summary: completely and utterly obsessed with each other, harry determined to show you off while you decide to say yes.
warnings: brief mention of smut, cursing, just being obsessed with each other
authors note: I saw someone write something like this but i cant’ find the original write to credit for if you guys do please lmk 💗
word count: 1.6k
{masterlist}
From the very start, there was no hiding it.
You were completely and utterly obsessed with each other. And Harry? He wasn’t just in love, he was proud. He wanted every single person to know exactly who you belonged to and exactly how much you meant to him.
It showed in every glance, every touch and every step you took together.
His shows became the biggest, most beautiful thing for him every night. But without fail he found a way to show you off during it.
Before he would go on stage he would seek for you and pull you firmly against his chest, ignoring everyone around you – crew members, security and would press a loud, lingering kiss to your lips that was slow enough to make your knees go weak. “There’s my heart,” he’d murmur, smiling against your mouth.
“You look incredible tonight, baby. All for me, yeh?”
“Fuck, I just wanna show you off to everyone out there.”
Once he was out under the blinding spotlights, commanding the attention of thousands, he never let you fade into the background.
Between songs he’d scan the crowd until his eyes locked onto yours, his face softening instantly. He'd lean into the mic, his voice echoing through the arena. “Y’know, I wouldn’t be standing here if it wasn’t for her. The love of my life is right there – look at her, isn’t she the most beautiful thing ever?”
He'd gesture directly to where you stood, thousands of heads turning your way, but he only ever saw you. During coming up roses, he’d sit at the piano while his eyes never left yours, pointing a ring clad finger right at you. Fans screamed and recorded every second, those moments going viral instantly. But harry just played it all with a smirk, perfectly happy to let everyone see exactly how much he cherished you.
Out in the public, you were inseparable, and the chemistry was impossible to ignore.
Harry and his endless flirting, treating you like he was still at the beginning stage of winning you over.
Walking through the busy streets of New York, his hand was tucked into the back of your pocket jeans or resting low and possessive on your waist pulling you tight against him. He would lean down to whisper flirty remarks only you could hear that made your cheeks burn red, then he’d laugh out loud when you’d nudge him playfully.
One evening you were both walking through a busy street, the air feeling electric between you two. Before harry pulled you to a gentle stop and turned fully towards you before cupping your face, in his strong and capable hands that you admired so much.
Before you knew it, he leaned in and kissed you deeply right there in the open, unhurried, warm and unabashed. Your heart skipped a beat, and you pulled back slightly, eyes looking around nervously. “Harry...wait-what if the paps see us? They’re everywhere lately,” you whispered, a little breathless.
He just smiled, brushing a stray piece of hair behind your ear with absolute confidence. “Let em see. I hope they catch us. I want to show us off – want the whole world to know exactly who I belong to.”
“Baby, let me brag about you.”
With that, he pulled you back in and kissed you with more certainty, like cameras and crowds didn’t exist.
At cafes or restaurants, he’d never stop touching you. His hands, broad, veined and adorned with rings would tangle with yours across the table, or brush hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering against your neck.
He'd kiss your knuckles, then your wrist, eyes never leaving yours. “Can’t keep my hands off you,” he’d admit shamelessly.
Fans caught you everywhere.
Laughing in doorways, him spinning you around in the streets after you both had a few drinks at the pub, his arm draped heavy around your shoulders.
Then they’d spot the way he looked at you, like you were the only thing that mattered and they all went wild, hunting down for your next appearance.
But harry never cared, if anything he just got bolder.
-
When the cameras and crowds faded, what you both had was rooted in such deep, quiet care.
Harry was very attentive.
Noticing shifts in your energy, when you needed quiet instead of noise or space to breathe without explanation. He never took it personally; he just held space for you. “Take all the time you need, love,” he’d say softly, backing away to let you settle. Bringing you a blanket or some tea and leaving you to be until you were ready to come back to him, never pushing just waiting with open arms.
Late one night, you were both hungry after a show, so you slipped out quietly with your hoods up and just wanting to be normal. You ended up at a drive thru, giggling like teenagers as you ordered burgers and fries. You ate in the parking lot, music playing low, ketchup on his thumb and stealing a chip at every chance you could.
“Best late night ever,” he said while grinning. “Even better than a fancy dinner.”
And before you were whisked away on your dream vacation, he was holding you close one evening, spinning you around in the middle of your living room. “I wanna take you around the world,” he murmured placing his forehead against yours. “Every continent, every coast, every hidden spot I’ve ever loved. I want to show you everywhere and everything.”
The vacation was everything he’d promised and more. Spending days barefoot and sun kissed. Every evening he’d take you for long, slow walks along the shore. The sand soft and warm under your feet, the ocean stretching out endless and blue before you.
He'd roll his trousers up and lace his fingers tight through yours and you’d walk until the sky turned pink and gold at the horizon. He'd point out seashells and splash you with water when the waves lapped at your ankles, or stop to wrap his arms from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder while you watched the sun dip lower.
“Perfect view,” he murmured, kissing your cheek and you knew he wasn’t looking at the ocean.
Even when you were both apart, the connection never broke.
You'd be on the phone for hours and would always somehow turn into a playful, tender battle – neither of you wanting to hang up first.
“You do it first,” he teased.
“No, you!” you would say while laughing.
Then you would both end up sitting there in silence for a minute, just listening to each other breath, too stubborn, too in love to let go.
When he was on the road, alone in hotel room you could hear the longing in his voice.
“Baby, I'm just sitting here staring at my phone,” he’d admit, voice thick with yearning. “Counting down the seconds until I hear your voice. Need you to call me. Need to feel you even if you’re miles away.”
-
Alone, the obsessions shifted into something deeper and more tactile. You couldn’t get enough of him, especially his hands.
Those goddamn hands.
You'd watch them constantly, moving with such easy confidence. So undeniably strong and manly making you feel safe and protected every time he reached for you.
You couldn’t keep your lips off his tattoos. You'd be tangled in bed or on the couch together, tracing the ink on his chest and arms before leaning in and following suit with your tongue. Tasting the warm skin, following the lines of art with slow, deliberate licks.
He would shiver instantly throwing his head back while his fingers found their way into your hair, holding you exactly where he wanted you. “You have no idea what you do to me,” he said while groaning, his voice thick with want.
As the night deepened, nothing else mattered, not the past, not anyone else.
As he moved over you, strong and sure with every touch claiming.
You whispered against his kiss that you didn’t care who he had before, who had been in his bed or heart. “I don’t want anything from the past,” you breathed while pressing yourself close to him as physically possible, like you wanted to melt into him. “I just want to be in your skin – only here, only now, all yours.”
He groaned low, his grip tightening like he felt exactly the same. He showed you exactly how skilled he was, confident and generous. He knew your body better than you knew it yourself. His touch was sure and deliberate. He moved with a powerful but steady rhythm, dominating the space with a natural masculinity, whispering heated praise into your mouth.
“You’re the only one.”
“All mine.”
“No one else comes close.”
Drawing every ounce of pressure from you until you were both completely done for, breathless and trembling in the sheets now fused as one.
-
Then came the afternoon that changed everything.
It was golden hour in London Park, the leaves were rustling gently around us.
Harry stopped walking and turned to you with shining eyes full of tears and dropped to one knee.
He had pulled out a stunning ring, holding it up with strong and steady hands that you adored. “I’ve spent every day wanting the world to know you’re mine,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “But I want it to be forever. Will you marry me?”
Through happy tears, you said yes. That same night you both didn’t want to wait for rumours or leaks. you posted it together, a close up of your hand resting over his heart, the diamond catching the light against his tattoos while he looked at you with pure love in his eyes.
The caption was bold, simple and exactly like you: rub it in their face and put a rock on her hand.
The internet exploded, bus as you lay tangled together later, safe and warm in your own little world, none of the noise mattered.
okay this might be weird and random but i love brunch lol and just a super fluffy brunch w harry sounds amazing and perfect & bonus points if there’s a cute baby of theirs involved 🥺
BABY BRUNCH BABY BRUNCH! This is a super old request but just know I do get to them lol. I’ve been meaning to do more dadrry
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Warnings: none
“Adjust her hat, please H.” Y/N laughed as the little crochet bucket hat was pulled lopsided from her grabby hands. Sitting in the high chair outside, she had made the decision to keep it on her head- but their baby had other plans.
“It’s not going t’last the brunch, my love.” Harry sighed, his fork placed down against his French toast and moved to adjust the hat for the fourth time. She was more than happy to bring the mushy strawberries to her mouth, sticky fingers against her cheek as she munched on the crushed fruit that had originally been little cubes he had cut up for her. “Neither is this outfit.”
“I’ve got a change of dress in the bag.” Y/N knew better than to go without a change of clothes in this new era of her wanting to feed herself. Disastrous mess was inevitable with a baby and any sort of food. “It’s important for her development for her to figure it out. She’s having fun!”
“I know she is, my heart.” Harry murmured, looking to the ruined sundress. It was a cute outfit, pink heart dress paired with the pink crochet hat over her little curly pigtails, but he knew as soon as her eating was over she was going to get fussy about being sticky and messy.
Harry hated the feeling in most cases too, so he could relate.
“Besides, your mum is going to have at least three new outfits when we get over there after.” Y/N turned to her baby with a big smile. “Isn’t that right, darling? Nana loves to spoil you, hm? All those cute little dresses she gets you, multiple daily outfit changes are the only way we’ll get through the all.”
Harry huffed out a laugh, picking his fork back up. “You’ve got a point. She sent me a photo of a miniature shirt with ducklings on it yesterday, so I’m going to bet on there being at least 4 outfits. That’s just what she’s sent me so far.” His mum had an obsession with buying her granddaughter outfits and he loved it. There was only a short period of time to do it as she grew and if he thought about how fast it was happening he would cry, so he pushed that side.
“Silly Nana. Your wardrobe is already exploding.” Y/N laughed, taking a sip of her mimosa, sans the alcohol. When Harry tried to tell her once that it was just orange juice, she’d simply flipped him off.
She squealed, hitting her little fist on the plastic tray and sent a bit of strawberry onto the main table and Harry’s arm, seemingly agreeing with her mum.
“I do love it, though. It’s fun to play dress up with her. I’m afraid next time we leave her with her she’ll come back with the entire Baby Gap, but I fear our child has your affinity for clothing. It’s like a minefield in our closet, she takes after you.” Harry teased his wife because their own closet was a mess of Y/N’s rotation of aesthetics.
“Like mummy, like baby.” She preened, lifting her glass to her lips. “And Daddy won’t complain if he wants more babies, will he? No, he won’t.” She reached out to tickle their daughter’s little foot, which had somehow lost its sock. “And he’s been talking about more babies since you were born, so I think he’s going to reconsider.”
“I’m not complaining!” He clarified, blinking rapidly. “M’not!” The man wanted more babies, and he knew what was good for him.
“Mhm.” Y/N glared at him over her glass. “Just for that, I think we should go to the shops tomorrow. You can carry her in her little sling and I can add more explosively beautiful things to our closet.”
it's 1976, and harry is the biggest rockstar in the world and y/n never thought she would have the chance to meet her idol. especially not like this.
wordcount: 12k+
—————
(Y/N) swore she could feel every note from the blaring speakers in her veins, her bones rattling from the base. Her skin was heated, a sheen of sweat covering every exposed inch. Bodies were packed all around her, dancing and jumping, hands in the air just as hers were. The bar of the barricade pressed heavily against her stomach, holding her back with a cool punch through her clothing. She'd never been to a concert by herself before, but she was finding she didn't mind the fact she was on her own, her dancing much more inhibited with her voice beginning to crackle from the sheer pitch of the screams she was letting out.
Before her, up high on the stage with the bright lights cloaking his form, was her favorite rockstar.
Harry Styles.
In flared bell bottoms, and chest bare, he pranced across the stage, taking in every adoring eye trained on him. His trusted guitarist was shredding away on his neon orange Fender, taking care of the hard work so Harry could swagger about the stage with his microphone swinging in his hand. Sweat dripped down the blocks of his muscles, shimmering as if he had spread the glitter on his eyes over the rest of his body. His lips were curled in a lopsided smile, smug and cocky; he was more than aware of the fact that thousands had filled this arena just to see him.
Another upside to having made it to this show by herself, (Y/N) didn't feel all that silly when she screamed that much louder when he strided over to her side of the stage. Dimples dented the rockstar's cheeks as he took in the adoration being flung at him from all sides. He scanned through the crowd, taking in every set of sparkling eyes and no doubt spotting every beautiful face that was more than willing to do just about anything for him.
While this was the first time (Y/N) had the privilege of seeing Harry live (after having missed both his '73, and '75 tours, it seemed '76 was finally her year) it was no secret just how much love he liked to share with his fans. He never denied it in interviews and more than once photographs of women draped over him had come to light and landed on the front cover of tabloids, or anonymous sources sharing details of sordid nights in his bed. Whenever confronted with questions about those stories or who he was pictured with, he famously gave a dimpled smile and shrugged it of, saying something about how he fell in love easily and didn't shy away from the feeling.
She wondered what she saw when he looked out at the huddles of people looking up at him tonight—if he saw someone he could fall in love with for the night.
As the song continued on, it was time for his next verse though he didn't stray from this side of the stage. He brought the microphone to his lips, crooning his famous lyrics in perfect melody with the rest of his band. He put on a show where he stood as he sang a particularly suggestive line while trailing a hand down his bare stomach, hooking a finger into the waist of his pants to bring them down for a teasing peek of more skin before snapping back into place.
(Y/N) felt her breath catch in her lungs, immensely grateful for how close she'd made it to the stage. She wouldn't have been able to see the thatch of hair he revealed had she been any farther back. Screamed erupted around her, Harry seemingly liking the reaction so much he had to pull away from his microphone to let out a bubble of laughter. By the time he went back to doing his job, there was a particularly smug smile on his lips with matching dimples and amused eyes.
He continued to sing even as pairs of panties and lacy bras were thrown up to the stage, women screaming for his attention with their shirts pressed up to expose their chests. He weaved around the set up, playing with his bandmates to the excitement of his fans. He soaked it all in with exuberant confidence, shining under the stage lights and he put on his show. (Y/N) felt breathless as she sang along with him, her bones rattling as the pit danced around her, pushing her harder against the barricade at her stomach.
By the time the final lines of the song came around, he had made his way back to (Y/N)'s side of the stage. She and the fans around her danced and sang along, her voice scratching in the back of her throat as she gazed up at him. The tune ended in a flourish of drum beats, heavy and bone rattling through the arena.
Harry finished with phantom punches to the air in time with the drum beats just before the lights went down for a flickering moment. His chest was heaving by the time the lights came up once more, his band breaking to take sips of water, his guitarist changing out instruments for another, just as flashy, guitar. The spotlight was dead center on Harry, his eyes casting far out to the rest of the packed arena before him. (Y/N) went her mouth drop into a gape as she took in the man before her—no photograph able to do him justice.
"Everyone still doing good? Having fun?" his voice boomed through the speakers, gesticulating with his hands as if he could reach to the back stretches of the venue. The arena erupted once more, pitched screams calling for his attention. He let out a breathy laugh into the microphone. "I'd hope so," he crooned, "because I'm having a wonderful time. So many pretty faces—thank y'for coming to see me tonight."
He reveled under the cheers given to him, going quiet as he turned his gaze down, to the pit closest to him.
To where (Y/N) was standing right in front of him.
His eyes lingered over the rows behind her before coming closer, stopping a little too close for comfort.
(Y/N) didn't want to get too far ahead of herself, but was he looking at her?
"And what about right here?" he asked, bending down to one knee at the edge of the stage as if he wasn't close enough already, "Having fun?"
Those around her burst into screams, pressing behind her as if they could surge through her and get closer to the rockstar. Her vision was vignetted with all the reaching hands attempting to touch him, fingers outstretched. (Y/N)'s reaction was stuck in her chest, her body stunned into paralysis with sweaty hands tightening around the barricade bar.
His only acknowledgment of the rest of the world came in the form of a quirked lip while his eyes stayed fixed to one spot. The longer she blinked up at him, no reaction, his smile grew, a brow lifting.
Whatever view the rest of the venue was getting had another round of raucous reactions.
Finally mustering enough wherewithal, (Y/N) nodded her head, her mouth still in a small gape.
The quirk in his lips tilted that much more, a dimple settling in his cheek with a hint of the white of his teeth. "Yeah?"
Though inaudible compared to the ruckus around her, she nodded her head with a parroted, "Yeah."
His eyes lingered on her for a passing moment, the tip of his tongue peaking out to skim the blunt of his teeth. Around her, (Y/N) could feel the screams just as much as she heard them, the volume coasting over her skin and seeping through her pores.
"'M gonna make tonight the best night of your life, yeah?" he pressed, speaking directly to her though the world had their own view of the moment.
Another stunned wave touched (Y/N)'s bones, stuttering her lungs and knocking her breath askew. If she wasn't being delusional—something she couldn't be one hundred percent sure of—there was a chance Harry's eyes touched over the neckline of her top, following the line of her exposed skin.
She gave him a small nod.
He gave her another smile before rising to the full of his height once more, the stretch of his body on display. Waltzing over the stage, (Y/N) knew he was speaking, pointing out more in the crowd and doing what he did best by enchanting the masses and bending them to his will, though she didn't hear a word of it.
The trail of his gaze left behind a warmth like he had touched her with his own hands, enough pressure lingering on her skin even when another song started up.
Once the first verse of the song had played, (Y/N) felt her body come back to life slowly, the gravity of the moment beginning to turn into adrenaline. The man she had a hidden poster of had just made eye contact with her and told her he'd make her night special. Harry Styles had looked at her.
Thank god she showed up early tonight. This barricade was now holy ground as far as she was concerned.
Just as she began to sway along with the rest of the bodies around her, checking back into reality, the rockstar swaggered across the stage once more, taking his time to prowl before her.
He looked out in the crowd, reaching far back before trailing closer to where she stood just in front of him once more. He shuttered a single eye in a wink to her with a stanza of particularly suggestive lyrics dripping from his lips.
This time she couldn't help the scream that bellowed from her lungs, only spurred on by the grin on his face.
—————
"See? If you ask nicely, y'get what y'want, don't you?"
Harry's booming voice reawakened the arena. He was giving them the encore they had been begging him for once he exited the stage, the chants of his name being enough to have his band reenter with the rockstar himself following closely behind. (Y/N)'s heart thundered in her chest, cheers leaving her throat.
Mourning the end of the show could wait another ten minutes.
The opening notes of a new tune started, the shredding of the guitar screeching through the arena. (Y/N) couldn't take her eyes off of Harry as he pranced across the space, his jeans sitting low on his hips (at the right angle, she swore she saw a decidedly thick bulge at his crotch—more than just needing a readjustment).
(Y/N) only had a chance to hear the first few lines of the opening verse before a large man in all black came to block her view. If not for the fact she was currently—as promised—having the best night of her life, she would have thrown a fit. She instead attempted to crane her neck around this block and catch glimpses of Harry for the last few moments of the night.
"Sweetheart," he yelled against the bass coming from the speakers, "You're coming with me."
Blinking, (Y/N) forced her gaze to settle on this man. Just as she feared, he was looking right at her as he spoke.
Though she was largely unwilling to not pay attention to the concert of her life, she didn't think she had much of a choice in ignoring this man.
"Me?" she enunciated, pointing at herself if he wasn't able to hear her right.
"Yes, you," he said again, eyes trained on her, "Now. Before the end of the show."
Had she done something wrong? She couldn't imagine she was any more rowdy than the rest of the crowd (especially, as she still had all of her undergarments on and her nose clean), but she was the one being removed?
"Why?" she sputtered, anchoring to her spot.
The man's lips thinned, unimpressed with her pushback. "I've been asked to bring you backstage."
(Y/N) blanched at the new information. "By who?" she pressed, not entirely believing this moment.
The man sighed, his shoulders lifting. He caught her gaze, holding it as he jerked his head to gesture to the stage behind him.
Right where Harry Styles was prancing about, low slung jeans and all.
She blinked at him, flicking between his enlarged gaze to the rockstar at his back. "Really?"
"Yes," he insisted, "And I would like to take you now while we still have the space."
(Y/N) didn't immediately move, switching her eyes to Harry Styles, in all of his glistening glory. The curls on the top of his head were slick with sweat, but still managed to flop so handsomely over his features. His tattoos shuddered over his skin, animating with every belting note and roll of his body.
He had promised to make this the best night of her life, and she couldn't imagine any better way than to meet him backstage.
With the help of the man in black, she crossed the barricade with the eyes of those around her following closely behind. He led her carefully around the stage and through different equipment on quick feet, the music being left behind with the private backstage area before her.
Chancing a look over her shoulder, Harry, with his microphone cord coiled around his hand and sparkling eyes, winked at her once more.
—————
Sitting alone in what she figured was Harry's dressing room, (Y/N) could hear the final encore being played through the walls. While a part of her was itching to run back out, to catch those moments she had been looking forward to from the second she had bought her ticket, she was practically bolted to her spot.
All around her were small relics of the man out on that stage. An herbal candle sat with a pool of melted wax on the vanity table, anchoring down a blue cloth. Flecks of glitter seemed to stick to near every surface, leaving specks of light dotted across every surface, including the familiar container of makeup remover reflected in the mirror. A faded t-shirt was on the ground, next to a rumpled pair of athletic sweats. A bottle of cologne balanced on the edge, just a bump away from falling to the floor.
Her fingers fumbled in her lap, her heart puttering in her chest. She was backstage at a Harry Styles concert after being requested by the man himself. Knowing his discography well enough, every note that rocked through the walls acted like a ticking time clock, counting down to the moment she would no longer be alone in this dressing room.
Muffled through the arena, she heard the music crescendoing, heavy drumbeats and addicting guitar riffs ruffling the structure. Harry's voice played over the music, though it was clear he wasn't singing. Was he saying his goodbyes for the night?
The thought had her heart jumping into her throat, head going blank.
Should she stand up? Should she meet him up there? Would he like her outfit or was the cutout between her breasts too much? Oh god, what was she going to say?
Her pulse was kicked into overdrive when she heard a ruckus start up backstage, more voices piping up than she'd heard in the last ten minutes. Harry's voice had disappeared from the muffled tone he'd had on stage, making her pulse kick up that much more.
How close was he? Was anyone else going to come back here with him? Would he think her pants were stupid?
The long line of questions came to a halt the second the doorknob turned, the sound seemingly louder than the band playing the show out back on the stage. A muffled goodbye sounded on the other side before the first glimpse of the rockstar could be seen.
He was looking over his shoulder, speaking to someone she couldn't see around the broad strokes of his frame. His bare skin shimmered with sweat and glitter, animating his tattoos over the blocks of his muscles. The denim of his jeans were tight around his thighs though the waist still managed to fall some down his hips, showcasing a pair of leafy tattoos. He was saying something, a string of words that she missed completely over the roaring in her ears.
It felt like hours, watching him say his final goodbyes to whoever, before he finally turned around to face her.
Had her mouth already been dropped open, or was that just a side effect of seeing the green of his eyes up close?
"Hi," he smiled at her, moving towards his vanity table to retrieve the blue cloth held down under the candle, "How are you?"
Blinking, (Y/N) practically stumbled to her feet, her hands behind her back in a fumbling mess. "Hi. I'm good, thank you. How are you?"
A small smile touched his lips, "'M alright, thanks. 'M Harry."
It was (Y/N)'s turn to smile, a breath of laughter falling from her lips. "Oh, you're Harry! Got it," she attempted to joke, feeling one of the many strings tensing her shoulders being cut when he rewarded her with a bubbling laugh. "I'm (Y/N)."
"Nice to meet you, (Y/N)," he shared, a single curl flopping over his forehead as he ran the cloth over his face and down his neck, "'M happy y'made it back here—was worried y'weren't going to come after seeing y'talk to Paul."
"I was just a little confused," she explained, noting the way his eyes dropped to her lips as she spoke, "I couldn't believe you were actually asking for me."
"No?" he pressed, raising a brow with a quirk to his lips. He leant against the vanity counter, giving her all of his attention as if he wasn't shirtless with a sweaty chest staring at her. "And why is that, hm?"
Somehow, even without the amps and speakers booming throughout the venue, his voice held more impact in the quiet dressing room. The bass seemed heavier, his accent more drawling, the draw of his lips more alluring without a microphone in the way.
"Um," she started, blinking the stars out of her eyes, "Just... There was a lot going on out there—I didn't think you could even see me over the lights—or the bras."
Harry laughed, dimples popping into his cheeks with a light in his eyes. "Yeah, there was a lot out there tonight. Want anything before 's all cleaned up out there?"
He gestured out the door of his dressing room while (Y/N) shrugged. "Maybe. Was there anything pretty?"
The way he let his eyes drop heavily to her body, touching over the cutout on her top and the soft of her midriff exposed by the cropped fit almost made (Y/N) want to stumble back. When he dared to meet her eyes once more, he had a coy curl to his lips as if she hadn't been there as he dragged his eyes over her.
"I can think of a couple of things that might look pretty on you."
Despite the small laugh that puffed from her lips, her heart hammered in her chest. She hadn't wanted to get too far ahead of herself when she was first asked to meet him backstage, but it was hard to ignore the way he looked at her and still think this was nothing more than a friendly conversation.
"If there's anything you don't want, I'll take," she countered, hoping he couldn't hear the sound of her heartbeat with the way it was rushing through her ears.
The coy smile on his mouth turned into something more genuine then, amusement in his eyes. "Yeah? Y'saw anything y'think I need to take home?"
Even with the squeeze of her lungs, the nervous pit in her stomach, (Y/N) saw her own opportunity being dangled before her. She hoped she came off as nonchalant as she pictured as she shrugged, canting her head with a slight lick of her gaze down his chest. "I think you look good enough right now."
While there was still a lingering flush on his cheeks from the stage, the adrenaline clearly visible on his features, her words seemingly only fanned him hotter. The cloth he held was now dropped to the vanity, his empty hands coming to rest on the lip of the counter behind him. His arms flexed at his sides, veins popping out on his forearms.
"Good enough for what?" he pressed, a spark skittering through his eyes.
He hadn't shot her down. He was flirting back. Oh, god.
What would one of the women in the magazines say? How did they flirt with him so effortlessly to be invited for a fanciful—even if fleeting—night?
"You tell me," she countered, the only syllables that were able to squeak through her throat.
Dimples were deep in his cheeks by the time he turned around, collecting the bottle of makeup remover before pouring some on his cloth. He began wiping away the glitter as he found her eyes in the mirror.
"The band and I are going back to the hotel with a few friends—maybe party a little. Y'wanna come?"
Bubbling excitement like what she felt out on the arena floor reentered her stomach. A bright smile touched her features.
"I'd love to."
—————
"Pick your poison, darling."
(Y/N) didn't even know there were hotel rooms with fully stocked bars, but here was one right before her. A liquor tray behind the counter was decorated with plenty of bottles and decanters, more than half already missing gulps. Harry was acting as her bartender while the rest of the band and various guests were traipsing around the suite, the door to the hallway left wide open as they milled in and out. Music pumped through a set of stereo speakers, a member of Harry's band acting as DJ with various records and cassettes being switched in and out upon the players.
More than one familiar face swept through the suite, people she'd seen in the crowd of the arena tonight alongside those she'd met backstage. Some left the bathrooms with wide eyes and sniffling noses, others with hair bigger than when they had gone in and lipstick askew with a partner behind them. It was nowhere near the kind of party she had pictured when following after Harry, but she'd never been around rockstars before either.
Flitting her gaze over the various bottles surrounding Harry, (Y/N) canted her head. "Anything sweet."
Harry hummed, a slight quirk to his lips as he started fiddling about the different bottles. "Should've guessed, hm?"
"Why do you say that?"
Leaning on the bar, arms folded underneath her chest with her breasts pushed up, (Y/N) watched with her eyes lingering on his hands. All of his stage adornments, including his rings, had been left behind when he changed into something decidedly less ostentatious for this party, leaving the length of his fingers bare for her eyes to feast upon.
"Jus' had a feeling," he smiled at her, his eye falling into a wink.
(Y/N) watched with the same rapt attention she had given him on stage as he mixed her drink. He pulled bottles of clear liquor together with various juices, working in smooth movements as a brightly colored cocktail came together. Everything he did came off as fluid and practiced, the same kind of ease he offered to the stage with every note he belted and swagger of his hips.
