draft seeping through the cracks in the stone walls. Every sound, the scrape of a heel, the breath of the fog beyond the windows, seemed amplified by the vast emptiness.

Harry exhaled slowly through his nose, the breath controlled, tempered, as he turned his gaze toward the distant outline of the main gates, barely visible through the thick white gauze of mist that clung to the outer courtyard. The carriages would be there soon, he knew. The sound of wheels grinding over gravel, the snort of impatient horses, the flutter of banners—he could almost hear it already, ghosting through the cold air.

Without looking at Edward, Harry lifted one hand, a sharp, commanding gesture, and called out, "Open the gates. They’ll arrive shortly."

His words cracked across the space like a whip. Down the hall, the guards straightened at attention, the polished steel of their armor flashing briefly in the dim light. With practiced efficiency, they bowed low, the motion deep and synchronized, before sweeping away toward the outer doors with the hollow thud of boots against stone and the low, rhythmic clank of armor plates shifting.

The brothers remained where they stood, silent as sentinels.

For a moment, there was nothing but the hush of the empty hall, thick with waiting, and the soft, ceaseless groan of the wind pressing against the high windows. Somewhere farther off, the faint metallic moan of the gate mechanisms starting to turn echoed up through the stone like the slow stirring of some great beast waking from slumber.

Harry watched without moving, his posture a portrait of patience sharpened into a weapon. Edward, beside him, rocked back slightly on his heels, humming a soft, tuneless sound under his breath, as if the moment's gravity did not touch him at all.

As Edward rocked idly on his heels, the soles of his boots made the faintest creak against the flagstones. He tilted his head, casting a sidelong glance at Harry, who stood rigid as a drawn sword beside him.

"Tell me again why we’re offering a lifeline to a family that couldn’t even keep their coffers guarded?" Edward asked, his voice low, coaxing, almost playful.

Harry’s jaw tightened, a muscle feathering beneath the skin as he remained unmoving, his gaze locked out toward the mist-veiled road. The fog lay thick and heavy, muting the edges of the world beyond the gates into little more than ghostly outlines.

"Because it is our duty," Harry said at last, his tone clipped and cool as a blade's edge. "A king does not merely conquer. He uplifts, when it suits him."

His words held the weight of a rehearsed lesson, something he had long ago carved into himself with careful precision. Yet even now, the bitterness laced subtly through his voice, a reminder that duty rarely tasted sweet.

Edward smirked, slow and crooked, the kind of smile meant to provoke. "Sounds like you’re going soft," he drawled, the corners of his mouth twitching with barely concealed mischief.

In a single, fluid motion, Harry turned to face him. His cloak snapped behind him with the sharp crack of heavy velvet slicing the cold air. The movement was so sudden, so forceful, that Edward instinctively straightened, the lazy smirk lingering but his posture subtly less mocking.

Harry’s glare pinned him where he stood; cold, searing, and honed with the precision of a dagger’s thrust.

"Say that again at court," Harry said, his voice low enough to be a warning, "and see how fast you find yourself posted to the borderlands."

The threat, though spoken softly, hit like a slap. The borderlands, windswept, treacherous, and crawling with unrest, were not where one went to bask in favor. It was where inconvenient men were sent to fade into obscurity, or die.

Edward raised his hands in an exaggerated gesture of surrender, the chain at his wrist glinting faintly as it caught the dim light. Laughter flickered in his dark eyes, the easy, reckless kind that had always marked him as Harry’s greatest frustration, and perhaps his only true equal.

"As you say, Your Majesty," Edward teased, sketching an irreverent half-bow that was far too casual to be respectful. His tone danced on the edge of mockery, but there was an acknowledgment buried beneath it, a deference neither of them would ever admit aloud.

Harry said nothing in return. Instead, he rolled his shoulders back beneath the heavy drape of his cloak, adjusting the set of it until it fell in precise, commanding folds. His gloved hands smoothed down the front of his coat, each movement methodical, controlled.

Without another word, the two of them turned and began to move in measured strides down the long hall toward the main entrance. Their boots struck the stone floor in a steady rhythm, echoing faintly through the cavernous space.

The air between them, though outwardly casual, thrummed with an electric tension—the constant, unspoken current that ran deep between twin brothers who had been raised together yet shaped by the crown to walk entirely different paths.

Outside, the ancient iron gates had begun to groan open, the sound deep and grating, like the yawning of some slumbering beast. Mist coiled greedily through the widening gap, spilling over the gravel like thick smoke from an unseen fire.

From beyond the wall of fog came the soft, rhythmic crunch of hooves meeting gravel, steady and deliberate.

The horses slowed, their breath misting the cold air in great silver plumes. A black carriage, lacquered to a mirror shine and bearing the Fitzgerald family crest, emerged slowly from the mist and drew to a halt before the steps of Wrosley Keep.

Their guests had arrived.

[stylesonfilms]

Where The Quiet Was - Prologue [h.s]

series summary: In the cold northern kingdom of Alderham, King Harry Styles rules with silence, steel, and a legacy he never asked for. Raised to believe emotion is weakness, he commands with distance—his crown a burden worn without question, his twin brother a shadow he’s long tried to outpace. Far south in the polished courts of Edevane, Margaret Fitzgerald is the daughter no one sees. Quiet, overlooked, and dressed in the remnants of her sister’s life, she exists on the edges of a family that prizes beauty and ambition; neither of which were ever hers. What follows is not a love story. It is a reckoning. A tale of power, silence, and what happens when two people find themselves undone not by war or betrayal, but by the quiet things no one ever dares to say aloud. warnings: will be posted with each chapter. word count: 1.5k a/n: this is just the prologue. the story will follow to be be a slow burn, while being full of angst and yearning. stay tuned, my friends!

In the northern reaches of Alderham, where the sea clawed endlessly at jagged cliffs and the sky never remembered the color of blue, the House of Styles ruled in a silence older than war. Their dominion stretched over stone and fog, built not on affection or the will of the people, but on blood, inheritance, and history too proud to kneel.

At the center stood Wrosley Keep, a fortress turned palace, all looming archways and sharp towers that scraped the mist. Ivy twisted through the cracks in the stone like veins, and time itself seemed to settle in the creaking woodwork and cold fireplaces. The halls smelled of smoke, leather, and iron—a history left to rot, but never questioned.

It was here that King Harry Styles reigned; not with warmth, but with authority honed sharp and polished clean.

He was never seen without a tailored three-piece suit: black or navy or deep hunter green, the fabric thick and fine, his collar always pressed, his waistcoat snug. Everything about him was chosen, precise. His dark curls, short and swept back with a carelessness that was deliberate, framed a face that was both striking and unreadable. His lips rarely smiled. His eyes, green and glassy, revealed nothing.

He spoke only when needed, and even then, every word fell heavy with intention.

At court, he was a presence more than a man; tall, unmoving, always watching. Conversations faltered when he entered a room. Lesser lords bowed deeper than necessary. Even the seasoned ministers stumbled through their counsel when he tilted his head or narrowed his gaze.

Harry did not rage. He did not whimper or scowl. He did not entertain niceties. He simply expected. And the world gave.

He had grown up in the northern wing of the Keep, in a room with stone walls and windows that never opened. He had been taught to ride before he could spell, to wield a blade before he’d ever written his own name. A prince molded not by love but by responsibility. There had never been lullabies, only oaths. No lull of comfort, only lineage.

Legacy was his only cradle. And legacy, now, was his to bear.

In a different shed of light, Edward Styles was looser around the edges. His presence was lighter, his posture less rigid. He wore trousers and unbuttoned shirts with soft cravats, his long hair pulled back with careless charm, always half a step behind Harry, always the second thought.

He was not unloved by the court. In fact, some preferred his laughter to Harry’s silence. But that preference was useless—Edward held no real power. He spoke freely because his words bore no consequence.

To Harry, his brother was tolerable only in the way that dust is tolerable. Always lingering, never necessary.

Their bond was a myth constructed by their surname. Twins by fate yet they remained rulers by force. It was always a competition from the moment they could both roll over. It was about power, about a legacy to leave behind. Who could do what faster, smarter, diligently. But when it came to it, one had to take the throne and the other would have to watch.

Harry would have cast him out had it not been for custom, for appearances. But tradition demanded two Styles men remain at court, and so Edward lingered. Every door slam and heavy boot down the palace’s halls dusted behind a trace of Edward and his rebellion, his name.

There was no queen at Wrosley. No heirs. No soft footsteps in the halls. Just a crown resting on a head already bowed under its weight, and an empire that expected to be led without question. Harry didn’t need the women, no maiden could satisfy him enough. They were less to him, pathetic sacks that held all but connection, their submission to him.

But in the stillness of his chambers, when the moon crept over the frostbitten moors and silence pressed against the windows like a second skin, there were no answers. Only the throne. Only the quiet.

To the south, in the gentler lands of Edevane, the Fitzgerald estate stood among rolling hills and sun-dappled vineyards, a kingdom painted in gold leaf and etiquette. The estate, Briarbourne Hall, appeared resplendent from afar. Its cream-colored façade glowed at sunset, and carriages arrived like clockwork with their polished brass and embroidered coats of arms. The gardens were sculpted into perfect, symmetrical blooms. The columns were tall, its guests tasteful, and its laughter rehearsed.

But closer—beneath the polished veneer—the cracks had begun to show.

The fireplaces burned lower. Velvet curtains were drawn to hide the fading wallpaper. The silver didn’t shine quite as it used to, and the servants spoke in tones quiet enough to keep the rot from becoming gossip. It was a house still desperate to be admired, even as it hollowed from within.

Inside, Lady Beatrice Fitzgerald, the prized heir to the Fitzgerald name, stood atop a pedestal of her own making. Three gowns had been flung across the bed, and she examined her fourth in the mirror while Lady Nora, their mother, circled like a hawk in pearls.

“Chin up. Shoulders soft but proud,” Nora murmured, adjusting the neckline of the silk. “A queen never lets them see her sweat.”

Beatrice was their golden girl—flawless posture, silk-smooth smiles, and the calculated grace of someone who had never once been told no. She was being prepared, always prepared for the next title, the next court, the next throne. And she drank the attention like wine, eyes half-lidded in her own reflection.

In the corner, half-shadowed by the drawn curtain, stood Margaret. 

She held a chipped porcelain tray—cold tea, two sugar cubes, lemon slices sliced too thin, brittle at the ring and flimsy in its sour center. No one had asked her to bring it. No one ever did. Her sleeves were rolled up, hands red from the morning’s scrub of the tiled halls. Her gown hung in tired folds around her ankles. It had once been Beatrice’s, lavender silk turned a dull gray-blue, frayed at the hem where Margaret had sewn it up with rough thread, the stitches barely holding from a tear she didn’t have time to fix.

She had made it fit. She always did.

She had stitched every seam of the dress she would wear to Alderham—a patchwork of scraps from discarded fabrics, hidden under a cloak that had once belonged to her mother’s cousin’s maid. It was her finest dress. And it still wasn’t hers. But she didn’t mutter a single complaint. Instead, she rather dipped her finest bow at the fore of her parents, thanking them for the opportunity to come along to Alderham. After, she rushed to dish up the dinner prepared along the stretched tables, taking extra precision. She had folded their serviettes into rosebuds, her mothers favorite.

Margaret had long since learned that the way to be noticed in Briarbourne was to be useful, not visible.

“Margaret,” her mother said once without looking, “take that to the kitchens. And do something with your hair. You're an eyesore.”

No thanks. No glance. Just command and dismissal.

She dipped her head, murmured, “Yes, ma’am,” and moved quickly so Beatrice wouldn’t have a chance to nudge her aside with one of those careless little pushes, the kind that always managed to bruise without leaving a mark. Her sister’s laughter followed her out of the room, light and cruel.

She wasn’t allowed to dine with guests. She arranged the flowers for the drawing rooms. She fetched the ribbons. She stayed behind the curtain while the suitors were entertained.

Her father, Lord Thomas, didn’t strike her, but he didn't speak to her either. His eyes slid past her at the breakfast table, as if acknowledging her presence would somehow devalue the family name. When he did address her, it was with the clipped tone he used for horses or staff. Not unkind—just detached. Indifferent.

She had once been allowed to sit at the piano when she was thirteen. Her fingers found the keys with quick glances around her, before a soft note rang through the air. Silence first, then the click of her fathers shoes. The next morning, the piano was locked.

No one told her she was lesser. They simply treated her that way. And so Margaret drifted through the house like a ghost in hand-me-down shoes, too quiet to be remembered, too useful to be entirely discarded.

But she noticed everything.

She saw how her father’s smile faltered when he spoke of royal alliances. She saw how her mother’s fingers trembled as she adjusted Beatrice’s jewels—jewels they couldn’t afford to replace. She saw how Beatrice practiced her curtsies in the mirror after everyone had gone to bed, whispering titles under her breath like a spell. Margaret did not envy them. Not truly. But she wondered what it might feel like to be seen.

There were whispers now, urgent and laced with names from the north. The House of Styles. A visit was being arranged—an audience at Wrosley Keep. Beatrice was to be dressed in emerald satin. Margaret would travel beside her, cloaked in patched wool, silent and unmentioned.

Was Margaret just a symbol of humility? Or unity? Or maybe she was just a placeholder. A shadow to make the crown gleam brighter on Lady Beatrice’s head. That didn’t matter though. This was not the worst that the quiet could get. 

The carriage would leave at first light.

[stylesonfilms]

Where The Quiet Was [h.s au]

Power is inherited. Love, never promised.

Harry was born to rule—raised to believe legacy is everything and emotion is weakness. With a crown already etched in his blood, and a kingdom watching, he wears entitlement like armor and sees no value in those outside his lineage.

Margaret is the second daughter of another royal bloodline—forgotten in favor of her sister and dismissed by everyone. She is background noise in a room full of power players. Irrelevant. Unseen.

But the quiet has weight.

And slowly, without meaning to, she becomes the only thing he cannot ignore.

What begins as cold indifference turns to something else—something sharp, something aching. But realization comes too late. She is no longer waiting to be seen. And Harry, once so certain of his world, must now live in the silence he created.

What remains when the silence you chose is the only thing that answers back?

COMING SOON. ⏳🏰

[stylesonfilms]

drippin' down your body like gold [h.s]

word count: 7.1k

when harry performs in lisbon, he gets an idea to chug a beer on stage. what he doesn't know, is that the sight of his chest dripping makes you feral.

or the one that is based off a post long ago made by @hesbunnies!

warnings: smut, unprotected p in v, blowjobs, fingering, daddy kink, slight possessiveness, dressing room smut, concert smut! 18+ only.

Your fingers glided over the sequins of his suit, the fabric shifting beneath your touch like liquid light, catching and reflecting the warm glow of the dressing room bulbs. Each stroke sent a mesmerizing ripple across the dark material, a shimmer of silver and blue dancing under your fingertips. Your gaze trailed downward, drinking in the expanse of his exposed chest, where inked stories curled over golden skin, each tattoo etched into him like constellations against a dusky sky. The faint scent of his cologne—rich, woodsy, laced with something subtly sweet—mingled with the lingering notes of hairspray and fresh linen from his suit.

“Good luck,” you exhaled, the words floating between you like a prayer, your voice tinged with adoration as you tilted your head to meet his gaze. Your heart pounded against your ribs, swelling with something indescribable, eyes glossy with admiration. His responding chuckle was low, honeyed, and melted into the grin that spread across his face—dimples deep, eyes twinkling. His large, calloused hands rose to cup your jaw, warm and steady, thumbs brushing tenderly over your skin. Though he towered over you, nearly a foot taller, he always lowered himself to meet you, his lips finding yours with effortless devotion.

One kiss. Another. Then a longer one, deep and unhurried, the soft pressure igniting a heat in your chest. His lips were plush, intoxicating, leaving behind a warmth that lingered long after he pulled away. His hands dropped, curling around yours, anchoring you against the rapid heartbeat beneath his chest.

“Styles, two minutes! Let’s go, let’s go!”

Beyond the dressing room walls, the world pulsed with electric anticipation. The steady thrum of stomping feet vibrated through the floors, a bassline of excitement shaking the very air around you. Cheers and whistles spiraled through the venue, blending into a symphony of pure, unfiltered devotion. The scent of fog machines and stage lights filtered in, mingling with the adrenaline buzzing through your veins.

“Thank you, love,” he murmured, his voice dipped in fondness as he pressed a kiss to your forehead, then brought your bundled hands to his lips, the heat of his breath spreading across your skin. A shiver ran down your spine—not from cold, but from the quiet intensity in his touch.

“See you out there?”

You beamed up at him, eyes glimmering. “You know it. Now go, go!”

With a parting squeeze of your hands, he turned, broad shoulders disappearing through the door. His jog down the long corridor was brisk, purposeful, the last glimpse of his silhouette swallowed by the glowing stage lights as he vanished beneath the arena.

The moment Harry disappeared down the hallway, you released a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, your heart still fluttering from the warmth of his lips on your skin. But there was no time to linger in the feeling—he was about to step onto the stage, and you needed to get to your spot.

Slipping out of the dressing room, you navigated through the backstage halls, passing crew members who moved with practiced efficiency. The faint hum of in-ear monitors crackled through radio headsets, and the distant strumming of the band tuning up leaked through the heavy walls. With familiar ease, you found the staircase leading up to the private balcony, a space reserved for family and special guests—a safe haven away from the packed, pulsating crowd below.

As you stepped onto the balcony, the stadium came into full view, and the sheer magnitude of it stole your breath. Lisbon’s fans were nothing short of electric. The entire arena was alive—thousands of bodies swayed, neon signs flickered, and confetti cannons stood at the ready. The stomping of feet vibrated through the air, the deafening roar of the crowd swelling in waves as anticipation thickened.

And then, the lights dropped.

A collective scream pierced the air, shaking the ground beneath your feet as the screen flashed his silhouette. The opening beat of his first song thundered through the speakers, and in an instant, Harry was launched onto the stage, his presence igniting the entire stadium like a bolt of lightning.

He moved effortlessly, energy radiating off him in golden bursts. His sequined suit glittered beneath the beams of colored lights, reflecting off his skin as he jumped, spun, and threw his arms up to hype the crowd. He belted out the first lines of the song, and the audience erupted, their voices merging with his in a harmony of pure devotion.

From your balcony, you watched, utterly mesmerized.

His voice was strong, unwavering, carrying through the vast space as if each note was stitched directly into the hearts of every person in attendance. He laughed between verses, flashing that devastatingly charming grin, occasionally reaching down to clasp the hands of fans pressed against the barricades.

Midway through a song, his eyes scanned the crowd, catching sight of a brightly colored sign that bounced excitedly in the air. Squinting, he leaned forward, trying to make out the words. Then, in between lyrics, he burst into laughter.

“Oh, hold on—what does that say?” he asked, pointing toward the sign, signaling for the camera to zoom in so the whole stadium could see.

The screen flickered, and suddenly, there it was: a massive sign scrawled in bold, glittery letters—

“HARRY, MY BOYFRIEND SAYS HE’LL PROPOSE IF YOU GIVE ME A THUMBS UP!!”

Harry’s mouth dropped open in mock shock, his hand flying to his chest as he stumbled back dramatically. The band kept playing, but he milked the moment, shaking his head as if in disbelief.

“Oh, this is serious,” he said, eyebrows raised. “I mean… the pressure is on, innit?”

The crowd erupted in laughter and cheers.

“Alright, alright. We need to do this properly,” he continued, pacing theatrically across the stage. “What’s his name?”

The girl in the crowd shouted something, but it was lost in the chaos.

Harry cupped his ear. “Sorry, love, I can’t hear a thing—are we calling him Tom? He looks like a Tom, yeah?”

The camera quickly panned to the guy standing beside her, his face burning red as he hid behind his hands.

