When you pad down the stairs that morning, you expected Harry to still be on his run, prepping for another marathon. That’s why you’re surprised to see his sweaty body resting on the couch, his chest heaving with each labored breath. His shiny bare chest captures the sunlight streaming through the windows, highlighting each muscle as they tense and release. The only thing he’s wearing are those infuriatingly tiny shorts he owns a million pairs of, their hems riding further up his legs until you can see the entirety of the growling tiger in its sweaty glory. He hasn’t noticed you yet, his eyes shut and his head thrown back against the couch seat while he tries to even his breathing.
Staring at his nearly naked body reminds you of last night, of both your panting breaths, both your sweaty bodies rubbing against one another, his hard cock pounding deeper inside of you. Your cunt clenches at the memory, remembering the pulse of his head, the warm come he unloaded over your fluttering lips, painting you with his release before diving back inside. Last night had been so intense, you were surprised he even went out for a run this morning, figuring he would be too tired.
Biting your lip, your eyes roam over Harry’s body, no longer thinking about last night. The way his stomach rises and falls, making the moth flutter, the sweat that melds his hair to his forehead, his spread legs that force his shorts to climb even further up his thighs. As you keep watching him, your legs tighten together, desperate to feel like you had last night.
Your steps wake Harry from his post-run rest and a tired smile pulls at his lips seeing you wearing one of his old vintage shirts. “Morning, love,” he greets warmly, unaware of your intentions. He leans up to meet your lips in what he expects to be a lovely morning welcome. But the harsh press of your lips when they connect, your hands tugging on his wet hair, and the needy way your body pushes him back against the couch, creating room for yourself on his lap, has Harry chuckling into your mouth. “Jesus, love, calm down,” he laughs as he breaks away from your persistent kiss. “Did I not give you enough last night?” Even though his tone is light and playful, there’s a breathlessness that only drives you crazier.
You don’t bother with answering him, your lips don’t even leave his body, pressing kisses along his cheek, up to his ear, then trailing down to his jaw. The salty taste of his skin seeps into your mouth and, without thinking, your tongue dips out and licks at the drops of sweat slowly dripping down his neck.
Harry moans as you lap at him, his hand curving around your hips, his finger digging into your flesh. He doesn't mean to, it's just natural, but his grip pulls you closer, tugging you into him. In response, you start aggressively humping him, grinding your crotch against his thigh, alerting Harry to the fact you weren’t wearing any underwear. And even though it kills him to do it, Harry has to hold you back. “I’m exhausted,” he says. “I need a break.”
“That’s okay,” your words rush out before licking a stripe up from his jaw to his ear, lapping at his sweaty hairline. Leaning back, you pull at the hem of your shirt until you reveal yourself to him, showing off your throbbing clit. “You don’t need to do anything. Just sit there, and let me have my fun.” With hooded eyes, you wet your fingers with your tongue before rubbing them against your clit. Your folds twitch against his thigh, arousal beginning to seep out and wetting his leg. As your fingers keep up their even pace, you start to rut against him, sliding along the thick muscle.
Awe overtakes Harry as he watches you hump against his leg, running his thumbs along your hip bones. “Oh baby,” he groans, his eyes flicking between your pussy and your face, unable to keep his eyes focused on one thing. Between your quivering lips that glide along his leg and your gasping mouth, your fluttering eyes that threaten to close, Harry can’t choose which he wants to watch more, entranced by every bit of you. “God, you look so beautiful.” His hand travels from your hip to underneath the shirt you’re wearing, his shirt, until it's cupping underneath your tit. The shirt rides up and Harry finds a quirky intimacy in seeing your belly button. “Look so pretty getting yourself off on me.”
The compliments only fuel your thrusts, picking up speed. His leg hair tickles the inside of your own thighs as you glide across him. With a sigh, your mouth curves up into a smile as you keep grinding.
“That’s it, baby,” he encourages. “Take what you need.”
Slicking up his leg as you slide back and forth, your fingers slip across your clit faster. Your mouth opens to let out a breathy moan before your teeth bite down into your lip, silencing the sound.
“Don’t stop, baby, please. I wanna hear you. Need to know if it feels good,” he begs you, his voice frantic, his eyes desperate.
“Oh, it feels sooo good, Harry,” you whine. Your hips stutter against him and your thighs clench around him as your orgasm rises up inside you.
Harry watches mesmerized as you leak all over him. “Can I…?” he trails off, dragging his hand down your body until it’s hovering above your circling fingers, pressing into your pelvis. “Can I touch you?” he asks reverently. Instead of answering, you stop rubbing yourself and grab his wrist, leading him to your unattended clit. “Oh, thank you baby.” His finger glides across your nub, barely pressing, as if he's scared to touch it. The light brush of his thumb teases you closer to your release.
A bead of sweat starts its gradual descent down Harry’s forehead, curving around his brow. You hone in on it before leaning forward and capturing it with your tongue. The salty droplet melts in your mouth, a pant of a whimper fans across his face and your pussy twitches against his thigh. Needing to taste more of him, you nuzzle your face into his neck, swiping your tongue across his collar bones. His skin is still sun warmed, the heady musk of him engulfs your senses.
“You like getting me wet, don’t you, baby?”
You exaggerate the nod of your head, your tongue trailing along up and down, lapping over the swallow until the sweaty shine is replaced with the wet remains of your spit.
Throwing his head back, Harry groans as he exposes more of his neck to you. “Oh, God, baby,” he moans into your hair, his thumb circling faster around your clit. “So pretty, so perfect.”
Rutting against him, your legs twitch, tightening around him, shivering as you rush towards that tipping point, on the precipice of unleashing your orgasm. It creeps closer and closer, your eyes rolling back as it nears.
“Please, baby, need to make you feel good, need to feel you, please, come all over me, baby, please,” Harry pleads into your hair.
That’s all it takes. Gasping into his neck, you release on him, your hips faltering as you lose your rhythm. Your teeth dig into his skin, biting at the swallow on his chest, then you lick at the indents left behind. Through your nose, your breath putters out of you, attempting to even itself out.
Harry pets your hair, soothing you. “There you go,” he mutters. “Thank you, baby." Puckering his lips, he kisses the side of your head. “Did so good for me.” He lets you rest atop him, shivering your way down from post-orgamic bliss. “If you want, I can go shower and we could go for round two.”
“No!” you panic. “No shower!” Harry raises a brow at you, a smile burgeoning on his lips. “You’ll just get sweaty all over again, right?” The excuse is thin, weakened even more when your tongue involuntarily sticks out and presses against the other side of his neck.
Chuckling at your insistence, and your probing tongue, Harry relents, “I can’t argue with that.”
after a quite unprofessional favor the night before, u and harry reconcile in the office.
based on this, this, this, this, this, and this. ty perf anons;)
CW: ceo!harry x assistant!reader, age gap, improper work relations, masturbation (m), oral (f), clit overstim, p in v penetration (unprotected), choking, dirty talk, size kink, praise kink, power play, soft pleasure dom, subby reader, just…dirty. raw and filthy.
likes/reblogs sooo appreciated!
WC: 14.8k (im sorry)
Head down. Toe to heel. Find your desk.
The solid clack of your heels against the slick flooring was deafening. The excessive pounding against your chest was even worse.
You barely slept.
It wasn’t for lack of trying. You’d turned over, fluffed your pillow, closed your eyes and forced yourself to breathe slowly like that was somehow going to quiet your brain. Like it would somehow take you out of the life altering decision you just had to partake in.
Because you just really couldn’t have done the right thing and said, hey, maybe we shouldnt fuck over the phone. You know, since I work for you.
But every time things got quiet, your mind just… replayed it. Over and over. Every word, every second, every choice.
Your choices, more specifically. The way you complied without question. The way you took it over the top too—adding your own twinge of sexual grossness that he certainly did not ask of you.
By the time your alarm went off, you were already awake, staring at the ceiling with that same tight feeling in your chest.
Now you’re here. Speed walking through the long-halled building and finally making it to your desk.
You take a quick seat and a giant huff of air once you’re settled, staring up at the clock and dropping your head in your hands.
It was too early.
Embarrassingly early.
Of course you showed up early—what else were you supposed to do? Stroll in at your normal time like nothing happened? As if you hadn’t completely humiliated yourself in front of the one person you’re supposed to be the most put together around?
You smooth your hands over your outfit for what has to be the tenth time, even though there’s nothing wrong with it.
A black skirt. White button up. Maybe a little too tight for your own good, and maybe a few too many buttons unraveled. But it was nowhere out of the realm of what you usually wore. You always had fun with what you had on. You’d like to think it wasn’t for Harry’s benefit, but at this point, how would you know.
Everything is exactly how it should be. How it always is. Neat. Professional. Controlled.
“Okay,” you think out loud, staring at your computer screen without actually seeing anything. “You’re fine. You’re going to act normal. Everything is normal.”
Normal.
Right.
Because acting normal is so easy when your brain keeps helpfully reminding you of the fact that you drenched your own fingers while your mind convinced you it was a dick.
Like literally a dick. Your mind genuinely was tricked into thinking your boss was fucking you in your bed, so much so to where you came quicker than you ever had before.
The tone of his voice. The velvet draw of his laughter. The split second where you realized—too late, I’m fucked.
You squeeze your eyes shut briefly before speaking aloud once more. Just to yourself. There was no one even close to near.
“Maybe it wasn’t actually that bizarre.”
Immediately, your brain disagrees.
“No, very bizarre. Definitely abnormal assistant behavior.”
Your fingers hover over your keyboard, still and frozen in place.
“Okay, so we made a mistake. That’s fine. People make mistakes all the time. It doesn’t mean anything.”
You couldn’t even pretend to be taking yourself seriously. There was no comparable situation to what you two engaged in last night in this world.
He’s your boss.
There are lines. Obvious ones. More importantly, strict career ending ones. And somehow you managed to trip right over one like you had a half a brain and a dick of your own.
You let out a quiet breath and glance towards the door that lead into your office.
Still closed.
The room set up was private. A door that lead to your office, and then a door that was in your office that lead to his.
Creating a horribly unavoidable situation in which he would have to pass by you in order to get to his office.
Probably something that should have been further considered before you begged for his cum.
But, it was early. He wouldn’t be coming in soon. Which just gives you more time to sit here and think.
“Maybe you should say something when he comes in.”
Your stomach immediately twists.
“No, no. That would make it worse. If you bring it up, it becomes a thing. If you don’t bring it up… maybe it just fades away.”
You know, they way all sexual encounters in the workplace end up flying under the radar.
You were kidding yourself.
You tap your pen lightly against the desk, the soft rhythm doing nothing to calm the restless energy under your skin.
You still hadn’t started any work.
“But what if he brings it up?”
That thought lands heavier than the others. That one you can’t escape from.
Your posture straightens instinctively and your face tenses, legs crossing over one another as you sink into your anxiety.
“Then what? Do I apologize? Take accountability? Pretend I don’t know what he’s talking about?”
None of those options feel right. None of them were right. And you were just wasting time now.
You glance at the clock.
Too early.
Again.
Even too early to get his coffee. It’d be ice be the time he arrived.