"We jus' got here," Harry murmured, knocking her attention from his hands to his amused gaze, "Y'can't keep looking at me like that unless you're ready for our night to end."
Her breath caught in her throat. He'd told her earlier that this entire floor had been booked out for him and his band, but his room was at the very end. The biggest suite, he'd said—with a terrace and everything.
Would it be so bad to find out what his room looked like so early?
Attempting her best nonchalant facade, (Y/N) shrugged, a coy smile on her face. It was enough to make Harry laugh.
She could see him open his mouth to say something only to be cut off by a shout of his name from across the room. He whipped to face the call, the baby curls drying on the back of his neck giving a bounce at the motion. (Y/N) turned to follow his line of sight, seeing a semi-familiar face she had passed when backstage heading towards them with a beaming smile.
"I didn't know you were here! Took you forever to clean up, I thought you were spending the night at the venue," the man joked, pushing long dreads over his shoulder. His dark eyes danced over to (Y/N) for a fleeting second, his grin widening. "Is this your friend Mitch was telling me about?"
Rounding the bar with a fluorescent drink in his hand, Harry handed off the glass to (Y/N) (no ice, the crystal warm from his hand) before slinging his arm over her shoulder. She felt a shiver touch the bottom of her spine, though she used all of her effort to keep it pinned down.
Harry shrugged her closer to him, the side of her breast pushing against him through the thin material of her top. "Yeah, this is (Y/N). Met at the show—saw her pretty face right in the front row."
Harry's friend looked at her with raised brows, amusement laced in his eyes as he followed the length of Harry's arm around her shoulders. "Yeah? Liked the show?"
(Y/N) eagerly nodded, Harry's hold slipping from around her shoulders to be readjusted around her waist with a flex. She could feel his eyes on her face as he awaited her answer. "Loved it," she chirped, smiling with a cant to her head, "I've never seen him live before, so tonight was really amazing. I feel really lucky."
Maybe she was laying it on thick—she already made it backstage with his arm around her waist, she didn't have to catch his attention anymore—,but she liked seeing the dimples denting into his cheeks as he listened to her.
"I didn't know tonight was your first time," he mumbled to her, voice low as if they didn't have another person standing just in front of them, watching on with amused eyes.
"I'd feel lucky too if I were you," the man continued, his voice lilting in a tease, "Most of Harry's friends never make it past the dressing room."
"Alright, Jay," Harry cut in, voice louder than a moment before as he suddenly steered them towards the end of the conversation, "I'll see y'later. Thanks."
Jay only laughed it off, seemingly having achieved the reaction he wanted from Harry. (Y/N) didn't let herself linger on the motion of Harry's other friends—she knew she wasn't first and would most likely not be the last. Some of her wildest dreams had been reached just by meeting him, she could be happy with whatever she was granted tonight. Even if it was just that: one night.
"Sorry," Harry murmured, saving face as he guided (Y/N) away from Jay and towards the sitting area where most of the musicians were huddled together with drinks and records splayed across the coffee table. She ignored the faint lines of white scattered over the recognizable covers. "He likes to get on m'nerves, I think."
"It's alright," (Y/N) reassured, watching as Harry sunk into the one cushion left on the couch, "I thought it was funny."
Harry raised a brow at her, a sly smile on his lips, "'M sure y'did. C'mere darling."
He gestured her to his lap, opening his arms for her to plant herself on his thighs. Looking at him with his eyes trained upwards at her, sparkling and a bit lazy after putting on an energetic show, (Y/N) felt her skin warm. She had to make a point to see from tripping all over herself to take up his invitation.
There were eyes all around that watched as she took her spot on Harry's spread thighs, taking note of his arm wrapping around her middle to keep her steady. She had her own eyes down looking at her pretty drink as she hid the smile on her face. The cropped cut of her top allowed his palms to press against the bare skin of her waist, calluses roughening his touch from his years of playing different guitars. She was sure he could feel the line of goosebumps that rose in the wake of his touch, including the circuit his thumb started up around the waistline of her pants.
(Y/N) brought her head up when she heard the call of Harry's name from one of the many sitting around the coffee table. The guitarist—Mitch—had his head tilted, looking at Harry with a sly smile on his face.
"Mitchell?" Harry drawled, a teasing lilt to his voice as he pulsed a hand on (Y/N)'s waist.
"Are you going to introduce any of us to your friend?"
While Mitch and others in the circle didn't look particularly surprised to see someone on Harry's arm, it appeared Jay wasn't kidding with his comment about a rare few of Harry's friends making it past the dressing room.
"This is (Y/N), everyone," Harry relented, his voice low despite the music blasting just behind them. Nonetheless, everyone gave him rapt attention as if he had a microphone in his hand. "(Y/N), this is everyone."
"Hi, everyone," (Y/N) smiled, hoping she came off funnier than she sounded to herself, "Nice to meet you."
She could feel Harry laugh, his chest puffing from behind her. She took another sip of her drink, hiding her proud smile.
Conversation bubbled up then, some words slurred and slow while others were rambling at a rapid pace. (Y/N) sipped her drink as she took in the environment, listening in as if she were watching a movie. Harry's rumbling voice was an anchor at her back, his hand on her thigh keeping her attention as she tuned into his voice.
Behind her, he and Mitch were talking about the new customer Fender that was being made in Harry's honor. Perfect for the next album, she'd heard, the information brightening up her face.
"What are y'smiling about, hm? Something funny?" Harry's lips brushed the back of her ear, his voice drifting down the column of her neck. As he spoke he shifted his hand up to land on her waist, giving the curve a tickling squeeze. She jumped in his lap, holding her drink tight to her chest as she let out a gasping laugh.
"No," she smiled, turning to face him as he gazed up at her, "Just... New music? Already?"
"'M always working on something," he murmured, keeping his voice quiet as if conspiring with her on sensitive secrets.
Curling in his chest, (Y/N) could still hear the rivers of conversations flowing around them, eyes that landed on her as she cuddled up to a rockstar, but she kept her eyes on him. "Really? But you're on tour."
He shrugged around her. "There's always something to write about," he told her, eyes dragging down her face until he landed on her lips, "Something worth making a song about."
Her skin heated, feeling his gaze as if he touched her with his calloused fingers. Feeling his attention so heavily was like finishing her drink and standing on a rooftop over the city: exhilarating. How had anyone before her survived these kinds of moments—been bold enough to sit through them without taking down every second and memorializing it?
She wasn't sure what he saw in her face, but whatever it was had the corner of his lips turning upwards. A smug smile molded his features.
"What did I say about looking at me like that?" he murmured, his words teasing though the grip on her hip was far from.
Canting her head, she matched his gaze, his grip on her keeping her grounded. "I thought you liked it."
In that moment, his eyes seemingly darkened, pupil dilating. If not for the rest of the noise around them—the music and loud conversation—she wondered what his instincts would have urged him to do.
"I do," he crooned, shifting under her with his hand still on her hip.
The way he moved underneath her had her position adjusted on his lap, pushing the curve of her ass right against the middle of his thighs. A hard ridge pressed against her. Emphasizing his point exactly.
"Oh," she sighed, feeling breathless as if she were still flush against the barricade with an illuminated rockstar before her. It was that memory of him swaggering about the stage, picking her face out and singing the songs she'd listened to like gospel, that had a burst of confidence in her chest. That rockstar had picked her.
Keeping her eyes on his, she whispered, "Can I hear some of the new music? In your suite?"
She didn't have to elaborate any further, Harry catching on to the undercurrent to her words. A single dimple touched his cheek, his hand pulsing around her hip. "Let's go."
(Y/N) stood first off of his lap with Harry following after, reaching to take her hand in his.
"Leaving already?" Mitch piped up, his eyes dancing with amusement as Harry turned to face him.
"Gonna show her some of the stuff we've been working on," Harry drawled, nonchalant as he began inching towards the door, "Back in m'room."
"Coming back?"
Harry glanced at (Y/N) then, a silent communication that had her sheepishly smiling. "Probably not."
"Right," Mitch said, brows bouncing over his eyes, "See you in the morning."
Without much ceremony, Harry made their getaway for the night, leading her out into the hall. Stragglers were stationed around the ajar door, some with a lingering powder under their nose, others with hair messed up more than what (Y/N) was sure was intentional, matching the smudged makeup. Harry only gave them an acknowledging nod before heading down the corridor with her in tow.
It was a short walk to the door, though (Y/N) hoped to be able to recall every step down the hall, every beat of her heart against her ribs in the morning.
"After you," he crooned, opening the door with a flourish as he stood to the side.
She gave him a smiling nod as she crossed the threshold. The press of his gaze could be felt on her backside.
Flicking the lights on, a true suite was presented to her. She could only see the bedroom through a cracked door. The main living area, though much more put together compared to the room they'd just left, it was still clear a rockstar was crashing there. Random clothing was strewn about the space, open suitcases full of stage clothing as well as casual pieces. A heavy boombox with an array of tapes scattered around it was placed atop the television.
It wasn't nearly as bad as she had thought it would be, given the rumors of what rock stars got up to in hotel rooms, but she figured that was what the extra rooms were for. It wasn't much fun sleeping in a mess, especially when on stage every night with little sleep to boot.
"Didn't have time to clean up today, sorry," Harry said, closing the door behind them.
(Y/N) smiled over her shoulder at him, setting her cocktail on the counter of the kitchenette as she walked deeper into the suite. "Too busy?"
Dimples in his cheeks, he walked slowly as he followed her in. "A little bit."
Stepping around the mess, she found herself by the sound system, rifling through the cassettes he had around it. The plastic casing gleamed in the light, more than a handful scattered on the television stand. A few familiar, newer albums stood out.
Bowie, Station to Station. Queen, Day at the Races. Ramones' debut. Elton John, Blue Moves.
One empty case was beside the player, the cover flipped open with the tape missing. Flicking it back, the cover of ABBA's Arrival shone.
"ABBA?"
Behind her, Harry slipped an arm around her waist, looking over her shoulder. "What? Y'don't like disco?"
"I do," she laughed, turning around to face him, "Just didn't picture you as a dancing queen, that's all. You look a little bit older than seventeen."
Harry clasped his hands behind her back, his fingers pressing into the bare skin presented through the crop of her shirt. His features were softened as he matched her gaze, eyes hooded and heavy. "Does that disqualify me?"
"Probably." She wasn't sure when they started whispering, when his fingertips on her back began to creep under the hem of her top, but she melted into his touch with her own hands settling on his chest.
"Still like me?"
It should have been annoying to hear him speak this way. It wasn't hard to detect the cockiness—near arrogance—in his voice; he knew the answer before he'd even posed the question. It should have turned her off and had her taking her leave.
But, it only had the opposite effect. His confidence was a warmth hitting her stomach.
With him so close, their bodies flush, she didn't have to try very hard when she shifted her hips to feel the bulge in his pants pressing to the small of her stomach.
"Yeah," she answered simply, voice suddenly breathless.
Just as she expected, a smug smile had his lips curling. His hooded gaze traveled around her features, the tip of his tongue skimming the corner of his mouth.
"How much?"
This was the moment, she decided. There was no way she was in a rockstar's hotel room, after being plucked from the crowd at his request, feet away from his bedroom, and not going to take the opportunity that was being offered on a silver platter.
"I can show you."
That had to have been what he wanted to hear, given the fact he surged forward and sealed his lips to hers.
Unsurprisingly (not that she'd thought about it, or anything), his lips were soft, molding to the shape of her own glossed pair. He slotted his mouth to fit her top lip between the pillows of his two, the tip of his tongue slicking the seam. The smoky taste of the whisky he'd drunk back in the other suite lingered on his tongue, mixing with the sweet liquor of her own sips.
His hands on her back flattened out, leaving on her bare skin between the waist of her pants and the cropped hem of her top, with the other slipping underneath. His palm was aligned with the knobs of her spine, spanning between her shoulder blades under the thin material of her top.
Tilting his head, he deepened the kiss as he pulled her closer. The soft sound of their lips parting and meeting once more filled his hotel room, slick and messy. His tongue snaked out, sampling a taste of her own when she opened her mouth just enough for him. (Y/N)'s chest shuddered.
She was kissing Harry fucking Styles.
She hadn't kept a diary in years, but she was going to have to crack open a new one just to write out every detail of this moment. (Though, she might leave out the bit about how ABBA's Dancing Queen got them there).
"What are y'smiling about?"
"Hm?" (Y/N) hummed, hands traveling up his chest to follow the broad stretch of his shoulders.
He pulled away, keeping his body close to hers as he gazed down at her. His lips were glossed with their shared spit, his pupils blown. "You're smiling. What's funny, hm?"
His hand under her top shifted until he had his palm over her side, lining up with the ladder of her ribs. Goosebumps touched over her heated skin.
"Nothing," she murmured, her own hands moving until she had his cheeks cupped in her palms. "Just... This is crazy."
His eyes practically sparkled with the way she breathlessly spoke. Leaning close, he nudged his nose against hers, eyes slitted. "Yeah?"
Gone was the smile on her face as she listened to the same voice that had soundtracked her life for the last handful of years. All while he looked at her with kiss-swollen lips and hooded eyes, his hard cock pressing through the material of his pants.
"Yeah," she parroted, breathy with the word sweeping over his lips.
It was his turn to smile, surging forward to smear his lips against hers. It was a lingering press, just a bit clumsy with the way his nose knocked hers. She was expecting him to tip his head and deepen the kiss once more, only for him to pull away.
"I think I promised some new music, right, love?"
Blinking up at him through her lashes, in a second she was transported back to the other suite, where she had conjured up the story of sneaking to his room to hear new tracks. That felt like hours ago—like she had been a different person back then. Someone who had never kissed Harry Styles before, at least.
"Right," she smiled, playing along with the game he was proposing, "In your bedroom?"
A smile grew on his lips. "Of course. Where else?"
She let out a breathy laugh as she followed after him, hands twined together as they left behind the cassettes and strewn clothing for his darkened bedroom. Different from the rest of the suite, only lamps are left to light the room. Only a single standing lamp beside the rumpled bed was flicked on, leaving a small wash of light sitting on the messy sheets and the bedside table on the opposing side. The space holding a smokey sweet scent, matching the fragrance of his skin. A mess of unlabelled cassettes occupied the bedside table, with another more compact player off to the side.
Shooting her a lopsided smile, Harry led her to the side table. His hand still in hers, he rifled through the tapes with his free hand.
"What do y'want to listen to first?"
The blank bricks held no indication of what could be on them other than a silver sharpie marking them as demos with different numbers.
"This is your new music?" she murmured, eyes widening when she realized what she was looking at.
"Mhm," he hummed, the weight of his eyes hitting the line of her profile, "Wanna hear m'favorites?"
Looking at him through the fan of her lashes, she gave him a nod, pretending as if she wasn't as excited as she really was. She figured being giddy over a couple of tapes wasn't exactly a sexy look.
Deft fingers pulled out a tape marked as Demo #4 before setting it into the player. Through the speakers, the sound was crackly and quiet compared to the records of his voice she had in her bedroom. The guitar started first, the chords wavy and psychedelic, the guitarist letting the notes linger as if they were melting through the speakers.
Just as a familiar voice sounded over the notes, Harry pulled her flush to his chest with the help of the grip on her hand. His free hand cupped her cheek, his lips meeting hers in a clumsy mess. He fit her bottom lip between his two, immediately touching the tip of his tongue to the full center of her lip. (Y/N) didn't have to think before she had her mouth parted, letting him in once more.
Letting go of his hand, she curled her fingers into the material of his shirt, clinging to him. She hadn't been aware her nails could be felt through the thin fabric until a shuddering breath rocked his chest.
Walking her the short steps backwards, Harry blindly guided her to the edge of the bed. Her knees gave way to the mattress before she fell backwards, Harry following after with his hips fit between her thighs.
The chains of his necklace dangled over the base of her throat, a cool point of clarity against the rising warmth of her skin. His hands skated down her sides, grazing the bare skin presented from the cut of her top. Her hips fit against his like a puzzle piece, cradling as he pushed against her core with lingering rocks.
While his hands roamed over her form with their lips locked, (Y/N) took advantage of her position under him and locked a leg over his hip. Reaching up, she racked her fingers through his hair. The curls threaded around her fingers, a low rumble coming from his throat when she pulled just enough at the roots.
The bass of his moan came just as there was a peak to his voice playing through the cassette player. (Y/N) was reminded she was making out with a rockstar to his own unreleased music. Her hips rocked upwards at the thought.
Harry began to kiss down her chin, over her neck, and to the shelf of her collarbones while he fit the lengths of his fingers under the material of her top. Her bare skin sang for him, blood rushing through her veins.
His lips travelled down until he hit the neckline of her shirt. "Can I take this off?" he murmured into her skin, the words sinking into her pores.
"Uh-huh," she nodded, goosebumps rising when the tip of his nose brushed her neck. "Please."
She could feel the way he smiled at her response, the curl pressed into her skin before he bit at the line of her collarbone. Her grip in his hair tightened at the short sting, her leg curling that much more around his hip.
As promised, Harry, with his hands underneath her shirt, helped slide it over her head. Reluctantly, she pulled her hands from his hair and raised up from the bed long enough for him to slip it off her form and for the garment to become another piece of clothing puddled on the floor.
Without a bra, her breasts were exposed to the buttery light of the lamp. Her nipples peaked in the cool air, her chest rising and falling with each breath she pulled in. Harry didn't wait before he lowered his face to her breasts, smearing his lips over the swells. He scraped his teeth along the plush skin, leaving tender marks in his wake. Her hands once again found his hair, burying her fingers among the strands.
After a particularly harsh bite, she pulled his hair harshly. She could feel the sly smile that touched at his lips.
"Feeling good, baby? Like it when I bite you?"
She gave a clumsy nod of her head, mouth opened in a soundless nod. With her hands in his hair, she pulled him to her nipple, wanting the sting of his bite on the tender bud.
He didn't immediately give in, only pecking a soft kiss to the peak before looking up at her through the frame of his lashes. "Want me rough? Like it like that?"
Mindlessly nodding, she keened at the rumbling of his voice. "I like it rough," she bubbled, speaking over the unedited melodies of his voice.
Instead of responding, Harry gave her what she wanted, his teeth scraping over her nipple. With her hands still in his hair, she gripped the strands at the roots, her back bowing into his lips. Her lips parted with a breathy moan.
Harry took care of her, his mouth skating over her breasts. His teeth left tender spots—some she almost wanted to leave bruises—with his tongue following in the way, soothing the marks. Her stomach tightened with every wet press of his mouth, his hands sliding down to her hips. He played with the waist of her bottoms, his kiss following slowly after as he trailed down the soft of her stomach. The tip of his nose skimmed her skin, a tickling feeling rising in her chest that had a burst of laughter bubbling out.
With his lips still attached to her, he peered up at her through his lashes. A slow smile stretched his lips, the curl pressing into her skin.
"You're always laughing, baby," he murmured, "What is it this time, hm?"
"Tickles," she laughed, the melody floating over the next track playing off of Demo #4.
A plume of his own rumbling laughter grazed her stomach, goosebumps raising on her skin. Cushioned by the messy, tobacco scented sheets, (Y/N) watched with laughter edging on her lips as he nuzzled into her stomach. He made a show of hitting the waist of her pants with his fingers hooked into the band.
From between her thighs, he looked up at her with hooded eyes. "Gonna take these off, baby. 'S that alright?"
"Uh-huh," she nodded. With his hair out of reach of her hands, she propped herself up on her elbows to watch as he worked, fingers curling into the sheets.
With deft hands, Harry made quick work of the garment. It didn't take long before her pants and boots were on the ground beside her discarded top, leaving (Y/N) in nothing more than a pair of string panties.
(It was done as a joke almost, when she was getting ready, to pick panties as if she was going to be showing off for someone after the show. She'd never been more grateful for that delusional choice).
Harry was still fully clothed as he took his place once more between her legs, laying the broad of his body flush to hers. Her breasts were pressed into the solid blocks of muscle of his chest, only the thin material of his top separating her skin from his. He sealed his lips to hers once more, getting a taste of her tongue against his in broad strokes.
It was her turn to start stripping him, keeping her mouth to his as she plucked at the neckline of his shirt.
He pulled away with a breath, lips spit-slicked and kiss-swollen. He looked all too satisfied with himself as he gazed down at her, pulling off his shirt. Throwing it somewhere in the room, (Y/N) didn't have a chance to catch the landing before he was crowding around her once more.
"Trying to get me naked?" he murmured, a teasing thread through his tone, "Think 'm that easy, love?"
"I'm hoping," she smiled, pecking a messy kiss to the corner of his mouth. She could taste the smear of her lipstick on his skin.
Chasing after her mouth, he trailed his lips over her cheek, following the line of her cheekbone. Whispering to her, lips brushing her ear, he said, "Y'want me, baby? Tell me."
Between the press of his covered cock against her pussy, the rumble of his voice through her chest and against the shell of his ear, her eyes fluttered to a close. Her mouth was dropped in a gape, her breathing stilted.
"I want you," she said, suddenly breathless, "I-I've thought about this before."
She could hear the smirk in his voice. "Yeah? What've y'thought about, baby?"
"Yeah," she repeated dazedly, sucking in a harsh gasp when ground down hard between her legs. "I—um—I wondered if all the stories were true. If-if you are really like how everyone says."
"Is that why y'dressed like this tonight? Hoping you'd find out for yourself?"
She didn't want to melt over how cocky he was, how sure of himself over assuming she had dressed with him in mind. But, he was right—she wanted him to at least see her, remember her if she was lucky enough. Only in her wildest dreams did she imagine her cutout crop top and tight pants would land her here.
With her eyes still closed, she nodded her head. "I wanted to know if your songs were true."
"Which ones?"
"The ones," she stalled when she felt his hand slip between their bodies, tickling over soft curves of her body until he reached the apex of her thighs. "Um—the ones about... You sing a lot about eating pussy."
His laugh was warm, bubbling over her. "I do, don't I?"
"Almost two albums worth," she teased, a lighthearted tone running under her words before she was cut off.
Between her legs, he made no ceremony of the way he pulled her panties to the side and dragged his fingers through her folds. It wasn't until he split her open that she realized just how wet she'd become. Slick noises from between her legs filled the bedrooms, two of Harry's fingers slipping through her slit in long strokes, prodding at her weeping hole and nudging her clit, in a smooth circuit.
"What did y'think about when you'd hear those songs?" Harry asked as if she had any mind left to comprehend anything but his touch.
Squeezing her eyes shut when he circled her clit in a teasing touch, she dug her nails into the strapping muscles of his biceps. Under her hands she could feel the way the hand between her legs had his arm flexing with every movement.
"Huh?"
Through a smile he pressed a messy kiss to the space before her ear. "What did y'think about when y'had your fingers in your pussy?"
The blunt wording had her insides tightening, a squeeze she was sure he could feel as he brushed over her opening.
"How did I fuck you in your pretty head, hm? Tell me, baby."
Her mouth had a mind of its own as she started blabbering off without a thought. "Hard—You'd fuck me hard. I-I'd let you do anything to me, daddy."
His hand between her legs lagged, lingering close to her clit but not close enough. "What was that?"
"What?" she mumbled, turning her head in hopes of catching him in a kiss.
Harry pulled away, just out of reach though he kept his hooded eyes on hers. "What did y'jus' say?"
Blinking at his question, she attempted to cast her mind back enough to catch any memory of what she said. It dawned on her slowly, the kind of word she let slip from her imagination and into the real world.
"Um," she floundered, skin flushing in a different way than just a heartbeat before.
His smile grew, lopsided and entertained over her tied tongue. Leaning over her, he nudged his nose against hers, the full of his lips just barely brushing over hers.
"Y'called me daddy."
(Y/N) didn't say anything in response. Her hands tightened around his biceps.
"Say it again, baby."
Her mouth dropped into a gape. He wanted her to say it again?
"What?"
"Say it again," he murmured, his voice melding with the crackly tape soundtracking this moment, "'S alright—I know y'want to."
How was she supposed to say no to that?
Hyperaware of the way her voice wrapped around the word, she hoped it would be just as intriguing to him this second time.
"Daddy."
A rumbling moan left his chest just before he dove down, slotting his lips against hers in a messy kiss. Between her legs, he didn't hesitate before he slipped his fingers inside. The length of the digits were fit snug inside, opening her up as he gave a few cursory thrusts through. She could barely even kiss him back, her face screwing up in pleasure at the jolting touch with her lips parting. Harry slipped his tongue inside, licking over her own as he stroked his fingers through her pulsing walls.
Her breathing completely stalled when he curled his fingers, the calloused pads pressing into the spongy spot hidden among her walls. There were only a few times when she'd had the patience to find the spot herself, her memories of the sensation paling in comparison to what was happening to her now. Instinctively, she wanted to close her thighs, keep his hand from moving anywhere away from her. Harry's free hand came down and cupped the soft inside of her thigh, and splayed her legs open wide for him.
"Again," he ordered, the command falling on her tongue.
It didn't take a single thought before she was falling to his instruction. "Daddy—fuck."
"Feel good, baby?" he crooned, breathy and heated against her mouth.
"Uh-huh, uh-huh," she whined.
"I bet it does," he teased, "Can barely keep still for me, huh? For daddy?"
Her stomach wound itself tight at the sound of his accent, the same voice she'd listened to through her headphones and the crackles of her record player, wrapped around the title. This was what her fantasies were made of.
"Liked that?" he drawled, a sly smile working onto her lips, "Could feel how much y'liked that. Is this what y'thought about when you'd fuck yourself, baby?"
Rocking her hips up into his hand, he never lagged on circling the spongy wall inside her, only breaking when he opted to thrust deep inside to keep her on edge. His palm was pressed headily against her clit, the heel smeared heavily over it with every lingering stroke through her insides.
"Al-always you," she breathlessly admitted, "Always wanted you there with me."
"I know, baby. Y'need me, huh?"
"Yes, daddy," she panted, eyes rolling to the back of her head.
Dropping his forehead to rest on the apple of her cheek, she felt Harry's own heavy breaths sweeping over her heated skin. "You're gonna come for me, baby. I want y'to come on m'fingers, then 'm gonna fuck you like y'want."
He didn't give her any room to respond as he kept his palm heavy on her clit and drilled the pads of his fingers to the sensitive spot inside her. He didn't relent, her senses becoming overwhelmed with nothing but him. Even the sheets smelled of him, there was nowhere she could turn without finding more of him to pull in.
Her toes curled as she allowed herself to sink into the pleasure brewing in her stomach, her nails digging into the flesh of his biceps. She could feel her insides tightening, ribboning together in a contracting bow. (Y/N) wasn't even sure if her lungs were working around the pounding of her heart, her breathing shallow.
Suddenly, the pleasure she was feeling and floating in was too much. Her muscles were bunched almost too tight, snug around his fingers and sucking him in as if there were more to be taken.
Letting go of his arm, she reached for his wrist for an anchor. "I—Wa—Harry, I—"
"I know, baby, I know," he breathed, shifting until he caught her swollen lips in a kiss, "You're gonna squirt f'me, yeah? Make a mess with me."
"I—I've never—I can't—"
"You can. You can and you will, baby. Squirt for daddy."
The culmination of the way he talked to her—the rockstar she'd admired for years—the weight of his body pinning her to the mattress, the sound of his unreleased music filtering through the heated room, and every stroke of his fingers through her pulsing walls had her giving way to his command.
(Y/N) swore every bit of her body bunched, her hand tight around the bones of his wrist, toes curls, and eyes squeezed shut. Harry never relented, working her through the heaviest weight in her stomach. In a heartbeat, everything her body was squeezing, holding inside herself, let go.
A gush came from between her legs, rushing out around the plug of his fingers in her pussy. Every shallow motion of his hand against her went from slick to completely wet sounding, every beat of his fingers coaxing another rush of cum from her.
With her mouth dropped in a wordless gape, (Y/N) felt Harry's eyes on her with the way her skin buzzed, hyperaware. Her mind was cast elsewhere, miles away with her body anchored right where she was underneath him. She wasn't sure when she would come back—if she even wanted to with the way the feeling washed over each of her nerve endings.