“Oh, it is Tom!” Harry cackled. “Tom, mate, you’re in deep now. You’ve got about… five thousand witnesses expecting a ring soon.”

The crowd went wild, chanting “TOM! TOM! TOM!” as Harry finally lifted his hand and gave the biggest, most exaggerated thumbs-up imaginable.

“There you go, Tom. It’s out of my hands now, mate. Best of luck!”

He winked at the camera before launching back into the chorus, the moment immortalized in the hearts of everyone watching.

From the balcony, you shook your head, laughing to yourself. He had always had that magic—the ability to make a stadium feel like a living room, to make each person feel like they were the only one in the crowd.

And as you watched him move, effortless and free, you couldn’t help but feel it all over again.

That warm, unshakable feeling that he was yours.

From the balcony, you swayed to the music, singing along, your voice drowned out by the thousands of others filling the stadium. The energy in the air was intoxicating, a tangible force that pulsed through the crowd, through you. Every time Harry twirled across the stage, every playful grin he threw into the audience, every time he leaned into the mic and let his voice soar, pride swelled so fiercely in your chest that it almost hurt.

He was magic.

Your eyes followed him as he bounced from one side of the stage to the other, engaging with the fans, twirling his microphone, pointing to signs, blowing kisses. He was in his element—electric, untouchable, radiating nothing but joy.

Then, the song faded into a bridge, and he took the brief moment to jog over to the back of the stage, grabbing his black bottle for a quick sip of water. He tilted his head back, throat bobbing as he swallowed, before lowering the bottle and wiping his lips with the back of his hand.

But just as he turned back to the crowd, a security guard approached the edge of the stage, holding out two plastic cups of beer.

You sat up straighter, watching as Harry’s eyes lit up with mischief. A slow smirk curled his lips before he took a knee near the stage’s edge, reaching out to accept one of the cups. The crowd erupted, their cheers shaking the foundation of the stadium as he stood, beer in hand.

Bringing the cup to his lips, he took two large gulps, Adam’s apple bobbing with each swallow. The excess liquid spilled over, streaming down the corners of his mouth, tracing a slow, golden path down his chin and onto his bare chest. The sight did something to you—your stomach clenched, heat coiling low in your body as you watched, mesmerized. His skin glistened under the stage lights, damp with sweat and now streaked with droplets of beer, a sinful sheen against the inked canvas of his body.

Then, with a final gulp, he pulled the cup away, grinning devilishly before tilting his head back slightly. You knew what was coming before it even happened.

With perfect precision, he pursed his lips and spat the remaining beer into the air, misting it above him in a sparkling, golden arc—his signature ‘whale.’

The audience lost it. The screams were deafening, fists pumping, cameras flashing, the entire stadium roaring in approval.

And you? You could barely breathe.

Your grip tightened on the balcony railing, pulse hammering, unable to tear your gaze away from the sheer presence of him. He was completely in his element—wild, unrestrained, effortlessly captivating. The neon stage lights flickered in shifting hues of gold and blue, catching on the dampness of his skin, highlighting the defined planes of his chest where the beer had trickled down moments before.

Your breath hitched as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, grinning through the remnants of the stunt. His dimples popped, eyes alight with something wicked, something playful. He licked his lips, whether to rid himself of the lingering taste or just to tease the crowd, you didn’t know—but either way, it sent a shiver down your spine.

“Didn’t expect that one, did ya?” he laughed into the mic, voice slightly hoarse from singing, but no less charming. The crowd’s response was deafening, a sea of voices screaming in admiration, chanting his name, some in thick Portuguese accents that made his smile widen.

You found yourself laughing softly, shaking your head in both amusement and sheer disbelief. God, you loved him.

As he turned to move back across the stage, his gaze flickered toward the balcony—the private guest area you were in.

His eyes found yours instantly. And for a split second, despite the thousands of people around him, despite the chaos, the music, the flashing lights, it felt like the two of you were the only ones in the room.

His smirk deepened, something knowing and burning behind his gaze, and he lifted the beer cup in your direction, sending you a subtle wink before tossing it carelessly to the side and diving straight into the next song.

Your heart plummeted. Plummeted so far you could feel a heartbeat between your thighs as your panties remained soaked just from watching the scene unfold.

Gripping the railing even tighter, you bit your lip, feeling everything all at once—love, pride, amusement, and an undeniable heat curling deep within you. Oh, you were so in trouble.

The moment the final notes rang out and Harry took his last bow, you were already on the move. The stadium lights dimmed as the crowd's roaring applause echoed behind you, but your sole focus was on getting back to him—on being the first person he saw after stepping off that stage.

Your heart pounded against your ribcage as you hurried through the dimly lit backstage corridors, your heels clicking against the polished floor. The distant cheers from fans still pulsed through the walls, mixing with the hurried chatter of crew members and the occasional bursts of laughter from passing bandmates. But none of it mattered.

Because the only thing on your mind was him.

The ache between your thighs had been building all night, your body tense with anticipation, wound tight from watching him move the way he did. The way his body swayed and pulsed to the rhythm, how he played with the audience, how he laughed and winked and commanded the entire stadium like it was his playground. The sweat glistening on his golden skin, the way his shirt clung to his damp chest, the audacity of him drinking that beer with such effortless sensuality—it had all set your body ablaze.

By the time you pushed through the door to his dressing room, your breathing was shallow, and your fingers trembled with the need to touch. The space was dimly lit, the air still carrying remnants of his cologne, the warmth from the performance lingering as if the very walls had absorbed the night’s electricity. You paced the floor, your boots barely making a sound over the plush carpet, each passing second stretching unbearably.

Then—footsteps. Heavy, hurried.

The door swung open, and before you could even think, you were moving.

You launched yourself at him with a squeal, and he caught you effortlessly, strong arms locking around your waist like it was second nature. Your legs wrapped around his torso, the firm press of his hands digging into your thighs as he held you up, and you wasted no time—your lips immediately peppering kisses all over his flushed face. His jaw, his cheek, the tip of his nose—anywhere you could reach.

"You were incredible!" you gasped between kisses, feeling the warmth of his laughter vibrate against your lips. "You owned that stage, Harry—God!"

His chuckle was breathless, deep, still high on adrenaline. "That good, huh?"

"That good," you confirmed, pulling back just enough to look at him, to take him in—the damp curls sticking to his forehead, the glow of his skin, the way his eyes burned with something dark, something wanting.

Then, you kissed him.

Hard.

The kind of kiss that left no room for teasing, no room for patience. You pressed yourself into him, your fingers tangling into his damp curls, tugging him closer as his mouth opened beneath yours, eager and hungry. His grip on your thighs tightened, fingers digging into your flesh in a way that made your head spin, the heat between your bodies dizzying.

The sticky remnants of beer and sweat clung between you, his chest still damp, hot beneath your palms as they roamed, exploring, claiming. Your sequined top shimmered under the dressing room light, catching against the heat of his skin, the contrast of rough and soft making him groan into your mouth.

"Fuck," he exhaled, the sound barely audible between fevered kisses, his hands shifting to your ass, kneading, gripping. "This what had you running back here so fast?"

You whimpered against his lips, rolling your hips instinctively, needing more, needing him.

"You have no idea what you did to me out there," you admitted, voice breathless, lips grazing along the corner of his mouth, down to his jaw. "The beer—the sweat—Harry..."

He let out a deep, raspy chuckle, head tipping back slightly as your lips trailed down his throat. "Mm. So you liked that, then?"

"Liked it?" You pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, your fingers dragging down his chest, feeling the hammering of his heartbeat beneath your touch. "It ruined me."

His eyes darkened, a slow smirk curling at the edges of his mouth. "That so?"

Before you could answer, he was moving. Turning with you in his arms, his pace quick and determined as he pressed you up against the nearest wall. Your breath hitched as your back met the cool surface, your thighs tightening around his waist, your skirt riding up even further.

Harry’s lips ghosted over yours, teasing, taunting, his breath warm against your mouth. "Tell me, love," he murmured, voice dripping with amusement but laced with hunger. "What exactly did I do that got you so worked up?"

You let out a soft whine from the back of your throat, the tone of his voice shooting straight to your core. “You know what you did,” you huffed. 

The man had only chuckled in amusement as his fingers readjusted their hold on your thighs, squeezing into the plush flesh. “I believe I told you to tell me, Y/N.”

Your hands found the sweaty curls at the nape of his neck, threading your fingers through as you puffed out another breath. God, he smelled so good. His cologne still lingered, mixed with the tart scent of beer and sweat. You drew in a deep breath, feeling your back press firm against the wall as he shifted. 

“The beer…,” you murmured, eyes scanning over the features of his face. Deep green eyes, perfect red lips. 

“What about the beer, hm?”

You swallowed. “The… the way you drank it. How it spilt down your chin, your chest..” Your words trailed off as a hand left your boyfriend’s shoulder to slide over the firm curve of his chest, your thumb brushing down his sternum. 

You rolled your hips down to meet him and whined softly. The black mini skirt you wore hitched up over your thighs, bunching up just below your hips. Harry’s lips found yours in a flash. The groan he let out was quickly swallowed in your mouth and you couldn’t help but feel content. Feeling his bulge pressed up against you sent a thrill up your spine to know he felt this way, right now, too. That he needed you as much as you needed him.

Harry's kiss was all-consuming, his lips pressing firmly against yours, demanding more as his hands kneaded the flesh of your thighs. The heat between you two was palpable, thickening the air in the dressing room, mingling with the remnants of his cologne, sweat, and beer. Your fingers tangled in his damp curls, pulling just enough to elicit a low growl from his throat, the vibration traveling straight through your body.

His grip tightened on your thighs as he pressed you harder against the wall, your chest molding against his as his vest gaped open, the sequins glimmering under the dim dressing room lights. The slight stickiness of his skin from the sweat and beer sent a shiver down your spine, adding to the intoxicating mixture of sensations.

His mouth left yours just long enough to ghost down the side of your jaw, lips brushing featherlight over your pulse before he licked a slow, deliberate path along the sensitive skin. The wet heat of his tongue, contrasted by the scrape of his stubble, sent a warm ache pooling in your lower stomach.

“You’re trouble,” he murmured, his voice husky, words fanning against your skin. His fingers slipped under the hem of your mini skirt, palms gliding over the bare expanse of your thighs before they gripped your ass, pulling you flush against him.

You gasped at the contact, your hips instinctively rolling against his, chasing the friction that sent sparks dancing along your nerve endings. He groaned at the movement, his forehead dropping to your shoulder for a moment as his fingers flexed into your skin, grounding himself.

"You drive me mad, darling," he rasped, before tilting his head back up, his darkened green eyes locking onto yours. The hunger in them made your breath hitch.

"Standing there in the balcony, looking like that. Wearing this—" his fingers tugged teasingly at the hem of your sparkly top, his knuckles grazing your stomach "—knowing I couldn’t touch you. And then you look at me like that when I’m on stage?"

You bit your lip, a playful glint in your eyes as your hands smoothed down his chest, nails trailing lightly over his heated skin. "Couldn't help myself," you whispered.

"You looked so good, so in your element. The way you moved, how you drank that beer…" Your words trailed off as you slid your palms lower, fingers grazing over the faint definition of his abs.

Harry’s chest rose and fell heavily, his breathing uneven. He let out a shaky chuckle, his lips quirking up in a smirk even as his jaw clenched with restraint. “That did something to you, huh?”

Instead of answering, you leaned forward, pressing an open-mouthed kiss against his collarbone. His skin tasted of salt and something uniquely him, a flavor you could never tire of.

Your lips traveled downward, slow and deliberate, as your hands splayed over his stomach, fingertips pressing just enough to feel the taut muscles beneath.

A deep groan rumbled from his chest as you let your tongue flick out against his sternum, tasting the remnants of the beer that had trickled down earlier. Your eyes flickered up to meet his, your expression coy as you dragged a slow, flat tongue down the center of his chest, savoring the way his muscles tensed under your touch.

His breath hitched, his fingers twitching against your thighs before they slid further under your skirt, his grip possessive. “Fuck, love,” he exhaled, watching you through heavy-lidded eyes, the green almost swallowed by blown-out pupils.

His hand came up to cup the back of your head, not to stop you, but to feel you, to remind himself that this was real.

As you slowly sank to your knees before him, his grip tightened in your hair, his chest rising and falling in anticipation. Your fingers smoothed over the front of his sequined vest, pushing it further apart, exposing more of the golden skin that shimmered under the dressing room lights.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” Harry murmured, his voice thick with desire, his thumb tracing over your cheek before resting against your bottom lip. His eyes darkened as you let out a soft hum, hands sliding up his sparkly trousers to slip your fingers inside the band of his pants.

Your fingers slid inward under they worked the clasp undone, the sound of Harry’s zipper filling the air. Harry pressed his hands flat against the wall that held you between him and the surface while his green eyes pierced a look of need through you.

You let out a small, innocent giggle before tucking your bottom lip between your teeth, fingers curling around the inside of his briefs and the outside of his slacks as she tugged both the materials down his toned legs.

The tattoos he had on his thighs were canvassed beautifully on his toned, tan legs. The tiger taunted her from its hold on his skin, a reminder from all the times she spent with her pussy attached to it. Your eyes, doe and tainted with something teasing, looked up at him as his cock sprang to life and slapped onto his lower abdomen. You giggled once more to yourself at the blissful sight. 

Harry’s cock was big. Thick and wonderfully above the average that it took four sessions to fully get him inside of you. And the sex you two had that day? The bedroom was wrecked. You couldn’t stop begging for his ‘big, thick cock’ to rip you open, eyes rolling back at the feeling (finally) of his balls slapping against your clit with each giving thrust as you were bent over for him.

His tip was a roaring red, deep in color and a thick swole at the base of his tip. A cooler tone of that same color painted the rest of his dick. Your fingers fluttered down his toned thighs, your eyes too busy being wrapped around his beautiful cock to notice his stare. But you felt it.

After a few mutters of complaint from Harry from your featherlight teases, your dainty hand finally wrapped around the base of your cock. He was warm. Heavy in your hand as your thumb slipped along the underside of his cock to raise it to your lips. Your lips puckered and gave kitten-like kisses and licks from his fierce burnt tip down to his tightening balls.

“Baby, c’mon…” Harry spoke. His voice was tainted with rough edges, holding off using anything above a whisper since he had last spoken. The hand that remained in your hair carded through the soft locks, his nails slightly dragging along your scalp so he could get a soft hum from you when you tilted your head back.

You were under his control, the palms of his very hands. Anything he gave to you, you took like his good girl. “Good girl,” Harry then muttered as if on cue, fond but lust-filled eyes circling your face of content. His touch was always so welcoming, so soothing and it hit every right spot.

When you felt Harry’s hand tighten in your hair to form a proper grip, that's when your tongue gave a flat lick up the underside of his cock. You held his shaft upright, your eyes locked on his heavy green ones as your wet tongue glided over the vein and swirled around his tip. 

When it came to sucking your boyfriend off, you got to work. It was pure bliss for you. You shifted on your knees and felt the wet squelch between your thighs. You were a soaking mess for him and had been since he got on that stage. 

Lips engulfed around his cock, your jaw slacked as you pushed him further down. Once about halfway, you pulled up to wrap your hand around him, delivering strokes to his dick as your eyes scanned his face. Harry never really cared for head before. It was pish-posh to him, it wasn’t something he needed or wanted deeply with a woman.

But when you came along? When you took his cock so far down your throat that you both couldn’t breathe? Harry was whipped. He always voiced how lucky he was to have you on your knees for him, and you thrived on it. You thrived on being the only one he needed.

Your tongue found its place back over his tip, cradling the head of his shaft as your tongue swirled gracefully around. Harry’s brows were furrowed in pleasure, his plump lips wet with his spit from all the times he had licked over them.

“Y/n—”.

Your mouth fully engulfed him before another word left his lips. His dick was heavy on your tongue as it slid further back, hitting the back of your throat. His cock curved to slip down your throat and you moaned, the tip of your nose hitting the patch of hair Harry had kept. 

With a deep inhale through your nose, your eyes fluttered shut. His musk mixed with his cologne made you let out a moan around him. He smelled so damn good.

“Fuck!” Harry groaned, pinching his brows together as he felt the way your throat molded to his cock with tight ease. 

You continued to bob your head, tongue pressing along the vein on the underside of his cock while your hand worked the half that you didn’t take. Your eyes fluttered back up to him.

“Shit, baby,” The man moaned, shaking his head as his eyes shut in pleasure. His jaw was slack, you could tell by the way he tried to clench his teeth. His curls fell across his forehead and the hand at the back of your head encouraged you.

Removing your hand, your throat opened back up for Harry’s cock as he pushed your head further down. His hips stuttered slightly as a gasping moan left his mouth, jaw now completely slack as the tip of his cock felt your warm, fluttering throat.

Harry’s grip on your hair was firm as he yanked you off, pulling his hips back with a gasp. You let out a whine as your lips formed a pout.

“Fucking hell, Y/n,” The man licked his lips with a shaky breath. His chest rose and fell unevenly. Harry’s hand left your hair to card through his and push curls back, hissing slightly as you kissed and licked along his tip. 

He was so wrong to deprive you of his cock in your mouth. You just loved it so much. Who wouldn't? Especially when it came to Harry.

“You… fuck,” He hummed low, eyes closing and head tipping back as your hand cradled his balls and began slow massaging motions. Your tongue slipped between the slit at his tip and under the crown of his dick along with your motions. And just when you think you had him again…

Harry had to pull himself together, snapping his eyes open as he straightened back up. “No,” He hissed, yanking your head back by your hair until you were looking up at him. Your lips were glossed with spit, eyes the same from the pressure in your throat, though a huff passed your lips.

“If you keep doing that, ‘M going to cum. And the only place I want to cum right now,” He grunted, a hand wrapping around your arm to lightly pull you up. As you rose to your feet, you kept your doe eyes on check. 

His green eyes scanned your features for a moment before he cursed under his breath, continuing what he was saying. “Is inside ‘f you. Understood?”

You nodded and bit back a smile as your thighs clenched. Fuck, please? “Yes sir.” 

With that, Harry turned you around in a sharp motion, turning you both. Harry walked you both towards the leather sofa in the middle of the dressing room, his hand landing flat on your back as he gave you an encouraging push.

Your knees hit the leather seat before your hands hit the back, fingers curling around the ledge as you felt your boyfriend press up behind you.

You loved it when he was like this. The manhandling, the telling you what to do. It drove you crazy. Your pussy pulsed between your clenched thighs. You needed him, his thick cock pounding you, bad.

Harry’s large hands landed on the globes of your ass, pulling your cheeks apart as he pressed his cock up against you over the material of your skirt. “Tell me, sugar,” his hands danced their way to your skirt’s hem around your hips and yanked them down to your thighs in one, swift motion. “You’re so wet.” 

“Why?” You could feel Harry’s long fingers graze the inside of your thighs, feathering over where you needed them the most.

You swallowed, arching your back down against the sofa as you turned back to look at him. “You.”

Harry ‘tsk’ed, his green eyes looking up to meet yours as his pointer and middle finger slid between your folds. Thick and silky, wet and warm. You coated his fingers like your life depended on it. “Give me better than that, Peach.”

Peach. He tossed that nickname one random summer when you two went down to help your grandparents on their farm in Georgia. He held you on his shoulders almost the whole way until he collapsed (he says from the sun, you say it was from the two buckets of peaches in his hands) under a shady tree. You two spent the rest of the evening out there soaking in Georgia heat and feeding each other fruit until the sun went down. He carried you all the way back.

“Your cock,” you whimpered at the feeling of his fingers. “I love having your cock in my mouth and—.”

“Yeah,” he murmured, cutting you off as he dipped a finger slowly into you. “You do love having m’cock in your mouth, huh?”