You exhale through your nose, forcing your shoulders to relax and your brows to release their tension.
“Okay. New plan.”
You sit up a little straighter, folding your hands together like that alone might make you feel more composed.
“You’re going to be professional. Calm. Normal. You’ll greet him the way you always do. You’ll go over his schedule. You’ll do your job.”
You know, the normal thing to do.
“And if he says something…” you pause, your fingers tightening slightly, “you’ll handle it. You always do.”
That part, at least, is true. You are good at your job. You’re organized, reliable, composed…
…or at least, you usually are. Apart from shoving 4 fingers deep inside of you as you nearly snapped your arm backwards.
You also decided it was time to stop talking to yourself. As to not seem so disturbing to anyone who may come in.
Your eyes dart up to the door again.
Still closed.
But not for long.
“Morning.”
The door pressed open smoothly, a tall Harry walking through with a bag slung over his shoulder and a polite smile on his face.
You were dumbfounded. And very clearly not as prepared for the initial greeting as you thought you’d be.
“You’re in early,” he continues, shutting the door softly behind him and staring down at you at your desk.
He was dressed perfectly neat—slick ironed pants and a long sleeved button up that was nicely folded up his forearms.
And, worst of all, a smug grin that was only one thing.
Knowing.
“I—um, yes,” you say, and it comes out a bit more formal than you would’ve liked. So, in typical you-nature, you ramble on, “I just wanted to make sure everything was in order today. I didn’t realize you’d be in early too, I’m sorry. I haven’t gotten your coffee.”
There’s a small pause as he watches you speak. Him standing, you sitting. Your eyes were glossed up at him in an innocently sweet manor, and he breathed out slow at your little apology.
And then he was thinking about you. The way you were so generous to him and wrapped up in the pleasure you had given to yourself.
The sweet noises that slipped through the speaker and swarmed around his pumping fist. He felt his pants tightening at just the thought.
“Everything usually is,” he says, referring to your faux reasoning for coming in early.
It was a simple statement. And somehow, it had your stomach twisting into itself until it was locked in a knot.
“I know,” you say, too insistent, “I just thought I’d get a head start.”
He continues to watch you. Delightfully amused and analyzing your every move. The little tick of your eyelids and the way your thumb scratches against the side of your index finger. The way your eyes struggle to hold their contact with his no matter how firm his gaze is on yours.
It was nothing harsh, nothing critical.
Just…observant. Interested.
Your pulse picks up as the silence stretches over you. You reach for the nearest file on your desk, flipping open to the schedule for today and searching for something to fill the gap.
“Your nine o'clock is confirmed,” you start, “I sent over the updated notes for you early last night.”
A brief mention of the night before. Granted, you sent them over before the call, but the two words had your skin tinged.
“Mm.”
“And your branch clients are scheduled for 12:00,” you continue in a nervous rush. Like if you kept talking it would give you less time to think, “there was a slight change in the afternoon so-”
“You don’t have to rush through it,” he cuts you off, gently reminding you that no, you don’t need to inform him of his entire day within the first minute of seeing him.
Something you’ve also literally never done before. You always update him periodically. When needed.
He hasn’t moved much, still relaxed and still adorned in the smug smile of a man who knows he has a cute young thing wrapped around his finger.
“I’m not rushing,” you say, which would have been more convincing if you didn’t say it so quickly.
The corner of his lips deepen into his smile, lips still held together as his dimple presses further inward.
“Right.”
You loosen the tight grip on the file you were holding as you take a small breath, desperately trying to pull your shit together and enter this normalcy that he’s somehow achieving.
“I can go over your day in more detail later then, if you’d like,” you restart, carefully this time. “Or I can send a revised outline to your email.”
He watches you for a second longer than he should after your sentence wraps up, like he’s weighing something in his head.
Or maybe just taking you in. You weren’t sure. Neither was he.
“That won’t be necessary,” he says, “I trust you’ve handled it.”
And then there was that feeling again. The heat on your cheeks and the ping between your legs that you only felt when he praised your work like this.
He noticed your subtle shift, and it only further spurred on the dark thoughts that had been thudding against his skull since the moment he walked in.
“Of course,” you nod, clamping your thighs tight and suddenly finding it more than difficult to look directly at him.
There’s another pause, and it’s quieter this time around. It almost feels purposeful. Like he’s trying to make you feel deliberately nervous.
You expect him to turn around, walk past you and head right to his office. This would usually be the time he’d do it. He’d stay in there and wouldn’t see you again until his nine o'clock clients arrived.
But he didn’t. He stayed perfectly still and unwavering by your desk.
You didn’t know if he was looking at you, you couldn’t bring yourself to check. You were faced down towards your desk, flipping through random papers and trying to look busy.
You weren’t.
Your eyes flick up again before you can stop them, and you immediately regret it when you catch that same look—calm, steady, and unmistakably knowing. Like he’s taunting you with the memory of your misconduct.
“You’re tense.”
It was matter-of-fact as it rolled off his tongue, as if it was an observation he wasn’t particularly concerned about.
Your breath hitched for just a second.
“I’m not.”
You sounded adorably unconvincing, and he couldn’t help himself when he took just a step closer. Maybe an inch. Maybe two. Nothing to freak out over. But still enough for you to feel sick.
Then, softer, with even more amusement, “You are.”
You don’t try to argue this one. You’re already flustered enough and the lack of awareness of last night is seriously starting to weigh on you.
If he wasn’t going to mention it, you’d prefer him to just leave. Instead of sit here and toy with you.
Even if part (all) of you enjoyed it.
Finally, there’s a shift in the energy as he takes a step back towards his office. Slow and steady as he walks with a hand in his pocket.
Relief flickers over you for just a moment—fragile and prepared to snap the next time you have to interact with him.
And then, it shatters.
“Bring those files in here.”
He said it like it was nothing. Like he’s ever once in his whole life asked you to bring your work inside of his office.
He hasn’t, by the way.
Your hands still for a second, “Right now?”
There’s another beat of silence as he looks at you, taking in your flushed cheeks and your shaky hands and the way your eyes pressed further out of their sockets. Just barely.
He remained calm. Composed and completely unbothered by the fact that your whole nervous system just spiked within a half a second.
“If you’re not too busy,” he adds.
There’s something intentional in the way he says that part. Like he already knows that you’re not busy in the way you’re so desperately pretending to be.
It really was almost sarcastic.
“I’m not busy,” you respond a little too quickly, immediately embarrassed by your haste and cringing when you notice his smirk.
“Good,” he replies.
Just that. One word and a small nod.
He turns and walks into his office like he hasn’t just completely derailed your ability to think straight. His strides slow and long and hands still melded softly in the rich material of his pants.
You follow a moment later, files clutched a little too tightly in your hands, trying to convince yourself this is normal.
Part of you says it is. You are his assistant after all. It’s not totally out of realm for him to ask you to bring him something you’d been working on.
It was slightly abnormal that he needed you to come with it, but for the sake of your soaked panties and your swarming mind you chose to ignore that.
You instinctively shut the door behind you, which you immediately regret. The last thing you wanted was for Harry to fall under the impression that you were seeking privacy with him.
It was too late to go back now.
And Harry was quite pleased with your mindless decision.
“Um,” you clear the cracks from your nervous voice, “I can show you some of what your Milan schedule will be, if you’d like. I’ve started to make confirmations so I have a pretty good idea on how it’ll go.”
He nodded, dropping his bag onto his chair and leaning up against his long desk. You were standing in front of him like you didn’t have a clue of where to go, mouth dry and thoughts dangerous.
“You can mention it, you know,” he ignored your offer, folding his arms as he looked at you.
You froze.
This is precisely why you needed more time to prepare yourself.
“Mention?” You gulp, thick and trembling as you fight away your stress.
It was one of those red hot moments where you could feel the heat rising to your cheeks and just get flooded with thoughts of how red you must look. How stupid you look in front of him and how obviously embarrassed you were.
“Us. Fucking, on the phone.”
As if it was the most mundane thing to have ever happened.
You take a small breath, forcing yourself to stay composed as you break your gaze from his in a quick instinct.
“Um, I think-”
Y/n,” he cuts you off, leaning down to try to catch your wandering gaze, “can’t listen to you if you’re not looking at me.”
You nod quickly, itching your bottom lip with your teeth for a moment before blinking your way to his face. He was pleased to see his request, or demand more like, be granted so easily.
He was also pleased to catch the not-so-subtle gulp of saliva down your throat and the quick clamp of your thighs.
“I think, um, it would be best to not dwell on it, sir. I’m sorry to have violated my professional limits.”
You were proud of that one, actually. Clean. Simple.
All bullshit.
He knew it, too.
He shook his head, in no hurry, as his eyes fell down to you through low lids. Pink lips pressing together in a small line as he uncrossed his arms.
“Wasn’t bringing it up for an apology.”
You swallow harder, shutting your eyes for a moment in a sad attempt to remind yourself of reality. To not get completely and totally wrapped up in the seductive sway of Harry’s voice and the deep vanilla musk that swam around him.
“I value my position here,” you continue, ignoring his insinuation, “and I respect you, Mr. Styles. I guess we should just…move forward as usual.”
And the second his name slung its way up your chest and out of your lips, you had unknowingly put yourself in a game. In his game.
You could see it in the way his eyes darkened and his brows fell into each other, just barely, like your words had turned him to putty.
Another pause. Heavier than before.
Your pulse ticks up, but you hold his gaze, refusing to look away now. You’re sucked into the thrill of the forbiddenness of it all, the way the four small walls seemed to shrink and the room blurred.
Then, slowly, the corner of his mouth lifts again. Deep this time, like he’s finally decided what his next move is.
“You always are very efficient.” He said, as if he was weighing between the options of keeping you as his perfect assistant or further crossing the line.
“I try to be,” you answer softly.
And then he exhales—long, deep and drawn out in an overly dramatized way. Like he had made his decision and accepted his fate.
“You do,” he nods, “and you are. Really, you do such a good job.”
And just like that, your gig was up. You had accepted your fate too.
“Thank you,” you smile, cheeks rosy and eyes falling for a moment in a bashful tick.
He takes another small breath as he settles further back against his desk, practically sitting on it now as his hands are stabilized against the same edge.
“You’re efficient. Organized. You know what I want without having to ask. You never fuss, either,” he continues, shaking his head for just a minute as if overwhelmed with pride.
He watched as you shifted in front of him, tugging against the inside of your cheek and picking at the sides of your fingernails. He could tell you were fighting back a smile, the crowns of your cheeks darkening and flinching for just a moment.
You don’t know what it is; maybe the way he’s looking at you or maybe the way he’s leaned against the desk. But, suddenly, you felt your last wall come down with a sharp ache between your thighs.
“I like to fulfill your needs, sir. I couldn’t fuss.”
The second the words leave your mouth, you both get slammed in the chest with the shift. His smirk deepens, your eyes round.
He doesn’t even attempt to hide his growing erection. And with the way he was leaning against his desk—hands gripping the ledge behind him—it was on full display. Hips jutted out and the thin material of his fine pressed pants tenting upwards.