"Look at that," he murmured in awe, his voice finally sounding like more than a rumble through the rushing heartbeat in her ears. "Jus' like I asked. So good, baby. So good f'me."
The descent was slow, the aftershock of her orgasm lingering in her bones until it finally relented enough for her to crack her eyes open. Harry looked down at her, satisfied with dark eyes trained on her features. With a jolting touch to her clit, he pulled his hand out from her pulsing walls, leaving her swollen and sensitive between her thighs.
She could feel the inside of her thighs slick with her release, Harry's hand that landed on her hip just as sticky. Dipping his head down, he caught her in a languid kiss, nose nudging the bridge of hers. He was a bit too proud of himself, she thought, a dazed smile touching her lips.
"Told you, y'could," he mumbled into her kiss, "Gotta listen to me more, hm?"
"Maybe next time," she sighed, too out of it to try too hard to play along.
"Maybe, next time," he repeated, letting out a plume of laughter for the both of them. Letting go of her hip, she could feel Harry fiddling with the waist of his pants, fingertips brushing against her sensitive core. "Ready f'me to fuck you?
Her lashes fluttered in a blink, remembering his promise of giving her more tonight. Peering down at where his hands pushed down the band of his pants, she watched as his cock bobbed against his toned stomach. It was flushed red, head ruddy and slick with a vein vining along the shaft. A pearl of precum clung to the blocked muscles of his abs, where the length hit high under his navel.
Just the sight of his hard cock had her stomach twining once more. Truthfully, she wouldn't have imagined anything less—not with the way he carried himself.
"Baby," Harry sang, grabbing her attention, "Are y'ready? Gotta say it—tell me y'want me."
Whatever he saw on her face was enough to have a dimple denting his cheek, more than satisfied with the desire in her eyes. "I want you," she said, despite the quivering muscles in her thighs, "Please, daddy."
His features shifted at her words, darkening as his eyes dragged heavily over her body. The way he looked at her was enough to have goosebumps on her skin, lungs squeezing.
"Think 'm gonna fit?" he crooned, fisting his length as he dragged the crown through her slit.
Before she could answer, he laid his cock against the small of her stomach, lining it up to show just how far inside he would reach once sinking in. His balls pressed against her clit, setting a jolt up her spine. She could feel him throbbing, matching the rhythm of her heart.
"We-We'll make it fit."
His laugh was melodious, lighthearted amongst the atmosphere cultivated between them. He cut himself off when he reared his hips back and nudged the head of his cock against her opening, a soft wet noise slicking through the room. Nothing seemed to be too funny, then.
Reaching for the wrist to the hand keeping her thighs spread, (Y/N) anchored herself to him with the grip. She felt her walls split open as he pushed through, the flare of his head nudging through the squeezing pulses. A lingering whine sung from her throat, breathless and pitched.
Harry seemingly held his breath as he bottomed out inside her, his base smearing against her clit. He reached the farthest parts of her, crowding in her stomach. A whine of his name fell from her lips, her head falling back into the mattress with her eyes falling closed.
Falling over her, Harry rested his forehead on the shelf of her collarbones, a heavy breath fanning across her heated skin. The press of his body atop hers was a comforting weight, keeping her wriggling form steady among the sheets.
A whispered curse was felt against her skin just before Harry reared his hips back. The slide of his cock through her walls gave a pleasant burn, reminding her just how far she was stretching to fit him in. The slick of her gushing orgasm was more than enough to help him through the pulsing, wet noises sodding from where their bodies joined.
Just as she adjusted to the slide of his length, Harry thrusted forward once more, keeping her stretched around him. He curated a rhythm, spearing through her in lingering draws. The breath was knocked out of her everytime, matching the heavy breaths Harry panted.
"So wet for me, baby," he murmured, voice strained, "Fuck—Gonna make y'squirt for me again, yeah? Gonna do it again for daddy?"
A loud moan filtered from her, reverberating through her chest with her head thrown back. This wasn't going to take long, she was sure. She was already twisted up inside, incredibly sensitive given the kind of pleasure he'd given her just minutes before. Every time he pulled out, leaving just his tip inside, the ridge ground against the spongy spot hidden between her walls. As soon as he sank inside, her clit was pressed against his base. Each touch stole her breath, lungs stilted.
"Uh-huh, uh-huh," she frantically agreed, "I—I'm so close—fuck."
"I know y'are," he crooned, teeth gritted, "'M gonna—Where do y'want me, baby?
Her answer was immediate, a breathy moan, "My tits."
She could feel the way he twitched inside her, nudging hard against her snug walls. "I can do that for you, baby. Is thi-this what you've thought about—what y'wanted when y'came to m'show tonight?"
Reaching up and looping her arms around his neck, she pulled him close once more, their mouths resting against one another though there was no energy to be had to turn it into a kiss. "You made me so wet during the show," she admitted, the words sweeping across his mouth, "I wanted you to fuck me so bad."
His hips bucked harshly against her own. "As soon as I saw you," he started, his voice graveled, "I knew I was taking y'home tonight."
He caught her in a kiss, messy and off-centered. He plucked his teeth against her bottom lip, the sting running down her spine in a clarifying jolt. She wrapped her legs around his hips, ankles crossing behind his back as he kept her close, disrupting his rhythm. Her toes curled as his thrusts turned into lingering rolls against her, shooting his head deeper.
This time, the growing spiral in her stomach came on quickly. The knot she was now familiar with built quickly, heavy and tight with every grind of his base against her clit. It was all too much, enough to have her crying into his mouth.
"Squirt for me, baby," he murmured, coaxing her closer to the edge with every rumble of his voice, "Show daddy how much y'want me."
She didn't have to think—unable to think—her orgasm came rushing. Though it wasn't quite as messy as the first time, she could still feel the gush between her legs, fighting against the plug of his cock. It was hard and fast, knocking the breath out of her to leave her mouth dropped in a silent gape.
It wasn't until she was beginning to see the other side that she heard Harry's voice, a string of curses, coming out through gritted teeth, could be heard. She was still high in the clouds when he pulled out, shifting up to his knees on the bed until he was hovering above her. Cracking her eyes open, she could see the same wild look in his eyes that she was sure was in hers, dazed and out of this world.
Fisting his length, his hand squelched along his shaft for only a handful of pumps until his cum gushed over her. Just as she asked, the ropes landed across her chest. Her skin was already heated enough, but the trails he left over her breasts were that much more. The sight of him working his own cock was enough to have her breathless once more, though her body was too sensitive to feel anything but a jolt through her nerve endings.
Harry with his head thrown back, moaned out her name and strings of curses. Even these moments sounded like notes, perfect for setting to music.
Once the world came back into focus, (Y/N) could feel cum drying on her chest, her own wetness sticking to the inside of her thighs. Harry dropped to the mattress beside her, chest heaving and flushed. His eyes were closed though his head was turned to face her, raspberry lips swollen and parted.
With the limited light from the lamp, he was bathed in buttery warmth. His chest sparkled with a sheen of sweat, droplets having run between the blocks of muscle underneath the inked lines of his tattoos.
He took his time joining her back in this moment, his eyes shuttered closed as he ran her eyes over his features. If she had a camera with her, she would have had to take a shot of this—the moment pretty enough to end up as an album cover. The haze in her head did little to stop her from reaching out and tracing her fingertips over his face, just barely grazing her skin in glancing touches.
A blooming smile made its way onto his lips, dimples denting his cheeks.
"C'mere," he murmured, voice graveled and rocky.
Despite the drying cum on her skin, Harry welcomed her into his arms, settling her against his chest. Holding her close, he nosed at the top of her head, uncaring about the sweat entwined in the strands of her hair.
(Y/N) practically melted into his hold. She hadn't expected cuddling was a part of the package tonight.
Her body grew heavy in his hold, the night's events catching up to her. Even without everything happening in this hotel—from the party to being invited into his suite—she had also been to a concert tonight, flush to the barricade. Her body was spent, even if her head pinged with reminders of just who had made it that way.
It wasn't until the crackling stopped that she realized that the tape finally ended, needing to be replaced or turned to the other side. She couldn't even be bummed that she missed out on these unreleased tracks. She'd hear them again someday, probably. She wouldn't have this night again.
She wasn't sure how long they laid with one another, cuddled and messy, before Harry's voice poked through the silence.
"What are y'doing this summer?"
A plume of laughter left her lips. Now was the time for small talk?
"I don't know," she smiled, "Why?"
Playing with the ends of her hair, Harry's tone was casual as he spoke, "Well, m'next show is this Saturday. Y'coming with me?"
Her heart lagged.
"What?"
It was his turn to let out a breathy laugh. "I want y'to come with me, love. We could do this every night for as long as y'want."
Before she could think better of it, another question blurted from her lips. "Why?"
Harry paused. "Y'make me laugh—and cum faster than I should, but don't tell anyone that."
In the dark of his suite, clothes puddled on the floor and bodies sticky, (Y/N) couldn't wait to pick up a diary just to write out how they laughed together.
"You're that easy?"
"I suppose I am, love."
—————
its been a super long time since I wrote something with the plain intent of writing smut so I hope this turned out well shufshfuhs thank u sm for reading, sorry for any mistakes, and please lmk if you have any fun ideas or requests!
Studio 54 hums like a dying star, and you’re moving beneath with bare skin, soft bruises, and glitter clinging where it shouldn’t. Fame tastes flat now, like watered-down champagne, until a man with a low voice and a foreign tongue asks your name. He looks at you the way storms look at cities: slow, certain, inevitable, suffocating, and exotic.
When the music fades and the night exhales, you realize something has shifted inside you. Desire, sharpened. Fate, disturbed. Somewhere out there, he’s waiting patient as sin, knowing you’ll hear him in every song until you come undone.
Harry styles x go go dancer! reader smut.
Word count: 20k
Warnings: heavy angst! avoidant reader x anxious harry lol. Decent age gap. Talk of abandonment, loneliness. Harry is kinda pushy. Reader has past trauma with sex fiens but Harry heals <3 making out. Almost car sex. Explicit sexual content, it’s smut so duh. Giving & receiving oral. P in v. Nipple play. Talk of drugs & booze. Some public stuff in a dressing room.
a/n: "A alternative universe where Harry is an older disco god who goes by the name styles."
Thursday
The air at Studio 54 isn’t air at all. It’s a living, breathing thing, a pulse, a low, insistent heartbeat that vibrates through the sticky, glittered floors. Champagne and sweat have fermented into a scent both intoxicating and sharp, clinging to your skin, drifting in spirals like smoke from the cigarette and cigar ghosts that curl around the chandeliers, which tremble under the fractured kaleidoscope of gold light. Your boots catch the strobe like molten mirrors, every step a reflection of the music thrumming beneath your ribs, body moving on autopilot, fluid and dangerous. You drift across the platform, a prism of sequins and light, floating from table to table, bottles in hand, offering liquid warmth to celebrities who barely notice, exchanging only the briefest, flickering smile with Bowie before the world swallows you again.
He’s been watching for hours. Not as a man watches a girl, no he watches like a painter would a living canvas. Every curve of your shoulder traced, the line of your back memorized, hair catching the lights like molten copper spun from the sun itself. He leans against the bar, still and observing, a figure carved from shadow and gold, lost to the chaos around him but present to you alone.
He asks a shirtless bartender for your name, for a sharpie, and writes something on a silk handkerchief, muttering, a ghost of amusement under his breath. The bartender babbles, incoherent and high, spilling fantasies and obsessions like confetti. He tucks the handkerchief into his pocket and shakes his head. “Lay off the coke,” He scolds, though his own eyes glint like mischief made flesh.
The music pounds through your chest, a living organism, pulling and twisting, making your limbs melt into its rhythm. Glitter on your skin catches every flicker of light, sparking like fireflies when a hand brushes your ankle. You glance down, heart skipping, stomach tilting.
He’s there. Standing just a breath behind you, rose tinted glasses hiding the calculation in his eyes. A light blue blouse with white trousers. Sleeves rolled to the elbows, tattoos sprawling like constellations, each mark a secret, a map you can’t yet read. Sweat glimmers on tanned skin, catching the lights in blurry shadows, while the scruff on his jaw darkens the flush of his lips, hinting at life lived fully, decades of stories etched in the curve of his face. He’s older than the kids drifting past, more dangerous, more luminous, more alive.
Your stomach twists and your cheeks burn. You’ve seen beautiful people before, but this is a gravitational pull you can’t fight. You crouch slightly, knees brushing the floor, eyes locking with his.
“Can I help you?” Your voice cuts through the bass, sharp and wary.
“Where are you from?” His accent drapes over the words like smoke curling from a candle. Familiar but foreign.
“Nowhere.”
“How long’ve you been away from nowhere?”
“Two years.” He tilts his head, curiously at your answer. Brushing ringed fingers to his lips, the metal catching the strobe. There’s calculation in that tilt, as if measuring something ineffable.
“I want to take you somewhere.”
“Where?”
“Anywhere…” He pauses looking up at you with composed desperation. “I want to talk to you.” His voice drops a volume lower after the song fades.
You shake your head, chest tight, words heavy with history. “I know what talking leads to when it comes to guys like you.”
He smirks, watching your reaction like a cat tracking a mouse. “Honey, you don’t know a thing about me.”
The vibration of his voice is physical, low and melodic, heat spiraling along your thighs. He’s right; you don’t know him. But you know the world, and you know men like him. Temporary, consumable, glittering and disposable.
“You like Fleetwood?”
“Doesn’t everybody?”
“I’m already bigger than them. Just listen to what’s playing now. What you’ve been dancing to.”
Heart skipping. You realize who it is. Him. Styles. Only he could exist this luminous, this vast, after everything else faded. Your hand hovers over his outstretched palm, questioning the wisdom of surrender. Slowly, deliberately, you place it there. Silent agreement. His other hand finds your hip, warm and grounding. As he helps lift you from the platform to the dance floor. Even in heels, he towers over you, magnetic, consuming the room in your tiny orbit. His scent was redolent of smoky vanilla and florals. He smells too clean of fresh soap even when he’s drenched in sweat. He doesn’t belong here. He’s too clean, too calculating.
“You got a boyfriend?”
“What’s it to you?”
“You’re good. Better than anyone else here tonight.”
“Is that supposed to be a compliment?” Your head tilts, hiding heat creeping up your neck. His thumb drifts over your hip, tattoos flickering under the disco ball, chest and eyes pulling at gravity itself.
“Depends,” he mumbles, lips curved, tongue brushing the bottom one. Scandalously. “Are ya taking it as one?”
“Maybe,” you whisper.
“Maybe isn’t enough. I like certainty. Promises. And right now, I’m not sure you’re mine. Especially with the way everyone else looks at you.”
You scoff, defensively. “It’s just a job. You have no right to me.”
“Not to me.” His thumb traces slow, deliberate circles over your hip. “The way you move. The way your body shines. That’s not just a job. That’s beauty. Grace. Talent. You’re like me.”
“I’m nothing like you,” you scold. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“I want to know everything,” he says softly, eyes sweeping over your face like he’s cataloging rebirth. “I wouldn’t be talking to you if I didn’t.”
“Why?”
“There are few truly beautiful things that exist without trying. You have to stop and admire them before they’re gone.”
You roll your eyes. “Of course you’re a free love cult leader.”
Before you can step away, his hand grips your wrist. Caught between fear and fascination, you blink. “I’m not that easy,” you whisper.
“Not that easy, hm?” He smirks. “Makes me wanna try harder.”
He draws you chest to chest. Palms flatten against his blue blouse, heat transferring, heart beating steady beneath your hands. You can smell the alcohol on his breath, the tartness of a cigarette.
“Dance for me. Just for me. Privately.”
“Not allowed,” You tease. “Rules.”
“Sweet girl,” He coos, surveying the chaos around. The glitter. The illegal money. The barely legals. The drugs, the booze, the sex. “Look at this. Is any of this legal? This isn’t even my country, and I can tell.”
“I’ve got a boyfriend,” you defy.
“Really? It’s always a boyfriend. One of the bartenders?”
“No.”
“Someone famous?”
“No.”
He hums, mock pity, leaning close. “Do they have twenty million? And a long,” His nose grazes yours, as his lips brush over yours. You’re hanging on every word. “Girthy,” Your cheeks flush and your body burns with anticipation at his next word. “Gibson ES?” His laugh lingers in the air as he steps back. Amused by you getting so wired up by his antics.
“Save the dance for tomorrow night,” He continued the mockery. “After my show. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll think about bringing you to dinner after.”
He slips a soft silk handkerchief into your palm. Secret. Weighted. Electric. You feel it pulse against your fingers, the world narrowing to silk and his eyes. Then he melts back into the crowd, leaving you suspended, glitter strewn, and achingly aware of how addicted you already are to Styles.
Studio 54 empties into the thin light of dawn. Bass hums fade into the clatter of early taxis, the last laughter dissolving into the icy Manhattan air. Glitter clings stubbornly to your hair, your skin, your soul. You tuck the handkerchief into your purse, a talisman, a secret promise.
Rose, an older dancer who has watched you grow like a sister of the shadows, leans against the hallway. “I don’t know what you said to Styles,” she hums, voice low, reverent. “But he kept his eyes on you. All night.”
You shrug, wiping at your face with a wipe in the bathroom mirror. “That’s how they all are. One of the girls of the week.”
Her eyes widen. “But he—”
“He gave me a note,” You interject. “With his number on it.” You tell her casually like you’re talking about the weather.
Her jaw drops. “Then why do you look bummed?”
Because every other musician, every other celebrity, every fleeting smile has ended in disappointment. All the tabloids write you as someone's girlfriend, always a fling. Never your name. Never your talent. You exhale, bitter. “He asked me to his show tomorrow night. I’m not going.”
She grips your shoulders, voice softening. “Babe, he was looking at you. Reporters call him a womanizer, sure. But he’s sensitive. Lonely. Homesick. He’s different.”
You nod, mind whirring with possibility. “Maybe. But I’m not ready to do that to myself again.”
“Just think carefully,” she whispers, letting go. “You’re smart. You’ll know what to do. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
The subway rattles beneath you, steel and neon slicing past graffiti stained walls. The air smells of oil, sweat, and the city’s restless heartbeat. Posters scream his name: Madison Square Garden, 5 night back to back sold out shows, tantalizing promises. Only thinking that less than a year ago you’ve never even heard his name before. You weren’t plagued with his constant image. You hold onto your purse like a safety net as the train flies through the tube. Stopping briefly, people billowing in and out. You wonder if they all know him.
You’d hope the walk back to your apartment would clear your head, but you couldn’t stop thinking about him. Unlocking the door and slipping into your shoebox apartment, you shrug off your purse. The flickering overhead, apartment decaying, grim and claustrophobic, the city indifferent. Sandwiched between two buildings, natural light never touched your studio.
Music hums from the radio, as you try to escape him, but it fails. All of it being him. Every station, every lyric, every chord reminding you of everything you are trying to ignore. You switch it off, surrendering to the ache of silence. Of loneliness. You start imagining his touch. His strong hands touching you. Feeling ache in your stomach. You wouldn’t dare let him have a hold of your heart, knowing that as soon as you did you wouldn’t ever want to be alone.
Stripping off glitter, you pull on a baggy Yankees shirt, comfort in fabric. The handkerchief presses into your purse pocket, like a burning hole. You dig it out and stare at his handwriting, the sewn stitching of Styles in a corner. You smile half heartedly, who even uses a handkerchief anymore? You even consider calling. Fingers hovering on the buttons. Breathing heavily into the phone’s microphone. The thought of his voice, his accent, his touch, consumes you. You slam the phone down. You curse him. You curse yourself. You hate him, you declare.
You slide under the covers, restless. Sleep never comes. No matter how long you stare at the moldy ceiling. And you think, impossibly: he’s probably with someone else tonight. And yet, somewhere in the ache, a pulse in your chest insists he isn’t. The fact you’re jealous makes you feel even more conflicted and confused. Even angrier. His gaze. His smirk. That silk handkerchief. The city hums, indifferent, chaotic. And still, somehow, you cannot forget him.
Friday
You go to work like normal, body moving on autopilot, hands performing the motions before your mind catches up. The hum of a thousand different lights above you buzzes like a constant question you can’t answer. The music bumps a familiar jolt to your bones. The sea of body’s dancing to another disco hit.
The studio smells faintly of sweat, body odor, and spilled champagne from the night before, a tang of something bittersweet that lingers on your skin. You keep your head down, counting the hours until the music, the dancing, the chaos of the world will be muted again. Tonight is supposed to be another show, second to last of his. One you didn’t attend, not like you were going to any of the others. Another night where the city folds itself around itself like it’s made of gold and glass, where bodies collide and fade.
Tonight feels different. Vibrant, electric, alive in a way that makes your chest ache. MDMA couldn’t even compare. You wish he was here, so you could share the electricity with him. It makes you feel nauseous. Maybe it’s the crowd, swelling with people who’ve heard of him, people who’ve come to see the story he tells on stage. Or maybe it’s just you, heart thudding against ribs that feel too small, too fragile to contain it. The excitement that once made this world glitter has dulled, leaving you hollow and aware of what’s missing: him. And the knowledge that you are deliberately absent cuts sharper than any spotlight. You’re not sure if you regret missing out on him or not but you figured only time will tell.
You dance anyway, hips moving on instinct, champagne in hand, glitter catching the lights in streaks of gold and crimson. Talking to Elton John when he requested black whiskey. Rose waves from across the floor, the motion slicing through the haze of music and smoke. Your stomach twists into knots before you even reach her.
“What?” you ask, voice brittle, anxious.
“It’s Styles’ assistant,” Saying with eyes wide, and for a moment, the music, the lights, the crowd none of it exists. “They called and asked where you were.”
Your face drains of color. It feels like you got hit in the stomach. You feel suspended, caught in a moment between dread and relief, unsure which will land first. You’re not sure if you’re happy that he noticed your absence or fearful that you’ve wronged him.
“I told them you were here,” she continues, softly.
Your mouth falls open, hands flying to your head like you can physically hold the insanity at bay. “I thought you were supposed to be my friend!”
“I am,” she says, urgently. “That’s why I did it for you.”
“I have to go!” you blurt, panic rising like water in your throat. Overwhelming emotions among you feel like you’re drowning. She stops you, fingers brushing your arm in a grounding touch. “I love you to death, babe, but you have to grow up. You can’t let guys destroy your entire life. You’re independent and don’t need anyone, and that’s great, good for you, but you can’t flee from the one good guy who’s actively trying to get to you.”
You groan, pinching the bridge of your nose, wanting to both scream and melt into the floor. “When’s he supposed to be here?”
“Midnight,” she whispers. “They’re clubbing here after.”
You swallow, pride tangled with the heat of longing. Almost running seems so tempting, but something in her voice anchors you.
“So stay?” she asks, softly.
“I’ll stay,” you groan, even as doubt twists tight coils in your stomach.
Out on the floor, lights slash across the crowd, cutting gold, red, and blue into slices of something too vivid to ignore. The disco ball twists and turns shimmering brightly. Music pulses like a heartbeat you cannot control, enveloping your body, drowning out thought and memory. You dance like you’re trying to outrun yourself, hips moving on instinct, body loud enough to bury the ache of absence. Almost.
Almost until you step down from the platform, told to deliver alcohol to the balcony. With unsteady and weak legs you navigate through the sea. Breath caught between ribs, and the heat of all bodies makes you feel scorching warm. A star burning up. A meteor crashing into earth full on colliding with something solid. Warm. Familiar. Expensive. Strong.
“Been lookin’ for you,” he says, turning around, catching your arms. He’s in orange with beige trousers, sunglasses tinting the world a molten orange. The voice is different tonight lower, hoarse, stripped of performance, redditch accent thick and unmistakable. His eyes search your face like he’s trying not to be annoyed, trying not to be hurt.
“I played a song for you,” Trying to regain emotional composure, he’s quiet for a second in the thunderous crowd. “Even though you didn’t show.”
“I work here,” you say, cold and calloused, almost cruel. “I don’t have time for concerts.”
His jaw tightens, the bones in his face stretching. “You could’ve,” Chewing his hollowed cheek, tension lining every word. “I even asked Steve to let you off tonight so you could.”
You shrug, trying to hold yourself together. “I’m sure you’re a nice guy and all, but I’m not interested.” Your sorrowful attempt at waving him off goes diminished. You turn to leave, heart pounding like it wants to escape, body trembling with nerves you refuse to name. His hand closes around your shoulder, not rough, but firm enough to stop you cold. Metal presses into your skin, sparks of sensation tracing up your spine.
“Where were you,” He asks quietly, flatly, stripped of charm. “All night.” He asks through gritted teeth.
You yank back. “Don’t do that.”
“Dinner,” He says quickly, compromise heavy in the word. “Just dinner. We talk.”
You laugh, sharp, humorless. “Like I said last night. I know what you want. I’m a dancer, not a prostitute.”
His expression hardens. The playful, teasing mask drops. His jaw clenches, eyes dark under the facade of orange, almost offended that you don’t believe him. The joke is gone. The charm is gone. All that remains is raw, undeniable need.
“Just talk,” He’s restrained, yet almost pleading. Something in his voice, a quiet whimper beneath control makes your stomach knot. It’s a bargain you feel in your chest. You pity him. You exhale. “Fine. Let me grab my stuff.”
He releases you immediately, as if letting go of you might undo a mistake he fears making. “Thirty minutes. Out front. I’ll make sure you’re there.”
You scoff at the demand. Brushing glitter from your arms, scuffing at the sensation of longing thrumming beneath your skin as he drifts back into the crowd, laughing, moving, existing like the world bends around him. Thirty minutes. Thirty minutes until the slow pulse of inevitability becomes real.
You wait by the door, arms crossed, chest tight. Every second stretches, glittering, golden, and anxious. You almost turn back. Almost slip into the rhythm where you feel in control. Almost. Then you feel the press on your lower back, a careful, deliberate touch that makes your breath catch. You jump slightly, startled, and look up to see him. Brows furrowed. Concerned. Soft. You hold onto your purse more tightly.
“Are you alright?” You nod. “Just tired.”
He hums softly, the sound intimate, unpracticed, and walks you out the back of the studio toward his car. The air of the city is heavy and suffocating. His arm slings around your shoulders, a gentle tether, and slowly, the air feels lighter. The air feels diluted and easier to breathe. His touch regulates you. You despise him because his touch does wonders. Your head finds its way to rest against him. Resistance softens. Heart thuds are uneven and palpitating.
“Elton John said he liked your album,” You try breaking whatever silence there is in New York. Few puddles lit along the way from the overhang signs.
“I know,” His voice sounds distant as he’s reminiscing, heavily in his voice. “I almost cried hearing it, I got to speak to him tonight. It was amazing. He’s a huge influence.”
For whatever reason you’re surprised by that. Surprised that a man of his stature can be influenced and have inspirations. It makes him seem more human. Not some god that just spawned. Humble, grounded, attainable.
The garage is sleek, gleaming, a mass of the world's most expensive metals and light. You scan the cars, instinctively knowing which one belongs to him, a red long bodied Jaguar E-Type Roadster. Memory flares briefly of McQueen, engines roaring, thrill and speed mingling with longing. A fling that burned out as quickly as it started.
He unlocks your door, gestures for you to slide in. You stand stunned for a moment. “Nobody opened a door for you before?” He remarks, inquiring.
“No,” you whisper.
He helps you in, guides your seatbelt across your lap, teasing: “Wow, you’re finally letting me be nice to you. I’m honestly surprised.”
“Don’t count on it,” You retorted.
“I won’t. I’m just counting my blessings.”
The city hums below, lights glinting across your glittering dress and skin. The wind whipping your cheeks. You look over at every chance you could get. Watching the muscles in his arm contract with every turn and gear shift. The music on his radio is soft. Meek in the background. Your eyes trail over every tattoo. Every tattoo sends tingles down your spine at the art. You make sure he doesn’t see your long glances. He makes sure you don’t see his. Every stolen look is charged with something that’s almost unbearable.
He leads you through his apartment, vast, curated, a museum of things he loves. Antique furniture, priceless art, music memorabilia. It’s too perfect, too clean to feel fully lived in. You’re not used to not seeing water damage and the few black mold spots in the ceiling. You give him your purse and he hangs it next to the coats. He throws his sunglasses on a spare table next to the door is a small dish. It smells of linen and fresh produce. Clean and artificial. Poised together precisely. Something directly out of a catalogue. There’s a few lamps scattered around. The infamous Gibson ES he teased you about in a corner.