You nodded between a split moan, pussy swallowing his finger with greed. “I do. I do. I do. I love the way it feels, I love the way it tastes, oh—!”

Another finger inside now, pumping at a teasing pace and curling as they stuffed inside of you. It was your turn to moan filth now. You could hear Harry’s fingers inside of you, pumping and curling. That’s how wet you had been for him.

“You’re so wet,” Harry cursed under his breath as he scissored his fingers, his eyes flickering between your blissed look and his fingers that worked between your wetness.

He always loved how wet you got. Not needing to buy lube was fantastic, but the way you tasted and smelled is what got Harry going. He loved watching your thighs string with slick substance, and he loved diving tongue first into your pussy to swallow down as much as he could.

“Is this what you needed? My attention? You’ve been wanting it, hm?”

You nodded with a whine. “Mhm, mhm. Please,” you whimpered, wiggling your ass against him as his fingers curled inside of you once more.

“Been such a good girl during m’show. Waited for me, and then surprised me with a soaked pussy,” Harry grinned, shaking his head to his own amusement as he slipped his long, thick digits out of you.

That same hand of Harry’s returned to your cunt, his fingers collecting the pool of arousal before he wrapped a slick hand around his cock. “Need t’be fucked? I think you do, don’t you? My sweet little girl,” he sighed dramatically, slicking his cock with your wet in careful strokes.

“Yes, yes, please, Harry, just please.” You whimpered in need, wiggling your ass back. You could almost cry at the emptiness inside of you, just wanted to be full of Harry.

You gasped high when a hand came down to smack against your ass. It jiggled from the collision and Harry’s rings left a burn in their place. 

“Try again.” Harry’s green eyes looked up through his lashes. “Not my name, doll.”

You huffed softly, shifting on your knees to spread your legs as you felt Harry’s tip graze along your pussylips. “Please give me your cock, Daddy. Please. I need it.” You begged, soft whimpers in your words as you batted doe eyes at him.

With one swift thrust, Harry’s tip broke past your tight entrance and paved way for his cock to fill you up. You both let out simultaneous gasps as he bottomed out, your ass pressed flush against his hips.

“So fuckin’ tight,” Harry gritted through clenched cheeks while his large hands worked over your hips to get a firm grip. 

He drew his hips back slowly, sinking back into you quickly. Your lips broke out in a moan as the burn of his cock melted into you. It took him three thrusts to balance out, pulling nearly all the way out of you before pounding back into you. 

He was slow at first. Careful and deep. Your eyes couldn't help but flutter shut as your lips parted, his cock shooting thrills of pleasure to your body. Your clit ached with need under his grasp and cock.

Then his pace quickened. His head spun with thoughts of you, how tight you were and how perfect your pussy engulfed him. “Shit,” Harry groaned as he grinded his hips into you, allowing his cock to shift inside before he went back to his quick, even, and hard thrusts.

“That’s it, baby. Take this fucking cock, jus’ like you were made for.”

You were over the moon. Behind your shut eyes were visions of Harry and that beer spilling down his chest over and over and over again.

“Oh,” you whined, your toes curling in your heels as his fingers connected with your clit. “Oh my god, fuck, please, please.”

His two fingers worked your clit at a fast matched pace to his thrusts. Your stomach coiled as each rub and thrust brought you closer and closer to the edge.

Harry’s thrusts turned relentless. The moment he got you up and pressed against his chest, his other hand was reaching down to hook around the back of your knee and pull your leg up. 

“Oh my fuck!,” you cried out in a moan, the new angle allowing his cock to reach deeper. 

“Yeah? Jesus,” Harry grunted as he shifted his hips and replanted his feet. “So damn tight, so wet. Taking my cock like it was made for you.”

“It was,” you whined and nodded quickly, your hands placed over his arm that had you pulled flush against his chest. “Was made just for you,” you slurred, eyes drooping in pleasure as you broke into another whiny moan. 

“That's right,” the man panted, his lips grazing the side of your neck. “Perfect fucking cunt, takes my cock so well— fuck!”

Harry’s jaw fell slack against your shoulder, curls brushing along the side of your neck when he felt your pussy contract around him. Harry’s fingers circled around your clit, pinching and rubbing in all of your wetness. 

The both of you couldn’t stop the rush of moans. You weren’t even sure if the door was locked, but all you could think about right now was Harry.

His eyes broke open, staring down at your chest as your breasts spilled from your loose top. Harry’s hand slid from your waist to the bottom of your tit, cupping the fleshy mound in his hand. “The most perfect fucking body,” he groaned, squeezing your breast as he dug his fingers into your leg from the open hold. 

Harry continued to pound your pussy until you were a screaming, soaked mess. Your chest rose and fell in quick and uneven breaths in between moans and begs. “Please let me cum, please, please, fuck. Please, Daddy,” you whimpered, swallowing thick as his fingers brushed along your nipple. 

Harry groaned into your neck, biting down on the flesh as he continued his deep thrusts inside of you. You could tell he was getting close with the way his thrusts went uneven.

“Yeah? Need t’cum?” Harry taunted, squeezing at your nipple once again before his fingers mound your clit to rub at a quick pace. “Cum f’me, pretty girl.”

His permission was all you needed before your orgasm hit you. You cried out his name, nails digging into his forearm as your pussy clenched and spasmed around his cock. You squirted into the open air, the filthy sounds of your liquid splattering onto the brown leather beneath you two. 

Harry choked out a moan at the sight, jaw falling slack and eyes pinching shut. His own orgasm hit him like a train three thrusts after, pumping you full of thick, hot ropes of his cum. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!,” the man gasped, whimpering as his cock twitched inside of you as he pumped the final spurts of his release inside of you.

Your body trembled as aftershocks rippled through you, every nerve alight with pleasure and exhaustion. Harry's hands were slow and reverent as they traced over your skin, smoothing over your thighs before sliding up to your waist, fingertips pressing gently into your overheated flesh. His touch grounded you, brought you back from the blissful haze that had left you weak-limbed and breathless.

"Good girl," he murmured again, voice deep and rough with the remnants of pleasure, lips grazing the damp skin of your shoulder as he let his forehead rest against your back for a fleeting moment.

The warmth of his breath fanned across your spine, making you shiver despite the heat still radiating between you.

With a soft groan, Harry straightened, slipping away just long enough to grab a few tissues from the nearby table. He moved with that signature confidence, even in his post-high daze, but there was a new tenderness in his actions as he carefully cleaned you both up. His hands, so capable of bringing you to ruin, were equally skilled in their gentleness now—warm, patient, and familiar.

Once satisfied, he tossed the used tissues aside and reached for his duffel bag near the couch, unzipping it to pull out a pair of his soft, worn-in sweats and a shirt for you. The fabric was well-loved, carrying his scent—fresh cedarwood and the faintest trace of lingering cologne, something comforting and inherently him. 

He passed them to you before grabbing his own spare clothes, rummaging until he found a plain black T-shirt and another pair of joggers.

Rolling his shoulders, he started removing the sequin suit still clinging to his skin, letting out an exaggerated sigh. “God, I’m sweaty as hell now,” he groaned, shaking his head with a dramatic grimace. “S’like I ran a bloody marathon.” (wink wink.)

You snorted, tugging his T-shirt over your head and shimmying into his sweatpants. They hung loose on your frame, but that only made them all the more comforting. “You were putting in some serious work there, Styles,” you teased, watching as he peeled off the glitzy fabric and tossed it onto the couch.

Harry scoffed but shot you a smug grin. “’Course I was. Can’t have my girl unsatisfied, now can I?”

Heat bloomed in your cheeks, but you rolled your eyes to play off the effect he still had on you. “Yeah, yeah. Get dressed, loverboy.”

He huffed a small laugh but did as told, slipping into his fresh set of clothes before collapsing onto the couch with a content sigh. His curls were a mess, damp at the edges where sweat had gathered, and there was still a faint flush to his cheeks. He looked comfortable, utterly relaxed—and, as always, completely unfair in how effortlessly beautiful he was.

You stepped closer, nudging his thigh with your knee. “Scoot over.”

Harry cracked one eye open and grinned. “That’s not how you ask nicely.”

You shot him a pointed look. “Harry.”

Chuckling, he lifted his arm in invitation. “C’mere, then.”

That was all you needed. You climbed into his lap, tucking yourself against his chest as he pulled you in securely, arms looping around your waist with ease. The steady thump-thump of his heartbeat filled your ears, a soothing rhythm beneath your cheek. His fingers traced absent-minded patterns along your back, the heat of his palm seeping through the cotton of his shirt.

For a while, neither of you spoke. The silence was comfortable, wrapped in the afterglow of shared intimacy and the quiet understanding that neither of you wanted to move just yet. Outside the dressing room, the distant hum of activity from the crew still breaking down the concert setup could be heard, but it felt like another world entirely.

After a moment, Harry pressed a lazy kiss to the top of your head. “Y’good?” he murmured, voice thick with lingering exhaustion.

You hummed, nuzzling further into his chest. “Mhm. Perfect.”

He smiled against your hair, holding you a little tighter. “Good.”

“Harry?” You spoke.

“Mhm?”

“When we get back to the hotel,” you started, your finger tracing little circles into his shirt, “I want to be the next thing dripping down your chest.”

“Fucking hell, babe.”

[stylesonfilms]

the days are long, the days are hard [h.s]

word count: 4.5k

after a long, excruciating week at work packed with bad news, all you want is your husband, harry.

(inspired by one of my moots that has had a rough few days, hope this brings some comfort!)

warnings: none, just fluff!

Your week started off rough—rougher than most, in fact. The kind of week that clings to your chest like damp fabric, making it hard to breathe and even harder to find the energy to push through.

Monday was everything you’d expect a Monday to be: sluggish, jarring, and unforgiving. Getting back into the groove of things at the office after a much-needed holiday break felt like trying to climb uphill in heels on black ice. Your inbox was flooded, your calendar double-booked, and your brain resistant to the demands of corporate life. The fluorescent lighting overhead seemed brighter than usual, glaring down at you as though it wanted to mock your every misstep.

By Tuesday, the headache that had been brewing since the start of the week blossomed into a full-on throbbing migraine. You powered through with your phone glued to your ear, making calls and leaving voicemails to important individuals who somehow never seemed available. The phone grew slick in your clammy hands, and you found yourself gripping it tighter as though that would keep it from slipping away along with your patience.

Wednesday hit like a freight train. You walked into the office, already dreading the growing to-do list, only to be blindsided by the news that you’d be giving not one, but two speeches at back-to-back meetings. Meetings that you didn’t even know existed until that very moment. You had smiled through clenched teeth and nodded at your boss, silently berating yourself for not anticipating this kind of curveball. The weight of your own expectations pressed heavily on your shoulders, making the simple act of breathing feel like a chore.

Meanwhile, Harry was a ghost in the rhythm of your week. He left before the sun rose, his coffee cup rinsed and drying in the sink by the time you wandered into the kitchen each morning. By the time he returned home, long after the sky had surrendered to darkness, you’d already have dinner waiting—his plate warm, yours half-empty. Conversations were quick and superficial, exchanges of how-was-your-day glossed over in favor of tired smiles and heavy eyelids.

Friday arrived, and with it, the chaos of the city seemed to mirror the storm inside you. Your phone buzzed incessantly in your purse, vibrating against the side of your hip as you weaved through the swarm of New Yorkers hustling to get wherever they needed to be. The cold January air stung your cheeks, and the weight of your tote bag dug into your shoulder as you dodged elbows and briefcases. You muttered an apology to someone who bumped into you, though you couldn’t bring yourself to look up from the sidewalk until you reached the revolving doors of your building.

Once inside, you let out a sharp exhale, your breath fogging up the glass as you took a moment to compose yourself. Tugging at your blazer, you smoothed it over your pencil skirt before running your fingers through your hair, trying to tame the frizz that had been building from the morning’s commute. Your heels clicked sharply against the marble floors as you made your way to the elevator, the sound echoing faintly in the open lobby.

“Hi, Martha!” you chirped at the receptionist, flashing her a smile that felt paper-thin.

“Morning! Good luck today!” she called back cheerfully, though her voice felt like it was coming from underwater.

You loved her, truly. She was one of the few people in the office whose presence didn’t add to your stress, but today, you could barely muster the energy to respond with more than a quick wave. Your nerves had been stretched to the breaking point, and your usual confidence felt like it had been replaced by quicksand.

If it had been any other day, Harry would’ve held you the night before, grounding you in the warmth of his arms as he peppered light kisses across your face. He would’ve whispered words of reassurance into your temple, his voice low and steady as he reminded you of just how capable you were. His hands would have found the curve of your back, his thumb tracing soothing circles into your skin until your worries melted into the sheets.

But last night, you hadn’t let him in. Despite his gentle prodding and his furrowed brows that silently begged you to confide in him, you had brushed him off with excuses of being overtired. You’d told him about your unreasonable bosses, blaming your frustration on the endless pile of work. He didn’t believe you—Harry never did when it came to half-truths. He knew you too well.

He’d pressed his lips into a thin line, his silence carrying the weight of his concern, but he had let it go, probably sensing you didn’t have the energy to delve into your worries. And maybe you should have let him, but you couldn’t bring yourself to add to the weight he was already carrying. With two employees down at his job, he’d been shouldering triple the workload, yet he still came home each night with that same lopsided smile.

You thought about the time, three years ago, when you asked him how he managed to leave the stress of work at the door. His answer had been so simple, yet it had stayed with you ever since.

“Because,” he’d said, pulling you into his arms, “at the end of the day, no matter how bad it gets, I get to come home to you. And that makes everything else feel small.”

The memory brought a faint smile to your lips, even as you stepped into the elevator and prepared yourself for another long day.

You sighed as the elevator dinged softly, floor by floor, the sound seeming to echo in the confined space. It was a rhythmic, monotonous chime, yet it only heightened your sense of dread. Fishing your phone out of your purse, you let the leather strap slide from your shoulder and settle in the crook of your arm. The screen lit up immediately, bathing your face in a cold glow, and a notification blinked persistently at the top. A voicemail.

Your stomach tightened when you saw the name attached: Martin Mayer-Harvey. The name alone carried weight—a man whose influence stretched across six major publishing branches, a figure both revered and feared in the industry. His voice had been a beacon of hope during your one-on-one interview, one you had approached with equal parts trepidation and determination.

Harry had been ecstatic when you first told him about the opportunity. He’d grinned so wide his dimples had cut deep into his cheeks, his enthusiasm bubbling over as he pulled you into a celebratory hug. “This is it,” he’d said, his hands cradling your face. “This is the door opening for you, babe. And you’re going to crush it.” He’d even gone the extra mile to send recommendations on your behalf, his faith in you unwavering.

But now, standing alone in the elevator, the air felt thick with foreboding. With a swipe of your thumb, you tapped the notification, bringing the phone to your ear as you turned the volume up. Another ding. Another floor.

The voicemail played, Martin’s voice smooth and clinical, like velvet stretched too thin.

“Mrs. Y/N, thank you for your time and the professionalism you demonstrated during your interview. I regret to inform you that you have not been selected as an employee for this upcoming year. Nothing personal, it just comes down to the finer things—successes and ethics, and all. Thanks again. Your time was appreciated.”

The words hit you like a gut punch. Your stomach churned, a nauseating wave rolling over you as your breath caught in your throat. Not selected. You repeated the phrase in your mind, the syllables heavy and jagged, cutting deeper with every repetition. Successes and ethics? What did that even mean? Was he saying you weren’t accomplished enough? That you lacked whatever intangible quality he deemed essential?

You swallowed hard, but the lump in your throat refused to go away. When you’d shaken his hand after the interview, his words had brimmed with promise, his smile so genuine you’d dared to believe the position was yours. Yet now, the sterile tone of his voicemail made you feel like just another name crossed off a list.

The elevator dinged again, jolting you out of your spiraling thoughts as the doors slid open with an indifferent hum. The bright fluorescent lights of the seventh floor spilled in, harsh and unforgiving, making you squint as you stepped out into the long hallway. Blinking rapidly, you shoved your phone back into your purse, gripping the strap tightly as if it could somehow anchor you.

Your heels clicked against the polished tiles, the sound sharp and deliberate as you forced yourself to move forward. The walls, painted a dull beige, seemed to close in on you with every step, the air growing heavier as you approached your office.

When you finally stepped inside, the familiar scent of stale coffee and printer ink greeted you, a small comfort in an otherwise dismal moment. Dropping your purse onto the desk with a dull thud, you leaned against the wooden frame, your fingers curling around its edge as if it could keep you upright. Your chest rose and fell in uneven breaths as you closed your eyes, willing yourself to regain control.

The weight of disappointment pressed down on you, a suffocating heaviness that made your fingers tremble as they tightened around the wood. You hated this job. Loathed it, really. What had once been a golden opportunity now felt like a gilded cage. Five years of grunt work had left you disillusioned, the spark of ambition dimmed by endless busywork and little recognition. You had learned, yes, but at what cost?

Your thoughts were interrupted by the creak of the door swinging open, followed by a brisk knock. You didn’t need to look up to know who it was.

“Let’s go,” your boss grunted, his voice clipped and devoid of warmth. A briefcase dangled from his hand as he nodded toward the hallway. “You’ve got work to do.”

The meetings were as grueling as you’d anticipated. Standing in front of the room, under the scrutinizing gaze of your colleagues, felt like being trapped under a spotlight. The projector whirred faintly as you fumbled with the remote, your palms damp as you flipped through slide after slide. Words stumbled out of your mouth, tangling together as your nerves got the better of you. Every time you glanced at the room, the blank faces staring back only made your stomach twist further.

You kept replaying Martin’s voicemail in your head, the words looping like a broken record, distracting you at every turn. The disappointment, the humiliation—it all burned, settling low in your gut like a stone.

By the time the meetings ended, you could barely muster the energy to exchange handshakes, your smiles forced and brittle as you bid everyone a good day.

You checked the dainty watch on your wrist—a delicate silver piece Harry had gifted you on your one-year anniversary. It read 5:30. You sighed, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear as you snapped your case closed on the meeting table.

“What happened out there?” your boss asked, his tone sharp and unimpressed. His gaze swept over you, narrowing slightly as though he could see every crack in your armor. “I thought you were prepared.”

You gave me just under two damn days, you thought bitterly, though the words never left your lips.

Instead, you offered a tight-lipped apology. “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again. I let myself get distracted.”

Your boss lingered for a moment, his eyes scanning your face before letting out a quiet “hm.” He turned on his heel and left without another word.

The breath you’d been holding escaped in a shuddering sigh. The weight of the day bore down on you, your muscles aching under the strain. All you wanted was to go home. To take a long, scalding shower and let the steam wash away the tension clinging to your skin. To crawl into bed, pull the covers over your head, and pretend for a moment that the world wasn’t so heavy.

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂☆

The hot water cascaded over your skin in steady rivulets, steaming against the cool tiles and filling the bathroom with a dense, comforting warmth. Each droplet hit your shoulders and back with a soothing rhythm, dissolving the tension knotted in your muscles from the week’s troubles. You leaned forward slightly, pressing your palms against the wet shower wall, letting the stream ripple through the strands of your hair and drip down to your toes. The scent of pomegranate and shea butter from the body scrub filled the air, sweet and creamy, wrapping around you like a gentle embrace.

You had gotten home just over half an hour ago. The house had been quiet, the kind of stillness that usually greeted you on Fridays. Harry’s car was absent from the driveway, as expected—he always stayed late at the end of the week, wrapping up whatever loose ends needed his attention. The emptiness of the house had been neither comforting nor unsettling; it simply was. You’d set your bag on the kitchen counter, slipped off your heels, and headed straight for the shower, bypassing the bedroom entirely.