He was big. You could tell. Anyone with two eyes and half a brain could tell. The shadow on his crotch was deep and the curve of his cock was delicious. So much so that you forgot how long you’d been staring.
But he liked to watch you soak him in. He liked when you lingered where you shouldn’t, wide and a little unfocused like your brain forgot to tell you to look away.
There was this brief, flustered pause where your lips parted like you were about to say something but completely lost it; and it hit him all at once. The desperation.
Your breath catches as you lift your gaze too quickly to be smooth, fingers immediately fidgeting with whatever’s in front of you while a faint warmth creeps up your neck and across your cheeks.
“Is that so?” He mutters with a tilted head.
You nod slowly.
“Yes, sir. I take a lot of pride in what I do. I just…want to make you happy with my work.”
He lets out a barely audible chuckle, not criticizing. Just pleased—shocked even—by the little nervous thing in front of him. So quiet and so polite, clawing at him for just a drop of praise.
“I’m aware,” he nods, “you have me more than pleased, y/n. You’re exceptional.”
You practically whimper at that one.
He notices.
“And you know what else?” He leans off of his desk to stand in front of you, “you’re shameless. You were so good to help me out that way last night…but I think we found a place for your own pleasure too. Is that right?”
He was towered over you, eyes turned into themselves as they landed on your face and darted around it like they couldn’t find a place to stop. Yours were glassed as they peered up at him, soft skin shining and heart thudding.
“Y-Yes. Yes, sir.”
He nods, nose practically touching yours as he slips his hands back into his pockets.
And then there was another silence. But this one was different—it was full. So heavy and laced in the fucked up nature of whatever was brewing in this dimmed office.
There's a flicker of something in his expression that you’ve never really seen before. Not up close like this, anyway. Not quite hesitation, not quite intent, but something that makes your pulse spike anyway.
Like he’s on the edge of doing something he shouldn’t. Like he knows you’d give in immediately if he did it. He knew the ball was in his court.
Your body goes still, caught between reacting and not knowing how to. Your fingers toy with the hem of your little skirt as you stare up at him, waiting—but you weren’t totally sure what for.
And then it stops.
You see it happen in slow motion—the subtle shift, the way his jaw tightens just slightly before he exhales, slow and controlled, like he’s grounding himself. Stopping whatever he was so compelled to do without even starting it.
Whatever the hell that moment was, it disappeared just as quickly as it came.
He steps back, turns, and walks to his desk like nothing happened.
The change is almost jarring.
No—it is jarring. Sickening, really.
One second prior, everything was charged, heavy. You even thought he might just…you know, do it. Throw all professional boundaries out the window and close the gap that was already too small to begin with.
And the next, he’s sitting down, opening the file in front of him, his focus dropping to the pages like that’s all that matters.
Like you didn’t just feel that. Like he didn’t either.
The silence that settles is thick.
You’re still standing where you were, your mind trying to catch up with the sudden shift. Do you leave? Do you say something? Were you supposed to follow him? Was that his way of confirming that yes, this is entirely unprofessional and more than wrong.
You hesitate, shifting your weight slightly, hands hovering like you’re about to move but can’t quite decide how.
Then he looks up.
Not fully— his head stays tilted downwards. Just his eyes lifting from the page to you.
There’s no words, no gesture. Just a brief glance toward the chair across from him, subtle but deliberate.
An expectation. An instruction.
Both things that you strived to obey and both things that he knew you always followed through with.
Your stomach sinks into itself, but you nod slightly, even though he didn’t actually say anything. You move to the chair, sitting down a little more carefully than usual. Like you were scared to make too much noise or to scratch the expensive wood of his desk.
You pull the files you brought in closer, aligning them in front of you like you need the structure, the routine, something to ground yourself.
Because you really did. Your mind was mush and your muscles were jelly.
He’s already working. Flipping through pages, scanning, focused. All things that you usually never saw. This was always on the other side of the door, from your perspective.
You’re more than unsure of his goal here. To work silently across from each other? For what, the whole day? Were you supposed to just stay here until his nine o'clock clients arrived?
There would be no one at your desk to greet them. Were you meant to excuse yourself 15 minutes prior to the meeting? No, that feels rude. He’ll tell you to go. But what if he doesn’t? What if your colleagues scope you out? Is it weird that you’re working here with him?
In an attempt to not, you know, break out in a full blown panic attack, you take a breath and look down at your work.
You follow his lead, opening the next file, forcing your attention onto the words in front of you—even though you’re only aware of everything else but.
The quiet. The space between you. The way it still feels like something unresolved is sitting just beneath the surface.
Neither of you say anything. There’s just the soft sound of paper shifting, the occasional scratch of a pen, the steady rhythm of work filling the room in place of everything that almost happened.
And somehow, that’s worse.
Because now it’s contained.
But very much still there.
“You liked listening to me last night,” he breaks the silence, keeping his gaze on the work in front of him.
Your mouth opens, closes, and opens again.
“Yeah,” you nod, pushing your head down and swallowing your anxiety. As much as you can, anyway.
Which isn’t much.
He smiles at this. How easy it was for you to admit it. Eyes still down at his desk.
“Were you picturing it? Me?” He lifts his stare now, meeting your nervous eyes and watching as they stutter until they land on a place to settle.
He leans back in the chair like he owns the space without trying to, shoulders settling into it with confidence that somehow makes him look even more composed than before. His hands rest loosely in his lap, posture relaxed in a way that feels intentional rather than casual.
Nothing about him is rushed, nothing about him is uncertain. Just steady. Controlled.
And it does nothing to help you think.
Wrong words. All of them feel wrong.
Your fingers press lightly into the edge of the file in front of you, grounding yourself in something physical because your thoughts are doing the opposite of that. The silence stretches just enough to make you aware of it, aware of him watching you wait for yourself to respond.
“You’re overthinking,” he says, calm as ever.
That only makes it worse.
“Sort of.”
He slouched further back into his seat, his grin still tugging upwards and his eyes hanging low. He was truly satisfied at your constant compliance. The way you always admitted your deepest embarrassments just because he asked or pointed them out. It was admirable.
“Do you want to watch?” He asks, low and gritted, as casual as ever.
Not a casual ask, by the way.
And then your gaze drops, along with your stomach, and you notice the subtle shift of his hands on his lap. The way his palms melt flat against himself and rub softly over the tented fabric of his pants.
You gulp, thick and heavy, though nothing really slides down your throat. Your mouth is dry and your head is dizzy, caving into itself as you piece together what could possibly be the correct response to this.
Because if the consequences were eliminated, you’d be practically frothing at the mouth and shouting yes yes yes until his pants are at his ankles and his cock is in his hand.
He knew that part, too.
But there were consequences. And you were both under company time.
So, you decide to land on something that you felt was a solid middle ground.
A nod.
Slow and unsteady and paired with an adorable little smile that Harry couldn’t help but grin at. There’s a quiet confidence in the way he looks at you now, like he can already see everything you’re trying not to show.
And you are showing it.
You don’t mind that he can tell.
Because your nerves are getting harder to hide the longer he just sits there watching you. Your fingers keep fidgeting with the edge of the file, then stopping, then starting again. You try to steady your breathing, but it doesn’t fully cooperate. Every second of silence feels like it’s pulling something out of you. Anticipation, maybe.
Or just the fact that you’re waiting for him to say anything.
“You’re doing it again,” he says finally.
Your breath catches, “Doing what?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just watches you for a second longer, like he’s deciding how honest he wants to be. Or deciding how he could get you as worked up as possible.
“Thinking too much.”
That makes your chest tighten in a way that’s almost frustrating, because he’s right and you don’t want him to be.
But you really can’t actually be frustrated.
Not when his hand continues to slowly rub against his lap in a mindless fashion, running over the hardened curve of his cock beneath his pants.
“I’m not,” you say quickly, but it comes out softer than you mean.
That faint smirk deepens just a fraction.
“You are,” he repeats, calm and with a small nod.
And somehow that calmness makes you feel even more on edge.
You try to focus on the file again, but it’s useless now. Your attention keeps slipping back to him, like you’re drawn to waiting for the next thing he’ll say. Or the next thing he’ll do.
You can’t possibly keep your eyes away from his wandering hands. The way they glide against himself with no effort at all. The way his hips jut upwards just a hair but enough for you to think about his thrusts.
You can feel it building in you—that mix of nerves and something else you don’t want to name, sitting right under your ribs.
Excited. Anxious. A little overwhelmed by how much he seems to notice without even trying.
He finally leans forward just slightly—not enough to change everything, just enough to make you more aware of him again.
“Relax,” he says, quieter now.
So you do. Well, try anyway. You take a deep breath, a nod, and keep your eyes on his.
You really do feel a bit more at ease. Your face has cooled, your breathing has regulated, your stomach has settled.
And then it snaps.
“Now unbutton your shirt.”
You actually choke on nothing, blinking at him like your brain didn’t process it correctly the first time.
You couldn’t have, right?
“I—what?” you manage, too fast, your voice catching slightly as your breathing returns to its prior erratic rhythm.
He doesn’t react too much to your reaction. Just watches you for a second, completely calm, like he’s observing the exact moment it hit you. He even seems amused. Like you just gave him exactly what he was looking for.
And you did. He loves to watch you get riled up like this. To watch your cheeks flush and your pretty pink lips part. It was honestly endearing.
His palm rubs harder against himself.
“Your shirt,” he nods towards your body, “aren’t you gonna let me see? It’s already too tight, anyway. But you knew that. Didn’t you?”
That’s the part that makes you go quiet.
Because it’s true.
You swallow, suddenly very aware of your hands, your posture, the space between you and the desk like it’s all being measured now.
You nod again, staring down at his working hands as they continue to press against himself.
And then, once you see them drift up to his belt and hear the clack of its metal, you comply.
Your shaky hands reach up to the first button of your shirt as you watch his veined fingers, your breath hitching within your chest and releasing in unsteady exhales.
His stare darkens as he watches you, pulling apart his belt and slipping it out of its hold through his pants.
You hook your fingers around the top button and start to open it, slower than you normally would, like speed alone might make you look more composed.
The button slips for half a second.
Of course it does.
You pause, adjust it carefully, then continue, your focus narrowing down to something very small and very controlled—just the act of opening the first few buttons. Nothing more. Just a view to your rounded cleavage and the dark black lace that lies beneath the fabric.
But you can see him watching. The way his jaw clenched with every new button and the way his nostrils flared outwards with every little movement.
His breathing had changed too. He was unstable, working to undo his button and pull down the zipper of his pants.
To say he was aching was an understatement. His cock was crying in pain and his hands were moving ridiculously slow, but he almost liked it this way. The drawn out nature of the beginning and the way your soft hands began to reveal more and more of your smooth skin.
And by the fifth button, he was thrown in a trance.
Your breasts looked so soft—round and firm and held perfectly in the loose restraint of the lace. Your nipples were hardened as they peeked their way through the black, a perfect bright pink that caught his eye without him even trying.
He goes quiet.
His hands pause their task at his zipper.
Not the normal kind of quiet where he’s just thinking. This is different.