Natural light cascades into the room softly from the never sleeping city. He hangs on the wall taking off his boots. Reaching out to grab your shoulder he makes you turn to him.
“No shoes.” He eyes your heels and you scoff. Without the orange shade over his eyes you notice how blue they are. Flecked with a few pieces of green. You’ve determined that it’s now your favorite color. “Really?” “Really.” Giving you a stern look like a father would a child. Before you speak another word, he leans down on his achy knees of the floor and pushes his knee up and pats his thigh. “C’mon.” When it hits you on what his intention is you shake your head. Flustered. “It’s fine, I can do I-“ “I insist.”
You give him a shy look and then finally rest your heel on the top of his thigh. His strong hands untying the delicate straps. There’s something domestic about this and that scares you. His actions of service. He slips the heel off like you’re Cinderella and he looks up at you with a dory lopsided smile. “See, that wasn’t so hard.” You nod, silently. You shift your balance and do the same for the other heel.
Mesmerized by how gentle he is. You want to thread your fingers through the short mousy strands and scratch his scalp. Your stomach muscles clench at the thought. Butterflies hatching and flying up to your heart and throat. He sets the pair by his white boots. He looks up at you again from below, you want the sight burned into your retinas. You’re scared by how attractive you find him. Especially considering his status and how much older he is. You want to trace the lines in his aged face, curious to know how he looked at your age.
He holds out a hand. “Help me up.” He laughs at how silly the arrangement is. You take his hand and yank with all your strength, bare feet tracting and giving you an advantage. Once he stands you watch him go into the kitchen. You don’t follow.
“Are you hungry?” He offers, giving hospitality and trying to warm the unfamiliar atmosphere.
“No.” You speak sharply, without contemplating.
“You’re just a brat is what I’m hearing,” He says shortly, rolling his eyes. “All I hear is no from you.”
“Yeah, that makes sense.” You smirk. He opens his fridge and plucks a cherry from a small porcelain bowl. He then takes it and holds the porcelain in one of his hands and leans against the closed door and stares at you. You stare at the spread of his fingers below the bowl. The gold rings being an eye sore against the white. He crosses one foot over the other and pushes his hips out. Back pressed firmly against the door. You marvel at the cut of his blouse. The buttons unbuttoned down his sternum. He in return watches you awkwardly hold yourself in his foyer. The cherries stain his lips a deep plum.
“Do you indulge?” He gestures over to the wine rack holstered up on his wall beside him. He takes notice of your distance, hoping the temptation of wine will beckon you forward.
“Depends on if it’s a thousand years old or not,” you say, shrugging.
“Best I can do is a couple hundred years.” He smirks back at your attitude. Tickled by your incessant bite.
“That’ll do,” you nod.
“Sit.”
The command twists your stomach into something awful and you follow his command. You walk over and sit at the stool across from him. Shuffling comfortably on the padding. He places the porcelain down on the marble table and turns around. Placing down two glasses from the cupboard. He places them next to the cherries. He pours the glasses like a ceremony, slow and deliberate. Wine coils in the glasses like liquid time. He slides one toward you.
“How do I know you didn’t lace it?”
“You literally watched me pour it,” He chuckles light, exasperated.
“True.” You sip. Sour. You make a face.
He laughs, low, amused. “You can’t be older than freshly eighteen making faces drinking wine like that.” He winks. Devilishly smiling behind his glass.
“I’m old enough,” Pausing to take another drink and intentionally not making a face.“And what’re you like, almost forty?”
He feigns hurt. Pressing a hand over his heart. He takes another swig. “Ouch.”
“What kind of name is Styles anyway?” You jest, taking another swig. Reaching over you pluck one of his cherries from his bowl. Eyeing him as you stick your tongue out and swivel the bud in your mouth.
“It’s my last name actually.” He sighs, scratching the nape of his neck.
“Oh, really then what’s your first name?”
“Harry”
You laugh, almost spitting out the cherry. “Next thing you’re going to tell me is that your middle name is Edward and that you’re related to the queen!”
He’s quiet and takes a long swig of his wine before responding. You swallow the cherry. Tying the stem with your teeth. “You’re right.” Your eyes bulge out of your head at his answer. “You’re royalty?!” He shakes his head and lets out a breathy laugh. “No, about Edward.” “Oh..” You frown, disappointingly.
“And to think I wanted you to be a dancer in my show.” Circling the rim of the glass with his finger. The long digit circling around, hypnotizing you. His rings glint and glimmer under the soft light of his kitchen.
You hesitate. “I don’t know…”
“That’s why I wanted you to go to the show tonight, but of course you bailed so you couldn’t see it. So tomorrow night, god willing, if you don’t run away, you can watch it and make your decision.” He drinks quicker. His glass, half full when yours is barely touched.
“I really don’t know, Harry…” You say anxiously. It’s a lot of responsibility to perform at 54 so you could only imagine what it’d be like performing at one of his shows. He doesn’t speak and tension builds as his eyes stare longingly at you.
“Why’re you looking at me like that?”
“I like hearing my name from you.”
He leans on his forearms on the marble, taking your small hands in his. His thumbs rubbing over the back of your hands. “I like, no, love the way you dance. I’ve been searching for something to make the show better for quite some time and seeing you, it just made sense. I don’t expect an answer tonight, but maybe tomorrow.” He releases your hands. “As for tonight, I can drop you back to your place, but I’d really rather you stay.” He fidgets with his rings, glances at you sideways. Nervously awaiting your approval.
“I don’t have anything to wear,” you whisper. “Come on,” He leads you to a bedroom at the end of the hall that’s three times bigger than your own. He takes you across the bedroom into a closet bigger than your entire apartment, racks spilling silk and satin and lace like liquid plasma. “Take your pick.”
You dig through drawers, finding baggy gym clothes, the simplest thing at the bottom. You change into his baggy gray shirt and his too big red Adidas shorts. When you fold your dress and walk out of the closet. He laughs, warm and hearty. Shaking his head in disbelief.
“You’re wearing my dirty gym clothes.”
“You didn’t have any casual clothes.”
“Fair,” he tuts.
He gets up from his sitting spot on his bed and kisses the top of your head. It shocks you and scares you but maybe it’s the wine. You like the warmth that spreads over your body at the affection. “Whatever makes you comfortable.”
You sit at the top of his bed, pulling covers to your waist. He slides in beside you, after changing and ridding himself of his rings. Low on his waist, Gucci pajama pants, you caught glimpses of his toned bare chest under the dim light falling in from the windows.
“G’night,” His voice crackled low and deep in his chest, hearty. “Night, Harry.”
It’s silent and you're not sure if you should speak and thank him for the fun night or what. You listen to the traffic outside and the construction. You don’t have to speak because he does it for you and it’s barely above a mumble but he utters, “I’m happy you’re here.”
Saturday
You wake before him, the city’s early light slanting through the wispy curtains and cutting across the cluttered apartment floor in slivers of gold and gray. The faint hum of traffic drifts up from the street, mingling with the scent of last night’s perfume, glitter still clinging stubbornly to your hair and skin. Listening to the gentle snores of the older man behind you.
You try to move, but strong muscles tense with anticipation, his arm is wrapped around your waist, the weight of him both warm and suffocating. His other hand lies beneath your pillow, fingers intertwined with yours, grounding you in a territory that you aren’t sure you belong. Everything smells like him and it’s smothering.
When you shift slightly, his arm tightens instinctively, pulling you closer against the hard plane of his chest, nose nuzzled into your neck, knees brushing behind yours. The heat radiating from him makes it hard to think clearly. Your body wants to cave and melt into him, but logically you know that’s the worst decision to be made. You had a fun night and now you’re done before you get too attached.
“Harry, I have to go,” you whisper, trying to keep your voice even.
“Mmh,” He hums, muffled, irritation creeping in as your body resists his hold. You push gently, and finally he loosens, only to wake fully, blue eyes electric and bright, cheeks flushed, eyelashes heavy. His brows furrow, confused and discombobulated. He stretches, long torso unfolding beneath you, knuckles pressed to his eyes as though trying to shake the world awake.
“What?” He asks, voice rough with sleep.
“I have to go home.”
“Why?” His confusion deepens, eyes closing again, groaning low in his throat, tugging at your nerves. Frowning deeply.
“I have to get ready for work,” You answer, chest tightening with the familiar knot of tension that seems to form whenever proximity meets desire.
He sits up slowly, gaze heavy on you. “I can provide for you.”
“No, Harry.” You press yourself upright, finally freeing yourself from the magnetic pull of his arms.
“Let me take you home,” He insists, voice low, almost pleading, blue eyes catching the sunlight with a vulnerability he rarely allows himself.
“No,” you counter, your tone firmer, though your chest pounds.
“Have breakfast first,” He presses, leaning toward you, as if proximity alone could tilt your defenses.
“No,” you repeat, voice harder now. You think of how barbaric it is that you’re in his clothes right now. The weight of his aroma and the fabric makes your skin itch. It’s like a rash that swells and makes your skin burn. Your throat closes shut and tears stream down your warm cheeks. You don’t want to cry and you don’t want to be choked up, but you’re unbelievably petrified.
“What do you want?” He says coldly and calloused. Frustration getting the best of him. Each word slides into the room like a challenge, each insistence winding you tighter, a coil of frustration and desire you can’t release. You cave, finally, exhaling like surrender. “You and I are never going to work! I’m from the slums of the Bronx and you’re a millionaire!” You plead with him to understand.
He sits up fully now, the morning light catching in his hair, in his eyes, making them both sharper and more vulnerable. He lets the words linger, digesting the urgency, before speaking softly. In his many years he’s learned speaking from emotion never gets him anywhere good.
“Have you ever felt that pit in your stomach,” He begins, voice quiet, hesitant, almost afraid to say it, “Where loneliness turns into sickness?”
Your chest tightens. You’re caught off guard. You’re wondering if this is a manipulation tactic.
“I have millions of people who love me,” He continues, eyes dropping to the bed, “But I know what they want. They want all of me.”
“You know why I like you?” His gaze lifts, sharp and unwavering. “You don’t need me, you don’t want me, you don’t even like me.” He shakes his head slightly, pained, almost incredulous. “That’s why I want you. I don’t have to perform for you. You have no expectations of me. I can’t disappoint you.”
There’s a pause, heavy, suffused with the weight of unspoken truths. Then, quietly, almost resigned: “If you want to go, so be it. I understand. But I had reservations made for us today.” His head sinks back onto the pillow, as he falls back into the bed with a weighted sigh escaping him.
You no longer stand but sit on the bed, at the edge but closer. Fingertips brushing his hand, the warmth of his skin sending sparks through your veins. “I- I do like you.” His head tilts to meet yours, striking eyes searching. “Do you like me enough to get breakfast with me?”
“Maybe,” He squeezes your hand, triumphant, guiding you toward the door with the soft, unspoken promise of companionship. “That’ll do.”
The morning stretches slow, languid, lingering with the echo of your fight. Light falls through the blinds in sharp, golden stripes across the room, each one catching the glitter still in your hair. The apartment smells faintly of his cologne, less overwhelming. Lighter, freer. You sit on the edge of the bed, fingers brushing the sheets, trying to steady the pulse that hasn’t slowed since the fight.
Harry stands across from you, bare chest reflecting in the morning light, short hair falling just so over his forehead. His blue eyes catch yours like headlights in the quiet, electric, impossibly sharp. There’s a pause, thick and heavy, where both of you are measuring, testing, the heat of proximity pressing in. He watches you, hand resting near his hip, fingers drumming lightly, as if every motion is a test if you’ll lean in, or recoil.
“You’re staring,” Breaking the uncomfortable silence, brushing at a strand of glitter clinging to your collarbone. “Am I?” His voice is low, teasing, but threaded with something fragile. “Or just trying to memorize you before you bolt?”
You scoff, eyes rolling, attempting indifference, though your stomach tightens. “I’m not bolting. I just..” You trail off, caught between honesty and defense.
He takes a slow step toward you. Heat radiates, thick, magnetic. “You know you don’t have to do this alone.” His hand lifts slightly, inviting, not touching yet. “Living, breathing, dancin’. I’ll help. Or watch. Or whatever you want.” Pausing he chews his cheek. “Just let me be there f’you.”
You shake your head, but there’s a softness in your chest you can’t ignore. “Fine,” tugging at the waistband of his baggy shorts, stripping down to your underwear. He gasps and darts his eyes away, nervously.
“Oh my god,” He hisses, voice roughening slightly, and your knees tighten reflexively. He moves closer, circling the bed, catching your elbow with his fingers to help you balance as you stand so you don’t fall. His hand lingers near your hip, a promise and a tether, warm and grounding. The warmth of his hand pressing into your hip sends a fire through your heart. It beats quicker and more stronger.
He opens a drawer with a flourish, pulling out a pair of his baggy denim jeans. “You can borrow these,” he says, holding them out. “Better than anything dirty.”
You step into them, the denim swallowing your legs, soft against your skin, and he watches every movement, every subtle arch of your back. “Perfect,” Low, almost a growl, and your chest tightens at the inflection. “Shirt?” You ask, brushing a strand of hair from your face.
He digs a cropped tee out of a drawer, handing it toward you. “This one might fit better. And I like seeing you wear it.” His voice drops in volume, softer, intimate. “It makes you look like you’re mine. Just for now.”
You blush, taking his big gray one off and sliding the cropped shirt over your shoulders, aware of his gaze tracing every line of your collarbone, every subtle curve. It makes him think of a piece of jewelry he can spare. He takes his rings out and puts them on and takes a dainty necklace out from his jewelry box in the closet and wraps it around your neck. “Mine,” you mimic and mock. Repeating, almost teasing, almost afraid.
He smirks, stepping closer after clasping it together. “Yours, if you let me be. And if you want. Not forcing it. Just,” He trails off, thumb brushing lightly along the edge of your jaw, lingering, admiring. “Careful,” You whispered, heart racing. He leans in, lips brushing the shell of your ear, soft, almost hesitant. “Always,” He murmurs. “But I can’t help wanting.”
He changes into a pink blouse and teal stained sunglasses with black washed jeans. The bathroom is small, pristine. He watches you over the rim of the mirror, eyes sharp, taking in the heavy rise and fall of your shoulders, the way your hair sticks to dampened skin, glitter catching faintly in the light.
“You’re not bullying me,” He notes, mouth full of toothpaste, voice teasing, eyes flicking to yours in the mirror. “Thinking,” You reply, eyes meeting his reflection as he brushes his teeth only briefly before darting away.
“About me?” His smile is crooked as he spits, one brow raised, jesting, but there’s a shadow of something darker behind it, worry, vulnerability. “Maybe.”
He hums, low, turning around he sits on the bathtub with you. Closer than necessary, the warmth of his body pressing against yours. “You make it very difficult to leave the apartment without wanting to stay.” You swallow, tugging at the chain of your borrowed necklace. “You’re impossible.”
“True,” he agrees, voice dropping, smirk curling at the edges of his lips. “But you like impossible things. Don’t lie.” He takes your hand, helping you off the lip of the tub and into the foyer.
The coffee table is cluttered with yesterday’s magazines with his face plastered on them and a half empty bottle of water. He slips his boots on, and crouches in front of you. This time you use his shoulder for balance as he slips the heel onto your foot and latches it. “Why do you like me?” You whisper, hushed. Half hoping he doesn’t hear. He stalls for a moment, thinking. Looking up at you, “I told you at the club. People take beauty and grace for granted,” His brows pinch and his eyes narrow. “No matter how bright it looks, it’s always there. Always waiting to be noticed.” You think over his words as he pulls the other heel onto your foot. He doesn’t ask for your help when he stands. Giving you a long look makes you feel vulnerable but acknowledged.
“Ready?” Leaning back against the wall. “Ready,” You repeat, though your voice is uncertain. Wearing his clothes and jewelry. And in that pause, the room thick with morning sunlight, lingering heat, and tension, you realize the fight wasn’t about leaving. It wasn’t about who could hold power. It was about everything you both want but can’t admit, the dangerous pull between proximity and desire, the ache in your chest that refuses to quiet.
The Jaguar hums along the streets, tires skimming wet asphalt, the city waking around you in muted honks and distant sirens. An abundance and a child wailing in the distance. The morning light catches on Harry’s tousled hair as he pushes it back from his forehead, sunglasses perched atop his nose. You’re still adjusting to the complicated conversations and situations. The borrowed clothes, baggy jeans swallowing your legs, his cropped tee soft and warm against your skin. The hum of the engine is a steady heartbeat, but every glance from him makes your pulse stutter. He doesn’t play music on the radio this time. Just listen to the intensity of the motor.
A bakery comes into view, a modest storefront with hand painted letters, steam curling from the windows in lazy spirals. Fresh flowers on the outside. Harry pushes his sunglasses on the top of his head. Some of his hair sticks out. The moment you step inside, warmth and the smell of yeast, sugar, and coffee wrap around you like a cocoon, and for a second, the concrete city outside seems distant. Its wooden, natural light and grounding.
“Clarabella!” Harry calls before you even reach the counter, his voice bright, familiar, playful. A little too loud, a little too intimate.
The older lady behind the counter spins, eyes lighting up. She reminds you of Rose. She hurries around, hands flying as if the day suddenly grew younger. She smells of vanilla and coconut, childhood memories. “Oh, Harry! How I’ve missed you!” She pulls him into a hug, and he laughs softly, chest brushing yours for the briefest of moments. You stand awkwardly, hands folded over your borrowed jeans. Her gaze lands on you, and it softens, a smile tugging at her lips. “And who is this beauty?”
“Just a friend,” Harry says, though the glance he shoots your way carries a weight that unsettles and excites you all at once.
“Oh, sure, Harry has many of those,” Clarabella winks, leaning back to give you a measuring up look. You blush, shy and amused all at once. The warmth in her smile is maternal, disarming, and you feel yourself relax, even just slightly.
Harry gestures for you to sit anywhere, and you perch on a stool near the window. The light falls across your cheekbones, catching subtle glitter still in your hair. Harry leans casually on the counter, radiating that effortless, magnetic energy, and you find yourself watching him, wondering what he sees when he looks at you yet you know and it still makes you ponder.
A small voice interrupts a girl, no older than eight, tugs on Harry’s sleeve. “Can I have your autograph? My mom thinks you’re cute,” She says, a cheeky smile with wide blissful eyes, she holds out a pink princess notebook with Harry’s stickers littered all over it like a shield.
Harry kneels, brushing a stray curl from her forehead. “Of course, love,” The gentleness in his tone makes your chest tighten. The same gentleness he’s used to address you, he uses for children. He waves at the girl’s mother behind the counter, playful and casual, and the woman beams back, grateful and starstruck. You can’t help but smile at the quiet domesticity of it all in contrast to the chaos of paparazzi and glittered floors.
You take a sip of your coffee, chewing on a warm croissant in between. Trying to calm your racing pulse. Harry watches you, that sly, questioning glance flicking to your lips and back to your eyes, and you can feel the tension crackle.
“So,” He starts, leaning back on the counter, fingers tapping lazily, “Tell me about your home. Or, uh, your family.” His tone is casual, but the undercurrent of curiosity is unmistakable.
You hesitate, tracing the rim of your cup. “I left to become my own person as anyone does when they move to New York,” Mumbling into the mug, carefully skipping over the controlling boyfriend that made your departure feel like liberation. It’s true but incomplete.
He nods slowly, head tilted, as if weighing the answer, measuring it. “Yeah? That makes sense.” There’s a pause, quiet and deliberate. “I get that. I left home for different reasons. Mom, she's wonderful, but she worries too much. My siblings Gemma, Anne, Mike they keep me grounded, but sometimes I just feel like I’m stretched between all of them and this thing I do.” He shrugs, a flicker of guilt passing over his face. “Homesick a lot, especially with everything I’ve done to get here.”
You sip your coffee, studying him. There’s a vulnerability there: he rarely lets anyone see the careful way he balances desire, duty, and expectation.
“And you?” He presses gently, leaning closer so his shoulder brushes yours. “Why did you actually leave?” His voice is quiet, prying, but insistent in the way only someone who actually cares can be.
You swallow, looking out the window for a long beat. The morning sun glints off a streetlamp, and for a second the city feels miles away. “To become my own person as I said,” You repeat, carefully neutral, avoiding the edges of the truth. “I needed space. Freedom.”
Harry’s gaze lingers on you, thoughtful, blue eyes soft but probing. “I get that. Really. Everyone deserves that.” He reaches across the counter, fingertips brushing yours, small but deliberate. “And I’m glad you did. You wouldn’t be you if you hadn’t.”
The conversation hangs in the air, unspoken confessions suspended like smoke. Outside, the first paparazzi flash bulbs start firing distant at first, then insistent and the city hums, hungry and relentless. The tension between the intimacy of the bakery and the chaos waiting beyond the glass makes your stomach twist.
“Do you come here often?” You finally ask, voice quieter than intended.
“Every chance I get,” Leaning toward you just slightly, warmth radiating. “Clarabella knows my order by heart. I’d bring you here more if you let me.”
You shake your head, feeling your pulse quicken. “You do this for every girl?”
“No,” He says softly, eyes locking on yours, serious now. “Only the ones I…care about.”
You swallow, a small warmth spreading through your chest. The city outside hums, indifferent, chaotic, but here, in this little cocoon of yeast, sugar, and sunlight, the world narrows to him, to the way he watches you, to the faint brush of fingertips, to the tension that refuses to break. And even as Clarabella hovers with a fresh coffee and pastries, and the anxious feeling lingers that the day is only beginning, and the pull between you is taut, fragile, and utterly unignorable.
The Jaguar hums back to life. The paparazzi flashes have already started at the bakery, tiny bursts of light reflecting in his sunglasses, glinting off the edges of your borrowed jeans and his rings. His sunglasses back to hiding his baby blues. You press your fingers to the leather seat, feeling the subtle vibrations of the engine, the faint heat of Harry’s hand pressed on your thigh, a magnetic pull that makes your stomach twist and pulse.
“Usually, the paparazzi aren’t this bad at Clarabella’s,” He yells over the engine, hand brushing your knee lightly, teasing, grounding. “I think the mommy club must’ve spilled the beans. Or the kid was a rat.”
You glance toward the rearview mirror, the city a jagged mosaic of neon, concrete, and flashing lights. Once at a stop light you reply, “You let them follow you into bakeries?”
He smirks, eyes on the road. “Only the ones I care about,” He jokes, the intensity of the words curling in the pit of your stomach. The light turns green and that’s the end of that conversation. The casual tone belies the weight of the truth of all of his fans he cared for with the same intensity as you.
A few blocks later, the streets fall quieter, the roar of the city fading as he pulls into the botanical garden. The Jaguar comes to a smooth stop, engine purring in a low, contented hum. He kills the motor, and the air smells of wet earth and spring blooms, a contrast to the asphalt and exhaust of the streets. The garden is still early morning quiet, dew glinting like tiny diamonds on leaves, paths lined with delicate flowers bending under their own weight.
He opens your door, the leather warm beneath your hand as you step out. The wind catches the loose strands of hair framing your face, and he moves to stand beside you, hand brushing yours with calculated care. Every step you take feels like a negotiation, each one laden with potential and restraint.
“I like sunflowers,” You admit softly as your eyes track a cluster of tall stems swaying gently in the breeze, as you begin your stroll through the cascade of many plants of florals.
“Sunflowers,” He rolls the word over in his mind, blue eyes hidden catching the morning light, glinting green at the edges. He slides his hand into yours slowly, deliberately, letting the warmth and pressure anchor you. “Bright. Bold. Always facing the sun. Kind of like someone I know.”
Your chest tightens, heart hammering in that quick stutter of anticipation, and you keep walking, letting your fingers remain entwined. Every glance he casts, every tilt of his head, is loaded, playful, magnetic, unreadable. The tension between you builds, slow and deliberate, as if the entire garden is holding its breath. As if Mother Nature is plotting against or for you depending on how you feel.
Paths twist and bloom after bloom, petals brushing your arms, the air thick with pollen and perfume. Harry leans closer under the shadow of a massive oak, thumb grazing your knuckles. Pushing the sunglasses up again, so you can see his eyes. The way he looks at you. “Do you- do you ever wonder why I do this for you?”
“Do what?” Though your voice betrays the nervous flutter in your chest.
“This. Take you out of the city, shield you from the chaos, even for a morning. You think I do it for any girl? No. Only for the ones I…” He falters, letting the words hang like mist. His eyes casting downwards. Even though he’s older and more mature. The boy who's been rejected still lingers. “…love.”
The simple confession, low and intimate, makes your chest constrict. You glance down, a faint smile tugging at your lips, fingers tightening around his. The tension is electric, thick in the air like humidity before a storm.
You walk in silence for a few moments, letting the flowers and dappled sunlight fill the space between words. Every so often, someone glances your way, some sneaking a flash of a bulb to capture the moment. Your pulse quickens, not from shame, but from the thrilling danger of being seen with him, from the way he’s intentionally holding your hand, the heat in his palm spreading up your arm.
Finally, under an arching canopy of wisteria, he stops. You feel the energy shift, subtle, deliberate calm before the storm of sensation. He tilts his head, eyes holding yours like a promise and a dare all at once. His other hand comes up to your cheek, thumb brushing softly over the curve, grounding, tethering, daring.
“You like sunflowers,” Voice low, almost a rumble, so close you feel it vibrating across your skin. “You’re bold. Bright. Even when the past has been unfortunate, you still fight for yourself.”
You inhale sharply, the words catching in your throat. His gaze flickers to your lips, then back to your eyes, reading you, teasing, waiting for permission that isn’t formally given.
Then, deliberate, slow, he leans in, brushing his lips across yours in a tentative, searching kiss. Electric. Long. Tender. Tasting the coffee from earlier on his lips. The sun flickers through the leaves, spotlighting you both in shifting patterns, petals brushing your shoulders as though the garden itself conspires with him. The birds singing in agreement. Your fingers clutch his blouse, the tension coiling tighter with every second.
When he finally pulls back, just enough to rest his forehead against yours, you’re both breathing unevenly, hearts hammering in sync. Around you, the garden hums with live bees buzzing, leaves rustling, distant bird calls but it’s muted beneath the storm of sensation between the two of you. “I’m sorry I was a dick at the club.” He mumbles against your lips. You huff a soft laugh. “I’m sorry for being so scared.” He smiles, holding your cheeks in his hands. His rings on your cheekbones he presses a long kiss to the crown of your head.
The paparazzi flashes catches in your peripheral vision, but in the garden, they feel distant, irrelevant. He smiles that crooked, lopsided grin, the one that undoes you entirely. “That’s one for the front page,” He laughs, deep and rich in his chest. His thumb brushing your jawline, teasing, grounding, claiming. And you realize: the day has just begun. The tension hasn’t eased; it’s only thickened, more inevitable.
The Jaguar slows to a stop outside the Gucci flagship, afternoon glow catching the gold hardware of the doors. He opens yours with a swiftness, that effortless Harry charm that makes your stomach twist, then swings the other door for you.
The city hums behind you, sirens and traffic fading as the doors slide open. Inside, the scent of polished leather and rich perfume envelops you. Mirrors reflect endless rows of silk, sequins, and sunlight catching crystal chandeliers like a private constellation.
Harry’s hand brushes yours as he guides you past racks of jackets, shoes, and dresses. “I thought we could start with something for tonight,” Playful, the kind that makes your pulse hitch. Every brush of his fingers feels deliberate and the subtle press of his hip against yours sends warmth straight to your core.
Richie, a tall man with a meticulous hairline and a sharp suit, greets him immediately. “Mr. Styles, how’ve you been?” He leans into exaggerated charm, joking about Olivia Newton-John’s party last week that Harry ended up having relations with. Harry smiles politely, but his eyes keep flicking to you, making you feel both invisible and entirely seen all at once. It’s a silent beg for mercy and he quickly changes the subject. Rubbing his thumb over your hand to soothe your nerves.
“Any dresses for tonight’s show?” Harry asks, and the sharp glance he casts at you is full of intent. He gives you a shy smile to lift your spirit. A speechless apology. Richie smirks, initially dismissive, but a small nod later, silk and sequins are whisked from the racks, draping across the floor in a whirlwind of color and texture.