Your clothes lay in a careless heap on the tiled floor, a small pile of the day’s exhaustion. You’d scrubbed at your scalp with your fingernails, washing your hair thoroughly not once, but twice, as if doing so could cleanse not just the grime of the day, but also the weight pressing on your mind. You busied yourself with every task you could—shaving over every inch of skin, exfoliating with the grainy scrub until your arms and legs felt soft and raw, then lathering up with the matching body wash, its silky foam sliding over your skin before being washed away in swirling streams.

When the water finally stopped, you stood for a moment in the silence, the air heavy with steam and the faint aroma of your products. You wrung out your hair with practiced motions, droplets splattering onto the shower floor as you reached for the towel. With a flick of your wrist, you flipped your hair forward and wrapped it into the plush fabric, the soft pink standing out against the misty haze. Another towel—this one a little coarser—was pulled from the rack, and you pressed it to your damp skin, blotting and drying before wrapping it securely around your body.

The bathroom was your sanctuary for the next hour. You took your time moving through your routine, dabbing on lotions and serums, brushing out your hair, and slipping into a pair of soft, oversized pajamas. The familiar scents of lavender and coconut oil mingled with the lingering steam, grounding you as you stared at your reflection in the mirror. Your heart still carried the same heaviness it had since hearing the voicemail, a quiet ache nestled in your chest. But now, it felt distant—muted, like background noise to the slow hum of your movements.

By the time you left the bathroom, the house felt cooler, the air outside the warmth of the shower almost brisk against your skin. You padded down the hallway barefoot, the soft patter of your steps swallowed by the carpet. The living room was dimly lit, the glow from the TV casting flickering shadows against the walls. You curled up on the couch under the throw blanket, its weight comforting as it settled over you. Your comfort show played softly in the background, the familiar voices blending seamlessly into the quiet. A well-loved book rested by your side, its pages slightly worn, ready to pull you in if you felt like retreating further into your own world.

Around seven PM, the sound of the front door opening broke the silence. The subtle click of the latch, followed by the rhythmic clack of Harry’s work shoes against the hardwood floor, was a melody you didn’t realize you’d been waiting for. His keys jingled briefly before landing with a soft clink in the bowl by the door, and the heavier thud of his briefcase settling onto the dining table made your heart lighten just a little.

Relief bubbled in your chest, warm and effervescent, as you shifted under the blanket. Your arm hooked around the back of the couch, your head tilting to look over your shoulder as Harry rounded the corner. The sight of him brought an instant smile to your face.

He was still in his work suit, the sharp lines of his dark grey blazer and slacks softened by the slight dishevelment that came with a long day. The plain black button-up underneath was unbuttoned at the collar, and the sleeves were cuffed up just enough to reveal his wrists. His hair was slightly mussed, a few strands falling across his forehead.

His lips curved into a familiar, easy smile when he saw you, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he lifted a bag of takeout into the air. “I brought takeout,” he said, his voice warm and teasing as he walked over to you. “Figured tonight was one of those nights.”

Your chest swelled with gratitude— he knew you so well. He always had.

You murmured a quiet thank you, your voice soft and a little worn, and let out a contented sigh as he sank onto the couch beside you. His arms wrapped snugly around you, pulling you close as the weight of the day melted away. You leaned into him, your head resting against his chest as his familiar scent— something clean, woodsy, and uniquely him— enveloped you. His nose brushed against your damp hair, and the warmth of his presence grounded you in a way nothing else could.

For the first time all day, you felt like you could finally exhale.

“You smell good, baby.” Harry’s voice was a soft murmur, his accent thick and lingering in the air like honey, each word wrapped in warmth. His large hands splayed across your back, their weight grounding you as they roamed gently over the sleek fabric of your pajama set. His touch was tender, deliberate, as though he was trying to smooth away the burdens of your day. You melted into him, your arms winding around his torso, clinging to him like he was your lifeline. The familiar scent of his cologne wrapped around you, blending seamlessly with the faint aroma of soap lingering on your own skin.

Your face nestled into the crook of his neck, the warmth of his body radiating into yours as you fluttered your eyes shut. His chest rose and fell steadily beneath your cheek, his heartbeat a gentle, soothing rhythm that seemed to lull your own into sync. Being here, in his arms, felt like finally exhaling after holding your breath all day.

Harry’s lips pressed into a small frown, the pinch of his brows betraying his concern. His hands, broad and steady, paused on your back, giving your shoulders a reassuring squeeze before he pulled back slightly to study you. One hand slid beneath your chin, his touch feather-light but firm, guiding your gaze up to meet his.

“What’s wrong, baby?” he asked softly, his green eyes searching yours with an intensity that felt like he was looking straight into your soul. His voice was gentle, but the concern etched into his expression made your chest tighten. His thumb brushed over your cheekbone in a slow, comforting stroke, its warmth grounding you even as you struggled to hold his gaze.

You let out a small, weary sigh. “Meetings,” you mumbled, though even to your own ears, the excuse sounded thin. Still, you nuzzled into his touch, seeking comfort as your words trailed off.

Harry’s hand cradled your jaw now, his thumb continuing its soothing path along your skin. His other hand found its way to your bare thigh, his palm warm and steady as it swept up and down, brushing lightly under the hem of your sleep shorts. His touch was instinctive, effortless, but it carried with it a deep well of care that threatened to unravel you.

“You don’t get this worn and torn over meetings, love,” he said quietly, his voice like a low hum of thunder, steady and grounding. “Is there something else?” His green eyes held yours, steady and unyielding, like a comforting fire that wouldn’t burn but would warm you to your core.

Your lips parted, but the words caught in your throat. You sighed again, this time deeper, your shoulders slumping under the weight of it all. His hands never wavered— one cupping your face, the other continuing its soothing rhythm against your thigh.

Finally, you spoke, your voice trembling with a mix of sadness and resignation. “That job at Mayer-Harvey completely fell through,” you admitted, your breath hitching as the words spilled out. “He said... he said I wasn’t qualified enough, not accomplished enough, just… not enough.” The words felt heavier the more you said them, the ache in your chest twisting a little tighter.

Harry’s frown deepened, the lines on his face etched with quiet frustration— not at you, but at the world that had made you feel this way. His thumb stilled for a moment before resuming its gentle sweep across your cheek. When your gaze dropped to your hands, which were busy fiddling with the edge of his blazer, he tipped your chin back up with tender insistence.

“Baby, you know that’s not true, right?” His voice was firm but still soft, his words laced with conviction. “None of it. He doesn’t know an ounce of what he’s talking about.”

You shook your head slightly, your brows furrowing. “H, he owns six different branches. I would say he—.”

“No.” Harry’s voice interrupted gently but firmly, his head shaking in disagreement. “Just because he owns them doesn’t mean he knows how to work them. I can guarantee you, in two months, he’ll realize just how badly he messed up by letting you go. He’ll regret it, love, because no one brings what you do to the table.”

Your lips wavered into a faint pout, sadness glazing over your eyes as you tried to swallow the lump in your throat. “I just… I have to keep looking, I guess. Maybe I wasn’t meant to work there anyway.”

“But you damn sure wanted it,” Harry said, his voice softening, though the conviction in his tone remained. His hand on your thigh paused to squeeze lightly before resuming its gentle strokes. “And you deserved it. Y/N, I’ve seen your work. I’ve seen how dedicated you are, how much effort you put in, even when it’s for a company that doesn’t deserve you. And I know,” he paused, leaning a little closer, his eyes locking onto yours, “I know you’d pack a bigger punch for a company that’s actually worth it.”

His words wrapped around you like a warm blanket, slowly loosening the knot of doubt and hurt in your chest. Maybe he was right.

You nodded slowly, your fingers tracing the lapel of his blazer as you whispered, “I really wanted it, H.”

“I know, baby.” His voice was soft, his lips brushing against your forehead in a kiss that was as much a promise as it was an act of comfort. He kissed the bridge of your nose next, lingering there for a moment. “But don’t worry, darling. We’ll find you something better— something that deserves you. And listen, if you want to leave that job now, I’d be more than happy to support us. All I want is to take care of my girl. That’s it.”

Harry’s hands framed your face, his thumbs stroking softly against your cheeks as he looked at you with an intensity that made you feel seen in a way no one else could make you feel. Then, slowly, he leaned in and captured your lips in a kiss so gentle, so tender, that it made your heart swell and your worries ebb away.

With Harry by your side, it didn’t matter what the world threw at you. His unwavering support, his patience, his love— it was all you needed.

“Now c’mon,” he murmured, pulling back just enough to press another kiss to your forehead. “Let’s have dinner, yeah?”

You spent that night cooped up under his arm, the fabric of his suit soft but slightly wrinkled from your cuddling. Neither of you cared. All that mattered was the comfort of being close, the way his steady heartbeat became your lullaby as the hours ticked by. The movie played quietly in the background, but neither of you was paying much attention. Harry’s fingers absentmindedly traced little patterns along your arm, while you nestled deeper into his side, letting his warmth soak into your skin.

When dinner was done and the plates had been set aside, Harry stood, stretching dramatically before grinning down at you. “Don’t move a muscle,” he teased, his green eyes crinkling with affection as he leaned down to press a kiss to the top of your head.

He took care of the cleanup, tossing the trash and rinsing the dishes with that same effortless grace he did everything else. You watched him from the couch, your heart swelling as he moved around the room, sleeves rolled up, that signature Harry charm shining through even in the simplest of acts. He looked over his shoulder to catch you staring, a cheeky smile tugging at his lips. “What’re you looking at, huh?”

“You,” you said softly, your voice carrying a warmth that made his smile widen.

“Good answer,” he chuckled, before walking over and scooping you up effortlessly. You let out a small squeal, laughing as he carried you bridal style toward the bedroom. “C’mon, love. Time for a proper cuddle.”

Once in bed, Harry wrapped you up in his arms as if he never wanted to let go. The suit jacket had long been tossed to the side, but his tie still hung loosely around his neck, a detail that made you smile. His hand found its way to your hair, fingers combing through the strands with a tenderness that melted away the last of your worries.

“By the way,” he murmured, his voice soft and low, “I took the next few days off.”

You pulled back slightly, looking up at him in surprise. “You did?”

“Mmhm,” he confirmed, leaning down to press a kiss to your lips. “Figured my girl needed me more than work did. And honestly, I needed this too. Just you and me for the weekend. Sound good?”

You nodded, your smile spreading as you snuggled closer, your hand resting against his chest. “Sounds perfect.”

Harry’s arms tightened around you, his lips brushing against your temple. “Good. Because I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

And as you drifted off to sleep in his embrace, the weight of the world seemed to disappear, replaced by the quiet, unshakable love that only he could give.

[parsonkenny101-deactivated20161]

[stylesonfilms]

ink & innocence - 32 *

word count: 6.7k

full of first time smut overload! not proofread, whoops!

Harry wasn't sure how they got here. Neither was Aspen. 

After Aspen crawled into bed with Harry, he peppered soft kisses over her face, muttering on and on about how she was his forever girl. She cradled his face and they kissed until her chapstick smeared away, his hands snug and warm under her shirt.

Maybe it was the look in Aspen's eyes when she brushed her thumb under his brow, eyeing the piercing that drove Harry's cock to spring up. Maybe it was the draw of breath Harry let out when her nails ran through his scalp that made her thighs press together. Maybe it was the shudder she let out when his kisses trailed their familiar path down to her jaw that made his brain switch a flip.

Whatever it was, they were both insanely okay with it happening again.

His lips latched onto her neck in need, his teeth grazing over the skin until the layer broke, deep purples and reds blooming to life. Aspen whimpered into his curls as her fingers fisted the shoulders of his hoodie. 

Harry let out a soft grunt as he rolled off his side and pushed up, slipping himself between Aspen's thighs. His large hands took ahold of her hips, sliding down her thighs before hooking onto the back of her knees to draw her legs around him. 

He leaned back down, sighing contently as their lips connected in a slow kiss. He caressed the sides of her thighs over her leggings. Aspen slipped her fingers behind his neck as her fingers twirled the curls that rested at the nape of his neck as she parted her lips to allow his tongue to slip between them.

She tasted heavenly. She always did. Harry let a groan slip from his mouth into hers while his tongue swirled around, brushing along the roof of her mouth before slipping along hers. 

Aspen loved when he kissed her like this. She loved when he switched from soft kisses to needy ones, prying her mouth open with a flick of his tongue, only to draw away and pepper kisses down her jaw. She loved having the taste of him on her, the subtle hint of whiskey and mint from his gum flooded her mouth each time and she loved it.

As her hands tangled up in his curls, he lifted a hand off the bed that was propping him up to slide onto her hip and up the hem of her shirt to her bare waist. The contact made Aspen shudder, though the squeeze he gave made her melt.

"Missed this, missed you," He muttered against her lips before hr broke away to look down at her.

She cracked a smile, a pink tint glazing her cheeks. "I missed you, too, H. So much."

Harry returned the smile before he dipped down to nudge her chin with his nose, pressing  open mouthed kisses along her bared neck. The girl hummed contently and swallowed, letting out a small gasp when his mouth latched behind her ear.

"Harry," She whispered, drawing out a small moan as he began to suck over the area. Her legs wrapped around his loosely, tucking her bottom lip between her teeth as he sucked harder. Her brows furrowed as another whine slipped from her lips, followed by a breathy 'oh'.

Harry was feral. He was a complete goner with how she sounded beneath him. Her sounds only spurred him on as he took a hold of the bottom hem of her shirt, sitting back up. 

"Can I?" He asked, his other hand coming to rest on her hip.

"Harry..."

"Aspen," He breathed out, giving her a look. Not just any look, but the look. The look that told her how bad he needed her and she would be lying if she didn't need him just as bad.

"But... Zayn, and Iz." She muttered, her hands now resting against his chest. 

He shook his head. "They left after I came up," he swiped his tongue over his bottom lip, "they hate being in the middle of things like this," He laughed softly, giving her hip a squeeze.

He was probably right. They did seem like the type to scurry away to avoid overhearing awkward conversations. 

 She huffed softly and nodded, and Harry didn't need more than that. His hands tugged the material up her body, tossing it to her side. His green eyes swept over her, a smirk tugging onto his lips before he pressed forward and attached his lips to the center of her chest. 

Harry sighed against her skin, warm breath fanning over her as his lips moved languidly across her chest. He kissed the valley between her breasts, slow and reverent, like he was memorizing the feel of her all over again. His hands splayed over her ribs, holding her steady beneath him as he trailed open-mouthed kisses lower, tasting every inch of soft skin he could reach.

Aspen’s breath hitched, her fingers twitching against his shoulders as a warmth spread through her chest. The sensation was overwhelming in the best way— his lips, his hands, the way he held her like she was something sacred, something meant to be cherished.

Harry hummed, dragging his nose along her skin as he worked his way down, eyes fluttering shut as he savored her scent— something sweet and familiar, something he could never forget. His lips pressed to her sternum before gliding lower, over the curve of her ribs, down to her stomach.

Aspen shivered at the sensation, her hands threading into his curls as he kissed over her navel. His stubble scratched against her skin, a contrast to the softness of his lips, and she exhaled shakily, her fingers gripping just a little tighter.

“Harry…” she whispered, the sound barely there, but he heard it— felt it in the way she trembled beneath him.

His hands traced along her sides, thumbs rubbing slow, soothing circles into her skin. He glanced up, eyes dark and heavy-lidded, filled with something deep, something she could drown in if she let herself. Harry let his hands crawl up to her breasts, cupping them in his large hands and squeezed. 

“Love the way you say my name,” he murmured, his voice thick, before pressing another kiss just above the waistband of her leggings.

Aspen bit down on her lip, her heart pounding so hard she was sure he could hear it. He had always been like this— intense, consuming, making her feel things so deeply it nearly scared her. But she loved it. She loved him.

Harry groaned softly, lips brushing featherlight against the soft skin of her stomach. He rested his forehead against her for a moment, exhaling like he was steadying himself, like he needed her just as much as she needed him.

“Missed this,” he murmured, pressing a lingering kiss just below her navel. “Need t'have you, baby.”

Aspen’s chest ached at the rawness in his voice, at the unspoken plea woven into his words. She brushed her fingers through his curls, cradling the back of his head as he nuzzled against her. 

Harry's teeth slowly grazed bellow her navel, nipping slightly at the skin there before his mouth latched on more while his fingers carefully tucked under the band of her leggings. His eyes flicked up to meet hers, silently asking for permission. 

When she nodded, Harry pulled the material down her legs in a swift motion, sitting back up to pull the cuffs off her ankles. He groaned at the sight of her, pulling her closer by her hips as his hands sprawled and wandered around her bare skin. 

Aspen’s fingers trembled slightly as they traced the hem of his hoodie, eager yet hesitant, the fabric bunched between her hands as she let out a small, needy whine. “Off,” she murmured, her voice soft but insistent.

Harry let out a breathy chuckle, his lips curling into an amused smirk. “So impatient,” he teased, but there was no resistance in his movements. In one swift motion, he reached behind his neck and tugged the hoodie over his head, tossing it carelessly to the growing pile of discarded clothing.

The moment the fabric was gone, Aspen sucked in a quiet breath. Her gaze raked over him, drinking him in like she had never seen him like this before, like she hadn’t already memorized every ridge and dip of his toned stomach, every intricate tattoo that marked his skin.

Her eyes trailed from the defined lines of his abs, up to the butterfly inked at the center of his stomach, her lips parting slightly as the silver cross necklace that hung from his neck swung gently before settling back against his chest.

God, how badly she wanted to take that necklace between her teeth and—.

"You look so fucking beautiful, lookin’ at me like that,” Harry’s voice broke through her daze, deep and rough, dripping with desire.

Aspen blinked, startled, her cheeks instantly warming as she met his gaze. His green eyes were heavy-lidded, darkened with something unspoken, something that sent a shiver down her spine.

“I—” she stammered, swallowing hard as she tried to look anywhere but the sharp lines of his torso, but it was impossible. He was right there and her body burned with the awareness of it.

Harry smirked, clearly enjoying the effect he had on her. His fingers brushed along her hip before gripping gently, pulling her closer as he leaned in, lips brushing against the shell of her ear.

“Didn’t know my girl had such a filthy little mind,” he whispered, his breath warm against her skin. “Tell me, love, what were you thinkin’ about, huh?”

Aspen let out a shaky breath, her fingers curling against his forearm. “Nothing,” she mumbled weakly, though the blush that deepened across her cheeks betrayed her.

Harry chuckled lowly, the sound vibrating through his chest. “S’that right?” he hummed, pressing a lingering kiss just beneath her jaw, trailing his lips down to the pulse point on her neck. He sucked softly, just enough to pull a tiny whimper from her lips. “Liar.”

Her body tensed, then melted in the same breath. She hated how easily he could unravel her with just his words, just the heat of his touch.

Before she could form a response, he was moving lower, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses down her collarbone, over the swell of her chest, pausing to flick his tongue against a sensitive spot near her sternum. His large hands splayed over her waist, his grip firm but gentle, grounding her as he continued his descent.

Aspen bit her lip, anticipation pooling deep in her stomach as he scooted further down, his breath hot as it ghosted over her stomach, down to her hips. He settled between her legs, his hands gripping her thighs, his thumbs pressing slow, teasing circles into the soft skin as he spread them apart.

A shiver coursed through her when his lips brushed along the inside of her thigh, slow and deliberate. He kissed once, twice, sucking lightly before soothing the spot with his tongue, dragging his mouth down until he reached the hem of her panties.

Aspen let out a soft, shaky exhale, her fingers gripping the sheets beneath her. She was blushing fiercely, shyness creeping in, but it was overshadowed by the heat pooling in her core, by the need that pulsed through every inch of her body.

Harry smirked against her skin, breathing her in, reveling in the way she trembled beneath him. “What’s wrong, baby?” he murmured, his lips brushing over the fabric covering her, teasing but gentle. “You shy?”