His eyes stay fixed on your chest, an expression on his face that you’ve never seen in all your experience of this job. His brows draw in slightly, not tense, just focused in a way that slows everything else down around him. In a way that made him seem like his walls were crashing.
His lips part a little without him seeming to notice. Just slightly. Like his reaction slips out before he can control it.
You just sit there, chest heaving up and down in nervous breaths and bottom lip bitten between your teeth.
For a second, he doesn’t move at all. It’s like he’s caught.
Not frozen in a bad way, just… completely absorbed. Like the reveal of your perky tits has pulled all of his attention and nothing else is competing anymore.
You watch him, unsure if you should say anything.
His gaze shifts again, slower this time, like he’s making sure he’s really seeing it. Like it doesn’t make sense that it’s real, but it is.
And there’s this quiet breath he lets out, almost disbelieving.
“…shit,” he says under his breath, barely audible.
That alone makes your chest tighten a little.
He leans back slightly in his chair, still staring like his life depended on it.
His hands resume their movement as he tugs his zipper down in a haste, suddenly very desperate to give himself some relief.
His expression stays softened in that same stunned way, eyes a little unfocused now, like his mind is still caught in what he’s been gifted.
“I mean…” he starts, then stops again, shaking his head just slightly like he’s trying to reset himself.
When he finally looks at you, your face, it’s different.
Not distant.
Just honest.
“Do you want to see them?” You gain the courage to ask, voice sweet and ever so soft.
And there’s something in his reaction that makes it clear he needs it more than he’s saying.
You don’t wait for him to respond.
You undo the last of your buttons, quicker this time, before shrugging it off your shoulders and leaving you in the little black bra. Barely there. Already showing it all.
You watch him closely as he shrugs his pants down his thighs, his briefs clung tight against his erection and his eyes shutting in a brief moment of bliss.
And then you reach back, unclasp your bra, and just let it fall. No movement. No effort. You just let it slide down your arms until it pools to wrists and drops to the floor of his office.
He physically recoiled at the sight of your bare breasts ahead of him, a muted whine pressing up through his chest and his eyes turning inward.
“You’re—y/n. Fuck…” he stutters as he tugs on the spandex of his briefs, eyes locked on your perky tits and the way they curved so beautifully beneath themselves.
Of course he’d imagined this countless times. Well, he imagined them countless times. Not quite in this exact scenario. He dreamt of the creamy skin that coated them and the solid bud that rested in the center. He’d even cum to the thought more times than he could count.
But this?
It was unlike anything he’d ever seen or felt before in his life.
And if this was how he felt at just the sight of your tits, he was beginning to think he wouldn’t possibly be able to take it as far as he would want.
His hands mindlessly pull down on his underwear, revealing his cock in a slow tease that you couldn’t help but stare at.
And once you saw it, his erection bare and exposed, you couldn’t help the little gasp that slipped its way through your throat. You weren’t even sure if he heard it, but it was there.
He was long and thick and fucking hard. His cock slapped up onto his lower tummy at its initial release and then swayed slow and teasing as it adjusted to fresh air, glistening in a clear drip of what was to come.
Your chest heaved in an erratic rhythm as you took in his density, staring at it with your mouth agape and your cheeks flushed. It’d been awhile since you’ve been so struck by the sight of a good dick. Since you felt that little stab in your belly just at the sight of a heavy stocky cock.
And then there was his hand. Strong and veined and wrapped slowly around his length along with a drawn out sigh.
“Want you to keep working,” he sighs, “sit straight so I can look at you while I touch myself.”
You pull your eyes away from his cock at the sound of his voice, looking up at him with those big doe eyes and snapping your mouth shut.
So you did.
Well, you try to focus on what he asked of you. To work.
You really do.
Your eyes stay on the file, scanning the same line over and over like it’s going to suddenly make sense if you just look at it long enough—but it doesn’t.
Because every few seconds, your attention slips. Pulls. Drifts right back to the same place you’re trying so hard to ignore.
Him, his ringed hands tugging at his cock, his breaths heavy and his eyes locked to your exposed chest.
You shift slightly in your seat, straightening your posture like that alone might fix your distraction, like looking more composed will somehow make you feel more composed.
It doesn’t.
You drag your eyes back down, forcing yourself to read again, slower this time. Word by word. Intentional. Focused.
It lasts maybe three seconds.
His breaths pick up, heavier this time, and then you hear a sharp spit. He wetted his hand with his saliva before returning his feel, stroking smoother against himself this time with the added lubrication.
Then you feel it again—that awareness sitting right in front of you, impossible to ignore no matter how hard you try. Like your brain keeps circling back without permission.
The wet gush of his hand pumping against himself, lathered in his own spit and paired with the breathy sighs that come from deep in his chest.
You inhale quietly, steadying yourself.
“Focus,” he whispers.
Your fingers tighten slightly around your pen with a gulp as you underline something—anything—just to stay grounded in the task. It doesn’t even matter if it needs to be underlined. You just need something to do.
But even that doesn’t hold.
Your eyes flick up again.
Too quick.
His hand is pumping quicker. You keep your head faced down and your eyes flicked up, just peeking at what you so badly want to stare at.
You shift in your chair again, and this time you re-seat yourself with an accidental extra umph. Your tits shook at the repositioning, just barely but enough for him to notice.
Then you hear it—a groan. Deep and gravelled and gritted in his unprofessional pleasure and the sweet sight of his sweet little assistant’s tits jiggling against themselves. So soft and so full, pretty and unmarked and all for him.
And the second you process the sound that slipped through him, you drop your gaze just as fast, like you can undo it if you move quickly enough.
A heavy warmth creeps up your neck and between your legs, and you press your lips together, exhaling slowly through your nose as you try to pull yourself back into something steady.
You adjust the papers again, unnecessarily, aligning the edges with more care than they need. It gives your hands something to focus on, something precise and controlled.
But your mind isn’t cooperating.
Because you’re still aware.
Still distracted.
Still fighting the pull of looking up again.
You force yourself to stay down this time, eyes locked on the page, even though the words blur slightly at the edges.
You don’t look.
And then there’s that sound again. The low muffled groan of your boss, stroking his cock and bringing himself closer and closer to release. All while looking at you. The way you pretended to do your work, just to please him. The way your hard nipples shrunk into themselves and the way your little fingers froze at the edge of a page.
Your gaze lifts at the noise.
Just for a second.
And that’s all it takes. His eyes leave your chest to meet yours, brows furrowed and lips slightly parted. His chest was swelling and his cheeks were hot, hand pumping quicker as he locked himself to you.
You exhale sharply under your breath, heart thumping, dropping your eyes again and shaking your head just slightly at yourself.
This was just how he looked on the phone last night. This was how his chest stuttered and how his eyes fluttered open and closed. How his hand twisted and tugged at himself until his tip was a bright red, twitching in his hold as his balls tingled beneath him.
You press your pen to the paper again, writing something just to anchor yourself, even if it’s messy, even if it doesn’t fully make sense.
But you’re very aware that you’re losing the fight, little by little, every time your mind drags yourself back.
“Want you to look at me when I cum,” he breathes, “want you to watch my face.”
It really didn’t take much for you to agree. You dropped your pen and swallowed hard, watching his fist fuck down into himself in sloppy motions and strained veins.
His eyes dropped back down to your hanging tits as he brought himself to a close, pumping furiously and strangling his face. He quickly grabbed a tissue off of his desk and placed it right behind his tip, staring down at his own cock for a minute before looking back up at you.
He was so riled up and flustered that you felt faint, desperately squeezing your legs together for some sort of relief as you watched him reach his orgasm.
And with a long, drawn out groan and quick pinch of his eyes, his hand slowed and his body tensed, stilling as he came hard and intense.
It was the most beautiful sight you had ever seen in your life. You were even convinced he forgot you were there for a moment.
But he didn’t. Your being there only spurred his orgasm further, bringing him to new sensitivities that he really had only felt when he was young and naive.
He soaked into his orgasm for as long as he could, basking in the pleasure and pumping his length slow and concentrated. He looked so calm like this, even more than usual and so powerful before you. He had you stuck in his trance and you were in no hurry to get out of it.
As he came down, removing his hand and tugging up his briefs, he looked…breathtaking.
So breathtaking in a way that says he hasn’t quite come down from it yet.
There’s a faint flush across his skin, warmth still lingering from the effort, and his breathing hasn’t fully evened out. Slow, deep inhales that lift his chest before falling again, just slightly heavier than normal. A few strands of hair have come loose, sticking out just enough to show his behavior.
His posture is looser than usual, like some of the tension has been worked out of him but replaced with something quieter. Still there, lingering. There’s a subtle sheen along his skin, not overdone, just enough to catch the light when he moves.
You pick up your bra off of the floor and sling it over your arms as he regulates his breathing, his eyes still closed as you pull it up your shoulders and work at the clasp behind your back.
He drags a hand back through his hair, pushing it away from his face without really thinking about it, exhaling through his nose as he does. It’s not dramatic, not exaggerated—just the natural aftermath of exertion, where everything about him feels a little warmer, a little slower, a little more unguarded than before.
And then he looks at you.
Lazy and a little sleepy with that same smug smirk on his face.
He peers up at the clock that high on his wall before sitting up straighter in his desk, leaning over the wood as he looks at you in a firm glance.
“As much as I would love to play with you some more, my clients will be here soon.”
You frowned. Not on purpose, but it happened.
You know it’s not his fault, and based off of what just happened you know what he was telling you had some truth. But it was never a good feeling to get kicked out of a room after a moment of sexual vulnerability.
“Oh, right,” you nod, grabbing your shirt, “okay. I’ll send them in when they arrive.”
He notices it the second you stand.
That small shift in you—quieter than before, a little more reserved, like you’re pulling yourself back into something safer. Your movements are careful, almost too careful, as you button your shirt and gather your things and turn toward the door.
He watches you go. Not stopping you. Not interrupting.
Just… watching.
Your chest feels tight, like something’s sitting there that you can’t quite shake loose. You replay it immediately—every breath, every pause, every look—like if you go over it enough times, you’ll find the right way to process it.
You straighten a little, forcing your shoulders back, trying to pull yourself into something more controlled, more put together.
“Hey.”
You pause, glancing back over your shoulder.
He hasn’t moved much, still relaxed behind his desk, but there’s something lighter in his expression now. Not as intense.
“Don’t overthink it,” he says for the millionth time today, like he can see exactly what you’re doing.
Your fingers tighten slightly around the handle, and you give a small shake of your head, “I’m not.”
That earns a hint of a smile from his end. It was honestly unfortunate how hard it was for you to lie to him.
“Right,” he replies, not calling you out, but letting you know he sees right through you.
There’s a brief pause, just enough to soften the moment.
“Come back after my meeting wraps up, yeah?” He adds, tone ways, like this was just part of the routine.
It’s not phrased like a command. Not quite a question either.
Just like he already expects you to. Like he thought that was mutually agreed on but wanted to verbalize it in case it wasn’t.
You hesitate for half a second, then nod again, a small smile this time, “Okay.”
“Good.”
The weight in the room lifts—just enough to let you breathe a little easier as you step out and close the door behind you, his voice lingering a second longer than it should.
Good.
-
An hour has gone by.