You soon learn that Richie is the biggest hater imaginable. He hates everything about you. He doesn’t understand why you have fat in some places and less than other crannies. But you follow Harry into the dressing rooms, mirrors lining the walls, crystal chandeliers above casting prismatic light over you both. “Try this,” He urges, draping a soft orange silk over your shoulders. His fingers linger, brushing the fabric against your skin, making you shiver, and your chest tightens at the contact. “I want you to feel you. But better.”
Clothes pile around you, racks of streetwear, gowns, halters, bold jackets. He’s easily invested a million into your wardrobe and jewelry. Each item he hands you carries weight not just fabric, but desire, attention, ownership, care. “You’ll need these at my place too,” he says, brushing his rings across your wrists and neck, letting you wear his bracelets and necklace. The metal cools against your warm skin, a stark contrast to his lingering touch.
You try on dress after dress, frustrated and exhausted. Richie offers backhanded compliments with every change: “That’s… bold. Not sure it works for her.” Harry’s gaze doesn’t leave yours, steady, teasing, protective. His hand brushes yours in moments when you slump, and his thumb traces tiny circles over your knuckles.
Finally, in a soft crook of a mirror, Harry stops, eyes scanning yours, searching for a crack in the facade. “What’s wrong?” Gently asking, waving Richie off with a flick of his wrist.
You inhale, shoulders trembling, tears pricking behind your eyes. “I feel ugly… stupid. Like none of this matters.”
He steps closer, hand cupping your cheek, rings cold against your flushed skin. “Look at me.” You meet his piercing blue gaze, swirling flecks of green and gold, and his voice drops, velvet and raw. “When I look at you, I see the kindest, funniest, most brilliant girl. I see someone who could make the stars jealous if she wanted. I’d believe you if you told me the night sky glows because of you.”
Your lip trembles, tears escaping despite yourself. He presses a gentle kiss to your forehead, lingering, grounding. “You’re a pain in my ass,” He whispers against your hairline, smirking, “But even when you fight me, I can’t stop thinking about you. About how good it feels to see you in everything you try on, how alive you make me. How when I watch you dance I feel hopeful.”
You sniffle, curling into the warmth of him, leaning against his chest for just a moment, the chaos of silk and mirrors, the glitter of the city outside, all fading away. His hands slide over your shoulders, pulling you into a tight hug, grounding you, claiming you in a thousand silent ways.
“Watching you in all this,” There’s a beat of suspecting silence. “Made me hard, feel like a boy hiding it with a bag. I couldn’t even focus until I saw you in these.” You chuckle, breath catching, chest fluttering with a mix of frustration and desire. Your breath coming in soft pants as you gaze up at him, eyes heavy with desire. His hands linger on your neck, thumbs brushing the pulse point there, feeling it race under his touch. The wall is cool against your back, a stark contrast to the heat building between your bodies.
"Yeah?” Your fingers tracing the line of his jaw, down to his collarbone. He groans low in his throat, leaning in, “Yeah.” His lips capture yours in a deep kiss, tongue sliding against yours with deliberate strokes that make your knees weaken. A complete contrast from the kiss at the garden.
You arch into him slightly, your hands sliding down to grip his hips, holding him close. A shiver runs through you as the kiss intensifies, his mouth moving hungrily against yours, teeth grazing your lower lip in a teasing nip. You respond by tilting your head, deepening the connection, your tongues tangling in a heated dance that leaves you both breathless. Your hands knock off his sunglasses as you tug on his hair to push him closer.
He breaks the kiss only to trail his lips along your jaw, nipping at the sensitive skin below your ear. "God, you're driving me crazy," His voice rough, as his fingers tighten gently on your neck, pulling you back into another fierce kiss. Your hands clutch at his blouse, bunching the fabric as the kisses grow more urgent, lips swollen and breaths mingling in the charged air. He leans back, tilting his head, that crooked lopsided grin tugging at his lips.
“Are you hungry?”
“Yes.” You laugh hastily, confused by his switch up.
“Do you like Italian?”
“Harry, I live in New York,” You tease, trying to regain composure. “True,” Blue eyes catching yours, and the grin returns. Every glance, every touch, every word feels like a fuse, tension coiling and uncoiling between you. “I cannot walk out of this Gucci store hard.” He whispers anxiously. He turns and adjusts himself as walks out of your dressing room.
Outside, the city continues its relentless pulse, paparazzi waiting, flashes brimming at the edges of your awareness. But in this dressing room, it’s just you, him, silk, leather, and the quiet hum of electricity between heartbeats. Every movement, every brush of fingers, every shared smile or soft tease is saturated with longing and restraint.
Evening draped itself over the city like a velvet curtain, sticky with heat and exhaust, the smell of asphalt and distant pizza ovens weaving through the humid air. The Gucci boxes had already been whisked away by Luis, leaving the apartment hollow and quiet, and yet, somehow, the weight of him lingered.
Sliding into the Jag, the leather cold against your bare thighs, your chest tightened. He was already there, his scent curling into you like smoke cologne, sweat, something sharp and untouchable that clung to the skin and the memory of last night.
“Did you have a good day?” His voice was low, teasing, curling around your spine like a question. His thumb brushed against your knuckles, slow, deliberate, almost searching.
“I- yeah,” You said, swallowing hard, heat spreading up your neck. “Excited for the show tonight.”
He grinned, crooked, mischievous, the kind of grin that made your stomach twist. “You should be. Bright. Loud. Chaotic. Hope you’re ready for it.”
The Jag came to a stop and the restaurant glowed like a sanctuary in the dusk. Don Peppe: warm, fragrant, the air thick with garlic, dough, sauce, and the kind of domestic comfort that made your pulse slow for a second before it sped again. He led you in confidently, every step measured, like he belonged there more than anyone else, despite the paparazzi lurking outside, their cameras glinting against the windows like hungry eyes.
He slid into the booth across from you, effortless, fluid, every motion deliberate as always. His hand found your thigh, just grazing at first, testing, teasing, fingers warm, alive, coaxing heat up your legs and into your stomach. You shifted slightly, breath catching, feeling both the world pressing in through the windows and the tiny gravity pulling you toward him.
“You know,” Leaning just a little closer, shoulders brushing yours, voice low, “I’ve been coming here forever. I know the Don Peppe.”
You tilted your head mid-bite, eyes narrowed. “Liar. Prove it.”
He hummed, the sound soft, dangerous, teasing. “Did you like teasing me at Gucci?” The question slithered across the air, intimate, thick, almost impossible to answer.
You choked slightly, cheeks burning, and nodded slowly. His hand inched higher, tracing along the seam of his jeans you were wearing. Heat pooled in your stomach, coiling and twisting. The room felt smaller, crowded but intimate, every patron a ghost around you, every glance magnified, and still, it was only him and you.
The waiter arrived with the wine, and Harry’s pinky brushed against you again as he accepted the bottle. You froze, a shiver crawling through you, spine taut, heart hammering. The wine poured into the glasses, red and alive, smelling sharp, earthy, intoxicating, a liquid echo of the tension in the booth.
Outside, the paparazzi pressed against the windows, relentless. Cameras clicked like machine guns, flashes bursting into the room, painting you both in staccato bursts of white light, turning every stolen touch, every finger tracing, into a performance for eyes that weren’t yours. The heat of him against your thigh, the hum of your pulse in your ears, the sudden flashes of it was too much and not enough all at once.
“You know,” He leaned closer, lips near your ear, “I could stay like this all night. Just you and me. Nobody would have to know.” His fingers traced slow, deliberate circles along your clothed skin, teasing, coaxing heat that made your chest ache.
You swallowed, pulse hammering, catching his gaze, feeling the world narrow down to the warmth of him, the brush of fingers, the hush of desire that pressed against the chaos outside.
The paparazzi’s flashes stuttered like distant gunfire. Your hands gripped the edge of the booth, trying to anchor yourself to reality, to keep your composure. And yet every glance from him, every teasing graze of fingers, made it impossible.
Finally, reality intruded on the next rehearsal, the chaos waiting outside, the city that refused to pause but not before the memory seared into your skin: the warmth of him, the electricity of his touch, the exquisite tension that made your stomach twist and thighs ache. The moment was yours, stolen from the world, yet impossible to forget.
Madison Square Garden looms like a cathedral of heat and light, a dark monolith vibrating with voices, shouts, and the nervous thrill of expectation. Fans press against barricades, arms raised, signs trembling, glitter catching streetlights, eyes wild, mouths moving in unison.
Paparazzi strobe the air with cameras flashing like erratic heartbeats, each burst stabbing through the night, and for a moment, the world is too bright, too loud, too fast. You reach for Harry without thinking, fingers curling around his hand like it’s the only solid thing in the chaos. He squeezes gently, grounding you, and the glitter dusted on your arms and shoulders catches the streetlight in tiny halos, like you’ve brought your own private aurora with you.
Backstage is another universe entirely half temple, half battlefield, half dream. The air is hot and thick, heavy with sweat and hairspray, the faint tang of polish and electricity, a smell that makes your stomach ache and pulse in equal measure.
Black cables snake across the floor like living veins, stagehands weaving between them, headsets pressed to ears, bodies moving with urgent precision, a silent ballet choreographed by necessity. Somewhere, a bassline hums, low and steady, throbbing against the bones in your chest, and you realize your heartbeat has tuned itself to it without permission.
Harry moves through it all like he was born in this chaos, like it was his blood and not yours that thrums in the lights and echoes. He stops to talk to a producer, words are exchanged, gestures sharp but controlled. Then his gaze lands on you, and the world tilts. Even from the other side of the room, you feel the gravity of him, the way he draws light, sound, and attention into a perfect little orbit around him.
“I promise,” He turns to you before he leaves, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “It’ll be good. Just for you.”
The kiss he presses to your lips is fleeting, a stolen current of warmth and intent, and when he pulls back, that crooked, secretive smile lingers like smoke in your chest, setting your pulse racing.
Luis intercepts you before your brain can catch up, hands gentle but insistent on your elbows, guiding you through the maze of cables, amps, and half-packed equipment. “Harry wants you ready,” Short and sharp, the words a promise and a command all at once. “Short orange Gucci.”
The hallway narrows, black curtains swallowing sound, air thick with the scents of hairspray, heat, and sweat, and the low hum of the crowd outside leaks through like a pulse. Stylists and makeup artists wait like a covert army, brushes in hand, eyes assessing every line, every curve, every freckle, moving in tandem without speaking, a hundred rehearsed motions condensed into one quiet ritual. Luis seats you at the vanity, and there’s a woman behind you. “This is ayae yamamoto she’s going to help you,” Luis bids farewell and you watch her hands at work, smoothing glittered hair, dusting cheeks with soft amber light that catches the high points of your face just right, turning you into someone both familiar and suddenly luminous.
“Do you do this for everyone?” Asking, voice low, uncertain.
“No,” She says, shaking her head. “Harry asked. He said he wanted you to look like you belong up there. But different. Special.” Special. The word rolls in your chest like warm wine, makes the skin on your neck prickle, a slow, deliberate ache.
Luis hands you the dress after you become sculpted. Silk, warm from the hands that carried it, soft, heavy, vibrating with the promise of movement, of light, of him. He leads you to a small room to change. You step into it, letting the fabric settle against your body, bold and daring without trying. Stylists fuss with straps and hems, smoothing and tugging until every line is perfect, every curve framed just so.
“You’re ready,” Luis announces, stepping back. His eyes linger in a way that leaves a shiver in the pit of your stomach. “He’ll be lookin’.”
The moment Harry steps onto the stage, the arena exhales, a living organism of light, heat, and sound. The air vibrates with anticipation, humming in your chest like a low-grade electrical current. Each footstep he takes resonates through the polished wood floor, a rhythm you feel more than hear, and it makes your pulse spike in strange, thrilling ways. The lights flare gold and sapphire, painting him in halos and shadow, his every movement exaggerated, monumental, and yet impossibly intimate.
He arches over the microphone, curls falling across his forehead, eyes darting for yours even in the sea of faces and chaos. The first note leaves his lips, velvet and ragged, and it’s as if it’s being poured directly into your chest, filling you, pressing, consuming, intoxicating. You catch the tremor in his voice, slight, human and it sends shivers down your spine. Every chord he strikes, every strum, is precise, effortless, yet laden with that raw tension that makes watching him feel dangerously like a drug.
The crowd roars, a wave of bodies, glitter, and screaming voices, but you barely notice. The lights flare, cameras flash, but Harry exists only in the fraction of the stage that touches your eyes. The music vibrates in your ribcage, your thighs, the small hollow beneath your breasts where anticipation coils like a snake. Every drumbeat, every bass thump, is a tiny shock, a pull, and you realize with a dizzying thrill that your entire body has aligned to his rhythm without you consenting.
He moves across the stage, hips swaying with ease, one arm raised to catch the spotlights, the other caressing the microphone stand with casual intimacy. His shirt clings to the sweat dampened skin, the tattoos on his arm flickering like secret messages in the blaze of the lights. You can see the sharp plane of his jaw, the curl of his lip as he croons, the tiny catching of his breath between songs, and it feels like you’re watching a private performance carved out of chaos for your eyes alone.
The smell of the arena perfume, sweat, polish, and the faint hint of cigarette smoke drifts up and mixes with the metallic tang of the speakers, intoxicating, claustrophobic, electric. Your skin pricks in every direction, awareness sharpened to the pitch of every strum, every glance. And he keeps glancing at you, just enough to make you feel exposed, and yet wanted, as if the entire performance were a thread pulling you closer to him, invisible, inescapable.
Between songs, he leans into the microphone, voice teasing, intimate despite the thousands of strangers pressed against the barricades. “Wave to all the angels in the house tonight,” He calls, the words slicing through the chaos, “and to a very special one right here.” Your stomach dips, your face heats, and the glitter in your hair feels like a crown, a mark that he sees only you.
The pace never lets up. Each movement, each flick of his fingers along the strings, each shift in weight across the stage feels deliberate, sensual, magnetic. You press your hands to the cold steel of the railing, knuckles white, heartbeat a wild drum echoing his own, and you realize you’re intoxicated not by the music alone, not by the crowd, but by the sheer force of him existing, unrestrained and powerful.
As the set moves into the faster songs, the lights flare, strobes slicing through smoke machines, bathing the arena in sharp, blinding gold and violet. His voice crescendos, rough and raw, catching in the most delicate places, and you bite your lip, chest tight, fingers trembling. His curls stick to his forehead with sweat, his collar damp, sleeves rolled just so to expose glimpses of ink and muscle, every flash of movement drawing the eye like a brushstroke of fire.
And still, amidst the chaos, the flashes, the screaming, he finds you, again and again, and it’s unbearable. Every glance feels like a tether wrapped around your chest, around your wrist, around your heart. You’re suspended in this tide of heat, light, sound, and the pull of him, dizzy and high, forgetting the world outside. The music vibrates in your bones, the air tastes like electricity and sweat, and you realize that you are utterly, irreversibly caught.
The final chord reverberates through the arena, vibrating in your chest, throat, and fingers like it’s etched into your bones. The crowd’s roar fades into an echo, a pulse that lingers in your ears even as Harry steps off the stage, sweat-soaked hair curling against his forehead, collar damp, chest rising and falling with the slow drag of exhaustion. He doesn’t rush toward the dressing room, not immediately he lets the energy of the arena linger in the air between you, a tactile thing, heavy, sweet, intoxicating.
When he finally reaches you, his arm wraps around your shoulders, a protective heat shielding you from the lingering flashes and voices outside. You’re breathing hard, glitter still clinging to damp skin, clothes slightly disheveled from the chaotic energy, and every nerve in your body is alert, alive, trembling. His chest presses against yours, warm, and the faint scent of sweat, cologne, and concert adrenaline mixes into something dizzying, disorienting, and intoxicating.
“You liked it?” His voice is low, rough from singing, vulnerable and intimate in a way it never is on stage. His hand slides to your hip, grounding you, but teasingly, just enough that you feel the tension coil tighter in your belly. You nod, barely able to form words, heart still hammering like the drumbeats that just ended moments ago.
He presses a kiss to your forehead, soft but deliberate, lingering, the kind that leaves heat blooming across your skin. “You look perfect,” Voice husky, eyes scanning you like he’s memorizing the curves of your body, the flush of your cheeks, the way your chest rises under the adrenaline. It’s private, intimate, a stolen bubble of space that doesn’t exist for anyone else.
The dressing room smells of old flowers, faint wine, the tang of perfume and sweat, a mix that’s grounding yet heady. The lights are softer here, warm halos diffusing across velvet curtains and polished instruments. You sink into the chaise, letting your legs fall heavy, hands brushing over the remnants of glitter still clinging to your shoulders.
Harry moves with a casual intimacy, running a hand through his damp hair, adjusting a strap of his shirt, muscles shifting under sweat slicked skin. Every glance, every flicker of a smile, is a spark. Even though he’s exhausted, there’s a charged electricity in his movements, an energy that doesn’t dissipate even off stage.
He pours two glasses of wine with meticulous care, offering you one. “Here,” Handing it over. The glass feels warm in your hand, the liquid tart and grounding. You sip slowly, tasting the night itself, the sweat, the adrenaline, the thrill. He watches you, eyes flickering green in the warm light, the way they always seem to catch every nuance of you, and it makes your chest tighten, your pulse stutter.
“You’re quiet,” Voice low, intimate. “Thinking about me up there, about the show, about the offer?”
“I’m dizzy,” You admit, shakily, throat still vibrating from the music’s aftershocks. “From everything. I’m honestly not sure. It’s a completely different show than what I do at 54.”
He laughs, low, teasing, a sound that curls around your spine. One hand drifts to rest on your thigh, gentle, grounding. “It’s not about them. It’s about you. About how it feels when you move, when you own it. You don’t disappear in the chaos. You make it yours.”
“Listen, you’re electric, and every time you’re here it’s like I can feel the music differently. See it differently. Feel it with you.” His gaze pins you, warm, insistent, leaving you feeling exposed and alive in a way that’s almost frightening.
You glance around at half-empty flutes, lyric sheets scattered like breadcrumbs, buzzing phones. His life is everywhere, chaotic, relentless. And yet, in the middle of it, he is entirely present for you.
“And you, does it ever get exhausting?”
His hand lingers, brushing along your hip. “It’s relentless. But easier when there’s someone worth it. Someone who reminds me why it’s fun. You do that.”
He grins, crooked and teasing, though there’s a weight behind it, the exhaustion and thrill etched into his features. “Yeah, it does that. Every time. That’s why I love it. That’s why I live for it.” His hand drifts from yours, brushing along your thigh, teasing, grounding, igniting a coil of heat that has nothing to do with the wine. You shiver slightly under his touch, and he notices, smirk softening into something almost gentle.
Your hands drift up to his chest, sticky with sweat from the show, feeling the ridges of his collarbone, the muscles beneath, his heartbeat steady and wild all at once. The air between you is thick, heavy with the remnants of performance, adoration, tension, and unspoken desire.
“I want,” He trails off as his fingers brush your hair back, tracing the line of your jaw. The pause is electric, a suspended heartbeat where words aren’t needed. You lean into him without realizing, letting the heat of his body ground you, connect you.
He presses his lips to yours, first soft, testing, teasing, and then deeper, more urgent as if he’s been holding back every moment of the show. Your lips part instinctively, breath hitching, a low, shared moan vibrating between you. His hands trace your sides, sliding under your hair, over your shoulders, holding, claiming, grounding, igniting.
The room is alive with the residue of the concert: sweat, glitter, heat, and the afterglow of thousands of screaming fans. Outside, the distant flashes of paparazzi still flicker against the curtains, but here, in this small, electric bubble, nothing exists but the two of you, the heat between your bodies, the lingering rhythm of the stage vibrating through your veins.
His lips leave your mouth only for a whisper, brushing against your ear. “You make all of this worth it. Every flash, every scream, every goddamn camera. You make it feel like it’s just us.” His words are almost too much, too real, too intimate, and you press your forehead to his, breathing in the heat and the scent, the electricity and the sweat.
For a long moment, you simply hold each other, the adrenaline slowly giving way to something warmer, deeper, intimate in a way that’s less about the show and more about the tether that’s grown between you. The world outside the dressing room, the lights, the cameras, the chaos becomes distant, muted, a mere hum beneath the pulse of you two entwined.
A knock interrupts Luis again, the outside world insisting. Harry shields you effortlessly as you’re ushered into the Jaguar. Leather cold against your thighs, engine rumbling beneath you like a heartbeat. The roar of the arena lingers, a low vibration that you feel in your chest, in your bones, in your pulse. And you realize: the arena wasn’t just music tonight. It was him showing you, teaching you, letting you see his world. And inviting you to belong in it.
The drive home from the show stretches out like an eternity, the city lights blurring past in streaks of neon and shadow. The wind inside the car crackles with unspoken hunger, thick and electric, every glance between you loaded with promises of what's to come. The adrenaline is still pumping in your veins.
After impatiently waiting and being interrupted time and time again, you’re ready. Your hand rests on his thigh at first, fingers tracing idle patterns over the rough denim of his jeans, but it doesn't stay innocent for long. You slide your palm higher, squeezing the firm muscle beneath, feeling the heat radiating from his skin. He shifts in his seat, a low growl escaping his throat, and his free hand abandons the gearshift to capture yours, guiding it even closer to the growing bulge straining against his zipper.
He can't resist either his fingers drum on the steering wheel, his rings clinking against the leather before one drifts to your bare knee, exposed by the high cut of your dress. He pushes the fabric up slowly, inch by inch, his touch turning greedy as it skims your inner thigh.
The car swerves slightly when you lean over the console, your lips finding the pulse point on his neck. You suck hard, teeth grazing the salty tanned skin, tongue laving over the spot you've marked. He moans, the sound ragged and needy, his foot slipping off the accelerator just enough to make the engine stutter. A red light flares ahead, but he's too lost in the sensation, barreling through it without braking, horns blaring from behind as he curses under his breath.
“Fuck,” He pants, eyes darting to the rearview mirror, but there's no real apology in his voice only raw desire. His hand tightens on your thigh, rings feeling heavy, nails digging in as you nip at his earlobe, your breath hot against his skin. The tension coils tighter, unbearable, until he yanks the wheel sharply and pulls into a dimly lit side street, tires screeching against the asphalt.
The car jerks to a stop under the overhang of an old warehouse, engine idling roughly as he kills the headlights. Before you can say a word, he's unbuckling his seatbelt with one hand and lunging across the console, crashing his mouth against yours in a bruising kiss. His hands on both sides of your head, pushing your lips against his. Crushing them and smothering you.
His tongue invades your mouth immediately, thrusting deep and demanding, tasting of wine and the faint tang of the pasta from earlier. You meet him stroke for stroke, your hands fisting in his blouse, pulling him closer until the gearshift digs into your side. He devours you like he's been starving, lips sucking on your bottom one before biting down just hard enough to draw a gasp. His other hand hikes your dress higher, bunching the silky material around your hips, exposing the lace of your panties to the cool air.
Fingers hook into the waistband, tugging them down your thighs with impatient jerks, the fabric scraping against your skin. He wants to tear it. At the same time, he's fumbling with his own belt, the metal buckle clinking loudly as he yanks it open. The zipper of his jeans rasps down, and he shoves the denim and his boxers low enough to free his cock thick and heavy, already leaking pre-cum from the flushed tip. It slaps against his abdomen with a wet smack before he grabs your leg, draping it over his lap to spread you open. He thrusts against your inner thigh, the hot length of him sliding over your skin in desperate, erratic bucks.
Each grind pulls a pitiful whine from his lips, high and broken, nothing like the commanding growls you're used to from him. “God, you look so fucking hot tonight,” he murmurs between kisses, his voice hoarse from singing. “That dress hugging every curve, your tits spilling out the top. I’ve been hard since you walked out of the dressing room. You're killing me, baby. So goddamn perfect.”
His compliments wash over you like liquid fire, each one stoking the ache building between your legs. You rock against him, your pussy slick and throbbing, the friction of his cock against your thigh making you clench with need. “Please?” You whine again, louder this time, hips snapping forward as he smears pre-cum along your skin, marking you. His free hand cups your breast through the thin fabric of your dress, thumb circling the hardened nipple until you arch into his touch, moaning into his mouth.
But then he freezes, chest heaving with labored breaths, his forehead pressed to yours. Eyes boring into yours. Emotions swelling. Sweat beads on his brow, and his cock twitches against your leg, so close to the edge he could shatter.
He pulls back slightly, eyes dark and stormy, pupils blown wide with lust. “Wait,” he rasps, voice thick and strained, like it's taking everything in him to stop. His hand stills on your thigh, fingers trembling as they trace soothing circles instead of pushing further. “I can't... not like this. Rushed in the car, half-dressed and frantic.” He heaved, trying to regain his breathing. His asthma flaring with how worked up he’s getting. “You deserve more. I want to take my time with you, spread you out, taste every inch, I need to worship you properly.”
The words hang heavy in the charged silence, his restraint a testament to how deeply he craves you, not just your body, but the connection, the devotion. He tucks himself back into his jeans with a grimace, zipping up slowly, then helps smooth your dress down, his touch lingering reverently on your skin.
The engine roars back to life, and as he pulls out onto the road, his hand finds yours again, intertwining fingers in a promise of the pleasure to come.
The click of the lock echoes through the foyer like a promise sealed, the sound sharp and final in the quiet of the apartment. Your eyes catch the vibrant burst of sunflowers on the marble table, their golden petals glowing under the soft lamp light, a splash of warmth against the cool stone. Bewilderment tugs at you as you step closer, fingers brushing the vase. “When did you get them?” Voice laced with surprise.
He presses in behind you, his body heat enveloping you like a second skin, lips already grazing the curve of your neck. A deep moan rumbles from his chest, vibrating against your spine as he nuzzles deeper. “Luis made a stop,” The words hot and breathy against your skin. His scruff scratches against your shoulder and cheek. His tongue flicks out, tracing a slow, wet path along your jawline, savoring the salt of your skin mixed with the faint perfume from the show. Glitter catching on his tongue.
Before you can respond, his hands grip your hips, strong fingers digging in as he lifts you effortlessly off the floor. You wrap your legs around his waist on instinct, ankles crossing at the small of his back, the skirt of your dress riding up to expose the lace edges of your panties. He carries you toward the bedroom, his strides purposeful, boots thudding against the hardwood. As he crosses the threshold, he kicks them off one by one first the left, then the right, sending them skidding across the floor with dull thumps. The cool chain around your neck swings free, the metal links cool against your heated skin as he lowers you onto the bed.
The mattress dips under your weight, sheets rumpling as he follows you down, his mouth claiming your neck in a frenzy of kisses and sucks. He bites down gently on the tender flesh just below your ear, tongue soothing the mark before latching on again, drawing out a gasp from your lips. The metal chain dangles between you, brushing against his collarbone like a teasing caress, its weight a reminder of his raw, unyielding presence. His hands roam, sliding up your calves to hook into the straps of your heels. With deliberate tugs, he unfastens them, peeling the shoes away and tossing them aside, leaving your feet bare and vulnerable.
He sinks to his knees at the edge of the bed, positioning himself between your spread legs, the mattress creaking under the shift. Your thighs part wider for him, dress hiked high, panties damp with anticipation. His eyes lock on yours, dark and hungry, before he leans in, pressing open-mouthed kisses from your ankle upward. His lips trail fire along the arch of your foot, before moving to the sensitive skin of your calf. Higher still, his mouth works over the curve of your knee, teeth grazing the inner thigh as he inches toward the heat at your core. The kisses grow wetter, more insistent, his breath fanning hot against your skin until he reaches the apex, hovering just shy of where you ache most. “Is this okay?” Rough with restraint, his hands steadying your trembling legs.
“More than okay,” You breathily moan, arching your back off the bed, a moan spilling from your throat as desire coils tight in your belly. Your fingers thread into his short hair, tugging gently to urge him closer, the strands soft and damp with sweat under your grip.
That sound breaks him. “I like that you’re not bratty anymore,” He wraps his arms around your thighs, muscles flexing as he yanks them further apart, exposing you completely. “Only had to invest a couple million into you.”