Aspen whimpered in response, her thighs twitching beneath his touch.

Harry hummed, his fingers tracing up and down her legs soothingly before he pressed a kiss right over where she needed him most, just barely there, just enough to make her gasp.

“Don’t be,” he whispered. “S’just me, love. Always just me.”

He mouthed over her clothed clit, flattening his tongue. The girl gasped below him, her hips twitching beneath his touch.

Harry's arms came to wrap around her thighs, tugging her closer as he laid flat on his stomach. "Gonna let me taste you, yeah?" One of his hands unraveled from its hold to hook his fingers on her panties, pulling them to the side. 

His lips parted in awe as he stared at her slick folds, bubbling with need. "God," Harry groaned as he used his index and middle fingers to spread her lips open slowly, "deprived me of this for too long."

With that, his tongue dove in. He collected her wet on his tongue as he dragged at her fluttering hole over her clit, swirling along the sensitive bud before latching on, swallowing the sweet taste in his mouth.

"Harry!" Aspen cried out, choking out a gasp as her thighs threatened to clamp around his head from the sudden feeling. Her fingers curled in his hair harshly, fingers relaxing as her hips drove down onto his tongue.

"Fuck," Harry grunted against her, swirling his tongue over her once more before his tongue flattened, shaking his head a bit. She bucked her hips with another moan of his name getting caught in her throat. "Give it t'me, doll," he slipped his tongue before her folds once again, brushing over her entrance and prodded his tongue.

He didn't have time for slow. He needed her with everything in his being, he missed every part of her, especially the way she tasted. He'd never get over it.

Between the laps of his tongue and the sounds spilling from Aspen, Harry's head was spinning. 

His tongue danced between her slick folds, swallowing every bit that she gave to him. He let out a groan as his tongue pushed through, parting his lips fully until his teeth grazed over her skin. He lapped at her insides with ease, desperate to have her on his tongue. 

"Oh, God," Aspen choked out, her back lifting off the bed. He was so fucking insane. "Please, please, please," she trailed along breathy pleas, her grip in his hair tightening as she felt his tongue swirl inside of her before he pulled back to lap up the mess of saliva and slick that dripped between her thighs.

The man lifted his hand, wasting no time to press his middle finger into her. She gasped at the feeling and clenched around his finger almost immediately. His face broke out in a stupid grin as he watched his finger sink into her, pumping a few times before a second one slid in.

"God," she gasped, drawing in deep breaths as she opened her eyes to look down at him.

Amused, he chuckled. "'M flattered at the new name," he teased, flicking his tongue over her clit as he pumped his fingers at a comfortable pace.

His own cock was unbearably aching in his pants. His hips pressed into the bed in search of some sort of relief while his fingers curling up into her.

"Oh!" She squeaked out in a surprised moan as his fingers brushed along that special spot nestled inside her. 

"Yeah?" He egged, repeating the same motion as his eyes locked on her face. "Found m'girl's spot, huh?"

"I-I think so—," her words were cut off when he fucked his fingers up into them again. Her face fell in complete pleasure as she clenched around his digits, a loud whimper escaping. 

Just as that feeling in her stomach creeped up quick, his fingers were gone. 

She let a long whine draw out of her mouth, tossing her arm over her eyes in defeat, a blush tinting her embarrassed expression. 

He smirked as his eyes traced over her frame while he sat up, lingering on her needy hole clenching around air, before his eyes met her face.

"Harry," she breathed out, swallowing as her lips parted, but no words came out.

"Hm?" He licked his lips, his hands sprawling over her thighs before slipping his fingers under the string of her panties and yanked them free.

"Wanna... wanna help you," she peeked out at him from under his arm, and when he tilted his head with a growing smirk, she whined and covered her face.

"How so?"

"You know how so," she huffed.

"I don't think I do," Harry tutted, sliding off the bed to stand against the edge, his knees pressed against the mattress, "wanna come 'n show me?"

Aspen caught her breath, her body still tingling from the way Harry had just touched and teased her. But something in her shifted, something bold and warm and needy as she blinked up at him through heavy lashes.

Slowly, she sat up, her movements deliberate as she crawled toward him, the mattress dipping beneath her weight. Harry’s breath hitched, his throat bobbing as his eyes trailed over her every movement— how her hair cascaded over her shoulders, how her flushed skin glowed in the dim light, how her lips, slightly swollen from his kisses, parted just enough to make his stomach clench.

His hands curled into the posts at his sides, trying to ground himself as she reached him.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, watching as she settled on her knees before him, her fingers brushing feather-light over his stomach, tracing along the lines of ink that painted his tanned skin.

Aspen swallowed hard, her own breathing unsteady as her hands traveled lower, barely grazing over the waistband of his sweats. She could feel how tense he was beneath her touch, the way his muscles twitched, the way his breath grew heavier.

Her fingers danced over the fabric that covered his hard cock, teasing, pressing just enough to make him groan low in his throat. She glanced up, and when she saw the way his jaw clenched, the way his lips parted as he watched her with dark, hooded eyes, she felt a spark of confidence bloom in her chest.

Her fingers hooked into the waistband, tugging just slightly before she smirked, deciding to push herself further. She gently brushed her nose along the light patch of hair that trailed up, humming contently.

She leaned down, pressing the softest of kisses along his lower abdomen, her lips brushing over the tattoos inked there.

Harry sucked in a sharp breath, his fingers twitching against the sheets. “Jesus, fuckin’ Christ,” he whispered, his voice rough, barely hanging onto his composure.

Aspen let out a quiet, shaky giggle against his skin, feeling the way his stomach tensed beneath her lips.

“Think that’s funny, huh?” Harry gritted out, his hands twitching like he wanted to grab hold of her, but he didn’t. He let her take control, let her explore, let her do whatever the hell she wanted because he was too far gone to stop her.

She pressed another kiss, this time just a little lower, just enough to make him curse under his breath. Her shyness flickered for a second, a small hesitation, but she pushed it aside, her pulse pounding in her ears as she tilted her head slightly and let her teeth graze over the band of his boxers, tugging lightly.

Harry groaned, his head falling back for a second before he looked back down at her, his eyes dark and blown out, his hands shaking as they hovered over her. “Aspen,” he warned, but it was weak, breathless.

She glanced up at him, her lips curving into the tiniest smirk. “Thought you wanted me to show you?” she murmured, her voice sweet, teasing.

Harry let out a low chuckle, but it came out strained, full of tension, full of need. “Fuckin’ hell,” he breathed, his fingers finally reaching for her, running through her hair before cupping her jaw, his thumb brushing over her bottom lip.

Aspen kissed the pad of his thumb softly, her heart racing, her confidence blooming, and then she tugged his boxers down just a little more, her breath warm against his skin.

Harry exhaled sharply, his other hand curling into the back of her hair, his head swimming, his self-control slipping between his fingers.

“You’re gonna be the fuckin’ death of me,” he muttered, half in awe, half in agony.

With one last final tug, his cock sprang free. She couldn't help but stare, before she broke out in a fit of giggles.

"What?" He quirked a brow, huffing as she flickered her eyes from his shaft to his face. 

"Nothing, sorry," she giggled, using the back of her hand to stifle her laughter, "I just, I can't believe I did that."

Harry fondly rolled his eyes, sucking in a breath when her small hand came to curl around the base of his cock. She kept her eyes locked on her hand as she gave his cock a tug, swiping her thumb over his tip.

He hissed out at the sudden touch, bucking his hips lightly. She smeared the dribble of precum around his sensitive tip, her tongue poking out as she cleaned over to kitten lick his slit. her hand traveled back down carefully, giving him a gentle squeeze as her lips latched onto the head of his cock.

"Baby," Harry groaned, his brows furrowing in pleasure. Aspen hummed around him, flickering her eyes to meet his, and he near lost it.

He gasped lowly as she sunk down as far as she could, his tip hitting the back of her throat until she pulled up halfway, starting a slow pace of bobbing her head.

"Shit," He groaned, his eyes squeezing shut as he tilted his head back. Aspen built a steady pace, humming around him every so often as her hand moved to cover what her mouth couldn't.

With every stroke and bob of her head, Harry's stomach coiled. His abdomen tensed each time she sunk further, the head of his cock brushing the back of her throat as a moan slipped past his lips each time.

Aspen pulled off momentarily for a breath, sucking in air as her hand took over. Her hand swept around the tip of his cock before down his shaft, pressing her thumb along the vein that run on the underside of his cock with each stroke.

Her mouth quickly attached to him once more, her needing it just as bad as he did. The weight of his cock on her tongue, the feeling of him threatening to break through her throat, it made her moan around him as she sunk as far as she could.

That's when it happened. His knees buckled and he let out a string of curses and louder groans, face contorted in pleasure as she gagged around him. 

"Fuck!" He cursed out, his hand slipping into her hair. He bundled up the girl's loose curls with shaky hands and wrapped the length around his fist as he began to guide her throat lightly. 

When she moaned around him, giving him those glassy eyes that pleaded, he took it as a sign to guide her back down until she gagged once more. His jaw dropped, a low moan falling from the pit of his chest as he watched her eyes roll back and spit push past the corner of her wide open mouth around his cock.

Harry yanked her up carefully, leaning over to press a kiss to her lips in need. They both laughed softly as their teeth clashed inside, muttering a soft apology as he slotted their lips together. His free hand came to rest along her jaw, slowly sliding down to cup her neck. 

"Gonna train this throat sometime soon," He muttered along her lips, sliding his tongue along her parted lips before kissing her deeply. The man gave a gentle squeeze, tugging on her hair to tilt her head up as he pulled off her mouth. "Make my cock fit all the way."

Aspen nodded, almost too eagerly for her liking, taking her bottom lip between her teeth. "Yes, please, Daddy."

Harry took ahold of his cock, slapping his swollen tip along her glossy, red lips. 

"Fuckin' hell," He muttered, panting unevenly. 

Harry let go of her hair, carding his fingers through before cupping her jaw and connected their lips. As they worked together, he worked her back onto the bed to lay on her back, settling between her thighs once he kicked his legs free from his sweats.

His hands slipped down to her back, unhooking her bra with professional ease, one that she made mental note of to pick on him for later. He slipped the cotton off her body and tossed it aside, hands flying to cup and grope at her breasts.

Aspen shuddered and whined when he pinched her nipples, gasping at the pleasurable feeling.

His lips lifted off her to lock onto her now bare chest, tongue diving over the peaks of her chest as his hands worked. He rolled each bud between his fingers and groaned with every roll of her hips she gave in utter need.

Harry's head dropped with another groan. The head of his cock collided with her clit as she shifted up, Harry unable to control the buck of his hips.

"Aspen," he croaked out, slipping a hand down between them to brush his fingers over her clit once more. "Baby, please don't do tha' t'me."

She whimpered softly. "D-do what?" Her hips rolled into his hand as he cupped her mound, fingers prodding at her needy hole.

"Can't let my cock feel your cunt 'f I can't have it," he mumbled, taking her nipple between his teeth as he sank two fingers back into her. Aspen's jaw fell slack a bit as her head spun, clenching around his fingers and pressing her chest up into him.

"Who...," she gasped and moaned when he rolled the bud between his teeth, soothing the feeling with his tongue and a kiss, "who says you can't?"

Harry lifted his head, breathing heavy. "Fuck. Yeah?"

Aspen licked her lips slowly. It was bound to happen, and she herself wasn't sure if she could wait any longer. It was going to be him, it always was going to be him, and right now, she needed it.

"Yeah." 

Harry couldn't help but groan. "Are you sure? Right now?"

The girl could only nod, but remembered her words when he gave her a look. 

"Yes. Yes, I'm sure. I promise, H, just... please?"

He nodded, curling and pumping his fingers at an unbearably slow pace as he slotted their lips together.

Harry pulled back just slightly, breath uneven, eyes searching hers. “You sure?” he asked again, voice low and strained.

Aspen huffed, her fingers tightening on his shoulders. “Harry, either do it or get off,” she teased, though the way her voice wavered gave away just how much she wanted him.

A slow, lazy grin spread across his lips before he chuckled, the sound deep and warm, making her stomach flip. “Bossy little thing, aren’t you?” he mused before dipping down to kiss her again, slow and lingering, fingers caressing the soft skin of her thighs, tracing little patterns that sent a shiver down her spine.

He was so lost in her, in the way she tasted, the way she responded to every touch, every kiss, that he almost missed the thought creeping into his mind. Almost.

“Fuck,” he muttered suddenly against her lips, pulling back. His brows furrowed, a bit of frustration seeping into his voice. “I don’t have a condom.”

Aspen blinked up at him, dazed and breathless. Then, to his surprise, she bit her lip before mumbling, “There are some in the drawer.”

Harry pulled back even further, staring at her, confused. “In the drawer?”

She nodded.

His brows lifted. “And how exactly do you know that?”

Aspen hesitated for a moment before letting out a quiet giggle, her cheeks flushing. “I may have done a little… snooping,” she admitted shyly.

Harry’s mouth parted in disbelief before he let out a loud laugh, shaking his head. “You were looking through Zayn’s shit?”

She pressed her hands to her face. “I got curious!”

He shook his head, amused. “You’re fuckin’ somethin’ else, baby.” But then the realization hit him, and his nose scrunched up. “Hold on— why the hell does Zayn have condoms in the spare bedroom?”

Aspen giggled again, peeking at him through her fingers. “I don’t know, but are you really gonna question it right now?”

Harry exhaled through his nose, rolling his eyes before pressing a quick kiss to her cheek. “Alright, alright. Stay put.” He pushed off the bed and made his way to the dresser, pulling open the drawer with a low grumble.

A beat of silence passed before—.

“Oh, no fuckin’ way,” Harry snickered.

Aspen sat up on her elbows, tilting her head. “What?”

He turned to her, holding up the box and pointing to the size. “Large? Please. I doubt it.”

Aspen gasped, playfully swatting at him. “Harry!”

He only smirked, ripping one from the box and opening it as he made his way back to her, settling between her thighs again. “I’m just sayin’,” he teased, eyes glinting with mischief.

She rolled her eyes, her cheeks still tinged pink as he took her hands in his, guiding them gently.

“C’mere,” he murmured, voice dropping an octave as he placed the condom in her hands. “Lemme show you.”

Her breath hitched slightly, but she nodded, letting him lead her movements. His touch was patient, his voice soft as he guided her fingers, watching her closely, completely and utterly captivated by her.

And Aspen? She had never felt so wanted, so adored, so his.

Aspen sat up as Harry's hands guided her to place the rubber material on the head of his cock, unrolling it carefully to cover his length. Her heart beat quick in her chest, threatening to pound out and buzz off as the reality of what was happening settled in once he led her back to lie down.

"Good job, baby," he praised, holding her knees apart as he shuffled closer. "Tell me if I need to stop, okay? We'll go slow. 'S about you right now," he promised.

Aspen nodded, her fingers curling into the sheets under her as she took a heavy breath. When she felt Harry line himself up with her hole, she sucked in a deep breath and braced herself.

"Oh, God," she squeaked out as he began to push in. Harry's lips parted in awe, brows twisted in pleasure as he inched his tip in, halting. He drew in heavy breaths as Aspen tried to catch hers, feeling the burn of the stretch.

Harry wasn't exactly small. She knew that since she first felt it in her hands. Since she came eye to eye with it in the bathroom. There was no way in Hell she could take him in her tiny body.

"You're doing so good," his voice wavered as he gave her a minute to adjust before tilting in an inch more, his eyes flickering from where their bodies met to her face.

She was incredibly tight. So fucking warm and slick around his cock, he thought he was in the bets dream of his life. 

"Wait! Wait," She gasped, clenching her eyes at the intense burn that spilled through her. Harry stilled his hips, fighting the urge to drive into her. 

"Are you okay?"

Aspen winced, tears brimming her eyes. A tear spilled down the side of her temple and she sniffled, breathing shakily. "I-I don't know."

Harry sucked in a breath, swallowing. "We... we can stop, baby."

But he didn't want to. He needed to feel her wrapped around him completely. He wanted to shove himself in and get it over with, to make love to her and hold her and then fuck her until her legs shook. His fingers tightened on her knees, grounding himself.

"No!" she pleaded, shaking her head as she exhaled shakily. "Just need a moment."

Harry knew he should feel worse about it, but he didn't. Secretly, his chest burned in desire and pride that she could only take the tip of his cock. That she was already falling apart. She looked so tiny beneath him, so smooth and so stretched out.

"You're doing so, so good," Harry continued his praise. When she nodded, he sunk in further, just halfway now. "Such a good girl f'me," Harry groaned as he felt her engulf his cock more.

Harry's hand dropped to the apex of her thighs, thumb pressing and circling her clit. After giving her another moment, Harry took a breath and pushed himself in completely with one quick motion.

Aspen cried out, gasping in a mix of pain and pleasure. 

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Figured it would be easier down the line," he apologized, continuing to swirl her clit as his other hand came to cup her jaw. He shuddered out a low moan.

"You— fuck." Harry swallowed as he shifted on his knees, aching to draw back and push into her. Her breathing gradually evened out, replaced with whimpers from his touches as the pain subsided. 

"Move, please," she whispered, "think I'm ready."

Harry nodded, pulling his hands away to take hers, intertwining their fingers with both of their hands. Carefully, he drew his hips back and eased back in, watching her face. He did it again, and again, until a moan finally slipped past her lips.

"Harry," she shuddered, whimpering softly as he built a steady pace.

"Such a good girl, 'm so proud of you," Harry whispered as he brought her hands to his lips, scattering kisses as he moved his hips. 

The room filled with even paced sounds of skin slapping, her breathy moans and whines complimenting his gruff groans and low groans. The pleasure coursed through her body, a new feeling she didn't know she could feel. This is what she missed out on with Harry? 

"You're so god damn tight," he grunted, locking his eyes on where his cock slipped in and out of her pussy with ease, her skin stretching around each time he pulled back. 

"Feels so fucking good," he breathed out, face twisting in absolute pleasure.

His hands gave hers a squeeze. The moment was theirs. With each thrust was a saying of their shared love, their trust in each other. Her legs wrapped around him as she mewled out his name, whimpering softly.

"Harry," she panted, locking her eyes on his.

"I know," he grunted, shifting on his knees again as he let go of one of her hands to pull her leg up and over his shoulder. "Trust me?"

She nodded, "Always."

He smiled warmly down at her, twisting his lip ring between his teeth as the pace of his hips picked back up. He thrusted into her with care and need, kissing along her calf as he moaned out praises.

It didn't take long for her chest to swell, back arching off the bed slightly as she grew closer and closer.

He felt it. Felt the way she pulsed around him and saw how her pussy dripped with need, clit practically throbbing from her long overdue climax. Poor baby, he thought. She'd never go that long again without one. He was always going to take care of her.

"'M close," he grunted, stomach coiling in its need for release. His thrusts got a bit sloppy, but still carried care between the two. His hand on her leg squeezed her knee, sinking his teeth into a love bite on her calf as he caressed her hand with the pad of his thumb. 

"Please, please Daddy," she breathily moaned, her eyes drooped in pleasure. Aspen fluttered them closed as her own high crept up on her quick, threatening to spill over the edge.

He groaned at the name. Even in such soft and sweet moments, his ears rang and head spun with AspenAspenAspen, knowing how to hit every spot within him.

"C'mon," he coaxed, kissing his her leg before groaning, the side of his face slightly smushed as he pressed against her, tilting his hips to hit that special spot inside of her once more. "Cum for me, give it to me."

Aspen lost it at that. Her back arched off the bed with a cry of his name as her hand gripped his. Her pussy clenched around his cock, making him choke out his own moan before he hunched over, releasing into the condom as his hips stuttered.