He was still in his meeting.
You were sat at your desk, flipping through schedules and confirming cars and making reservations. As your day usually went.
But it doesn’t feel like working. Even if it was.
It feels like waiting.
Like every second has suddenly stretched out longer than it should, your thoughts filling all the space in between. You try to look normal—open a file, click through something on your screen, straighten a stack of papers that doesn’t need straightening—but none of it sticks. Your focus slips almost immediately, dragged right back to the same thought.
Come back after my meeting wraps up, yeah?
Your stomach flips and your thighs clench.
You glance at the time.
It should really only be a couple more minutes.
You exhale, leaning back slightly, then forward again a second later because sitting still somehow makes the pain between your legs worse.
Your fingers tap once against your desk before you stop yourself, pressing your hands flat like that might quiet everything going on in your head.
What is he even going to say?
Your brain doesn’t help.
It runs through every possible version of what could come next—some normal, some not—and none of them settle. Each one just makes your chest feel tighter, your thoughts faster, like you’re trying to prepare for something you can’t actually predict.
But every scenario has a happy ending. The promise of his touch and maybe even the treat of his cock.
He’s not gonna fuck you…right?
You don’t believe that.
You whimper to yourself at the thought of him nuzzled inside of you, that long dick you just stared at for so long lodged in deep and crashing into you repeatedly.
You swallow, glancing toward his office without meaning to, then quickly looking away like you’ve been caught doing something.
Your knee bounces once under the desk before you force it still, dragging in a slow breath that doesn’t quite steady you. You try to refocus again—pull up the document, read the first line, then the second—but the words blur together, meaningless.
You’re not here.
Not really.
You’re already halfway back in that office, stuck in the before of it, the waiting part that feels worse than anything else.
Your fingers hover over your keyboard, unmoving.
He’ll be done soon.
You exhale slowly, pressing your lips together as you stare at your screen without seeing it.
“Get it together,” you think out loud.
But your thoughts don’t slow.
If anything, they just keep racing—faster, louder—the closer it gets to the moment you have to stand up and walk back in there.
Voices spill out first, polite goodbyes muffled behind the door, the scrape of chairs, the soft shift of movement in his office. You look up just in time to see the group filing toward his office door.
And then he appears.
He’s already in motion, walking them out himself.
Calm. Composed. Completely in control of the space without needing to announce it. You watch as he shakes each hand in turn, exchanging brief, professional farewells, standing just in the doorway.
There’s something about the way he carries it all so effortlessly that makes you sit a little straighter and rub your legs together without meaning to.
One by one, they step out.
A final nod. A last polite smile. And then they’re gone.
And it’s just you and him.
The room quiets almost immediately after, like it’s exhaling itself.
He doesn’t close the door, he leaves it open.
For a second, he just stands there in the frame of it, glancing back into his office, and then straight to you.
It’s quick. Subtle.
But unmistakably meant for you.
It wasn’t a call, and certainly not a question. It never was with him.
Just a look that says now.
Then he turns and walks back inside. Like there was never any doubt you’d follow.
You hesitate for only a second longer than you should, then push yourself up from your chair, papers forgotten for the moment, and start across the room. Each step feels louder than it should.
By the time you reach the doorway, he’s already inside again, moving toward his desk like he hasn’t even looked back to check.
He doesn’t need to.
You’re there. He knew you’d be.
And as you cross the threshold, you feel that shift again. The quiet pull of the space snapping back into something private, something smaller, something that suddenly feels so wrong and so right.
He glances up just as you enter and watches as you shut the door behind you.
“C’mere,” he gestures, “I need you to summarize these notes for me.”
You nod immediately, trotting over to the desk and standing by the edge as you flip through the scattered writing.
You’ve gotten ridiculously good at reading his hand writing. No matter how sloppy it could get, which was bad sometimes, you had read over it so many times that you could translate in your sleep.
“Ok,” you nod, leaning into the desk a bit, “anything specific you want me to focus on? Or just brief overviews for all.”
“No,” he calls from behind you, “however you want to do it. I trust you.”
You cant ignore the hiss in your stomach at his praise.
You start scanning through his notes, trying to piece together the structure of the meeting from the shorthand he left behind. It’s messy in places—quick, efficient, not meant for anyone but him—so you’re translating as you go, quietly organizing it in your head.
You were good at this. He knew you were. It wouldn’t take you long.
You grab a clean sheet of paper from his desk and write up a quick header, underlining it two times before thinking out loud on how you’ll begin.
“Okay, so the first section is mostly basic overview, I can just trim it down to this middle section,” you start, more to ground yourself than anything else.
You hear him move before you see him.
A step closer behind you.
Then another.
You don’t turn around, letting the moment unravel until he’s close enough that you feel it more than register it. The shift in the air, the space behind you suddenly gone.
He leans in slightly to look at the page over your shoulder.
And then, his hand settles lightly at your lower back.
Not heavy. Not forceful.
But instead, sickeningly sensual. Like the one simple breach of space had broken you completely.
His hand was cold against your back, held so low and practically to the waist of your little black skirt. It was steady too, like it was barely a concern and more like a reflex.
Your breath catches instantly and entire train of thought disappears.
“I-um-” you choke on the word, your voice catching mid sentence like it’s been cut off. He loved to see you this way, and he knew you’d get like this too.
Your fingers tighten slightly on the edge of the paper, your posture going rigid without meaning to. Your mind blanks for half a second—completely empty—before everything rushes back in all at once.
Awareness.
But too much of it.
You’re suddenly hyper aware of everything: how close he is, the cooling shock of his hand through the fabric, the way you can feel his presence right behind you without even looking.
The way his front was inching increasing closer to your back, the front of his thighs grazing against the back of yours accidentally. Or at least you thought it was accidental.
“I was just—gonna go over, um..” you try again, but it comes out uneven, your words stumbling over each other.
You swallow, forcing yourself to look back down at the notes, even though the words blur the second you try to focus on them.
His hand drifts lower, curving over your ass gently.
“Um, the second part was mostly about—about timelines,” you manage, your voice still not fully steady.
Your heart is beating a little too fast now, your thoughts scrambling to catch up while also trying very hard not to drift toward the one thing you’re actively avoiding thinking about.
His hand doesn’t move for a moment. It stays firm over the curvature of your ass, holding solid pressure with his finger tips in a way that almost feels like he’s grabbing it.
And then he shifts lower. So low that he reaches the hem of your short little skirt, pressing his body closer to yours as he stood behind you.
You pause as you wait for him to slip underneath.
But he doesn’t.
Not immediately.
And that somehow makes it worse.
You inhale quietly, trying to steady yourself, forcing your brain back into something functional, “And then they shifted into—uh—budget adjustments,” you continue, a little more quickly now, like speed might help you regain control.
Your hand jots down a sloppy outline of the words you say, helplessly thin to what he had asked if you.
But the effort didn’t matter. It would all be thrown to shit. Because when his fingers slipped low off of your skirt and made contact with the bare skin of your ass, you lost it.
Close enough to where you needed him most that your thoughts won’t fully cooperate.
And you’re very aware that you’re trying to act like it isn’t affecting you at all.
So is he.
But he finds it endearing. You’re cute when you act like you’re stronger than you are. He had to hold back a smile at the way you continued to try and work, to do as he asked because you were sure to never fail him.
“Um, I’ll put any numbers in a chart to the left for you,” you muster out, taking a deep inhale as his fingers continue to drift.
Your back curves inward without thinking about it, pressing your ass out further into his hold and shuttering at the feeling.
And then, with the fabric against his palm, he shrugged it upwards in a smooth motion. All the way up until the loose skirt rested on your waist and your ass was bare and exposed in your little black thong.
You choked.
He goes still for a second behind you.
Not the usual kind of calm stillness, this is heavier, almost reverent, like now you’ve really caught him and there’s no way for him to get out.
“…fuck,” he murmurs, soft and almost absentminded.
You barely have time to process it before you feel the lightest shift—his hand moving, not leaving completely but easing just enough as his focus drifts towards the space between your legs.
His fingertips brush lightly over the fabric of your underwear, slow and careful, like he doesn’t want to disturb it.
It’s not rushed.
Not distracted.
It’s deliberate in a way that feels… different. So intense and slow that it’s suffocating.
His touch grazes over the surface—barely there, almost thoughtful—tracing along a line, then pausing, then moving again like he’s following something only he can see.
“So…soft..” he starts, then trails off, exhaling softly instead.
You were soft. You were young and smooth and everything was just as it should be. It’s been awhile since he felt this gifted. Like you had granted him something that no one could ever deserve.
And then he pressed his middle finger right onto the damp spread of your thong, applying a light pressure and sighing at the wet fabric.
A breath slips out of you before you can stop it.
Soft at first—then it deepens into something heavier, your chest rising and falling in a way you can’t quite control. It’s not loud, but it feels louder than it should in the quiet room.
Your fingers tighten slightly against the desk as the feeling settles in, unexpected and hard to ignore. It moves through you in a quick, subtle wave—enough to make your shoulders tense before they ease again.
“You’ve gotten yourself all wet for me. Good,” he sighs, lips up to your ear as his finger continues to explore the hot area. He slips himself up and down your clothed slit, pressing firm and keeping himself behind you against his desk.
You draw in another breath, sharper this time, like you’re trying to steady yourself, but it only half works.
A faint shudder follows—small, but noticeable—running through you before you can stop it. You straighten almost immediately after, like you can recover from it if you move fast enough, if you just act normal.
You’re acting like you’ve never been touched before in your life. Like this was your first experience being rubbed over the blanket of your thong. It honestly was embarrassing that you were this riled up without him even really touching you.
But then he does. Sudden and seemingly out of nowhere, sliding the thin panties to the side and letting the cold air of the room sting against your needy clit.
Your head falls, arms stabilizing themselves with a bit more effort as your hip bones pressed against the ledge of the desk.
Suddenly, there’s an absence by your ear and by your torso where he once stood.
And before you can process it, you realize where he’d gone.
He was kneeling behind you, slow and teasing until his knees were bent in half and his hands were gripping either side of your waist. You were on full display in front of him, dripping pussy all swollen in front of his face and your body leaned over the desk just barely.
If you weren’t nervous before, now you were completely helpless.
“Relax,” he coos, “let me taste you.”
His hands brace against your upper thighs, steady, like he’s anchoring himself there.
Your breath holds deep in your chest.
He takes his time—too much time—and that’s what throws you off. Nothing rushed, nothing careless. Just slow, deliberate movement, as if he’s completely unbothered by the way the moment stretches.
He was basking in the sight of your pretty pussy in front of him, so tight and puffy and dripping down your thigh in a desperate plea.
He lets out a small breath against you, slow, relaxed, hot.
You feel it more than you hear it, and it hits the space between you in a way that makes your thoughts stumble.
Your body reacts before you can stop it—a small, involuntary shift, your weight moving from one foot to the other like you’re trying to settle and can’t quite manage it.
And then, his tongue presses flat against your throbbing clit so firm that you nearly faint.
Your shoulders drop first, just slightly, like your body doesn’t fully trust it yet.