His index finger hooks into the crotch of your panties, pulling the soaked lace aside with a slick drag that makes you whimper. The cool air hits your bare pussy, but it's gone in an instant as the tip of his tongue makes contact flat and firm against your swollen clit. He laps at it slowly at first, savoring the taste, a deep moan vibrating from his throat straight through your core. The hum buzzes against your sensitive flesh, sending jolts of pleasure radiating outward, your hips bucking involuntarily toward his mouth.
His tongue circles your clit with teasing flicks, then presses harder, sucking the nub between his lips with a wet pop. The sweetness of your arousal coats his tongue, and he groans again, eyes rolling in the back of his head, the sound muffled as he buries his face deeper, nose brushing your mound. His arms lock your legs in place, holding you open and helpless as he devours you licking broad strokes from your entrance up to your clit, then spearing his tongue inside your tight heat, fucking you with it in shallow thrusts. Your fingers tighten in his hair, pulling him closer, your moans growing louder, body writhing under the onslaught.
The room fills with the obscene sounds of his mouth on you: slurps and smacks as he sucks your clit harder, teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp. Your pussy clenches around nothing, dripping wetness down your thighs, and he laps it up greedily, humming his approval. “Fuck, you taste so good,” His lips brush against your skin, his breath fanning over you the words vibrating through you before he dives back in, tongue swirling relentlessly. Pleasure builds like a storm, your back arching higher, toes curling as he pushes you toward the edge with every expert stroke.
His strong hands grip your thighs tighter, his rings leaving dents in your skin, fingers digging into the soft flesh with bruising force, holding you wide open and utterly exposed to his ravenous hunger. He laps at you like a man starved, his tongue flat and broad as it digs into your entrance, deep enough to make you whimper and arch your back higher.
He pulls back just a fraction, his breath coming in ragged pants that fan over your slick skin, making you shiver. His eyes lock onto your pussy, dark and stormy with possession, his lips shiny and swollen from devouring you.
“Promise me,” He rasps, his voice gravelly and low, laced with a vulnerability that twists your heart even as it stokes the fire in your veins. He nips at the tender skin of your inner thigh, his teeth scraping just hard enough to leave faint red marks, before soothing the spot with a lingering kiss. “Promise me you'll never leave me. That this is forever. Say it, baby. I need to hear it.”
Your heart hammers wildly in your chest, the raw emotion in his words crashing against the tidal wave of lust building inside you. You don’t feel fear of your past that haunts your future. From the time being with him he’s actively rewritten your future. You nod frantically, your body trembling under his gaze, every inch of you alive and yearning. “I promise,” The words breathless and thick with sincerity, your voice breaking on a moan as his thumb brushes lightly over your clit. “'I'll never leave you. I'm yours, completely. Always and forever.”
A deep, satisfied hum rumbles from his throat, primal and triumphant, and he surges forward like a predator claiming his prize. He dives back in with renewed ferocity, his tongue thrusting deep inside your dripping pussy now, fucking you with long, probing strokes that mimic what you both crave next. He explores every inch, tasting your essence, before withdrawing to circle your clit again with rapid, insistent flicks.
One of his hands slides higher up your body, rough palm skimming over your hip, your waist, until it shoves your dress up roughly, bunching the fabric above your breasts. He exposes them to the cool air, your nipples hardening instantly into tight peaks. His fingers find one, pinching it hard between thumb and forefinger, rolling it with just the right amount of pain to blend into pleasure, making you cry out and twist beneath him.
You try to run from the overstimulation but he holds you down with his other hand, still anchoring your thigh, shifts. Two thick fingers push past the soaked fabric of your panties, which he's tugged aside with his index, and plunge straight into your tight, welcoming heat. You feel every ridge and knuckle as they sink deep, stretching you deliciously, and he curls them upward immediately, stroking that hidden spot inside you with expert precision. Sinking until the hilt of his rings is pressed flush against your core.
Your vision is blurring as waves of ecstasy crash through you. He pumps his fingers in a steady rhythm, matching the relentless lash of his tongue on your clit, the wet, obscene sounds of his mouth working you over echoing in the quiet room slurps and sucks mingling with your escalating moans.
Your body writhes under the onslaught, thighs quaking around his head as you try to close them, overwhelmed, but he holds you pinned, refusing to let you escape the intensity. Sweat beads on your skin, trickling down your sides, and the scent of your arousal hangs heavy in the air, mixing with his musky cologne.
He switches tactics, his lips sealing around your clit fully now, sucking hard while his fingers scissor inside you, opening you up further, preparing you. The pressure coils tighter and tighter in your core, a burning knot ready to snap, every nerve ending screaming for release.
“You’re so tight, sweet girl,” He pants, lifting his head just enough to speak, his chin dripping with your juices, His fingers speed up, thrusting faster, deeper, while his tongue resumes its assault, lashing your clit without mercy. “'Show me you're mine. Drench my face, I wanna hear it.” The words push you over the edge. The orgasm rips through you like lightning, your pussy spasming wildly around his invading fingers, walls fluttering and squeezing as you flood his mouth with your hot release. You scream his name, the sound raw and broken, your back bowing off the bed in a violent arch, heels digging into the mattress as tremors rack your entire body. He doesn't pull away, lapping up every drop, prolonging the bliss until you're a boneless, panting mess beneath him.
He eases his fingers out, bringing them to his lips to suck them clean, his gaze never leaving yours. He crawls up your body, the weight of him pressing you down, his hard cock straining against his pants as it nudges your thigh. “You’re my muse.” capturing your mouth in a searing kiss, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.
His kisses intensify, lips crashing against yours with a hunger that steals your breath, the fabric of your dress bunching higher around your waist, exposing the curve of your hips and the damp heat between your legs. Through the thin barrier of his jeans, you feel his cock thickening, growing heavier and harder with every press of his body against yours, the rigid length straining against the denim like it's begging for release.
Your fingers clutch at the hem of his blouse, tugging insistently, and he breaks the kiss with a frustrated groan, lifting his arms to yank the shirt over his head in one swift motion. The fabric whispers to the floor, revealing the taut planes of his chest, muscles rippling under tanned skin marked by faint scars and tattoos, catching the soft light filtering through the bedroom window where sunflowers stand tall in a vase on the marble table nearby.
He dives back in, mouth trailing fire down your jaw, nipping at the sensitive spot below your ear before moving to your shoulder, teeth grazing. Lower still, pawing at one breast, then the other, his lips latching onto a nipple with a wet suck that makes you arch off the bed.
He lavishes attention on each peak, tongue swirling around the hardened bud, teeth tugging just hard enough to border on pain, sucking until your skin flushes dark and the ache turns sore, the sharp twinges shooting straight to your core. You push at his shoulders, gasping for air, a whimper escaping as the overstimulation borders on too much, your pussy clenching emptily in response.
He pulls back with a deep groan, eyes dark with lust, frustration etching his features at your gentle dismissal. “Greedy little thing,” His tone rough as gravel, but there's no real anger, only raw need. His hands hook into the waistband of your dress, dragging it down your body along with your soaked panties, the cool air kissing your bare skin as he strips you completely, the scent of your arousal thick in the air. He rises briefly to his knees again, gaze raking over you like you're a feast laid out for him. “Fuck, angel, you made such a mess,” Palming the thick bulge in his jeans, eyes flicking to the damp spot on the sheets where your arousal has seeped through and the slick shine coating your inner thighs, your pussy lips swollen and glistening with need.
“Lookit you.” Fingers trembling with urgency, he unbuckles his belt, the metal clink echoing in the room, then fumbles with the button and zipper, shoving the denim down his hips along with his boxers. His cock springs free, heavy and veined, the tip angry and pink leaking cum that glistens in the low light, bobbing with his heartbeat, the shaft curving slightly upward toward his navel. He kicks the jeans aside, pooling all your discarded clothes at the foot of the bed in a tangled heap. Naked and bare now, he crawls forward, hands sliding from your ankles up the length of your calves, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh behind your knees before reaching your thighs, spreading them wider with firm pressure, exposing your dripping folds to his hungry stare.
You shift upward on the bed, scooting back to make room, the burning coil in your stomach flaring hot, licking flames up your spine that make your skin prickle with fresh need. A shiver races through you as his calloused palms glide higher, brushing the sensitive crease where thigh meets hip, so close to your dripping pussy that you clench in anticipation, a fresh trickle of wetness sliding down your ass. “Ive never seen anyone more beautiful,” Hushed and reverent, his eyes drinking in every inch of your naked body the swell of your breasts still marked by his teeth, the dip of your waist, the way your legs tremble under his touch, your clit peeking out swollen and begging. He's utterly enthralled, like you're a vision he can't believe is real. He’s already thinking of lyrics in his head about you.
Instinctively, you wrap your arms around yourself, a flush of shyness creeping in despite the heat between you, trying to shield your vulnerability. He clicks his tongue against his teeth, shaking his head slowly, a soft tsk of disapproval. “There's no need to be shy now,” He mumbled, leaning down to press a tender kiss to your forehead, his breath warm and steadying. “Okay?” His eyes search yours, waiting for your consent, the dominant edge softening just enough to show he cares.
You nod, heart pounding. “Okay.” You whisper back, voice barely audible over the rush of your pulse.
In one fluid motion, he captures both your wrists in the iron grip of his large palm, pinning them above your head against the pillows, the stretch pulling your breasts taut and making you feel deliciously exposed, your nipples hardening further in the air. His rings pinching your wrists. His free hand wraps around the base of his cock, thick fingers encircling the girth as he gives himself a couple of slow, deliberate pumps, the head flaring purple, more pre-cum beading at the slit and dripping onto your thigh.
He angles himself between your thighs, the blunt tip nudging against your slick folds, teasing your entrance without pushing in, sliding up to bump your clit before circling back down. “Lookit me,” Your breath hitches at the intensity in his gaze, the vulnerability cracking through his dominance. You breathe, the look solemn, binding, your body arching toward him as if sealing the vow with your very soul.
A satisfied rumble vibrates from his chest, and he releases your wrists just long enough to guide his cock to your pussy, rubbing the head up and down your slit, coating himself in your wetness until it's slick and shining. Then, with a slow, controlled thrust, he pushes inside, the thick head breaching your entrance and stretching your walls inch by inch, the burn of the fullness making you gasp and claw at the sheets, your pussy fluttering around the intrusion.
He groans, burying his face in the crook of your neck, hips snapping forward until he's seated deep, balls pressed against your ass, the coarse hair at his base grinding against your clit. “Fuck, I dunno how you’re so tight,” He grits out, holding still for a moment to let you adjust, his cock throbbing inside you, every vein pulsing against your sensitive inner walls. Taking everything in him to not just fuck you senseless.
He recaptures your wrists, pinning them again as he starts to move long, deep strokes that drag his cock almost all the way out before slamming back in, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the room, his balls smacking your ass with each thrust. You cry out, the angle hitting that spot deep inside that makes stars burst behind your eyelids, your pussy clenching greedily around him, sucking him deeper. He sets a punishing rhythm, hips pistoning, sweat beading on his forehead and dripping onto your chest. “Thats it, take it,” Releasing one of your hands to hike your leg higher over his hip, opening you wider, allowing him to plunge even deeper, the head of his dick kissing your cervix with every brutal drive.
Your free hand flies to his back, nails digging into the flexing muscles there, urging him on as the pressure builds low in your belly, coiling tighter with each grind of his pelvis against your clit. He leans down, capturing your mouth in a messy kiss, tongue fucking into you in time with his hips, swallowing your moans as he pounds relentlessly. You feel him swelling thicker inside you, his breaths coming in ragged pants against your lips, his thrusts growing erratic, chasing his release.
“I love you,” His thumb finding your clit and rubbing firm circles over the slick nub, the added friction sending you spiraling. Your body tenses, toes curling, and with a shattered cry, you shatter around him, your pussy convulsing in waves, milking his cock as you squirt, hot fluid gushing out around his shaft, soaking his balls and the sheets beneath you. The orgasm rips through you, every muscle seizing, vision blurring as pleasure crashes over you in endless pulses.
The tight squeeze of your walls pulls him over the edge. He buries himself to the hilt with a roar, cock jerking as he floods your pussy with thick ropes of cum, the heat of it painting your insides, spilling out around him with each twitch. His hips stutter, grinding deep as he empties himself, body shuddering above you.
He collapses forward, careful not to crush you, forehead pressed to yours, breaths mingling in harsh gasps as the aftershocks ripple through both of you.
Slowly, he eases out, his softening cock slipping free with a wet squelch, a mix of your combined releases trickling down your thighs. He rolls to the side, pulling you into his chest, one arm banded around your waist, the other stroking your hair as your heart rates slow. He doesn’t speak, he kisses your temple, breathing soft and sated, the possessiveness laced with tenderness.
You nestle closer, limbs heavy and boneless, the warmth of his body lulling you into a hazy contentment, the scent of sex and sunflowers lingering in the air as you both drift in the quiet afterglow. “I love you too.” You say into his chest. He squeezes you closer with closed eyes. “I know..” The beat of his heart drifts you into sleep. The soaked sheets and bedding, being a problem for tomorrow.
Sunday
You wake slowly, the way tidewater creeps back toward shore. His arms are caged around you again, not trapping, not possessive, just certain. Familiar. Heavy with sleep. For once, you don’t stiffen or pull away. You let yourself stay. You let yourself belong to the quiet. His breathing is deep and uneven, brushed snores slipping from him like a secret he doesn’t know he’s telling.
It’s almost funny, this unguarded version of him, the disco god stripped of spotlights and charisma, reduced to warmth and bone and breath. You trace the tattoos along his arm with the tip of your finger, slow and reverent. Inked stories you’ve never heard spoken aloud. Lines that curve and disappear beneath the sheets. Each mark feels like a confession. Each breath, an offering.
Outside, the morning hums faintly with cars, a voice somewhere below, and the city stretching awake. In here, time loosens its grip. His chin rests against your shoulder. His hand twitches once at your waist, instinctive, like even asleep he knows where you are. Even in his subconscious, nervous about being alone. You listen to him breathe and think, absurdly, so this is what quiet sounds like. Not loneliness. Not longing. Not abandonment. Just this warmth, weight, and the soft promise of being held without having to ask. You close your eyes again, fingers still moving lazily over his skin, and let the lull of him carry you.
You shift restlessly in his strong arms, the warmth of his body pressing against yours under the tangled sheets, hips pressed flush against the curve of your ass. He rubs against you, grinding against your cheek. His cock throbs hard against the soft curve of your cheek, each subtle thrust of his hips pushing the rigid length along your skin. The friction builds quickly, his precum leaking out to smear a slick, damp trail across your cheek, marking you with his arousal.
Twisting slightly, you crane your neck to press your lips on his slightly open ones, tasting the faint salt of sleep on him, but your desire pulls you lower. Breaking the kiss, your lips brush down his jaw, his neck, trailing hot and wet over his chest until you duck beneath the blankets. The air grows thick and musky here, filled with the scent of his skin and the faint tang of his leaking tip.
You nuzzle closer, your breath ghosting over his shaft before your mouth finds the sensitive head. Your lips part to kiss it softly at first, a gentle press that makes him stir. His eyes flutter open as a low groan escapes him, his hand instinctively tangling in your hair, fingers gripping tight but not pulling. '”Don't do this if you don't want to,” he murmurs, voice rough and rigid with sleep and sudden need, his body tensing beneath you.
“I want to,” You whisper against his heated skin, your words vibrating through him. “Repaying the favor.” Your lips brushing against his hip. Emboldened, you open wider, taking the swollen tip into your mouth. Your tongue swirls around the ridge, lapping at the salty bead of precum that wells up. He hisses, hips bucking slightly as you suckle tenderly, drawing him in deeper inch by inch. Your cheeks hollow as you bob your head, lips stretching around his girth, the veined shaft pulsing against your tongue. He tries to steady himself and not push himself entirely down your tight throat, but he can't stop himself at the insatiable feeling.
He's already so close, his breaths coming in sharp pants, the hand in your hair guiding you gently now. You hum around him, the vibration sending shivers up his spine, and hollow your cheeks harder, sucking with rhythmic pulls. Saliva drips down his length, mixing with his arousal, making obscene wet sounds as you work him. His balls tighten against your chin, and you feel the telltale twitch before he groans deeply, flooding your mouth with hot spurts of cum. You swallow greedily, milking every drop until he's spent and trembling. But you're not done.
Pulling off with a soft pop, you crawl up his body, swinging a leg over to straddle his strong narrow hips. His cock, still semi-hard and slick from your mouth, nestles against your soaked folds. He holds your hips steady, kneading your soft skin. You grind down once, coating him in your wetness; you press one hand on his sternum on top of the butterfly and the other holding him at his base. You rub the tip from your clit down to your aching hole.
He arches his back, filling you completely, stretching your pussy around his thickness as you settle to the hilt. Your hands brace on his chest on each swallow, nails digging in as you start to ride. Up and down, you lift and drop, your ass slapping against his thighs with each descent. He grips your hips harder, thumbs pressing into your skin, helping you set a steady rhythm.
The angle hits deep, his cock dragging along your inner walls, brushing that spot that makes stars burst behind your eyes. You clench around him, walls fluttering as pleasure coils tight in your core. He thrusts up to meet you, the bed creaking under the force, his renewed hardness pounding into you. Sweat slicks your bodies, your breasts bouncing with every rise and fall.
His eyes lock on yours, dark with lust, as he watches you take him. “Fuck, you feel so good,” One hand sliding up to pinch your nipple, rolling it between his fingers until you moan. He paws at your tit, his big hand cupping it. When he feels your pace falter, the hand from your tit drops to the front of your pussy. His fingers spread on the mound, while his thumb lazily traces his name on your clit. “Cum f’me, angel.” He brokenly moans. Just watching you lose yourself on him makes him hard. Seeing you use him can make him cum.
The pace quickens as his thrusts hit harder than your bounces. He plants his feet flat as he makes you bounce. “It’s too much, Harry.” You whimper as your arms give out, and you lie on his chest; you lean on your forearms as he holds your face. “You can. You will, sweet girl.” Your hips bruise as they meet his roughness. Each thrust grinds your clit against his base for that extra friction. His balls hitting the curve of your cheeks. The smells build as the heat grows relentlessly, your pussy squeezing him tighter, pulling him deeper.
He bucks harder, chasing his release again, and you feel him swell inside you. He holds your face close to his, staring deep into your eyes, watching your brain turn to mush. His sweat running down his temple into the cave of his jaw. He presses his lips against yours, pushing his tongue into your mouth, stealing your breath. You respond with a weak whimper. With a final, shuddering thrust, he cums deep, ropes of hot seed painting your insides as your own orgasm crashes over you, walls pulsing around him in waves of ecstasy. As you shake and wither, your cunt tries to push him out, but he pushes deeper as his cum spills out.
Both of you breathe in cadence. The other is stealing the other's breath until each breath is entangled into one. His short hair was dampened to his skin. Moving feels like a crime as you slowly lift, and his cock slowly falls out with a wet slap. He sighs with a lopsided smile, his skin scorching along with yours.
The morning light slips through the curtains in thin, silver bands, dust motes drifting lazily in the air as if even time has slowed out of respect. He gets up and kisses you on the cheek, going into the bathroom and grabbing a rag to clean himself and a towel for you. Your fingers brush against each other, and the touch makes you shake.
The city outside exhales distant horns, a siren far enough away to sound like a memory. He tucks himself back under the sheets and cradles you to him. You’re tucked into him, sheets tangled at your waist, the warmth of his body still humming against yours, as if the heat hasn’t quite let go.
He smells like sleep and something sweeter: skin, warmth, the faint trace of last night’s cologne and yours intertwined, and promises. His hand rests on your back, heavy and sure, fingers tracing nothing in particular, just grounding you both in the aftermath.
“Why don’t we get the stuff out of your apartment?” He murmurs, voice low, unguarded, and still rough around the edges. “Since you’re with me now.” The words settle slowly, like dust in morning light. You lift your head, looking over to him. “You want me to move in?” He smiles, not the stage smile, not the perilous one. This one is quiet. Earnest. Almost shy. “The question,” Brushing his thumb along your shoulder, “Is what location do you prefer it to be moved to.”
You laugh softly, the sound dissolving into the sheets. “What’re my options?” “A lot of cute homes in London,” He says, casually as if he’s talking about the weather. “Along with a mansion. And a couple houses in Beverly Hills. Nothing too extravagant.” You trace the line of his jaw, the hair scratching your finger, thoughtful. “I’ve been thinking about investing in Italy.” Your brow lifts, amused, intrigued. “Italy, huh, which do you stay at the most?” You ask, voice barely above a breath. “Depends on if I’m touring,” He replies. “I try to stay close to home as much as I can.” He shifts, pulling you closer until there’s no space left between you, foreheads touching, breaths mingling. Outside, the city stirs, unaware that something tender is unfolding in this small, sunlit room.
“So where in this whole wide world,” He asks softly, “Does my angel want to go?” You don’t rush the answer. You watch the way the light catches in his eyes, how unguarded he looks without the noise, the crowds, and the myth. Just a man, wrapped around you, offering a future like it’s nothing at all. “Anywhere with you,” you say. He exhales, slow and full, like he’s been holding that breath for years. His lips press into your hair, lingering, reverent. The sheets rustle. The morning stretches on. For once, there’s no stage waiting. No countdown. Just the quiet certainty of being chosen and choosing back. Just kissing all the time, with the occasional disco.
You heard Harry at the front door and greeted him back, waiting for him to come into the kitchen to see the surprise you had waiting for him.
Home.
After your trip to Italy you decided not to head back to the US. Harry suggested you’d try London on for a fit, and after renting out a place for quite a few months, you finally decided this would be your new home. Harry brought his business back home so to speak, and you began hunting for the perfect place. It hadn’t been easy, but you’d found it finally- a typical Londonese townhouse, full of charm and history. And the fact it had quite the back yard had been a major plus.
The price point had been an absolute shock. Harry assured you it was a good area and that’s why the price was so steep but you couldn’t hurt but argue that he could’ve bought a mansion back in the US for that kind of money.
Because, of course, Harry wouldn’t even consider debating some sort of arrangement in which you could chip in. The property was in his name, and it’s not like you were married, so it made sense in a way, but you wanted to at least pay the bills if anything. Harry would shut down any such attempts of yours.
Even though you’d finally found the place to call your own, it was still a work in progress. But it was home. Harry had made sure of it. He’d never ceased looking for the place that would be the perfect home for the two of you, for a fresh start together.
There wasn’t much you had to tackle on, with Harry being the talented interior designer that he was. Not that he didn’t consult with you on every small thing and worked hard to turn your vision into reality. But the garden he’d left to your tending alone. And, well, until you could find your footing again career-wise, you enjoyed playing the housewife quite a bit.
Harry was treating you as such, anyway. He knew better than to rush this kind of thing with you after what the two of you had been through, but you knew he was just aching to pop the question.
And maybe you were beginning to entertain the idea, too. The mere notion of marriage used to scare you, what with the toxic family you’d grown up in, but Harry was your rock. He was your forever, you just knew it. And you knew it’d make him happy. So you were trying to give him subtle hints that maybe he could be less tentative in his approach.
You were never much of a cook, but you did try, for him, for the two of you. Besides, you were starting to get bored at home. Job hunting wasn’t exactly being very fruitful, especially since you weren’t quite sure what you wanted to do going further, and Harry encouraged you to take all the time you needed and even insisted you could even not go back to work at all. He very much enjoyed having you home all to himself.
Not to mention all his talk of breeding you during sex, a kink of his (and yours) that had revved up quite dramatically ever since you’d been to Italy. You didn’t really discuss it properly outside the bedroom, but you knew deep down this was something Harry was genuinely hoping for. He wanted kids with you, no doubt. And that was something you were still trying to figure out for yourself.
“Something smells delicious in here.”
Slightly startled, lost in your train of thought, you turned to him. And what a glorious sight it was. Harry had just returned from a football match (the way he insisted soccer was actually called here) with some of his old and newer buddies, and he liked to go all in. He even wore a proper jersey, the whole she-bang, and if you didn’t know any better you’d say he was a proper football player with the way said jersey clung onto his sweaty body, knee high socks and his hair pinned up messily in a small claw clip atop his head.
“Oh, it’s just a little something.”
“Love, it’s not just a little something. You barely made it all fit on the dinner table!”
“Well, I know you had a long week at work and you’d been looking forward to go kick that ball around with the boys and would get back home famished, so… hope you like it.”
“Damn, I’m a lucky son of a bitch aren’t I?” He grinned and you made your way to him, standing on your tiptoes to kiss him. “Sorry, darling, I should go wash up first. I’m a sweaty mess.”
“No, don’t, the food will get cold. It’s been set on the table for some 10 minutes, the game took longer than I expected. Sorry,” you worried your lower lip between your teeth and watched him look at you endearingly and then even more so taking in everything you’d set out on the table for dinner.
“Don’t be silly, sweetheart. I’m sorry it took so long, had I known what was waiting for me back home I’d have rushed back. But I had to wait for David to drive me back, and that wanker was trying to get us all to go hit a pub. Luckily everyone was feeling beat and he dropped it.”
“David… Beckham?”
Harry laughed, “I’ll tell him you said that. He’ll get a kick out of it.”
“But wait, why did you need him to drive you home? Didn’t you drive there?”
“I did, but I have an ouchie.” He pouted, giving you his best puppy dog eyes and you giggled before it actually hit you.
“What? You’re injured?! Where?”
Harry chuckled. “Hardly an injury. But I did sprain my ankle I’m afraid. Certainly feels like it, I can’t lean on it. It’s my right so I can’t drive.”
You were just now noticing Harry was leaning against the open space arch of the kitchen, resting his whole weight on his good leg.
“What are you standing there for?! Sit down, for god’s sake. And you wanted to take a shower–” you scolded him, which for some reason made him smile all the more as he limped to his seat at the table. “I’ll run you a bath after you eat. Let me get you some hygienic wet wipes at least, those hands look like you’ve been out gardening, I swear to god…” you left for the wipes, mumbling to yourself and could hear Harry’s low chuckle. He found your worry endearing but you lowkey wanted to wring his neck for not being more careful.
After going through all the cabinets in which you could’ve swore you’d stashed some, you returned to the kitchen. “I can’t find them.”
“I’ll wash my hands in the sink–” he made to stand up but you pushed him back into his chair gently, mindful of his injury.
“For god’s sake, sit down you silly man.” You then scooted your own chair next to his and started plating for him.
“Y/N, this looks amazing. Truly. Didn’t know you had it in you.”
He sounded genuinely impressed and that lifted your spirits somewhat. “Well, it’s the least I can do sitting at home all day doing nothing while you’re out there earning a living.”
Harry gave you a long look, and you felt it so intensely that you looked up at him after you set his place in between the two of you, “what?”
“You know that’s not how it works. You shouldn’t ever feel the need to compensate in any way, my love. You know that. Have I not told you this enough times that it gets through in that pretty head of yours? This is not a barter. I’m not expecting anything of you. Not a single thing. I just want you to be happy doing whatever it is that you want to do.”
“I know?...” you cleared your throat, repeating to sound more convincing. “I know. I happened to like doing this for you. For us. Gives me a sense of accomplishment that I contribute to our home together. Is that so bad?”
Harry wanted to bring his hand to your cheek and then clumsily refrained, remembering he hadn’t had a chance to wash. “Of course not, sweetheart. But I’m just making sure you’re doing it because you genuinely felt like doing it. And just because you did this today, I’m not expecting it tomorrow, or the day after. You don’t need to cook. I enjoy cooking for us too, and we can always go out or order takeout, it’s nothing to stress over. Alright? Promise me?”
You smiled, taking in his genuine words. “I promise, baby. Now shush. It’s getting cold.”
He laughed and when he made to grab the fork you playfully slapped it away. “Nuh-huh. Dirty hands. I’ll feed you.”
Harry really laughed then, throwing his head back a bit. “Excuse you?”
“What? C’mon. Here comes the airplaaaane…”
Harry looked at you incredulously but eventually gave into your little game. He smilingly allowed you to hand feed him two forkfulls, then pushed his chair further away from the table, patting his left thigh. “Hop on.”
“But– your leg…”
“It’s the good one, c’mon. Do it proper if you’re gonna do it, hm?”
You gave him a pointed look and then plopped yourself in his lap, resuming forking food up to feed to him.