"Fuck!" He panted, squeezing his eyes shut.

They stayed like that for a minute or two, coming down from their highs. Harry sat back up slowly, licking his lips before pressing sloppy and loving kisses to her calf and up to the side of her ankle, caressing her leg.

Aspen let out a breathy giggle, still dazed, her limbs feeling like liquid beneath his touch. Harry's lips trailed slowly up her leg, soft and lazy, like he had all the time in the world. He wasn’t in a rush to move, wasn’t in a rush to let go of her. He wasn’t sure if he ever would be.

His hands smoothed over her thighs, grounding and warm, before he finally hovered back over her, pressing a lingering kiss to her forehead. "You okay?" he whispered, brushing his nose against her temple.

Aspen hummed, her fingers sliding up his back, tracing along the ridges of his spine. "Mhm," she murmured, voice still laced with that post-bliss haze. "More than okay."

Harry smiled, pressing another kiss to her temple before nudging her nose with his. "Good. You did so well for me, baby," he murmured against her lips. "So perfect."

Her face burned at the praise, and she buried it into his shoulder, making him chuckle. "Don't get all shy on me now," he teased, smoothing his hand down her side. "Wanna take care of you, yeah?"

She peeked up at him, brown eyes soft and filled with so much trust that it made his chest ache. She nodded, and that was all he needed. Harry carefully pulled out, both of them wincing from the lack of each other as he whispered an apology.

Harry rolled off the bed, stretching briefly he ran a hand through his curls, stepping into the adjoining bathroom to wet a clean cloth with warm water.

Aspen watched him through lidded eyes, her heart swelling at the sight of him moving around with such care. He didn’t just see this as something casual. He wanted to make sure she was comfortable, wanted her to feel safe, wanted her to know that this meant something to him, because it did.

He returned with the warm cloth, sitting beside her on the bed. "This might be a little cold now, love," he murmured, brushing her hair from her face.

She bit her lip, nodding. "I trust you."

Harry swallowed, that simple statement sending a different kind of warmth through his chest. He cleaned her up gently, being as careful as possible. Every now and then, he’d press a kiss to her shoulder or whisper quiet words of reassurance.

"Still doin’ okay?"

She nodded, sleep creeping into her features. "Yeah."

Harry smiled, tossing the cloth into the laundry bin before pulling the covers up over her body. But Aspen reached for him, her fingers wrapping around his wrist.

"Don’t go," she mumbled.

His brows pulled together, and he shook his head. "Wouldn’t dream of it, angel," he reassured, leaning down to kiss her softly before moving to grab a the pair of his boxers from the floor, knowing she wouldn't be comfortable in her leggings.

"Here, let’s get you dressed," he murmured, sliding them up her legs before grabbing the hoodie from the floor. "Arms up, baby."

Aspen blinked sleepily but obeyed, lifting her arms so he could slide the hoodie over her head. It swallowed her whole, the sleeves too long, the hem falling past her thighs. The smell of him engulfed her with a sweet welcome, making her chest swarm in warmth.

Harry’s lips curled into a fond smile as he took in the sight of her. "Fuck, you’re cute," he muttered, pulling the covers up once more and sliding in beside her.

Aspen immediately curled into him, nuzzling her face against his chest as he wrapped his arms around her. He ran his fingers through her hair, pressing lazy kisses along her forehead, her temple, her cheek.

"So proud of you," he whispered against her skin. "So fucking proud."

Aspen swallowed, her heart squeezing. "Mhm?"

Harry pulled back slightly, tilting her chin up so she had no choice but to meet his gaze. "'F course. You let me love you," he murmured. "You let m'have you. You… you’re everything, Aspen. You always have been."

Her breath hitched, and she felt that familiar burn behind her eyes. But she didn’t want to cry. Not right now. Not when she was wrapped up in his warmth, in his words, in his love.

She lifted her chin slightly, pressing a small, soft kiss to his lips. "I love you," she whispered, the words slipping out naturally.

Harry's fingers tightened around her waist, pulling her impossibly closer. "I love you more," he murmured, pressing one last kiss to her forehead.

And as Aspen melted into him, her body relaxing completely, she realized that this, falling asleep in his arms, safe, loved, whole, was exactly where she was meant to be.

[chastainromanova]

ai does not belong in creative spaces. period.

[stylesonfilms]

hot take but agreed ! i think it’s better for you to express your thoughts into your own writing. only you can portray the message you wanna give!! be authentic to your audience. <33

[stylesonfilms]

ink & innocence - 31

word count: 7.1k

i broke my heart about twenty nine thousand times writing this. have fun!

Aspen couldn't get out of bed for a few days. She was glad that the weekend was there to aid her, alongside Isobel. There was no need for any words, just movies and ice cream and pasta.

By the time next Friday had rolled around, Aspen decided she wasn't going to lull around any more. The tired she carried on her shoulders and the pain still settled in her heart were mere reminders of Harry.

She wished endlessly that night that things could have been different. But being new to this, to a relationship at that, Aspen felt suffocated. She laughed to herself for hours in between tears at the insane realization of it all.

The girl was only nineteen. Nineteen years old, in college, in a small town living with her best friend, dating a brooding asshole who's just a big softie littered in tattoos. And that brooding asshole just so happened to be wrapped up in drug dealing? What were the chances.

Her anger didn't lie within Harry, no matter how much she wanted it to. She wanted to be mad that he lied, that it was so easy for him to lie, but she always circled back to his words. 

Even if he did tell her, what was Aspen to do? She would have worried endless until she was sick to her stomach about it. She thought about everything Harry might have felt, the fear of losing her. 

Aspen was no stranger to knowing what she meant to Harry, even if it was a small part. She knew how he grew up and what girls he had been with, or slept with, and she knew how his heart had been treated. Even in his every day actions, she could see how appreciative he was. 

When Isobel got with Zayn, according to the story she told Aspen, Isobel was worried sick about how things would change after three months. Three months flew by, and then she worried about six. After six, it was nine, and Zayn had told her to get a damn grip 'cause he wasn't going anywhere. Now, here they were, practically married. 

Aspen didn't have to fear the upcoming months with Harry. Everything felt so... good. He never frayed away from the love he gave her since day one. If anything, it only grew as he opened up to her more.

Harry always kept his promises. He did keep her safe. He did show her love. Whenever she had an exam, he always made sure to leave her flowers. Whether it was at her apartment, or tucked into the handle of her car door, he was always lingering. When Aspen couldn't focus on her studies, Harry offered her a quiet place in the shop. He barked orders for everyone to shut the hell up, and even turned on a quieter playlist that strayed from his normal rap and rock mix. 

He always held her hand, and he always looked both ways for her before they crossed the street. Harry always made sure that her headlights were on before she started driving, when she insisted she could do it, and he always made sure to flick them off when she started skipping away into the store.

So, she could understand where he came from. How could she not? If she were to be in his shoes, she wasn't sure how she'd even begin to explain something like that. The way Harry had looked seemed like there was more than just an exchange of drugs followed by a beating. His eyes were so empty, filled with so much fear. 

And she knew, she trusted, that Harry would understand her, too.

Each day she drove past the shop on her way to school. His car would be there when she left to when she came back from her shifts at the library. It sat in the same spot, practically collecting dust and leaves clung to the windshield wipers as time went on. It made her heart hurt more, it felt like he was cowering away.

They hadn't spoke since. That night when she left, just around midnight, Harry had texted her. He said that he understood her need for space, but he loved her. He read her message when she replied, saying that she loved him too and thanking him. Some part of her wished he would have pushed for more.

Aspen sighed as she rolled onto her side, her fingers mindlessly playing with the frayed edge of her blanket. Her body felt heavy, the kind of exhaustion that wasn’t just physical but emotional, too. It had been a week since she walked away from Harry, yet his absence clung to her like a shadow. She still reached for her phone sometimes, half-expecting a message, but there was nothing. The last text thread between them remained frozen in time, a painful reminder of the fallout she wished she could forget.

The soft knock on her bedroom door pulled her from her thoughts, and she barely had the energy to lift her head.

"Hey, Asp," Isobel’s voice was gentle, a knowing lilt in her tone. She stood in the doorway, arms crossed, her expression laced with sympathy.

Aspen forced a small smile, though it barely reached her eyes. "Hi, Iz." She patted the bed beside her, inviting her friend in.

Isobel pushed off the doorframe, her steps light as she crossed the room and settled onto the bed beside Aspen’s curled-up frame. Her hand rested on Aspen’s shoulder, a comforting presence in the quiet room.

"You know I love you and all," Isobel started, a teasing edge creeping into her voice, "but the bed is starting to eat you."

Aspen scrunched her nose, reaching for the remote on her nightstand. She flicked through the channels lazily, her attention barely on the moving images across the screen.

"It’s Friday, Iz," she murmured. "I went to classes and work all week. I’m exhausted."

She left out the part where exhaustion wasn’t just from her schedule—it was from thinking too much. From feeling too much.

Her fingers clutched the pillow tighter, pressing it against her chest as if it could fill the empty space inside her. "And I just… I dunno. I miss him."

Saying it out loud made it feel even more real, more painful. She hated how easily his absence affected her, how much it hurt to not hear his voice or feel the warmth of his presence. He was everywhere in her mind—his touch, his laughter, the way he’d look at her when he thought she wasn’t paying attention. And yet, in reality, he was nowhere to be found.

Isobel let out a soft sigh before she flopped down beside Aspen, their heads smushed together as she let out a dramatic, "Oh, poor baby."

Aspen laughed despite herself, her breath hitching as Isobel’s blonde strands tickled her nose. The sound of her own laughter felt foreign, like she hadn’t heard it in too long.

"What are you doing?" Aspen asked, her voice still laced with amusement.

"Shh, shh… I’m sending you telepathic good vibes," Isobel said, pressing a finger to Aspen’s lips before closing her eyes and dramatically humming a buzzing sound.

Aspen burst into another fit of laughter, her body shaking with the effort. The ache in her chest didn’t disappear, but for a brief moment, it felt a little lighter.

Isobel grinned at the reaction, finally pulling away. "Sooo," she started, her tone shifting.

Aspen’s brow arched. She could already tell where this was going. "Oh, shut up," she groaned.

Isobel smirked. "I was just going to say that Zayn invited me over. Just for some drinks and pizza. Said I could bring you if I wanted to."

Aspen shook her head almost instantly. "I’ll be okay here."

Isobel squinted at her. "You hate being home alone."

Aspen huffed and shrugged, knowing she wasn’t going to win this argument.

"Aspen Waverly."

"Iz!" Aspen whined, sitting up just enough to glare at her friend.

"You are coming with me," Isobel declared. "And you are not cooping up in here all alone until your bed eats you alive."

Aspen crossed her arms, lips pressing into a thin line. She wanted to argue, but the truth was, Isobel was right. Being alone with her thoughts all night wasn’t going to do her any favors.

"Zayn said you could raid his bookshelf," Isobel quipped, her tone knowing.

Aspen tried—really tried—to keep her face neutral, but she could already feel the way her lips twitched at the thought. Zayn had an incredible collection, full of first editions and rare copies of books she’d been dying to get her hands on.

Isobel grinned, seeing the shift in her expression. "Knew that’d get you. Come on, we’re gonna leave in fifteen."

Aspen sighed, throwing her pillow aside. She might still be hurting, but maybe, just maybe, getting out of this room for a while would help her forget— if only for a few hours.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

The warm glow of Zayn’s apartment was a welcome contrast to the crisp night air. The place smelled like freshly baked pizza, the scent mixing with the faint musk of cologne and old books. The three of them were sprawled around the living room, their laughter filling the space as they nibbled on slices of pepperoni and garlic knots.

Aspen had made herself comfortable on the oversized armchair, her legs tucked beneath her as she flipped through a first edition of The Picture of Dorian Gray that she had pulled from Zayn’s bookshelf. The worn leather cover and gold-foiled lettering had her heart racing when she first spotted it, and she wasted no time sinking into the pages.

Isobel, on the other hand, had draped herself across Zayn’s couch, tossing a throw pillow into the air and catching it absentmindedly as she spoke. "Okay, but hear me out—if you were in a horror movie, who do you think would be the first to die?"

Zayn, sitting cross-legged on the floor with a beer in hand, scoffed. "That’s easy. It’s you."

"Excuse me?" Isobel gasped, clutching her chest dramatically. "How dare you?"

"Are you kidding?" Zayn laughed. "You’d be the one to say, ‘Guys, let’s split up!’ and then immediately get caught."

Aspen chuckled, glancing up from her book. "Yeah, Iz, I love you, but I feel like you’d trip over your own feet trying to run away."

"Wow. Betrayed by my own people," Isobel huffed, shaking her head. "I, for one, think Aspen would be the first to go. Bookworms never survive."

Aspen raised a brow. "Uh, excuse me? Have you ever seen The Mummy? The book nerd saves the day."

Zayn grinned. "She’s got a point."

"Okay, fine," Isobel conceded, waving a hand. "Then Zayn dies first."

"Not a chance," he smirked. "I’d be the one secretly working with the villain the whole time and then switching sides at the last second to help the final girl."

Aspen snorted. "You’ve thought about this before."

Zayn took a slow sip of his beer, his smirk never fading. "Maybe."

The conversation carried on like that—effortless, full of teasing and warmth. For the first time in days, Aspen felt like herself again. The ache in her chest dulled, if only slightly, as she found herself smiling, truly smiling.

She turned the page in her book, her fingers gliding over the delicate paper as Zayn and Isobel launched into another ridiculous debate. She wasn’t fully listening, but the hum of their voices was comforting, grounding.

Then came the knocks.

Three loud, insistent thuds.

The laughter died instantly. The air in the apartment shifted, tension settling over them like a suffocating blanket.

Then, a voice.

"Zayn?"

Aspen’s stomach plummeted.

Harry.

His voice was slurred, thick with the unmistakable weight of alcohol.

"Are you home?," he called again, his voice muffled through the door.

No one moved. No one breathed.

Zayn’s eyes widened slightly before he shot up from his seat. "Go upstairs," he whispered urgently, gesturing toward the hallway.

Aspen hesitated. Her heart was hammering in her chest, her hands gripping the book so tightly that her knuckles turned white.

"Now," Zayn whispered more harshly, already moving toward the door.

Isobel didn’t need to be told twice. She grabbed Aspen’s hand and pulled her up, dragging her toward the stairs as quietly as possible.

From the hallway, Aspen could still hear Harry’s voice. It was rough, desperate.

"Zayn, mate, open the door."

She swallowed hard, her feet barely making a sound against the floor as she and Isobel disappeared upstairs.

Back in the living room, Zayn exhaled sharply before undoing the lock and pulling the door open.

And there stood Harry.

Disheveled. Eyes glazed over. Jacket hanging off one shoulder. The smell of whiskey and cigarettes clung to him like a second skin.

His gaze was unfocused at first, but when he saw Zayn, his lips parted slightly.

"Can I come in?"

Zayn raked over his frame before stepping to the side and let them in. Before Harry could turn to look at the living room where the three of them sat, he took his friend's arm and guided him to the kitchen.

"Let's get you some water," Zayn mentioned, setting Harry down against the counter before grabbing a glass from the cupboard. He pressed the cup against the lever, the water from his fridge hissing to life and streaming into the cup.

Harry groaned softly, placing his head in his hand. "I don't know what I was thinking," he scoffed.

"What did you drink, Harry?" Zayn sighed, handing the glass to Harry before leaning against the counter across from him.

"Too much," he slurred as he raised the glass to his lips, gulping down the water with ease. It wasn't an exact answer to what Zayn asked, but he knew his friend well enough to know that didn't mean any good.

Harry set the glass down with a small stumble, wrapping his fingers around the ledge of the counter. "I don't know what to do," he laughed bitterly, looking up from the cup to Zayn. "I don't know what to fucking do."

Zayn pursed his lips, taking in a small breath as he crossed his arms over his chest. 

"It's hard. I won't say I understand, but I'll try to, if you want to keep going. I'm here for you."

"No," Harry groaned, shaking his head. "I don't want to talk."

"Harry," Zayn raised a brow, "you didn't walk here drunk off your ass for nothing. My place is further than yours, assuming you came from Joes."

Harry grumbled, narrowing his eyes at Zayn before huffing. His heart swelled then broke instantly as he did, reminding him yet again of Aspen. How she'd glare playfully at him and huff from her soft, perfect lips.

"That night was bad," Harry said after a beat. He pursed his lips, his words slurred as he spoke. His hands came into motion now, moving along with whatever he said.

"I know space is necessary sometimes. I know she deserved it, after what I did to her, but Jesus, man. Could you imagine if Isobel said she needed space? If she was the one to need it? It's selfish, I know that, and I think of her feelings too, I just... I can't even get over mine."

Zayn nodded as he listened, his eyes softening. "I couldn't begin to imagine how much it hurt, Harry."

The man scoffed, shaking his head. Harry didn't know 'hurt'. He didn't know heartbreak, not like this. His worst one was when his cat had passed when he was twelve. Then he hardened up and he became... whatever this was.

Harry let out a long breath, his fingers curling around the edge of the counter like it was the only thing keeping him upright. His body swayed slightly, the alcohol making everything feel heavier, slower, like he was sinking into the floor. His vision blurred in and out of focus, but Zayn’s face remained clear— steady, understanding. It only made him feel worse.

"I don’t even know who I am without her," Harry admitted, voice barely above a whisper. His throat was tight, like something was lodged deep inside, refusing to come up. 

"It’s like… like I finally had something good. Someone good. And I fucked it all up."

Zayn exhaled through his nose, rubbing the back of his neck. He knew Harry well enough to understand that when he let his walls down like this, it wasn’t just drunken rambling— it was raw, stripped down, all the pain he usually buried under sharp words and forced indifference spilling out in broken pieces.

"You didn’t fuck everything up," Zayn said, keeping his voice calm. "You made a mistake. And yeah, it was a big one. But it doesn’t mean you don’t deserve to fix it."

Harry let out a bitter laugh, tipping his head back. His eyes burned, the alcohol pulling every emotion to the surface with no filter, no control. 

"And what if she never forgives me? What if—" His voice cracked, and he swallowed hard, gripping the counter tighter. "What if she never wants to see me again?"

Zayn watched his friend carefully, the weight of Harry’s emotions settling in his chest. "Then you respect that," he said simply. "You own what you did, and you give her what she needs. But you don’t get to just… give up on yourself because of it, man."

Harry's jaw clenched, his nostrils flaring as he shook his head. "She looked at me like I was a stranger. Like she didn’t even know me." 

His voice dropped to something small, something broken. "Like she hated me."

Zayn sighed, stepping closer. "Aspen doesn’t hate you, mate. She’s hurt. She’s allowed to be."

Harry sucked in a breath through his teeth, his body slumping further against the counter. He felt exhausted— emotionally, physically, in every possible way. The weight of his own actions, his own emotions, was crushing. He ran a hand through his curls, tugging slightly at the roots as if that would bring some kind of clarity.

His voice was barely audible when he muttered, "You should’ve just left me there."

Zayn stiffened. "What?"

"You should’ve just left me there to die," Harry repeated, defeated, tired, worn down to nothing but an aching mess of regret. His shoulders caved in, his head dropping forward. "Would’ve been easier."

The words settled heavy in the room, pressing against the walls, suffocating the space between them.

Zayn’s heart clenched.

"Don’t say that shit," he said firmly, his voice edged with something close to desperation. He gripped Harry’s arm, forcing him to meet his gaze. "I mean it. Don’t ever fucking say that."

Harry exhaled shakily, his lip twitching like he was trying to hold something back.

Zayn’s grip tightened. "I get that you’re hurting. I do. But you don’t get to say that, alright? You don’t get to fucking mean that." His voice softened just slightly, but the intensity in his eyes didn’t waver. "You matter, Harry. To me. To Niall. To Louis. And yeah, to Aspen too, even if she’s hurt right now. You don’t just get to check out because things feel too heavy."