Then more. A lap around the bud. A subtle press into your hole with the tip of his tongue. A sigh that stems deep from his chest at the sweet taste of you on him after all this time.
Another breath leaves you—longer than it should be, heavier. You really had been holding it in without noticing. Your eyes fall shut, not on purpose, just because it feels easier than keeping them open.
You don’t have to think.
For the first time in what feels like forever, your mind actually… quiets.
He hums into you as he continues to lick you up, sucking on your swollen clit and lathering yourself around him.
Sure you’ve had a man between your legs before. Sure you’ve felt the warm sensation of a tongue slung inside of you and swirling around mindlessly.
But this was different. He’d been down there, on his knees, for nearly three minutes and you were already steeping your way to a release.
The tension on your clit eases, then spreads, unraveling through you in slow waves. It’s almost overwhelming—not in a bad way, just in that finally kind of way, like your body doesn’t know what to do with the absence of the sexual build from the last 12 hours.
A soft moan falls through when he nuzzles his face back and forth into you, groaning against your clit as he licked another run of your honeyed arousal.
You sink into it without realizing, letting yourself go a little more with each passing second. You’ve stopped bracing for something and just decided to accept it.
Everything feels warmer. Looser. Lighter.
And for once, you’re not forcing yourself to stay composed, not pulling yourself together, not fighting your own thoughts.
Instead, you’re just falling completely undone. Quaking against the desk as you fight to hold yourself upright, bending further over without thinking and pressing your ass further into his face.
And he loved it. He’d have your ass and your delicious pussy suffocating around him for days on end. Willingly. If anything, he’d beg.
You sucks harder at your clit, enough to the point where your legs start to wobble and your moans tangle within each other. Your torso leans further into the desk, now halfway bent over as you press your core into his face unknowingly.
“That’s it,” he hums, “Feels good, doesn’t it?”
“Mmm—” is all you can press out, knuckles whitened as you grip the desk and hip bones aching in their pressure against it.
Then, without warning, your hole fills with the sudden stuff of his two thick fingers. Thick and gritty and curling up into you like it was where they always meant to be.
“Ah—fuck!”
And you feel it. His smirk. Curving up against your wet pussy and leaving a trail of egotistical success.
“Hm,” he tuts, “that’s what you needed? My fingers?”
He was having fun now, watching you unravel and fall vulnerable in front of him. He only wished he could see your pretty face, so red and twisted and worked up.
“Y-Yes! God, yes, feels so good, Mr. Styles,” you groan, deep from your chest like it’d been trapped there for longer than you knew.
You don’t know why you call him that. Yes, you always have. But never when his face is shoved deep into your cunt and his fingers are jutting into you remorselessly.
But he likes it. He likes your undying respect and the way you worship him.
He also liked the reminder that this was a bad idea. The thought of someone walking in and seeing his assistant ass out over his desk had him aching in his pants for a second time today.
“Yeah? You gonna cum on my face? Get me soaked?”
It was his way of saying please, fucking suffocate me and drown me in your cum till I choke.
But he had a reputation to uphold.
So he kept that part in.
“Mmm, mhm,” you whine, leaning even further over the desk as your head untwists.
He felt how close you were, measuring the clench of your hole around his fingers and the slight vibration of your thighs that echoed through him.
His thrusts quickened, his lips sucked harder, and you were putty. Melting around him until your tummy bubbled with that familiar heat and your breaths stilled.
“I’m-I’m gonna—”
“Mm, I know, baby,” he hums, “do it.”
And as all of his asks went, it only took you half a second to comply.
You were shaking around his head as your orgasm flooded over you, coming in waves and leaving you frozen in front of him.
Your body stilled, your breaths held, your face reddened.
A light, floaty dizziness rolls through you, harsh and overwhelming. Your limbs feel heavier, but not in a bad way—more like they’ve finally stopped trying so hard to hold you up. There’s a loose, almost weightless quality to them, like you could stay exactly where you are and not move for a long time.
But then he keeps going.
Quicker.
More intense.
“Ah—I’m…” you trail off, twitching at the feeling of his tongue on your clit and the way his lips wrapped around it tighter.
Your body tenses instinctively, like it doesn’t know how to process it yet—your breath catching, your shoulders tightening, your fingers curling slightly as you try to hold steady through it.
It almost hurts.
Not sharp exactly, but overwhelming in a way that makes you pull in on yourself for a second, like you’re bracing against it.
“It’s too much,” you breathe out, twitching around him and falling further into the desk.
He just continues harder.
Your mind stumbles, trying to make sense of it, but there’s no space for clear thoughts. Just sensation, heavy and all at once, pushing past what feels comfortable.
“Breathe,” he sighs into you, “it’s not too much. You like it. Don’t act like you don’t.”
You inhale, a little shaky.
And then, it shifts.
Slowly at first.
That tight, overwhelming edge begins to soften, the intensity spreading out instead of pressing down. Your body starts to give instead of fight it, the tension easing little by little as you realize it’s not something you have to resist.
Your shoulders drop.
Your grip loosens.
The pressure that felt like too much just seconds ago turns into something warmer, something that settles into you instead of against you.
Another breath leaves you, longer this time.
“There we go,” he nods as he presses deeper inside of you, clit stinging and pulsing and swarming over you in new pleasure.
You let out a soft breath, almost a quiet stutter under it, like you don’t even recognize yourself in the moment.
“I’ve… never felt— it feels so good,” you admit, your voice a little lighter now, a little dazed around the edges.
It sounds strange even as you say it.
But it’s true.
You've never had a man bring you to an orgasm as quickly as he did, and you’ve never once had a man continue even after you’ve finished. Pushing you to your limits and watching you adjust based off of his preferences.
You shift slightly, still settling into that lingering warmth, that looseness that hasn’t fully left your body yet.
“I’m—shit,” you add, softer this time, like you’re still trying to process it.
And then you feel it, the rise of your second orgasm coming only within a couple moments from your last. Heavier this time, more intense than anything you’ve ever felt and taking up the whole of your body.
“Feel good? Tell me how I make you feel.”
Your voice drops, quieter, more honest, “so good, Mr. Styles. Thank you, it feels so good.”
He groans into your pussy, drowning in your respect and admiration and the way you were always so grateful for him.
You exhale slowly, sinking into the feeling again, like you’re chasing the last of it, hoping it doesn’t fade too quickly. Your shoulders stay relaxed this time, your body not fighting it anymore, just letting it settle wherever it wants.
“C’mon, you’re right there, give it to me again,” he whispers, licking quicker and curling into that spongy spot that has you spinning around yourself.
And in normal fashion, your mind agrees to his request immediately and your body follows with it. You shatter against him again, tensing and groaning and filling the wide office with the erotic noises of your pleasure.
He didn’t care if you got caught. He was floating with his tongue on you. There wasn’t anything in this world that would stop him from finishing the rest of your orgasm, the noises and the tensing too much for him to deny.
Your stomach falls completely flat over the edge of the desk now, cheek pressed against the wood and ass up high in his face. Your feet struggled to stay grounded as you bent in half, completely losing control of yourself and sinking into it all.
This was what he wanted. He wanted to watch his perfect little thing finally relax. You were always so tense, so eager to please him and always trying your hardest.
And yes, it was his favorite thing, to watch you try for him. Sweat for him until he was more than satisfied.
But this was different—new. You were loose, dropping your walls and showing him vulnerabilities you would’ve never dared to do in front of him.
And when he pulled his thick fingers out and finally removed the suction on your clit, you slipped into a breath of relief.
“Ok?”
“Mhm,” you nod against the desk, “ok.”
He stands from his spot on the floor, running a hand up your back until it lands on your shoulder. His face falls to the side of yours, lips near your ear as he rubs gentle circles onto your skin.
“M’gonna fuck you now,” he whispers, “slow and deep until you beg me for more.”
He flips you gently to your back before he continues.
“And I wanna see your face when I make you cum again.”
He says it so simply it almost passes like any other sentence, but you knew it was coming. Or at least part of you did.
Still, hearing it out loud makes your breath catch just a little. The way he casually lets you know that he’ll be fucking you now. Making you cum for a third time. Your boss, his assistant.
You don’t look at him right away.
Your eyes drop instead, a small, almost automatic reaction, like you suddenly don’t trust yourself to hold his gaze without giving something away. Like you feel it’s almost embarrassing how excited you are.
There’s a warmth rising in your face you can’t stop, spreading slowly, settling into your cheeks.
You nod.
Small at first. Then again, a little more certain.
“Okay,” you say quietly, your voice softer than you meant it to be, still recovering from what he had just put you through.
He smiles when you say it, a real smile, endeared at the sweet nature of your acceptance and the way you laid out on his desk in patience.
And once he gets the urge, he can’t stop himself.
He’s leaning down into you, quick, as if he doesn’t want to give himself time to rethink it, before his lips are on yours. Slow, careful. Like if he kissed you too hard he might just break you.
There’s a pause where you feel it—your own reaction, the way your chest feels a little lighter, a little warmer, like something just settled into place.
Everything felt peaceful for a moment. Like the heavy tension of what had started had faltered for a moment and instead turned into something domestic. Personal.
You bring a hand to the back of his neck without really needing to, just to have something to do, still not quite settling into it yet.
But there’s a faint smile there. Subtle. From both of you, unintentionally.
Like you’re trying to keep it in, but it shows anyway.
And when you finally pull back, it’s quick—just for a second—before you both fall back into each other, that same cohesive mesh, like you don’t need to say anything more.
His lips were soft and full against yours, coated in the residue of your last orgasm but you don’t mind. You tasted him through it. The deep mint, the strong patter of his tongue. It was intoxicating, and by the way he was kissing you back, you could tell he was feeling the same.
The two of you start to strip as you continue the kiss, your fingers working to unbutton your shirt once more and his undoing the buckle of his belt. His pants came next, then his shirt, falling down his arms and joining the others.
He shrugged your skirt down and off your legs, leaving you bare in just your bra which soon came next.
It was hasty, but tasteful. Slightly sloppy but also controlled, how it always was with you two.
And then you were both naked, your back pressed against his desk, his lips on yours and a hand tangled through your hair.
“Please, Harry,” you whispered, the first time you’d called him by his first name since the day you started working for him.
And that did it.
“Oh, y/n,” he kissed you deeper, a hand coming down to grab his own length, “been thinking about this for so long. So good to me, all the time. Want to give you what you deserve.”
You whine, slipping your tongue through his lips as he positions himself deeper between you. Your legs wrapped around his waist, his left hand holding your leg stable as his right works to align himself with you.
And once he presses in, slow, teasing, you freeze.
He was thick. So warm and inviting as he slid into your slick with the precision of a man who cares. Who cares about your pleasure and waits to work off of your reaction.
He was analyzing you as he pressed deeper, listening to little noises and pulling back from your lips for small moments just to glance at your expressions.
You felt so full, overwhelmed in the pressure but reveling in the feeling all the same. He was so thick and ridged inside of you, pressing past the tip and further to his base with every passing second.
“Tell me what you’re feeling, y/n,” he breathes out, “need to know if it feels okay. Don’t wanna hurt you.”
You shake your head immediately.