“Baby, this is incredible. I can’t get over it.”
“Yeah? You truly like it?”
“I love it!” He widened his eyes for emphasis which made you giggle. After a few more forkfulls he insisted you ate some as well, and you didn’t bother switching silverware. You shared his plate and then you got up to get some more of your favorites, and Harry didn’t miss the opportunity to swat your bum teasingly.
“Apron and all. Hmm. You know, this is starting to make sense now that I’m nourished and can properly take this all in: you were trying to seduce me. You little minx…”
“Is that right?” You plopped yourself back into his lap, scooting in closer to him this time around.
Harry groaned, squeezing your lovehandle with his arm around your waist. “Alright then. I’ll play your little game. See if it works, hm?”
“We shall see.” you shrugged and he couldn’t resist pulling you in for a kiss before you resumed feeding the both of you.
Harry really did gobble down most of what you’d cooked. You enjoyed it as well, to your surprise. Sure, there was definitely room for improvement but all in all you could consider it a success. One of many, if you felt so inclined, as per Harry’s reiteration at the end of the meal.
You did keep your promise and went to run him a bath. He checked some work on his laptop that you’d retrieved for him while he waited, and then you helped him walk to the master bathroom and get into the tub. You realized it was worse than he was letting on, though, with the way he rested so much of his weight on your shoulders and kept wincing all the way. Harry was definitely not the kind to ever complain about any kind of pain unless it was serious, and while he wasn’t complaining he certainly wasn’t trying to hide the fact that he was in pain either. You loved that about him, the fact that he allowed himself to be vulnerable like that in front of you and not let his masculine ego get in the way.
“Shouldn’t you get it x-rayed?” You sat at the edge of the tub as he soaked blissfully, closing his eyes and getting comfy against the headrest.
“Don’t be silly, darling. It’s just a sprain. I’ve had plenty. Will keep it elevated for a day or two and I’ll be good as new.”
“I’m not so sure, Harry. I’ve had my ankle sprained plenty of times too but you really look like you’re in pain. And I got a good look at it too and it looks really swollen.”
“Hey, I’m a shower not a grower. You know that.”
You splashed some water at him making him laugh, wiping the suds from his face.
"You're a brave little thing when you know I can't make any sudden movements. But just you wait, hm?"
But you were right. As the evening progressed it got worse, the pain was throbbing and although you helped him to bed and elevated his foot on some throw pillows, his grunts were intensifying.
“You’re so damn stubborn. What’s wrong with going to the ER?”
“I’ll see how I feel in the morning. I just need to sleep it off. Could you remove the pillows though? I feel it’s making it worse somehow.”
“Alright… but I’m getting you some painkillers. Be right back.”
You removed the throw pillows as he requested and went searching for something to help with the pain and swelling. Drugs had different names here, and you had to google some of them from the limited kit you’d gathered since you’d moved. Finally you found something that looked promising and decided to give him a double dosage, lord knows he needed it.
After you brought it to Harry and had him gulp them down with a full glass of water, you cuddled to his side and got comfy before you both resumed your reading. Harry had this habit of reading before bedtime and it grew on you too, and now you enjoyed reading before bed snuggled up together.
You were so engrossed in your book that you didn’t notice Harry dozing off. It was only when you heard his faint little snores that you peeked up at him from under his arm that he kept wrapped around your front as you laid into his side, playing with his fingers you hadn’t noticed going limp either. He looked adorable with his reading glasses that had slid down his nose somewhat, mouth parted slightly and book resting on his chest, moving with his deep breaths.
You had the sudden urge to kiss him all over, but you knew he needed rest. The fact that he had managed to fall asleep meant the painkillers had kicked in, the last thing you wanted was to wake him up. He needed a good night’s rest to recover.
You carefully slid out of his hold, put your book away and turned your lamp off, then fished his book out of his other hand and placed it on his night stand, reaching over him carefully to turn off his lamp.
Just before you could reach for it, you felt his warm embrace engulf you, his hot, pouty lips sponging a wet kiss to your neck. “Leave it on, want to look at you,” he murmured against your skin.
You chuckled quietly, keeping your voice low, “oh no, big boy. We’re calling it a night. You need your rest, go back to sleep.”
“But you seduced me!” He whined and the pitch of his voice almost made you laugh with how genuine it sounded. You then pulled back a bit to look him in the eye when he kept his arms tight around you, refraining you from turning off the lamp, and took in his appearance. His pupils were dilated to the point where the green in his eyes was barely visible anymore, his cheeks flushed, his lips shiny and pouty, you couldn’t help but give in and kiss him. One kiss, is what you told yourself, one good night kiss and then you’d coax him into going back to sleep but as soon as your lips touched he thrust his tongue inside of your mouth without preamble, the kiss turning heated instantly.
His hands slid down your sides until they reached your ass, squeezing it firmly and then spanking you swiftly. “Little minx. Did you think you could seduce daddy and leave him hanging?”
You could physically feel your panties dampen at that. It didn’t take much for him to work you up, his words as effective as they’d always been.
“We can’t… your ankle–”
“Plenty of things I can do without having to move much, sweetheart. Hm? How about you put in all the work for once. Take the day off from being such a pillow princess.”
You gasped at that and he bit his lower lip in amusement, his eyes sparkling with mischief at the way his words had gotten just the reaction he’d wanted out of you.
“I beg your finest–”
He spanked you again, hard, effectively silencing you. “Sure, you can beg. Beg, crawl, cry your little eyes out for daddy to fuck you silly. Let’s start with that, why don’t we?”
You gulped, panting heavily just from the dirty talk and the way he was looking at you. “Please, daddy… I don’t want to hurt you.”
You saw endearment flash over his face before he smirked, erasing any trace of it. “That’s cute, darling. You’re only hurting daddy’s feelings by not trusting me. Do you not trust me, Y/N?”
You nodded dumbly, “of course I do, daddy…”
“Then slide out of those flimsy panties of yours that you call pyjamas and crawl up here.”
You furrowed your brows while you did as instructed, but before you could ask him to clarify, he grabbed at you as he scooted lower on the bed, without so much as wincing so you trusted he was being careful with his movements, manhandling you right where he wanted you: hovering over his face.
“Would you look at that, darling. Made a mess of yourself already.” He blew against your wetness, making you shiver. He ran his hands up and down your ass and back of your thighs, and then spanked you once more. It stung particularly hard now that you were half naked. “Tsk. What am I going to do with you, hm? Kiss you once and you get all wet like a filthy slut. Thought you were being the good little housewife, Y/N. What happened to her, hm? Cooked me a nice meal, ran me a bath, tended to me, sat in bed reading with me. What happened that made her turn into such a filthy little slut for me all of a sudden?”
You whined at his degrading words and how he kept you hovering over his mouth, his nose nudging against your clit as he spoke, barely grazing it but making you squirm every time.
He spanked you again, making you moan. “Asked you a question Y/N, answer me!”
“I was… you said it yourself, I was… seducing you.”
“You were, weren’t you?” He chuckled lowly. “Could see right through your little act. Doting on your daddy when all you want, really, is for me to fuck you silly in return. Didn’t know I was injured at first, of course… bet you were disappointed, going through all that trouble, not getting anything in return for it, hm?”
“No!” You whined, even though you knew he was just teasing to get a reaction out of you. You enjoyed a bit of degradation in the bedroom and Harry knew just how far to push it without hurting your feelings in earnest. “I did it because I love you, daddy… never want anything in return…”
“Oh yeah? So you’d be okay if I just plopped you back onto bed and kissed your forehead goodnight?’
You wiggled on top of him but he wouldn’t allow you to lower yourself, desperate for his mouth. He chuckled, “thought so. Like I said.. Just a desperate little slut for her daddy…”
“Yes… I am! So what?! Been good… I deserve it! Please, daddy, I’m dripping…”
“Not quite, I’d feel it if you did,” he teased, making you whine pitifully. “Maybe you don’t want it bad enough?”
“I do, I do… please, daddy. Please, please? Just one lick, I’ll prove it. I’ll be so good for you, ride your face just like you like. Let you bury your tongue inside me, get you all messy. Please let me.”
Harry groaned, throwing his head further into his pillow, narrowing his eyes at you. His resolve was crumbling and you knew it. Still, you gave him your best dowe eyes, biting your lower lip and bringing a hand to your tit, squeezing it through the thin crop top you were wearing.
“Okay.” He tried to keep his voice level but you could hear the slight tremble in it. “Just one lick, better make it good, Y/N.”
You nodded your head enthusiastically, and when he finally allowed you to lower yourself a bit more so he could reach you comfortably, and his tongue swiped between your folds you moaned loudly and sank down all the way against his face, still careful to keep much of your weight on your knees but making sure you were flush against him.
His own moan vibrated against you before spanking you once, twice, three times in the exact same spot, making sure he left a visible handprint for you both to admire for the next few days.
“Lucky you’ve got such a sweet cunt, sweetheart, otherwise I’d punish you on the spot for that little stunt.” He was panting heavily, barely getting the words out before latching his lips to your clit and sucking intently, alternating between long drags and short little pulsating sucks, and you mewled wantonly above him, desperate for more already.
Harry grabbed your asscheeks and guided you against his mouth, making an absolute mess of himself in the process, your fingers digging into his curls for leverage, the slight pull making him groan in pleasure. You glided against his mouth blissfully, all your inhibitions thrown to the wind; he always knew how to get you there, make you lose yourself in the feel of him to the point where you surrendered to your instincts completely.
When he finally stuck his tongue inside of you, you threw your head back, and he brought his one hand off your ass to deliver a swift slap against your clit, making it throb deliciously. “Eyes on me, sweetheart. Watch while your man devours your pretty pussy.”
You nodded your head, biting hard on your lower lip. “Just like that, daddy. Lap me up, it’s just for you.”
Harry loved it when you got vocal too. It wasn’t very often, a rare treat, and definitely only had its time and place when Harry wasn’t feeling too dominating. You could tell he loved it with the way he rolled his eyes to the back of his head and ate at you like a man starved. Harry ate pussy much like he kissed, he put his all into it. Wet, sloppy, passionate, intense, you wouldn’t have it any other way. He genuinely loved and craved it and it was driving you absolutely feral.
He grabbed at your hips, detaching you off of his face and spitting right against you before delivering another swift slap. “Turn around. Suck me, show me what a good slut you are for daddy.”
You clumsily did as he ordered and scurried down his body as he manoeuvred you right back over his face, wasting no time before he latched his mouth back onto you. You could barely think while he was doing it, let alone coordinate your movements, but you reached for him blindly and pulled his throbbing cock out of his sweats. He’d forgone underwear, as usual. You loved this angle while giving him head, you could slide him down your throat much easier this way. Which is exactly what you did, as soon as you licked all over his length ensuring proper lubrication, making him thrust up in surprise and gagging you.
“Fuck!” He added two fingers into the mix, either to apologise or reward you, you couldn’t tell, curling them right against your g-spot, to which he also had easy access from that angle. You slowed your movements, breathing in deeply through your nose and moaning around him, making him grunt and speed up his fingers, replacing them with his tongue, fucking you with it for a bit as he rubbed at your clit with the same fingers coated in your juices, then pushing them right back inside. He kept alternating between his tongue and his fingers and you were right on the verge of a delicious orgasm, but you tried to stave it off, wanted to get him there too before you gave into the pleasure and you knew you wouldn’t be able to work him as effectively.
You toyed with his balls and you sucked him just the way he liked, and you did notice he was trying his best not to thrust up again, but you weren’t sure if he was doing it to refrain from straining his leg or just for your sake. He loved it when you chocked on him, which is why you did it again, holding him in the back of your throat for longer this time and swallowing around him.
“Fuck, just like that, baby. Take it. Take it all.”
He added a third finger and you knew you couldn’t hold off much longer. Harry could tell too, knowing your telltale signs by heart by now. “Don’t bother coming if you’re not going to drench me, Y/N. I mean it,” he warned. “Either you squirt all over my face or hold it until you do. Gonna be a good girl for daddy and give me what I want?”
He could feel your head bobbing as you tried your best to nod while he stuffed your mouth, and with one final push to the back of your throat you felt him shaking beneath you, his whole body tensing before he shot his cum right down your throat. You pull off a bit and sucked just the tip, his warm release flooding your mouth and making you spill some too as he came violently.
“Good girl…. Good fucking girl, Y/N…” he regained his composure slowly, resuming his vigorous pumps. “Sucked me dry, now let me have it. Fucking come for me, do it, right into my mouth, right now!”
The dam broke and you swore you were happier not to have disappointed him than to actually finally reach your peak. He groaned and moaned all throughout, sticking his tongue inside you again and licking you up and all around until you collapsed entirely on top of him and he knew you were spent and done for.
He helped you off of him, gentle at first but then he grabbed at you and made you hover over him for a heated kiss before you could plop to his side and fall right asleep like you usually did after he’d make you squirt like this.
“Did so good for me, darling, the best slutty housewife, aren’t you? Complete package, making me so happy. Daddy loves you so much, sweetheart.”
You mumbled something unintelligible against his mouth, as he kept peppering your face with kisses, praising you and caressing you tenderly.
“Wanted you to ride me, but we’ll save that for another day. Have a feeling I should be resting tomorrow as well, make a full recovery.”
You groaned in protest and he laughed at your cute reaction, knowing full well how much you actually enjoyed riding him. You weren’t a pillow princess at all, and you both knew it. Harry just enjoyed dominating you too much for it to happen that often.
But little did he know, that’s exactly how you were planning to wake him up in the morning. You were determined to take full advantage of this opportunity to dote on him in every way. He was sure to sleep in after all the physical activity and his body really did need rest. You made sure to bring a damp towel and clean up the both of you before you went to sleep, checked to see if the swelling on his ankle had gone down (it hadn’t), and then cuddled into his side making sure he’d sleep face up and not move around in his sleep much.
You woke up smilingly, realizing it was still early enough and Harry would sleep unperturbed for another hour naturally.
You slid out of bed carefully, tiptoed around the room to gather your phone and then quietly made your way to the kitchen where you googled the recipe for crêpes suzette. You grimaced as you took in how difficult they were to make. They were a favourite of Harry’s, so you willed yourself not to be discouraged.
You kept glancing at the kitchen clock, time went on and it was taking forever, you hoped Harry would not wake up to the smell of it (it did smell quite amazing to be honest), or to the accidental loud noises you made whenever you dropped an utensil clumsily.
You were no housewife, that was for sure, even after all that experience waitressing, but cooking was Harry’s expertise. You’d made him proud the night before though, waiting for him with homemade dinner, prompting you further to do your best and spoil him a bit, especially now that he was prone to be a bit grouchy. Harry hated feeling incapacitated in any way, he rarely fell ill but when he did he tried to hide it until it was inevitable, never wanting to appear weak in front of you. He allowed himself to be vulnerable and pour his heart out to you entirely, but when it came to his physical capabilities, the man had one big ego.
You smirked to yourself in anticipation of his reaction later on. With still some time to spare, you showered in the guest bathroom, smiling when you returned into the kitchen with Harry nowhere in sight and the fragrant smell of oranges all around. You took his favourite bourbon vanilla icecream out of the freezer, scooping some out and plating it on top of the crêpes.
You quietly made your way back into the master bedroom, Harry sleeping soundly still. Part of you felt like maybe you should let him sleep in some more, but then your plan would go to waste and sure, he’d still appreciate the crêpes, but your surprise wouldn’t be complete if you did.
You carefully placed the plate on his nightstand and then eyed the way he was tenting the duvet. Harry usually slept in the nude, not all of the time, but certainly always after sex. Removing the duvet as slowly as possible as to not wake him up, you felt your mouth water at the sight of his delicious length just waiting there, ready to fill you up and stretch you just right, in one way or another. You took off your robe you’d worn out of the shower, letting it pool to your feet and leaving you stark naked. You’d made sure to use his favourite body wash, even complete with the body oil from the same set he’d gifted you a while back. Your skin was glowy in the soft morning light, the sun barely peeking through the windows.
Carefully, you straddled him. What you really wanted was to slide right onto him. And you could’ve, you’d both woken the other up like this plenty of times. It was something you both enjoyed, especially in the middle of the night.
But for what you had in mind, you avoided his length that kept twitching tantalisingly in his sleep, and instead straddled his navel right below his butterfly tattoo.
You bent down to kiss him gently, your hands caressing his face and his body softly as you did so. Harry moaned awake, not in the least surprised to feel you on top of him for a split second, almost as though he’d been dreaming of this very scenario.
When he came to his senses fully his eyes widened, and his kiss deepened, his arms coming around you and his cock pushing into your backside.
“Morning, baby.”
Harry beamed at you, placing a strand of your hair behind your ear delicately. “Morning, my little love.” He kissed you again, humming against your lips. He made to flip you over but, flexing his leg muscles he was quickly reminded of his injury and he groaned in pain, tightening his hold on you.
“Fuck! I’d forgotten all about that for a moment there…”
You winced at his pained reaction, wishing you would’ve reminded him about it before he could try and move. “Is it as bad?”
Harry puffed his cheeks, exhaling loudly. “It’s… bad.”
“Oh my baby… I’m so sorry. Here, I have something for you to make it all better, hm?”
Harry relaxed his features at that and pulled back a bit to take you all in. “I’d say… fuck, you gorgeous woman. Want me to have a heart attack to make me forget all about my sprained ankle, huh? Interesting approach.”
You chuckled, biting on your lower lip at the compliment shily. “Even better.” You reached over and grabbed the plate, presenting it to him proudly.
Harry sat up a bit, leaning on his elbows. “Have I actually died and gone to heaven, then? Skipped right through that heart attack.”
You giggled, using your spare hand to prop some pillows behind him so he could sit comfortably back against them.
“Do you know what it is?”
“My favourites. Crêpes suzette. Bloody hell, did you actually make these yourself?”
You beamed at him, all proud and happy with his genuinely surprised reaction. “Yes I did. Just for you. Know you like them, wanted to pamper you a bit.”
“Smells incredible.” He let his hands roam your body freely, stopping at your breasts and kneading them with just the right amount of pleasure. “You’re incredible. Kiss me.”
You leaned over, the plate to the side and out of the way. “I love you.”
He smiled against your lips and his hands moved down your spine to your waist, deepening the kiss, but you pulled back, straightening.
“Fill me up, daddy.”
Harry groaned, not wasting any time in aiding you sink down his cock. You clenched around him, trying to adjust and Harry squeezed your hips until it hurt a bit with how much he was refraining from thrusting into you until you relaxed around him.
You shifted forward a bit, making him moan and brought the plate back between the two of you, slicing up a bite and bringing the fork to his lips.
Harry watched between heavy lids as you licked your lips in anticipation as if you were the one about to have a bite. Just as you fed it to him, you grinded against him, making him squeeze your hips even harder as his eyes widened in ecstasy. You did it again, only moving as you fed him a bit more of the crêpes. Harry was losing it. “I’m gonna come so hard. You’re blowing my mind. My senses are in overdrive.”
You hummed proudly. “Good.” You finally had a bite yourself and moaned around the fork. You couldn’t believe how good it turned out and that you’d actually made this from scratch. Well, aside from the ice cream. Speaking of which, Harry scooped some using his finger and painted it all over your tit, then sat up straighter to lick it all up and then suck it into his mouth greedily.
Between the two of you, you managed to finish the crêpes in record timing, orange syrup dripping between the two of you, Harry lapping it all off of you as he worked you over his body. He couldn’t use his legs for this so it was really up to you to pick up the pace, and you didn’t disappoint. You knew your thighs would burn for days afterwards but you rode him like you stole him. Thankfully, you’d both gotten quite worked up and reached your peeks in record timing. Harry didn’t even get to use his dirty mouth all that much, that’s how fast you got there.
“That was… a whole other level of pleasure.” He pulled you flush against him, both of you panting heavily.
“That worked out better than even I imagined,” you giggled.
“You’re full of surprises these days, aren’t you, sweetheart?” He caressed up and down your spine with featherlight touches. “I’m so lucky. Don’t know what I did to deserve you.”
“I’m the lucky one.”
Harry tightened his hold around you. “Sometimes it feels like my heart is gonna burst, that’s how happy you make me, you know that? Just another way to get me to that heart attack, I’m onto you, you know.”
You laughed lightly against his chest. “Oh no, you caught me.” You wanted to make another joke about your age gap but refrained, knowing his ego was already bruised more than his ankle was.
Harry swatted your bum playfully, almost as if reading your mind, the both of you laughing at how his fingers stuck to your skin in doing so. “How about you go run us another bath, love? I can feel us glueing together with that orange syrup.”
You reached to kiss him once more before pulling away. Didn’t bother covering up as you went and ran the bath, then took a good look at yourself in the mirror. You looked thoroughly fucked and radiant. You knew just what Harry was referring to when he said his heart felt like it was going to burst with happiness because you felt the exact same way.
By the time you made your way back into the bedroom, Harry was fast asleep again. You took in the sight of him, deciding to give him an extra hour before you woke him up again for your bath, just another way of pampering him.
Slipping the bathrobe back on, you made your way back into the kitchen after turning off the tap in the bathroom to make some coffee, already thinking of convincing him to at least let you cockwarm him in the tub later.
Not even the harsh reality of all the dishes you had to clean wasn’t enough to swipe off that smile off your face. You’d never been happier.
You were home.
Daddy issues- Masterlist
A/N: sooooo. i fully set out to write a subby DI harry based on this request. but in the end, daddy dom harry won. sorry not sorry lol. he won't be tamed😩
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Sinopse: Uma manhã de treino com seu amigo Styles, parecia normal, até não ser mais...
NotaAutora: Tive esse ideia nesse feriado então resolvi escrever... aproveitem
Aviso: +18! Conteúdo explícito.
Você ainda bocejava quando encontrou Harry no tapete de treino, na academia participar dele, vestindo aquela camiseta branca larga e shorts de compressão pretos que faziam qualquer um perder o foco, ele te cumprimentou com aquele abraço apertado que fazia todas as manhãs desde que começaram a treinar juntos antes de uma longa turnê começar.
— Atrasada — ele cantarolou, esticando os braços acima da cabeça, a barra da camiseta subindo o suficiente para expor uma faixa de abdômen definido e a linha de pelos descendo da barriga. — Vamos, vamos, o aquecimento não vai se fazer sozinho.
— Não estou atrasada. — Você revirou os olhos, mas se ajoelhou no tapete ao lado dele. — Você que chegou cedo.
Estava vestindo seu conjunto de exercícios novo, um shortinho rosa claro e top combinando, aparentemente Harry também havia gostado, porque o olhar dele já estava viajando pelo seu corpo desde que você chegou.
— Eu disse às 6:00, são 6:15, você que precisa de mais disciplina. — Ele já estava atrás de você antes que pudesse reclamar, mãos grandes e quentes apoiadas em seus ombros. — Vamos começar com os alongamentos, suas pernas primeiro.
Você obedeceu, deitando-se de costas enquanto ele se posicionava entre suas pernas abertas, pegando seus tornozelos com facilidade, mas você não estava desconfortável, porque o toque de Harry era respeitoso, pelo menos no começo.
— Dobre os joelhos em direção ao peito — instruiu, e você fez, sentindo o ar saindo dos seus pulmões num suspiro controlado.
Mas então ele segurou seus joelhos.
— Harry...
— Ainda não terminou.
As mãos dele escorregaram para baixo, segurando suas canelas, dobrando você ainda mais, a posição te deixava completamente aberta para ele, foi aí que você sentiu, algo quente e firme contra o tecido do seu short e ele certamente não tentava esconder onde estava se estragando.
— Harry ?
Você só podia estar imaginando coisas, era só por conta dessa posição estranha, vocês eram só amigos, treinavam juntos há meses.
Isso não estava acontecendo.
— O que foi?
— Você está encostando em mim — você sussurrou, tentando manter a voz firme, mas suas pernas tremeram nas mãos dele.— Sabe seu...
— Eu sei. — Ele não parecia nenhum pouco incomodado.
— Isso já não é mais um alongamento, né? — Você podia ouvir sua própria respiração, os batimentos cardíacos acelerados.
— Não mesmo. — Ele deu aquele maldito sorriso que te acompanhava nos seus sonhos há mais tempo do que você estava disposta a admitir.
Ele empurrou os quadris para frente e a pressão entre suas pernas aumentou, sem querer um pequeno gemido, talvez de surpresa ou prazer escapou da sua garganta antes que pudesse impedir, que fez os olhos dele brilharem.
— Harry, acho melhor nós paramos...
— Mas você não quer que eu pare, quer?
Você não sabia o que responder então Harry decidiu por vocês dois, suas mãos soltaram suas canelas foram para seu short, especificamente no meio, onde a linha de costura esticou e não resistiu, quando ele rasgou bem na linha central, fazendo um buraco perfeito para ele.
— Harry! — Você ofegou, sentindo o ar da manhã arrepiando sua pele, nua.
— Porra... Você vinha treinar todo esse tempo sem calcinha? — Você não conseguiu responder, seu rosto ficando em chamas. — Eu compro outro short para você. — Sorriu enquanto ele se inclinava sobre você. — Eu compro um de cada cor. — Ele puxou o próprio short de compressão para baixo o suficiente para libertar o pau, já duro, a cabeça rosada e inchada apontando diretamente para você. — Mas só dessa vez... Me deixa te foder, só dessa vez e depois eu volto a ser só seu amigo.
Você já tinha imaginado isso antes , claro que tinha, mas ouvir aquilo, estar ali com ele, era completamente diferente.
Você abriu a boca para dizer algo, talvez dizer que aquilo era completamente errado, talvez um "sim, por favor" que você se recusaria a admitir depois, mas a única coisa que saiu de seus lábios foi o nome dele num gemido quando a cabeça do pau dele encontrou sua entrada, ele não entrou de imediato, em vez disso, deslizou para cima e para baixo, espalhando a própria umidade e a sua pelo caminho, enviando choques de prazer pela sua espinha.
— Olha só — a voz dele estava mais rouca agora. — Você já está bem molhadinha para quem tentou dizer pra eu parar.
Então ele te penetrou lentamente, cada centímetro entrando fez você arquear as costas no tapete, seus dedos se cravaram nos antebraços dele, nas tatuagens que você conhecia tão bem.
— Puta merda...—Você sibilou, não acreditando que aquilo realmente estava acontecendo.
Quando ele finalmente se enterrou completamente, a base do pau dele pressionada contra sua entrada já estava um pouco dolorida de ser tão esticada, então ele começou a se mover dentro de você , alternando entre brutal deliciosa e docemente lenta. A cada estocada, a cabeça do pau dele pressionava um ponto dentro de você que fazia suas pernas tremerem.
— Isso...— Aquela voz rouca, estava te desfazendo. — É assim que eu gosto... Você aberta pra mim... E gemendo desse jeitinho... — As estocadas ficaram mais rápidas, sua mão desceu entre vocês dois, os dedos encontrando seu clitóris pressionando contra seu ponto sensível em círculos que combinavam com o movimento dos quadris. — Você sabe o que eu pensei nisso a noite inteira? Depois do treino de ontem quando te vi com esses seus shorts, eu só pensava em rasgar e te foder assim.
Suas mãos soltaram os antebraços dele e subiram, os dedos se enrolando nos cachos molhados de suor na nuca dele, rosto dele estava vermelho, os olhos verdes dele estavam brilhando, vidrados, tão dilatados que quase não dava para ver a cor.
Você não conseguiu se segurar puxando seu rosto para perto o beijando, ele gemeu dentro da sua boca, surpreso, como se ele não esperasse que você tomasse a iniciativa, mas ele correspondeu rapidamente, a língua quente brincando com a sua, ele beijou você de volta com a mesma intensidade que estava te fodendo, isso foi o suficiente para que ondas de prazer se espalhassem para cada extremidade do seu corpo, sua boceta se contraindo em espasmos incontroláveis ao redor dele.
— Porra...Você vai me matar, me apertando assim... — Ele grunhiu, os dedos se cravando na sua carne, você sabia que o controle dele estava finalmente se desfazendo completamente.
Harry enterrou o rosto no seu ombro e gozou com um gemido abafado, os quadris empurrando para cima uma última vez, jorrando dentro de você em espasmos que pareciam não ter fim, nunca um homem pareceu gozar tão sexy como ele, os sons que ele fez ficariam gravado na sua memória para sempre.