Harry blinked a few times, his eyes glassy, his throat bobbing as he swallowed.

Zayn exhaled, rubbing a hand over his jaw before shaking his head. "You’re staying here tonight. No arguments."

Harry didn’t fight him. He just nodded slowly, the weight of everything pulling him down, exhaustion finally settling into his bones.

Zayn glanced toward the hallway, knowing damn well the girls were hiding in his bedroom. There was no way he could let Harry crash on the couch and risk Aspen coming out in the middle of the night to find him there.

"Come on," Zayn muttered, looping an arm under Harry’s to steady him. "Spare room’s open. You can crash there."

Harry groaned but let himself be guided up the stairs, his legs unsteady beneath him. Each step felt heavier than the last, the alcohol still lingering in his system but starting to wear off just enough to let the full force of his thoughts creep in.

Zayn pushed open the spare bedroom door and gestured inside. "Bed’s yours. Get some sleep."

Harry mumbled something incoherent as he stumbled inside, barely managing to toe off his boots before collapsing onto the mattress. The ceiling spun for a second, his body sinking into the bed, but his mind… his mind wouldn’t shut up.

He squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself to pass out, but the alcohol had left just enough clarity for the thoughts to keep buzzing—too loud, too intrusive.

Aspen. Her voice, her touch, the way she looked at him before everything crumbled. The way she looked at him that night.

He turned onto his side, burying his face into the pillow, but nothing helped. His heart still ached, his stomach still twisted with guilt and regret. He wanted to sleep. Needed to. But no matter how much he tossed and turned, the ghost of her lingered, keeping him awake.

Harry almost missed it. 

He almost missed the sound of the bathroom door opening and clicking back shut. He would have if it wasn't for the small, surprised squeak.

From Aspen. His Aspen.

Harry shot up out of the bed, the floor spinning as he stood to his feet in surprise.

"Aspen?" He called out, his voice slurred and heavy with his drunk accent.

His feet padded to the bathroom door, his hand on the knob as the other knocked. Normally, Harry would've just left the room but alcohol left no space for common sense.

"Aspen, baby, 's tha' you?" Harry asked through the door as he knocked once more. He swore he could hear her puffs of breaths, so he knocked again.

"Please open the door. Please."

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

Aspen gripped the edge of the sink, her knuckles white as she tried to steady herself. Her breath came in short, uneven gasps, her chest rising and falling too quickly as her head spun.

Harry.

Her mind raced, heart pounding in her ears as if it were trying to drown out the drunken slur of his voice just outside the door. She could hear him knocking— gentle, unsteady, desperate— but she couldn’t move.

This wasn’t how she was supposed to see him again. Not like this. She only came to pee, and seeing Harry in that bed made her heart flip. 

She had spent the last week convincing herself that space was good, that distance was necessary, that avoiding him was the only way to keep herself from breaking all over again. But now he was here— just on the other side of the door, pleading in that voice that made her chest ache.

"Aspen, baby, 's tha' you?"

His words were heavy, weighed down by alcohol, but there was something so raw about them that made her throat tighten.

Her hands trembled as she gripped the sink even harder, staring at her reflection in the mirror. She looked frantic— wide, glassy eyes, flushed cheeks, lips parted like she had been running.

She had been doing so well.

She had held herself together, fought the tears when they threatened to fall, buried herself in work and school just to avoid thinking about him. But now, he was here, and all that hard work was unraveling at the seams.

Another knock.

"Aspen, please open the door. Please."

She squeezed her eyes shut, shaking her head even though he couldn’t see her. His voice was softer at first, but with every unanswered plea, it grew more frantic—more desperate.

"Aspen, please, open the door," he murmured, his voice thick with alcohol and heartbreak. Then, his hand jiggled the doorknob, the metal rattling sharply in the small space.

Aspen flinched.

Her breath hitched as she stumbled backward, her body pressing against the cold tile of the bathroom wall. The air felt too thick, like she couldn’t get enough of it, and the walls suddenly felt like they were closing in on her.

"Aspen, come on." The doorknob shook again— harder this time. "Talk to me, baby, please."

Her head was buzzing, thoughts spiraling too fast to catch onto one before another crashed into her. Her fingers dug into the porcelain sink, her knuckles turning white as the room spun around her.

"I just— I need to see you. I need you to talk to me," he begged, his voice cracking.

He yanked at the doorknob again.

Aspen gasped, pressing her hands to her ears as the overstimulation crushed her from every side— the knocking, the rattling, his voice— pleading, desperate, relentless.

It was too much. Everything was too much.

The room felt smaller. Her vision blurred. The sound of her own breathing was deafening in her ears, but she could still hear him.

Jiggling the handle. Begging.

"Aspen, please."

Her heart pounded so hard she thought she might be sick. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t think.

The pressure built inside of her, suffocating, overwhelming, consuming— until it all snapped at once.

"Stop it!" she choked out, her voice raw and panicked. "You’re scaring me!"

And then everything stopped.

The rattling. The knocking. The pleading.

Pure silence.

Heavy, deafening silence.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

Harry's hands dropped to his side, fingers twitching. His ears rang as the air was practically wiped from his lungs in an instant.

He was scaring her.

The man stumbled back across the room, drawing in heavy and uneven breaths. That sure sobered him up. Possibly felt worse than getting pistol whipped by one of the cruelest men he came across.

As Harry's back touched the wall, his palms placed flat along the surface by his sides. His heart twisted in pain as her words repeated in his head. First the lying, now this? Now he was scaring her?

How could he be so stupid? To go and bang on the door and beg her to open it while jamming the knob, while being drunk? The feeling of shame settled deep in his chest, tangled with guilt.

The door clicked open and slowly swung open, Aspen's frame coming into view. She took a shuddering breath and stepped out. He kept his eyes on the carpeted floors, swallowing thickly.

Just as he opened his mouth, her voice came through. Harry was sure his knees buckled and almost gave out from under him. It had been so long, too long, since he's heard her. He missed her with every fiber in his being, every single part of her coursed through his veins.

"I-I'm sorry," she whispered, "I didn't mean you were scaring me. I.. I guess I was just scared in general, with seeing you. I didn't know how to react."

Harry finally looked up, and when his bloodshot eyes met hers, something in him cracked. The shame, the guilt, the desperate love he had for her—it all spilled over in his expression.

His lips parted as if to speak, but nothing came out at first. Just a shaky breath, a weight heavier than his own body pressing down on his chest.

"You don’t 'ave to apologize," he croaked, his voice hoarse and strained. "I’m the one who," he exhaled sharply, fingers curling into fists at his sides, "I’m the one who should be sorry. For all 'f it."

Aspen stood still, arms wrapped around herself, as if trying to hold herself together. The sight of her like that— so small, so uncertain— sent another brutal pang through his chest. He had done that to her. He had hurt her, made her afraid, shattered the trust she once gave him so freely.

"I'm sorry for what I did at the door," he continued, swallowing the lump in his throat. "For pushing. For begging. I wasn’t thinking. I was just...," His voice wavered, and he squeezed his eyes shut for a brief moment before reopening them. 

"I just needed to see you. Needed to hear your voice. And I’m sorry, Aspen, I swear, I—."

She shook her head, as if to tell him she already knew. That she understood.

But Harry wasn’t done.

"And I’m sorry for tha' night," he whispered, his voice cracking over the words. "For the way I treated you. For the way I let y'walk away, knowing damn well I was breaking the best thing I ever had in m'life."

Her breath hitched, but he kept going. He had to.

"You don’t know everything, though," he admitted, his hands trembling at his sides. "About me. About Zayn. About why it all happened."

Aspen’s brow furrowed, but she stayed silent, waiting.

Harry dragged his fingers through his messy curls, gripping them at the roots as if trying to ground himself. "We didn’t just start working with Leone when he took us that night," he muttered bitterly. "We were already involved, long before you ever met me."

She inhaled sharply, eyes widening slightly, but she didn’t move.

"It wasn’t s'pposed to be like this," he went on, shaking his head. "We used t'take under-the-table jobs for extra cash— tattoos, no questions asked. But then... then the wrong people started coming in. Dealers. Gang members. They paid us well, and we were stupid. Greedy." He let out a hollow laugh, rubbing a hand over his face. "Then it stopped being 'bout the money. It became about survival. Because once you work f'them, once you take their money, you don’t get t'just... walk away."

Aspen’s throat felt tight, her breath shallow as she absorbed his words.

She had known— at least, she had suspected— that whatever Harry and Zayn were tangled up in was dangerous. But hearing it from Harry’s own mouth, watching the way the weight of it crushed him, made it feel so much worse.

Harry let out a bitter, shaky laugh and shook his head, staring at the floor like he couldn’t bear to see the way she was looking at him. "It got worse, Aspen. We started saying no, started refusing jobs that felt like traps. But when you say no to men like Leone, they don’t just let you go. They make examples out of you."

Her stomach twisted. "Is that why they—."

Harry nodded before she could even finish. His fingers flexed at his sides, jaw clenching. "That’s why they took us. Why they beat the shit out of us. Asp, he had... he had your shirt." He exhaled sharply, glancing up at her. 

His eyes were glossy, red-rimmed, exhausted. "And that night… that night at my place… I should’ve told you the truth. I should’ve told you everything. But it was about protecting you, but I knew in that moment he taunted it in my face that I failed."

Aspen opened her mouth to say something— to tell him she understood, that she knew he had been trying to protect her— but he cut her off before she could.

"But I didn’t," he muttered. "I lied. I pushed y'away. I was a stupid fool, Aspen." His voice broke at the end, and he sucked in a shaky breath before dragging a hand down his face. "I was scared, and I was selfish, and I thought, fuck— I thought if I jus' let you go, if I made you leave, you’d be safe."

Aspen’s chest ached, a deep and relentless pain that spread through her ribs and settled into her bones.

Harry let out another broken, humorless laugh. He sat on the edge of the bed, running a hand through his messy curls. The alcohol had worn off plenty, leaving behind the pain. It would always follow. "But all I did was break your heart. And I’ll never stop blaming m'self for that." His voice dropped to a whisper. "I’ll never stop hating myself for it."

Aspen swallowed against the lump in her throat, her fingers gripping the sleeves of her sweater. Her heart was pounding, her mind spinning, but the only thing she could focus on was the wrecked, shattered look in Harry’s eyes.

His voice was raw when he spoke again, barely more than a whisper. "I just don’t want to lose you." He let out another bitter, empty laugh, muttering to himself. "But I did anyways."

The words shattered something inside her. She stepped forward before she even realized what she was doing, shaking her head. "I'm... I'm still yours, H.," she whispered, her voice trembling.

Harry’s eyes snapped to hers, filled with disbelief.

"It was just space," she continued, swallowing thickly. "I needed space, but I could never leave you, Harry."

Harry blinked at her, like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Then, slowly, he let out a breath, his shoulders sagging as if the weight of the world had just been lifted from them.

"You mean it?" he rasped.

She nodded. "I mean it."

A silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken words, but the pain in Harry’s expression softened just slightly.

"You’re still mine?" he whispered, hesitant, vulnerable in a way that made Aspen’s chest ache.

She took a shaky breath but nodded. "Always." How could she not be?

Harry exhaled sharply, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment like he was trying to keep himself together. When he opened them again, they were still glossy, still filled with lingering pain, but there was something else there, too. A flicker of hope.

"Come here, please?" he muttered, voice hoarse.

Aspen hesitated for only a second before stepping closer, letting him take her hands into his carefully. He brushed his thumbs over her knuckles as he let out a shaky breath. It had been too long since he got to feel her warmth.

"I’m so sorry, baby," he whispered as he brought her knuckles to his lips, grazing them along her skin in small kisses. "'M so fucking sorry."

Aspen closed her eyes, letting herself sink into him. "I know," she murmured. "I know." Her fingers gently placed under his chin, tilting his head up.

"I'm so sorry," He whispered, his eyes closing momentarily as his brows furrowed. He swallowed the lump in his throat and shakily breathed out, leaning into her touch. The man rested his hands on her waist gently, needing to feel her in his grasp.

"Hey," Aspen whispered, her fingers forming around his chin and sliding up to cup his jaw along with her other hand. They caressed over the area lightly, her thumbs brushing over his chin. 

"You don't have to keep saying sorry, H," the girl sighed softly, her chest tightening at the sight of him.

His usual quiff had fallen, strands of hair sweeping over his forehead. The furrow between his brow carried so much sadness that Aspen could feel it too as she brushed her thumb between them before settling back down to his chin. His eyes were so sad, glossed over and full of guilt and regret and love for her. The tip of his nose pink, complimented by a soft pout on his lips. The skin around his piercing still looked raw and fresh, and she made a mental note to tend to that when they got a moment.

"Oh," She breathed out in a small, sympathetic sigh, shaking her head at the sight of him ruined. In some weird way, it made her heart flutter. He would only care this much if he was true to his words and feelings about her, and she knew that.

Her hands cupped his jaw, her tiny fingers lightly smushing his face as he looked everywhere but her eyes. He muttered another apology, hinted with pang of hurt, and she shook her head once more.

"I love you, Asp," Harry muttered, taking her wrists into his hands, sliding up to pull her tiny hands into his. He clasped them, pressing kisses over the bunch, nosing at the warm skin between kisses. 

Harry squeezed his eyes shut, his grip tightening ever so slightly, like he was trying to memorize the way her hands fit in his, how delicate and trusting they felt against his rough palms. He wasn’t meant to hold something so soft. His hands weren’t built for tenderness, not after everything they’d done, after everything they’d touched. They weren’t made to hold something so good.

He wasn’t meant to hold something so soft. His hands weren’t built for tenderness, not after everything they’d done, after everything they’d touched. They weren’t made to hold something so good.

But I’ll hold onto you anyway, he thought bitterly, even when you slip away. Even when I drive you away.

He pressed his lips to her knuckles again, lingering there, breathing her in. His nose brushed against the warmth of her skin between kisses, his grip desperate, reverent— like she was something sacred, something holy.

"You’ll forever be mine," he whispered, voice raw and weighted with something she couldn’t quite place. "But I won’t forever be yours."

Aspen’s heart clenched. "Harry—."

He could already see it, already feel the inevitable unraveling that hadn’t even begun yet. There would come a day where Aspen would look at him with something less than love, less than trust, and it would destroy him. She would walk away for good, because he would make her— because one day, he’d break her heart one too many times, and she’d realize she was too good, too strong, too important to stay.

He shook his head, cutting her off, his lips brushing over her skin again. "You'll leave, Asp," he murmured, voice thick and defeated. "Not now. Not today. But one day, you’ll realize I was never meant t'be yours the way you were always meant t'be mine. I'll drive you away and I'll... let you. I'd have to."

She felt herself shaking her head before she could even think. "That’s not true," she whispered.

Harry let out a soft, broken chuckle, his breath fanning against her skin. "It is. You’ll leave for the better. You’ll find something— someone— who doesn’t fuck up every chance he gets. Someone who doesn’t drag you into darkness when y'were meant t'shine." He exhaled shakily, squeezing her hands, as if grounding himself. "And I’ll let you. I’ll let you go, but I’ll carry you with me for the rest of my life."

Through every street he walked, every song he heard, every quiet moment where the silence would ring too loudly in his ears, he would carry her. She would be the ghost that lived inside him, lingering in every heartbeat, in every regret, in every piece of himself he wished he could fix.

Aspen’s chest ached, a sharp, twisting pain that settled deep in her ribs. "Harry, stop."

He only squeezed her hands tighter, tilting his head to rest against them. His curls were wild, damp with sweat, his breathing uneven. "I don't deserve you. I never have and I never will."

Tears welled in Aspen’s eyes, burning the edges of her vision. She shook her head again, her voice firmer this time. "Harry, stop."

His breath hitched, but he obeyed, falling silent as he clutched her hands to his chest.

"I'm jus'… 'm gonna break your heart again. 'M gonna be the reason why you leave and I just...," he exhaled sharply, voice crumbling at the edges. "I just can’t—."

His heart twisted painfully, stomach churning at the weight of his own words.

Aspen swallowed past the lump in her throat, blinking away the blur of tears. She softened her hold on his hands, slowly untangling them from his grip so she could cup his face instead.

"You’ll forever be mine too, H," she murmured, her thumbs brushing gently over the sharp lines of his cheekbones.

Harry swallowed thickly, his eyes fluttering shut under her touch, like he was absorbing the warmth, letting it fill the cold spaces inside him.

Aspen exhaled softly, gathering her words. "It’s not just me, then you. It’s us. Together. We belong to each other, Harry. And if we’re forever, then we do everything in our power to love each other the right way."

Harry’s brows furrowed, his lips parting slightly as if to protest, but she shushed him with a soft brush of her thumb against his lips.

"I’m not leaving," she whispered. "Not now. Not ever."

Harry’s breath caught in his throat, his hands twitching at her sides.

"We fight for each other," Aspen continued, her voice soft but unwavering. "We love each other the way we’re supposed to. We don’t let the bad things win, Harry."

Harry inhaled sharply, his hands finally moving, finally gripping her wrists again like they were the only things keeping him tethered to the earth.

"You promise?" he rasped, his voice barely more than a breath.

Aspen nodded, tilting her forehead to rest against his. "I promise. Do you?"

Harry’s breath stuttered as he nodded. "I promise, baby. All the good in the world, I wan' t'give t'you." 

His fingers flexed around her wrists before his hands slid up her arms, over her shoulders, until they cradled her face.

"Okay," he whispered after a beat, like he was surrendering. Like he was finally letting himself believe.

Aspen exhaled shakily, letting herself melt into him, into the warmth of his touch, into the quiet understanding that no matter what came next, they would face it together.

"Forever?," she murmured, fluttering her eyes open to look down at his gentle features.

"And a day," he nodded, his thumb brushing over her bottom lip.

Aspen’s heart ached in the best way as she leaned into him, letting his warmth seep into every part of her that had been cold without him. She tilted her head slightly, gazing down at him beneath the dim lighting of the room, memorizing the softness in his tired eyes, the way his lips parted like he was holding onto something he wasn’t ready to let go of.

Harry’s thumb traced over her bottom lip with the lightest touch, like he was afraid she’d disappear if he wasn’t careful. He exhaled a quiet, shaky breath, his fingers grazing the side of her face, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear before resting against her cheek.

Aspen leaned into his palm instinctively, eyes fluttering shut at the tenderness of it all. It had been so long since he touched her like this, like she was something fragile and precious, like he was desperate to hold onto her but terrified of breaking her all the same.

"Forever and a day," he repeated, voice barely above a whisper, like a promise he didn’t dare break.

Aspen lifted her hand, wrapping her fingers around his wrist, grounding him just as much as he was grounding her. When she opened her eyes again, he was already staring, already waiting, already so unbearably there with her.

She didn’t know who leaned in first. Maybe it was him. Maybe it was her. Maybe it was both of them, moving towards each other like the pull between them had never really faded.

Their lips met in the softest, slowest, most delicate kiss, the kind that wasn’t about hunger or desperation, but about something deeper. Something unspoken.

Harry’s lips moved against hers with aching gentleness, like he was pouring every apology, every regret, every unspoken word into the way he kissed her. Aspen sighed softly into it, tilting her head to mold against him perfectly, their bodies slotting together in the way they always had like they were made for it.

Harry cupped her face, his other hand resting at her waist, holding her close but not trapping her, like he was making sure she wanted this just as much as he did. And God, she did.

She tilted her head down, stepping forward and pressing into him, and he sighed into her mouth, pulling her closer, kissing her deeper but still so unbearably soft. It was slow and sweet, the kind of kiss that didn’t demand but offered, the kind that whispered, I’m here, I’m sorry, I love you, I’ll love you forever.