“No, feels so good, don’t stop, please,” you stuttered through a breath, legs tensing around his waist as your tits melted outwards as you laid on your back.
With that, he bottomed out, hips melding into yours in some smooth motion until you were both groaning out into each other.
He starts slowly, rolling in and of you in a loose rhythm that was contained in the way it should be.
You exhale in a wave of pleasure, shoulders loosening as you sink into it again. It’s not overwhelming like before, just steady, lingering. Full in a way you couldn’t quite describe.
Your thoughts quiet on their own, slipping into the background like they’re no longer needed.
You shift on the desk slightly, more comfortable now, not searching for where to put yourself anymore. Everything feels easier—your breathing, your hands, even the way your mind moves.
“Harry,” you moan, “Feels so good inside of me.”
He was sweating already, overwhelmed in the feeling of his thick cock nuzzled deep inside of your little pussy and not quite knowing how to process it.
“Yeah? You like my cock inside of you? This how it felt last night?”
You shake your head messily, “Mm-mm, no. Never as good as this, no.”
His pace quickened, just barely, but enough to give you a hint into what it could be.
Rough. Sloppy. Aggressive.
And suddenly, you needed it that way.
“Please, harder,” you groan, the words slipping out of you before you can really even think about it.
“Hm?”
“Harder, Harry, please! Fuck me harder, please, I want it,” you were tensing around his cock on purpose, prying for him in any way you could.
“What do you want?” He played, stretching you thin until you were a desperate mess.
He just didn’t expect it to come to him so easily.
“Your cock, please, I want it to hurt,” you yelp, “fuck me harder, Harry, please, I need it!”
He growled, squeezing his eyes shut to hold himself together at your filthy pleads. You were a wreck, already so worked up and he had barely fucked you yet.
Not properly, anyway.
With a huff, he paused his gentle rhythm before grabbing onto your left ankle, throwing it up on his shoulder until it slung there naturally.
You gasped at the shift, the difference stretching you out and letting his cock kiss your insides in a new way from before.
“Mm, f—”
You were cut short at the sudden slam of his hips against yours, rough this time and leaving little space for you to process a thing.
He was harsh and unforgiving as he slammed his way into you, again and again and again and again until you were drunk and dizzy with his dick and your eyes were to the back of your head.
“Oh, Harry! Fuck, yes! Yes! Yes!” You were ridiculously loud, neck strained as you grasped onto nothing in an attempt to steady yourself against the solid surface of his desk.
“Yeah? You like this better? Tell me you like it rough,” he groans, sweat forming on the line of his curls as he ruts into you harder.
“I do, fuck! Feels so good, so deep,” your words sounded like nonsense, thoughts rambling out of you with little to no processing time.
He presses his palm flat against your lower stomach, slapping onto the space where his tip tented the skin of your tummy and groaning at the feeling of him so deep in your insides.
He grabs your hand and places it on your stomach with his, watching as you now also feel his cock jutting in and out of you and pressing up into your skin.
“You feel that? You feel my cock fucking into your belly? S’where it belongs.”
“Mm, yes! Fuck, so good, don’t stop,” you were already close, and he hadn’t even touched your clit.
He wasn’t going to, either.
He wanted to know his dick was what made you cum. Nothing else.
He fucked you harder, deeper, every passing second growing more and more intense and even more aggressive.
You were…in heaven.
You’d dreamt of this for god knows how long. You knew he’d be the man to do it. He was big and strong and fucking you just right and handling you like the little thing you were.
“Tell me how good this dick is,” he spits, shoving himself deep into your cervix.
“It’s—it’s…shit,” you tried, really, you did.
But when he was slamming himself into you the way he was, table rocking and wooden legs squeaking, who could blame you?
And when you thought he’d be patient, let you take your time, you were slapped right out of that thought the moment you felt the chill of his rings around your neck.
His hand had you pinned down, gripping tight against your veins until your face reddened and your throat felt raw in ecstasy.
“Fucking say it,” he grits, “tell me how good it is. Tell me what you want.”
You were spinning above yourself, swarming in the mix of the stretch of your leg over his shoulder and the grip on your throat and the slam of his hips.
“So good! Fuck, your dick is so good Harry I need it. Want it all the time, please, want this cock everyday, all the time.”
You were rambling, but not in the way you did when you were nervous to send over his weekly schedule.
This time was different.
You were rambling like there was no end in sight. Like if you weren’t so distracted by the fuck of his hips than you would continue on and it would never stop. Just raving about how good he felt inside of you and how you wanted it forever and ever.
“Good, baby,” he hummed, “so fucking good to me, you know that? Never let me down, never. You’re perfect, so good for me all the time.”
You whimpered at the praise, his grip tightening against your throat as you struggled to keep your eyes open.
“And now you're taking me so well,” he continued through heavy breaths, “so tight around my big cock, hm? Best pussy I’ve ever felt in my life, you’re fucking unreal.”
And that was it.
He should’ve known it would get you there—how could it not when this is what you lived for? His praise, his words, the reassurance that he was happy with what you brought to him. That you were worth his while.
More than worth his while.
“Harry! I’m—”
“I know,” he quickened his pace, “let it out. Squeeze my cock till it stings, make me cum.”
You screamed, legs clenching and extended up around him and mouth falling open in pure bliss. It was the hardest you’ve ever come in your life, so wrapped up in the moment and pulling from the lack of blood to your head.
His grip on your throat loosened a bit as you came, giving you room to breathe and steady yourself so as to not pace out right on his desk.
Because that would be hard to explain to someone.
He replaced his dick with a thumb on your clit to help you ride it out, not wanting to cut it too close as he was there himself now and wouldn’t risk cumming inside of you.
No matter how badly he wanted to watch his insides drip out of your swollen hole.
“Fuckkk,” you groaned deep as he stroked himself onto your stomach, letting it paint your milky tits and drip down to your belly button in a careless fashion.
You both watched each other's faces—the way you curled and squirmed and tensed at every new dash of a feeling. It was so intense, so wrong, so good in the way that felt like it had to be a dream.
And because you just couldn’t help yourself, as you come down from your last orgasm, you swipe your finger up your stomach until you gather a healthy helping of his cum and press your finger onto your tongue. Lapping up the salty liquid until it hit your throat and you were humming in satisfaction.
He twitched at the act, still stroking himself out and groaning at your fucked up behavior.
You would be the death of him.
He lets grabs your ankle and takes your leg off of his shoulder, sighing as his head drops and he catches his breath.
You follow the same pattern, regulating your breaths and shutting your eyes in an attempt to revive yourself.
You both end up looking at each other at the same time.
There’s a beat—just a second—where it’s quiet.
And then it breaks.
A breathy laugh slips out of you first, soft and loose, like it just falls out without asking permission. He follows right after, the same kind of laugh—easy, unguarded, like neither of you has the energy to hold it in or question it.
It’s not in humor. It’s more in bliss. Like you both just can’t beleive how fucking good you feel and how fucking insane you both are.
It feels a little unreal, like you both just came out of something you weren’t expecting to feel that deeply.
There’s that shared look again.
Tired.
Relieved.
But happy. Really happy.
Your shoulders feel heavy in the best way, like all the tension finally burned off and left nothing behind but this loose, quiet calm. His posture mirrors it, less rigid, more open, like what just happened took something out of both of you, but gave something back too.
You peer up at the clock on his wall before looking back at him.
You exhale, still smiling, softer now.
“Your 12:00 will be here soon. I’ll let them in once you’re ready.”
He lets out another small laugh, shaking his head once like he doesn’t even have the words for it.
And for a second, neither of you tries to fill the silence. Because you don’t have to.
“Mm,” he leans to kiss you for just a quick second, “perfect.”
You shift slightly, exhaling under your breath. Looking at him through his flushed cheeks and his lazy smile. His messy hair and the way his body seems a little less tense than it usually is.
He’s satisfied.
And that thought sits comfortably. Like a box checked. Like something resolved.
Good.
That’s what matters.
if u enjoyed, plsss like/reblog! and send in any feedback!!
love u all sm! thx for ur patience w this one and I hoped it lived up to the expectations!!
masterlist
ask/request/say anything!
join my taglist
*all specific requests remain unanswered in my inbox until fully completed* I have a bit of a que rn
𓍼Summary: "You knew the card you had left. One sentence, two words, and his hand would drop from that doorknob. He would stay, but he wouldn’t be staying for you. He would be staying because he was trapped, and for the rest of your life, you would never know if he was there because he wanted to be or because you had shackled him to you with another selfish line."
A/N: Based on this request-> Here <-
𓍼Word Count: 8.8k
𓍼Warning: Heavy Angst, Positive Pregnancy Test, Talk Of Prego Symptoms // SMUT, Harry Cheating On New GF w/Reader, Heated Argument.
It happened all at once. The breakup, the distance, and for a while, you thought it would stick. Even when you saw him at parties, still sharing mutual friends neither of you could drop, whether by choice or stubbornness, that was still undecided. For you, it was by choice; there was always going to be that little sliver of space that no one else could fill but him—in your heart or between your legs. That was the stubbornness, that was the choice, and gradually this was how it happened, the chance encounter—always the chance encounter to use as your excuse. Because you told yourself you weren’t ever going to be the one to call or text, and you hadn’t this whole time.
Even after the first couple of hookups—you both, drunk after a party, or him calling you at two in the morning—you would answer, tell him yes, come over, and the justification would be that you weren’t the one who caved and called, so you were still winning. And when he left the next morning, sometimes without a word, you told yourself this was the trade. This was the cost. Stubborn was both of you bringing dates to a party, then ditching them to fuck in a spare room, then coming back as if nothing had happened, the press of him still lingering between your thighs, because nobody else knew how to fill you like that, how to fuck you just the way you wanted.
Because you had tried. Had done the hook-up thing with randoms you met on whatever dating app you were using that week, cycling through them, each a reflection of just where you were with yourself mentally, though that was what you would figure out later. But in the moment, in the thick of it, they were all the same. You were trying to force yourself to get over the one guy who kept coming back in some way or another. Fun fact: it never worked.
They all sucked; most of them were only out for themselves. Their talk was always better than when they would put it into action, and truthfully, it was fucking boring—always the same shit. Some even brought the size but didn’t know how to use it. Not like Harry, who could bring both. Who could fuck you any way you wanted, could have you coming in minutes, sometimes for hours when you guys were really deep into it all.
But it wasn’t just the sex. You guys were good at that. That was a no-brainer. It was everything else about him. He was your person, the one who would let you talk his ear off. You could spill your mind, your dreams, your thoughts at his feet, and he would just get it. He cared; he wanted to know. He wanted a future, so your breakup was a shock to both of you. It just happened, and now you don’t even know how or for what? Because the only thing you remembered now was how much you missed him, not just now but then. There always seemed to be so much distance, your job seeming to create the divide you guys thought you could navigate, something you thought you were strong enough for.
God, it was all so crazy now. In the bad moments, all you could think about was the fights, the distance you felt, even when he was lying next to you in bed. All you could think about was: I miss you, I want you—just be with me. Right here, right now, I don’t want to fight anymore. But fuck, you guys were so fucking stubborn—you to a fault. Because when it was bad. Whenyou guys couldn’t even get through one day without fighting, all it took was him saying, “We’ll maybe this isn’t working…” at your breaking point for you to just run with it.