Por um longo minuto, ninguém se moveu, o peso dele parecia maior contra você, a respiração ofegante dos dois se misturando e pele colada de suor e outras coisas, o coração dele batendo forte contra o seu peito ou era o seu coração?
Era impossível dizer.
— Ei.... — Ele foi o primeiro a falar.
— Hm?
— Eu... — Ele hesitou um pouco saindo de dentro de você.— Eu não vou pedir desculpas.
— Eu também não iria querer que fizesse isso.
— Bem, acho melhor voltarmos ao treino, então.
— Idiota! — Bateu no peito dele fazendo sair de cima se você. — Como vou treinar assim?
— Ah! É! — Ele coçou a nuca. — Então... chuveiro?
— Seu pervertido — Falou se levantando com a ajuda dele. — Nós mal acabamos.
O canto da boca dele subiu devagar e você pode ver o pau dele já meio duro de novo.
— Não ouvi você dizer não — ele murmurou, se aproximando segurando sua cintura. — Chuveiro? — Ele repetiu com os olhos fixos no seu.
Ele mesmo havia dito que era só dessa vez e já estava chamando para mais uma?
Mentiroso.
Mas vocês dois sabiam que não ia ser só dessa vez.
Vocês sabiam que o termo "amigo" tinha ido embora no momento que ele rasgou seu short, então não hesitou em dizer:
{a usually prejudiced and often spiteful or malevolent ill will}
tumblr ☆ wattpad
one shot (???)
Y/N has never had to work a day in her life. Harry Styles has worked for everything he has. She decides she wants him somewhere between the jail waiting room and her own front door, and Y/N has never been double-minded. Harry has three good reasons and no intention of acting on any of them, until she makes intention irrelevant.
WC: 10.8K
pairing: older!harry/dad's!friend x reader
cw: age gap, breathplay/choking, degradation, crying during sex, praise kink, office sex, orgasm denial
GOLDEN GIRL
tumblr ☆ wattpad
status: ongoing, editing
pairing: best friend's dad harry x original character
slow-ish burn
description: a foreign correspondent hides her identity as the daughter of a U.S. presidential candidate...until a leaked story she publishes explodes into a scandal that could rig the election, destroy her career, and implicate the one man she trusted to protect her: her best friend's dad.
content warning: age gap relationship, cheating
KINETIC
tumblr ☆ wattpad
status: ongoing
SUMMARY: A brilliant physics student and a guarded art gallery CEO enter a transactional relationship that’s supposed to stay strictly business. But as desire tangles with pride, they’re forced to decide if what they have is worth risking their rules.
CW: smut, angst, jealousy, sugar daddy dynamics
pairing ★ sugardaddy!harry x original character
CENTRE STAGE
tumblr [prologue only] ☆ wattpad
status: hiatus, editing
CENTRE STAGE: THE NEXT GENERATION SERIES 30 ANNOUNCEMENT
The world's biggest singing competition is back! Centre Stage: The Next Generation returns this year for its landmark 30th series, marking three decades of iconic performances and the discovery of artists who've shaped the global music landscape.
Since its debut, Centre Stage has launched the careers of hundreds of artists across more than twenty countries, becoming a launchpad for audiences around the world. This milestone series will bring together a brand new generation of performers, with your favourite familiar faces behind the judge's desk: Vivienne Carter, Harry Styles, and Harper Quinn, all returning to guide a new wave of talent through the competition.
Centre Stage: The Next Generation, Series 30 premieres 02/05/2019 on Seneca Television and streaming worldwide on Seneca+, airing simultaneously across major territories.
pairing ★ famous au harry x original character
slow burn
cw: age gap relationship, fluff, angst
MURPHY'S LAW
tumblr ☆ wattpad
status: ongoing
In any field or endeavour, anything that can go wrong will—and the hospital staff agrees it always lands in Harry’s hands or on Esme’s desk.
Pedido: eles vão casar e ela descobre no dia anterior que está grávida, fica muito paranoica pois eles nunca conversaram sobre filhos, então enquanto está lá se preparando pensa em desistir e tendo passado da hora dela entrar na igreja o H fica preocupado e pergunta o pq da demora e alguém fala q ela não quer sair e tals;ele vai até ela e escuta o choro, ela não abre a porta pra ele por causa dessa lereia de noivo não poder ver a noiva, ele dá um jeito de entrar e ela conta da gravidez. ele maravilhado com ela vestida de noiva fala " olha como você está linda, como não querer me casar e construir uma família com você?!"
N/A: saindo pedido depois de muuuito tempo 🥰🥰
curte e reblogue o post para me ajudar 🫶
A campainha da casa de S/N tocou exatamente às 19h, no mesmo instante em que o aplicativo de comida notificava que o delivery havia chegado. Ela lançou um olhar divertido para Gemma, arqueando a sobrancelha diante da pontualidade quase suspeita do restaurante, antes de caminhar até a porta.
— Obrigada! Bom trabalho! — disse ao motoboy, recebendo o pacote ainda quente e sentindo o cheiro de fast food se espalhar pelo ambiente.
Assim que voltou para a cozinha, colocou o pedido sobre a mesa, enquanto Gemma já organizava pratos e copos.
— O cheiro está ótimo — comentou a amiga, sentando-se animada. — E ainda por cima está quentinho!
— Ainda bem — S/N respondeu enquanto abria a embalagem, retirando dois hambúrgueres generosos e uma porção enorme de batata coberta de cheddar derretido e bacon. — Odeio comida fria.
Ela se sentou à mesa e riu de si mesma.
— Eu deveria estar comendo salada agora — disse, divertida. — Se eu não entrar naquele vestido amanhã, a culpa é sua.
Gemma riu, pegando uma batata.
— A ideia do hambúrguer foi sua, queridinha.
— Eu sei, mas estava com um desejo esquisito, sabia? Uma vontade absurda de hambúrguer.
— Bom… agora eu te entendo — a cunhada comentou, encarando o lanche aberto em suas mãos, os olhos brilhando. — Extremamente apetitoso.
— E é uma delícia, você vai ver.
As duas morderam o sanduíche quase ao mesmo tempo, mastigando com satisfação, sem se importar com a elegância.
— Uau… fantástico! — Gemma falou, surpresa.
— Não falei?
Por alguns minutos, só o som dos talheres e comentários felizes preencheram o ambiente, até Gemma puxar assunto novamente.
— Então, amiga… — disse ainda mastigando — Continuando os preparativos pra amanhã… que horas a gente sai de casa?
— Acho que dá pra tomar um café da manhã primeiro, sair lá pelas nove — S/N respondeu.
Gemma assentiu, sorrindo, claramente animada. Quando S/N tentou retribuir o sorriso, sentiu o estômago embrulhar de repente. Um enjoo forte subiu sem aviso, fazendo seu rosto se contorcer numa careta impossível de disfarçar.
— Ei… tá tudo bem? — Gemma perguntou, preocupada.
S/N respirou fundo, mas já sentia a comida voltando. Apenas negou com a cabeça e se levantou rápido demais, correndo para o banheiro. Segundos depois estava ajoelhada no chão frio, colocando tudo para fora na privada. O coração batia acelerado, o corpo inteiro trêmulo.
— Meu Deus, amiga! O que aconteceu? — Gemma apareceu à porta, aflita.
— Eu não sei… — respondeu entre respirações pesadas, dando descarga e se apoiando na pia. — Acho que tem alguma coisa estragada no meu lanche.
— Se for isso, eu sou a próxima. Pedi a mesma coisa que você — Gemma voltou até a cozinha, analisando o hambúrguer com atenção. — Não tem nada com cheiro ruim aqui, S/N.
Ela fez uma careta quando a amiga voltou ao banheiro, enquanto ela enxaguava o rosto com água gelada, no intuito do mal estar diminuir.
— Credo… então deve ser ansiedade pra amanhã.
— Logo depois de comer? — Gemma franziu o cenho, intrigada. S/N deu de ombros, ainda pálida. — Você sentiu algo parecido durante o dia? — Ela negou com a cabeça. Gemma ficou em silêncio por alguns segundos, até a expressão dela mudar, ficando séria demais. — S/N… quando foi sua última menstruação?
Naquele exato instante, algo virou dentro dela. Uma chavinha invisível. O corpo inteiro se arrepiou, o estômago afundou.
— Meu Deus… — murmurou, correndo até o celular. Imediatamente abriu o aplicativo que controlava seu ciclo menstrual e, logo na tela inicial, o aviso gritava em vermelho: 17 dias de atraso. — Está atrasada dezessete dias — disse em voz baixa, quase sem acreditar.
— Puta merda…
— Não, não pode ser — S/N começou a falar, sentindo o desespero surgir devagar. — Eu tomo anticoncepcional e… — A frase morreu no meio quando a lembrança veio como um soco. — Droga..
— O quê?
— Eu parei de tomar quando a cartela acabou mês passado… e não comprei mais.
— Garota… como assim?!
— Minha cabeça ficou focada 100% no casamento, eu sequer pensei em outra coisa. Nem me dei conta que a menstruação estava atrasada…
Gemma passou a mão no rosto, tão nervosa quanto ela.
— Tá, precisamos ter calma. Eu vou na farmácia agora comprar um teste, e a gente tira isso da cabeça.
S/N apenas assentiu, atônita demais para responder. Gemma saiu depressa e o som da porta se fechando fez a noiva fechar os olhos e respirar fundo. Gravidez não estava em seus planos, pelo menos não agora. Planejamento sempe foi um requisito que a mulher prezava. O próprio casamento demorou cerca de um ano para de fato se consolidar. Uma gravidez de repente a apavora. Ainda mais quando ela pensava no noivo. Em nenhum momento durante o relacionamento de quatro anos Harry cogitou a hipótese de ter filhos. S/N lembrava muito bem que em uma conversa ans atrás, o então namorado na época, mencionou que filhos não era algo que ele desejava.
Flashback on:
— Casar deve ser divertido. — S/N soltou, sem conexto nenhum, a frase que fez com que Harry parasse de ler seu livro e a encarasse sem entender nada. Ela riu. — Desculpa.. pensei alto demais.
— O que você viu aí pra te despertar esse sentimento? - o moreno fechou o livro, deixou na mesa de cabeceira e se acomodou mais perto da namorada, abraçando-a pela cintura e olhando o que ela via na tela do celular.
— Uma menina que estudou comigo está fazendo um diário de casamento. — ela mostrou o perfil da tal amiga. — Ela está vendo os vestidos, decorações, arranjo para o buquê.. deve ser tão legal.
— Que lindo esse aqui. — apontou para o vestido de princesa, cheio de ondas na saia.
— Também achei.
— Você pensa em casar assim?
— Ah, é um desejo que eu tenho desde criança.. — riu sem graça. — Você não? — Harry negou com a cabeça, fazendo uma careta.
— Claro, eu quero me casar algum dia, mas o luxo do casamento e todas as suas formalidades não me cativam tanto. — S/N assentiu. — Na realidade a construção que vem a partir do casamento não é algo que eu penso pra mim.
— Como assim?
— O tradicionalismo que já virou regra: casar, comprar sua casa, ter filhos, e assim por diante. Não me encaixo nesse padrão.
— Entendi.
— Não leve isso como uma indireta, por favor. Eu amaria me casar com você. — S/N riu.
— Mas ter filhos comigo não?
— Somos tão novos para pensar nisso. — ele resmungou, beijando o pescoço dela, provalvemente para trocar de assunto. — O que a gente pode fazer agora é praticarmos a ato de fazermos um filho.. o que você acha?
A lembrança foi interrompida pela porta abrindo. Gemma voltou com os testes em mãos.
— Eu comprei dois.. um pra fazer agora e outro amanhã de manhã. Mais confiável. — a amiga assentiu um tanto quanto nervosa, pegando os testes. S/N foi até o banheiro e preparou o primeiro teste.
Quando o resultado apareceu, confirmou o que o corpo já sussurrava: positivo.
Ela não queria acreditar naqueles dois risquinhos vermelhos na fita. Mas a realidade apontava que sim, ela estava grávida. Um dia antes de se casar.
— Deu positivo… — com a voz quebrada, contou a amiga, que também custava a acreditar.
— Não pira por conta disso. — ela tentou amenizar ao ver a palidez de S/N. — Você está grávida do seu futuro marido. Não é o fim do mundo.
— Você conhece seu irmão, Gem.. — a cunhada coçou a cabeça, como se concordasse. — Ele não queria filhos.
— Ele nunca pensou direito a respeito.
— Harry deixou bem claro pra mim em uma conversa que tivemos uma vez. Ele não se via sendo pai.
— Mas ele vai mudar de ideia quando souber.
— Que ótimo, vai aceitar na marra porque não tem escapatória. — o silêncio veio. — E se ele desistir de nós por isso?
— Isso nunca vai acontecer. Para de maluquice.
— Não sei se quero ter um filho que não foi desejado.
— Amiga, sem conclusões precipiadas, por favor. Harry não é um monstro. Ele vai se adaptar.
— Mas eu não quero que ele se adapte a ideia de te rum filho! Isso é grande, Gemma. Uma mudança completamente radical.
— Calma, respira fundo. Amanha é seu casamento. Curta esse dia e depois pensentiusa nisso. Harry não precisa saber disso amanhã. — ela assentiu porque nao tinha escolha. Toda a fome passou. S/N foi tomar um banho e se trancou no quarto. A madrugada foi repleta de sentimentos: choro, alegria, angústia, medo e ansiedade. A garota não conseguiu dormir uma hora sequer, ficou imaginando como seria a vida daqui pra frente. Quando o dia amanheceu ela se forçou a viver como se nada tivesse acontecido, no entando era imossível. Ainda mais quando fez o segundo teste com a primeira urina, e o resultado se repetiu. A paranoia foi constante dali em diante. A imaginação construindo situações hipotéticas sempre no pior cenário que o semblante não conseguia ignorar. Todos que tiveram contato com ela naquele dia percebiam que a garota não estava bem.
— Querida, está tudo bem? — Anne perguntou com suavidade ao se aproximar da nora no reservado das noivas, no salão de beleza. O ambiente era claro, perfumado com flores brancas e laquê, e o burburinho das madrinhas ao fundo contrastava com o silêncio pesado que envolvia a garota. Sentada diante do espelho iluminado, S/N segurava uma xícara de chá de camomila entre as mãos delicadamente trêmulas, o olhar perdido em algum ponto indefinido, como se tentasse organizar os próprios pensamentos antes que eles a consumissem.
— Sim, sim… — respondeu, forçando um pequeno sorriso que não alcançou os olhos. — Só estou um pouco nervosa.
Anne acariciou o ombro dela com carinho maternal.
— Vai dar tudo certo, meu bem. Eu sei que você gosta de tudo perfeito, cada detalhe no lugar… e é exatamente assim que vai ser. Mas perfeição também exige calma. Por que você não toma um banho de banheira e relaxa um pouco? Vou pedir para as meninas prepararem tudo.
S/N concordou em silêncio. Talvez fosse exatamente disso que precisasse: alguns minutos sozinha, longe das expectativas, das flores, do vestido, da palavra “para sempre” ecoando em sua mente.
A água morna ajudou. O cheiro suave dos sais e o silêncio abafado do banheiro trouxeram algum alívio. Ela até cochilou por alguns instantes, o corpo finalmente cedendo ao cansaço acumulado dos últimos dias. Mas o descanso não foi gentil. Sonhou com Harry alterado, discutindo, culpando-a, dizendo que o filho mudaria tudo, que o casamento era um erro. No sonho, ele se afastava, e com ele desmoronava não apenas a cerimônia, mas a vida inteira que ela havia imaginado ao lado dele.
Acordou assustada, com o coração disparado e lágrimas escorrendo antes mesmo de conseguir respirar direito. Sentou-se na banheira, abraçando o próprio corpo, tentando distinguir sonho de realidade. Foi naquele instante, vulnerável e apavorada, que pela primeira vez considerou desistir de tudo.
Quinze minutos antes do horário marcado para a cerimônia, S/N estava dentro do carro estacionado em frente ao rancho onde aconteceria o casamento. O vestido branco, volumoso, ocupava quase todo o banco traseiro. Ela estava imóvel, as mãos nos cabelos cuidadosamente arrumados, tentando controlar a respiração que vinha em ondas curtas e descompassadas. As lágrimas ardiam, mas permaneciam presas. Não conseguia abrir a porta. Não conseguia andar. Não conseguia ser a noiva que todos esperavam.
Enquanto isso, já diante do altar montado ao ar livre, Harry aguardava. Com o terno cinza-escuro perfeitamente alinhado ao corpo, os sapatos brilhando sob a luz suave da tarde e o cabelo meticulosamente arrumado, ele parecia um príncipe moderno. Mas por trás da postura elegante havia inquietação. Caminhava de um lado para o outro em passos curtos, tentando disfarçar o nervosismo. Quando o atraso chegou a trinta minutos, o sorriso contido deu lugar à preocupação.
— Mãe… — chamou, aproximando-se de Anne. — Já passou mais de meia hora. Cadê ela?
— Ela… está fazendo os ajustes finais — respondeu, tentando soar tranquila.
— Ajustes no quê? — Ele franziu a testa. — Minha irmã e a mãe dela não param de sair e entrar. O que está acontecendo?
Anne respirou fundo.
— Não é nada, filho. Nervosismo de mulher.
Ele a encarou, buscando sinceridade.
— Ela desistiu?
— O quê? Claro que não. — Mas a hesitação na voz denunciou o contrário, e o peito de Harry apertou.
— Eu vou atrás dela.
— Não! Você fica aqui!
— Eu quero falar com ela.
— Sua irmã já está resolvendo. Se acalme.
Como se tivesse sido chamada pelo próprio destino, Gemma surgiu naquele momento. Harry foi direto:
— Ela desistiu?
Gemma suspirou.
— Ela entrou em choque.
— Como assim, entrou em choque? Do nada?
— Eu… meu Deus, eu não sou a pessoa que tem que te contar isso. Vai atrás dela.
— Não! — Anne tentou impedir, segurando o pulso do filho.
— Deixa, mãe — Gemma interveio. — Às vezes é disso que ela precisa.
Relutante, Anne soltou-o. Harry praticamente correu até o carro.
S/N estava no banco de trás, o rosto escondido entre as mãos, encarando os babados do vestido como se eles pudessem oferecer alguma resposta. Ela fechava os olhos repetidamente, tentando estabilizar a respiração. Foi então que a porta da frente se abriu e Harry entrou no banco do motorista. Ela arregalou os olhos.
— O que você está fazendo aqui? — perguntou, surpresa, levando as mãos imediatamente ao rosto dele para cobrir seus olhos.
— Ei! — Ele riu, segurando os pulsos dela, mas sem afastá-los. Sabia o quanto ela levava tradições a sério.
— Você não pode me ver antes, Harry! Dá azar!
— Que azar, meu amor? Você está prestes a desistir de casar comigo. Existe azar maior do que esse?
Ela baixou a cabeça.
— Não é isso…
— Então me fala o que é. — Ele levou as próprias mãos às dela, ainda sobre seu rosto, acariciando-as com delicadeza. — O que aconteceu?
A voz dela falhou.
— Eu estou com medo de você desistir de casar comigo…
— Eu? — Ele quase riu de incredulidade. — Por que eu faria isso?
Ela respirou fundo, sentindo o choro subir.
— Porque eu estou grávida.
O mundo pareceu pausar por um segundo. O coração de Harry disparou, mas ele permaneceu imóvel. Lentamente, ele afastou as mãos dela do próprio rosto. Os olhos verdes estavam marejados quando a encararam.
— É sério? — perguntou, a voz trêmula, misto de choque e emoção.
Ela assentiu.
— Fiz dois testes… os dois deram positivo.
As lágrimas dela finalmente caíram.
— Ei, a maquiagem… — ele brincou, tentando aliviar. — Não chora.
— Como eu não vou chorar? Eu gosto de tudo planejado. Agora eu estou grávida de um filho que você nem quer.
— Quem disse isso pra você?
— Você! — Ela soluçou. — Você sempre disse que não gostava de tradicionalismo. Não queria casar, não queria ter filhos. E olha onde nós estamos!
Ele riu suavemente, balançando a cabeça.
— Amor… é por isso que você não quer entrar?
Ela confirmou, escondendo o rosto.
— Olha pra mim. — Ele ergueu o queixo dela com delicadeza. — Olha pra você. Você está perfeita. Da cabeça aos pés. Eu nunca quis casar, é verdade. Mas vendo você agora… eu tenho cem por cento de certeza de que eu estava errado. Se eu pudesse, casaria com você todos os dias, só para ter o privilégio de ver a mulher que eu mais amo caminhando até mim e me escolhendo outra vez.
O sorriso dela surgiu tímido.
— E quanto ao resto… — Ele levou a mão até a barriga dela, ainda plana. — Eu não só quero me casar com você. Eu quero construir uma família ao seu lado. — A voz falhou levemente. — Na verdade, parece que ela já começou, não é?
Eles riram entre lágrimas.
— Meu Deus… — ele murmurou, incrédulo. — Nós vamos ser pais. Que loucura maravilhosa.
— Você não está em negação?
— Não. Eu estou feliz. Muito feliz. Tem um bebezinho aí dentro… fruto do nosso amor. Existe algo mais bonito que isso?
Ela balançou a cabeça, emocionada.
— Você não vai desistir de casar comigo?
— Jamais cometeria essa loucura.
Ele entrelaçou os dedos nos dela.
— Podemos ir?
Ela assentiu, respirando fundo.
— Volte para lá e finja que não me viu.
Harry riu, inclinando-se para beijar a mão dela com reverência antes de sair do carro.
Quando retornou ao altar, estava diferente. O nervosismo havia sido substituído por um sorriso amplo, iluminado, quase incrédulo. Os convidados murmuraram, estranhando a mudança repentina. Anne se aproximou.
— O que aconteceu? Ela desistiu?
— Não. — Ele mal conseguia conter a felicidade. — Ela está vindo.
E então ela apareceu.
Na entrada do rancho, sob a luz dourada do fim de tarde, S/N surgiu deslumbrante. O vestido parecia ainda mais majestoso, o véu dançando com o vento suave. Mas o que mais brilhava era o olhar — agora seguro, decidido.
E, naquele instante, Harry nunca teve tanta certeza em toda a sua vida.
A música começou suave, preenchendo o espaço aberto com uma melodia delicada que parecia embalar cada batida do coração de Harry. O vento brincava com as flores do altar e com o véu longo de S/N, que descia em ondas delicadas pelas costas dela. Cada passo que ela dava era firme, ainda que lento, como se estivesse saboreando aquele caminho que a levaria até ele.
Harry sentiu o peito apertar, mas não de medo, e sim de uma emoção quase avassaladora. Os olhos dele não se desviavam dela por um segundo sequer. Havia algo diferente agora. Ele sabia. Eles sabiam. Havia mais do que promessas entre eles naquele momento. Havia vida.
S/N caminhava ao lado do pai, mas era como se enxergasse apenas o homem à sua frente. O sorriso dele desfez qualquer resquício de insegurança que ainda tentasse se infiltrar em seu coração. Quando finalmente chegou ao altar, suas mãos encontraram as dele, e o toque foi firme, quente, real.
— Você está absolutamente deslumbrante. — ele sussurrou, incapaz de esperar o momento “certo”.
Ela riu baixinho, com os olhos marejados.
— Você já me viu antes da hora, não vale elogio agora.
— Vale sim. — Ele aproximou o rosto, murmurando só para ela ouvir — Porque agora eu estou vendo a mulher da minha vida… e a mãe do meu filho.
Os olhos dela se encheram novamente, repletos de um amor intenso.
A cerimônia seguiu envolta em uma atmosfera quase mágica. O celebrante falava sobre parceria, sobre construir um lar onde o amor fosse o alicerce, sobre escolher alguém todos os dias. Cada palavra parecia ganhar um peso ainda maior depois da revelação no carro. Quando perguntaram se ele aceitava S/N como sua esposa, Harry não hesitou sequer um milésimo de segundo.
— Eu aceito. Hoje, amanhã e todos os dias da minha vida.
E quando chegou a vez dela, a voz saiu firme, mesmo embargada pela emoção.
— Eu aceito. Em cada versão sua. Em cada fase. Em cada sonho que ainda vamos viver.
Os votos personalizados vieram em seguida. Harry respirou fundo antes de começar.
— Eu nunca fui o cara que sonhava com casamento. Nunca imaginei estar em um altar, com flores, fazendo discursos. Mas então eu conheci você. E você mudou tudo. Mudou a forma como eu vejo compromisso, futuro… mudou a forma como eu vejo a mim mesmo. Você me ensinou que amar não é perder liberdade, é encontrar casa. E hoje eu sei que casa é onde você estiver. Meu objetivo a partir de hoje será ser o melhor marido, amigo e companheiro pra você, meu amor.
S/N já chorava abertamente.
— Você sempre foi intensidade, sempre foi verdade. — ela começou, segurando as mãos dele com força. — Eu sempre gostei de planejar cada passo, cada detalhe dos meus dias. Mas você me ensinou que algumas das melhores coisas da vida acontecem fora do roteiro. Como nós. Como… — ela levou a mão discretamente à própria barriga, e o sorriso cúmplice entre os dois foi inevitável — Como as surpresas que mudam tudo. Eu prometo caminhar ao seu lado, mesmo quando o chão parecer incerto. Prometo escolher você, todos os dias da minha vida.
Quando as alianças foram trocadas, os dedos dele tremeram levemente pelo peso simbólico daquele círculo dourado que selava algo que, para ele, já era eterno.
— Eu os declaro marido e mulher.
O beijo foi suave no início, carregado de significado, mas logo ganhou intensidade e alegria. Os convidados aplaudiram, alguns emocionados, outros sorrindo amplamente. Anne enxugava discretamente as lágrimas, e Gemma sorria como quem guardava um segredo precioso.
Durante a recepção, sob luzes pendentes e mesas decoradas com delicadeza, Harry não desgrudava de S/N. Havia um brilho novo nele. Orgulho. Encantamento. Responsabilidade. Ele a puxou para dançar quando a música lenta começou, envolvendo-a com cuidado.
— Então… — ele murmurou, com a testa encostada na dela. — A gente vai ser papai e mamãe.
— Vamos. — Ela sorriu, passando os braços pelo pescoço dele. — Você está assustado?
— Um pouco. — Ele riu baixo. — Mas do jeito bom. Aquele frio na barriga que dá quando você sabe que algo gigante está começando.
Ela guiou a mão dele até a própria barriga novamente.
— Ainda é tão pequeno, mas sinto que já mudou tudo em mim.
Harry ajoelhou-se impulsivamente diante dela, ignorando os olhares curiosos ao redor. Com cuidado, aproximou o rosto da barriga dela.
— Ei, meu bebê.. — sussurrou, emocionado. — Aqui é o papai. Queria que você soubesse que eu já te amo muito e que prometo que vou aprender o que for para te ver feliz, Prometo que vou proteger você e a mamãe de tudo. Você já é a melhor surpresa da minha vida.
S/N levou a mão à boca, chorando e rindo ao mesmo tempo.
Ele se levantou e a beijou de novo, dessa vez com a leveza de quem já não carrega mais medo algum.
Mais tarde, quando a festa já estava alta e os convidados celebravam, Harry a puxou discretamente para longe da multidão, caminhando até um canto mais reservado do rancho, onde as luzes eram mais suaves e o céu estrelado se estendia acima deles.
— Obrigado por não desistir — ele disse, segurando o rosto dela entre as mãos.
— Obrigada por ter vindo atrás de mim.
Eles ficaram em silêncio por alguns segundos, apenas se olhando, absorvendo a dimensão do que tinham construído até aquele momento.
— Nós começamos uma família hoje. — Harry murmurou.
S/N balançou a cabeça, sorrindo.
— Não. Nós só demos nome ao que sempre fomos.
Ele a abraçou com força, e ali, sob o céu aberto, com música distante e risadas ao fundo, S/N sentiu que todo o medo da manhã havia se dissolvido. O futuro ainda era desconhecido, imprevisível, mas era deles.
E enquanto voltavam de mãos dadas para a festa, Harry olhou para ela com a certeza mais simples e mais profunda que já tivera:
Eles não estavam apenas começando um casamento.
Estavam começando o para sempre.
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