When they finally pulled away, their foreheads rested together, breaths mingling, hearts beating in sync.

Aspen let out a tiny, shaky laugh, her fingers tracing over the back of his hand. "We’re okay now."

Harry exhaled, a small, almost disbelieving smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

"Yeah, baby," he murmured, brushing his nose against hers. "We’re okay."

[stylesonfilms]

ink & innocence - 30

word count: 4.0k

The following Monday, Harry opened shop.

His hand, still bandaged, flipped through the scheduling book. His finger traced down the page until he found today's date, skimming along who would come in and at what time. Harry took a mental note and sighed, grateful that his dominant hand wasn't the one that was injured. But work was work, he didn't have a choice. Niall and Zayn wouldn't have been able to take over, not with these endless listings.

Louis and Liam had reached out to him Saturday night, sending their condolences and offering to come in to help the other boys if Harry didn't feel ready. He appreciated it, though he brushed them off with the same ease he would have used months ago. Months before he met Aspen. 

The thought of her name made him shudder and his shoulders drop. His ears peaked at the muffled song in the break room, a scowl forming on his face. Fucking Niall and his stupid Taylor Swift.

"I wish I could unrecall it all, how we almost had it all."

Harry swung the door open, the handle hitting the wall behind it. Niall had been sitting with gloves on, etching ink into a slab of fake silicone skin they used to practice in while his head bobbed and mouth moved with the words.

"Turn that shit off," Harry grunted, tossing a package of sterile needles at his head before slamming the door shut. He huffed, clenching his fingers into fists momentarily before the song was turned off and quiet flooded the shop once more.

The chime of the door sounded after, Zayn scruffing his boots on the mat before he shrugged off his coat and hung it up.

Zayn was the only one who knew what happened between Aspen and Harry, besides Isobel. At least, he figured as such if Aspen had returned back to the car in that same shattered state he saw her leave in.

Although Harry kept his eyes forward as he tossed supplies onto his tray, too focused on what he was doing to greet Zayn, the brown eyed man kept his gaze on his friend for a while as he made his way to the schedule.

It was best not to mention anything, at least for now. Harry was a ticking time bomb when he was upset, and Zayn had never been there for heartbreak for Harry. He didn't even know if the lad had ever had a phase of that.

"So," Zayn spoke first as he cleared his throat, flipping through the book, "got a back piece today?"

"Yep," Harry responded blandly, pulling out a fresh box of ink and sliced a blade through the tape to prop it open.

The room fell quiet after that, just the sounds of the faint hum from the gun Niall used in the other room and the ruffling on Harry's end. 

Zayn sighed. "Look, man—."

"No." 

Harry cut him off, setting the ink bottles down with a hard thud. This was not the time nor place for that conversation, and Harry was sure he didn't want to have it ever.

Niall exited the room, holding the slab of fake flesh in his hands.

"Well, it's not too shabby, ri—. Oh." Niall caught glimpse of Harry's angered furrow between his brows as he set up the supply cabinet, and Zayn who was eyeing him with a piercing gaze. Harry was the one to glance over at Niall, falling to the work in his hands.

"Looks good." He said as his gaze went back to what he was doing, breaking down the box before tucking it into the recycle. 

"Thanks, Harold!" Niall grinned, tossing it down onto the table with a gentle thud before stripping his hands clean of the gloves. 

Niall didn't know what was going on, frankly. All he knew what that Harry got his ass beat and police had gotten involved, that's what he heard from Louis, anyways. But it wasn't like he needed to know. Whatever it was, Harry was his friend, damn near a brother. If he wanted to talk, he would. But for now, Niall could only offer no sense of change. Harry hated change. Hated being noticed, hated things being pointed out, hated when his chair had been lifted or lowered. 

So, he beamed a big smile and walked towards Harry to nudge him on the shoulder before leaning against the counter, crossing his arms. 

"How's it feel to be booked and busy, lads? Gosh, do you guys remembered when we first opened? Louis was here, we all were. And we had, what, three clients a week? Only if we were lucky."

Zayn puffed out a small laugh, fingers digging into the keyboard as he clocked in. Harry only hummed, though the memory flashed through his mind.

"There," Louis grinned, slapping the sign and they all watched as it swung on its metal hinges outside of the shop. He stepped down from the latter, tossing the hammer into the toolbox beside his feet with a satisfied sigh.

Harry looked up with a proud look, though his lips remained pursed. "Can't believe we did that," he breathed out, shifting on his feet to look at the white lettering on the glass window, his eyes scanning over the different tables and trays and cabinets. 

They all had finished setting up, the sign being their final hook on the wall before everything came together. Everything inside was pristine and neat, untouched and eager to be used by clients. 

"You did this, H. We work for you, Mr. Styles," Niall joked, though he set his hands on his hips as he followed Harry's gaze. 

"No," Harry said after a beat, shaking his head. He turned to look at the boys, lips finally cracking a smile. "We all did this, we're all gonna do this."

Things didn't change much. They were all proud of their work, Harry most of all. He built this place to be his second home. Over the span of months and years, they all chipped in to bring the shop to life. The white walls were replaced with black ones, big framed paintings from Zayn bringing them to life.

Sketchbooks scattered on display with different sketches and ideas and stencils for clients to flip through. That was a main selling point for their shop. Clients buzzed online about how raw their talent was, and how they were so open and vulnerable with their mistakes in their art just as they were with their successful pieces.

The low hum of the tattoo machine in the back room was soon joined by the chime of the front door opening. Harry instinctively glanced up from his tray, his hand already brushing over the tops of the ink bottles he’d just organized. The movement was automatic, his routine muscle memory, but his thoughts were miles away.

A pair of clients walked in, chatting softly and pointing to the designs in the display book near the waiting area. Harry adjusted the black bandana around his wrist, straightened his shoulders, and forced himself to push aside the storm brewing in his chest. He couldn’t afford to slip up—not here, not now.

Niall greeted the newcomers with his usual upbeat energy, leading one of them toward the consultation counter. Zayn, now settled at his station, leaned back in his chair and gestured for the other client to join him. Harry, staying quiet, stepped forward as the third figure walked through the door. It was his client for the day—a tall man with a shaved head and a sleeve already in progress.

“You Styles?” the man asked, his voice gruff but polite.

“Yeah. That’s me,” Harry replied, his tone steady despite the lump forming in his throat. He motioned for the guy to follow him to his station. “Come on back.”

As they walked, Harry’s eyes flickered to the appointment book on the counter, confirming the name and design he’d sketched for this particular session. It was a continuation of the man’s sleeve—a roaring lion’s head that would stretch across his forearm. Normally, Harry would feel a spark of excitement at tackling a piece like this. But today, there was only a quiet numbness, a fog that refused to lift.

He pulled out the sketch he’d prepared the night before, laying it flat on the worktable as his client nodded in approval. “Looks good, man. Real good,” the man said.

Harry offered a tight-lipped smile and a small nod. “Let’s get started, then.”

He handed the client a clipboard with the standard paperwork and went to wash his hands. As the warm water flowed over his skin, his gaze dropped to his reflection in the stainless steel sink. The bandages on his knuckles had started to fray, and his stitches still itched beneath his temple and cheekbone. He used to look at his injuries and feel a sense of resilience, pride even, at how he pushed through whatever life threw at him. Now, the sight of them only reminded him of Aspen—her tear-filled eyes, her trembling voice as she told him she needed space.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d really looked at himself in the mirror. Every glance felt like punishment, the bruises and cuts on his face no longer symbols of strength but of failure. Failure to protect the people he cared about, failure to be the man Aspen believed in.

Harry dried his hands and slipped on a fresh pair of gloves. Back at his station, he sanitized the area, pulled out the stencil, and prepped his tray with the precision of someone who’d done this a thousand times. His client sat patiently, scrolling through his phone as Harry positioned the stencil on his arm.

“This placement good for you?” Harry asked, holding the man’s arm steady as he checked the angles.

“Yeah, perfect,” the man said with a nod.

Harry peeled the stencil away and moved to set up his tattoo machine. The hum of the needle filled the air as he adjusted the voltage and tested the grip. The sound usually calmed him, grounding him in the art he loved. But today, it only seemed to amplify the noise in his head.

He leaned forward, beginning the outline of the lion’s mane. His hand was steady, his movements precise, but his thoughts were anything but.

Aspen’s face lingered in his mind like a photograph burned into his memory. The way her lips trembled as she said space might be for the better. The way her voice cracked when she admitted how much it hurt to see him like this. He’d replayed her words over and over in his mind, dissecting every syllable, every pause.

He missed her. God, he missed her. It was a physical ache, one that tightened his chest and twisted his stomach every time he closed his eyes. She’d been his light in the darkness, his anchor when everything else felt like it was slipping away. And now she was gone—because of him. Because of his lies, his mistakes, his inability to keep the promises he’d made to her.

Harry shook his head subtly, trying to clear the image of her tear-streaked cheeks. His client glanced at him briefly, but Harry kept his focus on the tattoo, shading in the intricate details of the lion’s fur.

“Everything good?” the man asked, noticing Harry’s brief moment of distraction.

“Yeah,” Harry muttered, his voice low. “Just concentrating.”

The client nodded and relaxed again, but Harry’s mind was far from settled. He thought about the nights he’d spent tossing and turning since Aspen walked out. How he’d stared at his ceiling for hours, haunted by the look in her eyes when she said she didn’t regret being with him but wished he’d been honest. The weight of her words crushed him every time they replayed in his head.

He thought about the little things he missed—her shy smile, the way she’d twist the ends of her hair when she was nervous, the way her laugh sounded like music on a quiet afternoon. She was everywhere and nowhere all at once, and it was driving him mad.

As Harry switched needles and began shading the lion’s jawline, he felt the familiar sting of guilt creeping in. He’d hurt her in ways he never thought possible, and the pain of knowing he’d let her down was unbearable. He wanted to call her, to show up at her door and beg for another chance. But how could he, when he couldn’t even face himself in the mirror?

The hum of the tattoo machine continued, blending with the faint sounds of chatter from the other stations. Harry focused on his work, pouring every ounce of his energy into the design. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t escape the ghost of Aspen’s sadness or the hollow ache in his chest.

For the first time in a long time, Harry felt truly lost—and he wasn’t sure if he’d ever find his way back.

The rest of the week dragged by in the same, mind-numbing blur of routine.

Harry would wake up in the dim light filtering through his blinds, the weight of his exhaustion pressing him deeper into the mattress. He’d force himself to throw the blanket over his wrinkled sheets in a half-hearted attempt at normalcy, a futile effort to convince himself he still had some semblance of order in his life. His shower was quick, more out of obligation than need, the steam fogging up the mirror he avoided looking into. He didn’t need to see the man staring back at him. He already knew what he’d find—the bruises, the guilt, the weakness.

After dressing, Harry would shuffle to the kitchen, Jasper padding after him with hopeful eyes. The little cat’s energy was a stark contrast to Harry’s lifeless demeanor. He’d crouch down, scratch Jasper’s head, and let the faint purring soothe him for a moment before the guilt crept back in.

You’re a shit boyfriend, don’t be a shit pet owner too, he’d think, guilt pooling in his chest as he filled Jasper’s bowl. He lingered there, watching the cat eat, trying to muster up the energy to play. But most days, it felt forced. Jasper would swat at his hand or chase a toy Harry half-heartedly tossed, and the moment would pass too quickly, leaving him alone with his thoughts again.

Work wasn’t much better. The buzzing of the tattoo machine no longer held the comfort it once did. It used to ground him, the vibration in his hand a constant reminder of the art he loved, the skill he’d honed for years. Now, it felt hollow. Every client he worked on, every intricate line and carefully shaded detail, felt like going through the motions. The usual satisfaction he found in seeing a piece come together was missing, replaced by a numbness that lingered no matter how hard he tried to shake it.

And when the day finally ended, Harry would trudge back home, dropping his keys onto the counter with a clatter that echoed in the silence. He’d grab a joint or crack open a beer—or three—anything to dull the ache gnawing at him. But no matter how much he smoked or drank, the guilt was always there, lurking in the back of his mind like a shadow he couldn’t escape. When he finally passed out, it was never restful. His dreams were fragmented, flashes of Aspen’s tear-streaked face and the words she’d said before leaving.

By Friday, Harry felt like he was hanging on by a thread. The shop had cleared out, and the silence left him alone with his thoughts once more. He slid on a fresh pair of gloves, the snap of the latex punctuating the quiet as he stared down at the metal surface of his workstation. His fingers tapped absently against the table, his eyes fixed on the reflection of his tools.

“Just a stupid fucking mirror,” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head. “Just look up, Harry.”

He took a deep breath, his shoulders rising and falling as he braced himself. With a sharp exhale, he snapped his head up, his green eyes locking onto his reflection in the mirror. His stomach churned. He hadn’t looked at himself properly all week, and now that he did, the sight made his chest tighten.

The swelling under his eye was gone, replaced by fading yellows and greens that stained his skin like a cruel reminder of everything that had happened. His stitches were healing, the angry red lines still visible against his pale complexion. But it wasn’t just the bruises and cuts that unsettled him— it was his eyes. They looked hollow, the vibrant green dulled by sleepless nights and a guilt that weighed heavier than any physical wound.

He glanced down at his lip, where his piercing was conspicuously absent. The small, empty dot felt like a metaphor for how he’d been feeling— hollow, incomplete. Harry’s hand moved on instinct, grabbing the sterile needle from its packaging. He flipped the tab, removed the plastic covering, and swirled it in the sterilizing liquid, his movements precise and methodical.

Sliding the black ring into place, he swabbed the area with antiseptic, the cool liquid soothing the irritated skin. He stared at his reflection again, his lips pressing into a thin line as he studied the new piercing. It didn’t make him feel better, not really. But it was something— a distraction, a fleeting sense of control in a life that felt like it was slipping through his fingers.

Before he could think too much about it, his hands were already reaching for another needle. He tore the package open, grabbed the clamps, and tapped the rim to dry off the excess sterilizing liquid. The motions were automatic, his hands steady as he lined up the needle above his brow.

When the needle hovered over the area of his brow, he hesitated. His jaw clenched, and for a brief moment, he thought about Aspen. Would she hate this? Would she think he was reckless, stupid, weak? The thought tightened his chest, but before he could talk himself out of it, he pushed the needle forward. A sharp sting followed, a brief moment of pain that was almost comforting in its simplicity. At least this pain made sense.

The pinch of the needle was sharp but brief, followed by the familiar satisfaction of threading the jewelry through. He twisted the spiked ends of the black barbell into place, his reflection staring back at him with an almost defiant edge. He didn’t bother marking the spot beforehand; his precision didn’t need it. If nothing else, Harry knew he was damn good at his job.

As he swabbed the fresh piercing and cleaned up the mess he’d made, he muttered to himself, his voice low and bitter. “Damn shame I’m better at this than keeping my life together.”

The truth of his own words stung more than the needle ever could.

That night, Harry found himself trudging to the bar just around the corner, his steps heavy against the cracked sidewalk. He didn’t drive anymore. His car had sat untouched outside the shop since last Thursday, the keys abandoned in his jacket pocket. Walking had become his escape. The howling wind bit at his exposed skin, the rustle of the trees filling the otherwise empty streets, but he welcomed it. Out here, there was nothing to distract him—no blaring horns, no stoplights, no bustling crowds. Just his footsteps against the pavement and the dark thoughts swirling in his mind.

He pulled open the bar's heavy wooden door, the warm air inside hitting his face as he stepped into the dimly lit room. The familiar scent of spilled whiskey and stale cigarettes wrapped around him like a blanket, almost comforting in its unpleasantness. Harry slapped a ten-dollar bill on the counter without a word, his bloodshot eyes meeting the bartender’s for a brief moment.

Two shot glasses clinked against the polished wood as the bartender slid them toward him. Harry didn’t hesitate. One after the other, the shots burned their way down his throat, the familiar fire momentarily dulling the ache in his chest. He slammed the second glass down with a hollow satisfaction, the sharp clink punctuating the dull roar of chatter and clinking glasses around him.

But it wasn’t enough.

Pulling out his wallet again, Harry tossed thirty more onto the counter, his movements jerky and impatient.

The bartender eyed him warily. “I can’t serve you for another five—”

“Am I paying you to lecture me,” Harry cut in, his voice sharp and low, “or am I paying you to do your damn job?” He shoved the stack of cash closer, his jaw tightening as he stared the man down.

With a disgruntled mutter, the bartender complied, sliding three more shots in front of him. Harry didn’t wait. He downed them in rapid succession, each one hitting his stomach like a punch, but he welcomed the pain. Anything was better than the guilt gnawing at him.

The whiskey neat he ordered afterward went untouched for a while, the amber liquid sitting untouched in its glass as Harry stirred his soda absently. The black straw circled the ice cubes in a rhythmic motion, the faint clinking sound blending into the background noise. His mind drifted, the alcohol dulling the edges of his thoughts but not erasing them.

Aspen’s face kept flashing behind his closed eyelids, how upset she’d looked the last time he saw her. Her voice, her tears, the way she had walked away without looking back. His chest tightened. What the hell was wrong with him? How had he let it get this bad?

The sound of heels clicking against the floor snapped him out of his thoughts. Two light taps on his shoulder followed, and Harry glanced over, his brow furrowed. His vision had started to blur around the edges, but he could still make out the blonde woman standing beside him, her expression dripping with fake confidence and practiced charm.

“Can I help you?” he muttered, his voice low and laced with irritation.

She giggled, the sound grating against his nerves. “Uh-huh,” she chirped, her gum snapping as she leaned closer. “Can I get your number?”

Harry exhaled a sharp breath, shaking his head. “No, I’ll pass. I’ve got a girlfriend.”

The word felt foreign on his tongue, like he didn’t deserve to say it anymore. Was Aspen even still his girlfriend? He didn’t know. But it didn’t matter. The girl didn’t know Aspen, didn’t know the mess Harry had made of things. She wouldn’t call him out on the lie.

Her manicured nail dragged down the inked lines of his arm as she ignored his rejection, her voice turning syrupy. “Well, I don’t see her sooo...” She let the word linger, her gum snapping again as she gave him a coy smile. “I really like your tattoos.”

Harry’s jaw clenched, and he shrugged her hand off, standing abruptly and grabbing his jacket from the back of his chair. The room swayed slightly as he moved, the alcohol making his steps unsteady.

“I said hard pass,” he gritted out, his voice sharp. “I’m not into air bags.”

It wasn't like he had to analyze her chest to know how exaggerated her work had been. No one's boobs sit that high with that much definition.

Her jaw dropped slightly, her expression shifting from flirtatious to offended, but Harry didn’t stick around to see her reaction. He pushed past her, the leather of his jacket creaking as he pulled it on and shoved the door open. The cold night air hit him like a slap, but it wasn’t enough to clear his head.

The alcohol coursing through his veins fueled his frustration as he walked aimlessly, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. His steps slowed as he found himself outside Zayn’s apartment building, the familiar red bricks staring back at him. He didn’t know why he was here. Maybe he just needed to talk to someone, someone who might actually understand, even if Harry wasn’t sure he could say the words out loud.

Before he could second-guess himself, his fist was knocking against Zayn’s door. Three sharp raps that echoed down the quiet hallway. His head hung low as he waited, his breath fogging in the cold air. When the door opened, Harry didn’t even lift his gaze.

“Can I come in?” he muttered, his voice slurred and broken, the weight of the week finally catching up to him.

[stylesonfilms]

i’m confused what happened between chapter 28 and 29????? how did we go from a party to suddenly their secret is out and some shit went down ?

there was an exclusive chapter to the community that goes in depth, but is wildly explicit in what it goes into. chapter 29 on my blog alludes to the trouble they got in. :)