Stubborn—was you latching on to that one thing and throwing it back in his face, telling him, “Well, if that’s how you feel, then let’s end this.” And the truth was, in that moment, it felt good to say it. It felt good to see the stunned look on his face. To finally say what you thought you both were thinking. Because to you, if he wasn’t thinking it, he would never have said what he said in the first place. Yet he was the one who said you were being ridiculous, twisting his words, and that he meant that how you guys were handling the situation wasn’t working. And you, god. You were persistent in that stubbornness, stood your ground, and told him it was over, and maybe even that tired, defeated side of you who just wanted everything back to normal meant it—that you could admit to yourself now.
Still, the part of you that only wanted normal was lying to yourself. What was normal anymore without him? He had been so deeply woven into every aspect of your life that you couldn’t even go to the same coffee shop without them asking if you were getting his drink too that morning. It had been almost a year since you had been apart. Still, there were days when you saw him, when you would be walking and spot him across the street, then you would stall at the crosswalk until he walked in the direction where “home” used to be for you both. But that was another source of stubbornness where your restless heart could stew, your downfall, because the coffee shop was yours, the neighborhood was yours. You had chosen it, and he had put up a fight, and now he was still there.
To make it worse, if you thought you knew the distance before, the distance now was a fucking endless black hole that opened the day you left. Because you couldn’t even remember what light felt like, you couldn’t remember the clarity of a single, defining thought. To start down a path and think, yes, this is exactly where I need to be, you’re on the right track, it’s only up from here. Because now your path was changing, and all it took was two pink lines appearing on a piss-soaked strip for you to really put all your wreckage into focus.
Pregnant. That’s what the plastic stick in your hand said. That was your reality, alone at one in the morning on a Saturday night. You knew who the father would be. Knew the exact moment it happened. Could remember lying there afterward, the one night Harry decided he wanted to sleep over because it had been a while. It seemed the more you hooked up, the more casual it became, and the more distance he wanted to keep between you. You thought, okay, two can play this game. So you went with it. But that night felt different; he wanted to hold you. It was like he didn’t want to let go. It wasn’t the horny clash of bodies that night. He made love to you slowly, like all the times in the past when you guys didn’t want to leave your bed.
He stayed the night, and you thought, I want this, I want him back. So you went with it, letting him set the tone, not wanting to rock the boat. You wanted to savor every moment until he had to go. When you woke the next morning, he was still there. He stayed until breakfast, then made you both a late lunch after hours of being inside you, still slow, still taking his time over every inch of your skin. It felt like a fever dream. It felt like you could slip back into your old life, and all you would have to do was wait for him to say it.
When he stayed another night, you thought, okay, this is it, but when you woke that next morning, he was gone, his only communication a note that said:
“Thought I could do this, sorry, H.”
That was it. That was how he left it—him leaving that time. You didn’t even know it was happening, didn’t even know there might have been a choice, a discussion to have. It didn’t feel fair. It was the first time he left you in the dark, like all the other times were a mutual smorgasbord, a game you were in on too, but to just leave without even saying why he was there in the first place left you empty, left you fucking discarded like the condoms you swore by with every hookup outside of him. It’s not like he wasn’t doing the same, except that for him, it was only two other people. One, he fucked right after you broke up to get back out there, and the other, who was on and off, someone he talked to regularly. Which should have been a fucking red flag, the sign that he was moving on.
And now here was the breaking point, fucking snapping, because you were searching for his name on your phone. You were going to call. For the first time since the breakup, you were going to fucking cave and call. You were already shaking, but as soon as the first ring sounded, panic seized your throat, choking the breath you were taking. You felt sick, like you were going to throw up. Sick like all the nights you had spent heaving over the toilet, which you could now finally fucking name. Why did they even call it morning sickness if you could be sick any time of the day?
You were sitting on the edge of the tub, listening to each ring as your hand went to the band of your bra, hooking a finger under the wire where it had been digging in all week. You thought, maybe this should have been another sign, because it was so obvious now. Your boobs hadn’t fit in anything for weeks. They were sore and spilling out of the cups, and for some reason, you had been telling yourself it was PMS, that your period was late because you were a mess. Because everything that was supposed to be your life was fucking messy, and you believed it because you wanted to. That was the truth. There were no other options; your delusion said there were none.
By the third ring, you were looking down at your stomach, at the way the waistband of your leggings was being sandwiched between two rolls at your middle, the stretch already pushed past its limits, and you sat up straight. You didn’t even think about it. You just sat up, and then you realized what you had done, and that was when it hit you. Not the fucking test you just took. Not the math you had just done on your phone, as if the answer would change. It was that. This gut should have been a sign; this wasn’t your normal bloat. In fact, you weren’t even sure if you had ever been this bloated in your life.
When the phone rang again, you were scared in a way you had never been scared in your life. Not scared of anything happening—but scared like it already had, and there was no version of your life now where it hadn’t. And you were alone, god, you were so alone. You were doing this by yourself, sitting with not just the grief of losing the love of your life, but with this. With what you both had created, and it wasn’t just the mess of your lives. No, because this was the consequence. That was the part you kept coming back to.
It was almost two in the morning on a Saturday, and there was only one person you wanted to call, and you hadn’t seen or talked to him in two months. What did this look like? What would he think this was, you being pathetic, calling him drunk somewhere? This had been the longest silence you guys had ever had. Even when you broke up, you somehow saw him more. What was the point of any of this? The silence. Why was there ever any distance? Because now all of the other bullshit felt silly compared to the life that you were holding in your fucking body.
You had to stop thinking about it. The thought had to go away, and when the fourth ring sounded, you almost hung up, because you didn’t think you could do it. You could barely convince yourself, and you had the proof sitting face down on the bathroom counter. Maybe you weren’t ready to admit it. Because here’s where your emotions were spiraling again, because maybe if he didn’t answer, you could still be the same person who wouldn’t have to ask for anything. But just when you had almost talked yourself out of this call, his voice rasped through the phone—
“Hey...” He whispered. He sounded like he had been sleeping, like you had woken him up, which was strange, because it was Saturday, and it wasn’t like his world had fallen apart yet; he was still free.
Your words were lodged in your throat, burning like coal as tears pricked at your eyes. “Hey…” Was all you could say.
“I’m not sure I can get away… It’s kind of late.” He told you, which hurt even worse, because he was already assuming, and now you really did feel pathetic. But worse, he was being quiet, and that had your gears turning more.
“Can you come over?
Harry was silent for a long breath, and then you tried again, “Well, can I come there, then?” You asked, feeling frustration surge beyond your control. You were already bursting at the seams of your mind with everything you were trying to hold to yourself, and he was giving you nothing.
When he didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. You knew why, and your heart sank with the thought. That sickness that had been looming was threatening to stir into something more, and you were holding your breath, trying to fight the tears and your stomach from turning. But the tears were already silently falling.
“Is there someone else there?” You questioned, although you already knew the answer.
“Yeah…” He breathed.
God, and then you really started crying. Not for any particular reason, not even for him—it was all just hitting you, your emotions coming like tidal waves, like they had for the last two months. Except this time, he could hear it, and you pressed your hand over your mouth, but it didn’t help. Because this was ugly, and broken, and you were falling apart, and you had no one. There was no one. There was no one you wanted more than him, because you wanted him so badly, you wanted every single thing—the good and the bad. You wanted him to come over and make everything better, to tell you that everything would be okay. To tell you that you were in this together.
“Please, H.” You whimpered out, like it was life or death, and to you in that moment it was. Because you didn’t think you would survive this—if you could survive the rejection from someone who once told you you were the only thing he loved on this earth.
“Can you just please come over, please H—please.”
You were begging. You knew you were begging, and you did it anyway, because being the one who never called didn’t mean anything anymore. None of it mattered anymore. Not when everything was on the line—
“Just this one time,” you pleaded. “Please—just this one time, I swear. I’ll never call again. I haven’t called this whole time—just this one time.” He was quiet for too long. Long enough that your body was already reacting to the answer no, every inch of you trembling.
“Just this one time. I’ll be there soon.” He snapped, then hung up the phone, and you sat there with the phone still against your ear. He didn’t live far, especially if he walked fast, and since he was mad, you knew he really would be there in no time.
Adrenaline jumped through you then, not relief, as every emotion shifted again. You took the test off the sink, put it in the trash, then stood there looking at the trash like it could rewrite your whole life story. And then you took the whole bag out, tied it off, and put a new one in. You knew he wasn’t going to look in your trash, but you did it anyway. Because more than anything, even though you were an adult, your body kept reacting to the sight of that pregnancy test with an adolescent fear all over again, hitting you with a strange shame that only ripped open the reckless guilt you felt pressing at your chest.
You brushed your teeth because your mouth tasted like shit, and honestly, you couldn’t remember the last time you brushed them. Tonight was the first night you had gotten out of bed in days, still wearing the same clothes from when you called out to work on Wednesday. Then you brushed them again, feeling more shame and more guilt, and sat down on the bathroom floor with your back against the tub after you were done. You needed some kind of guidance, needed to Google ‘how to tell your ex you’re pregnant’ just to have some kind of base. But you only got past the first two lines of the first thing you clicked, and put the phone face down on the tile.
The words were too calm for what this was. Everything on that page felt written by someone calm and clear-minded, and you were none of those things. You sure as hell knew he wasn’t calm by the way he hung up the fucking phone. Your emotions were churning into rage because nothing about the two of you had ever been calm or easy; this wasn’t something you could say without ruining someone else’s life. It didn’t feel fair that you were the one who had to sit with it all. Why you? Why now?
Because truly, how were you supposed to say it? That was the whole mindfuck of it all. Did you say it at the door, before he even got inside, just say it and let it hit him like it hit you, fast and devastating? Did you sit him down first? Did you wait? But wait for what? There was no good timing for any of this. There was never going to be a good time to say it, was there? There would be no moment when everything was fine, and he would be open and receptive to what you needed to tell him. Because he had no clue why he was even coming over here.
God, and then there was the topic of whether he would even want to keep it. You didn’t know. You honestly didn’t know, and you had known this man for years. The one who had said he wanted a future with you, but also the same man who left a five-word note. Somehow, they were the same person, and you didn’t know which one was walking over.
Did you want to keep it? That question hit you like a bullet to the chest. You could hardly keep the thought straight in your mind. It kept circling, slipping in and out of focus—your mind still unable to grasp what it actually meant to be pregnant. Weren’t you supposed to know this kind of shit? Women were supposed to know, right? Your like-nature-born instinct, or whatever. You were looking down at your stomach again, and yet you still didn’t know anything. Then you took your hand away, trying to search your mind for the answer. For a few minutes, it became a vicious cycle. You would put it back, then take it away.
Still nothing.
And beneath everything, and the time it was taking Harry to get there, there was something else gnawing at the surface of your mind: who was at his place? Was it just some random, another body that didn’t matter—or was it her? The one who had become the on-and-off hookup. The one he talked to. You had known about her for months and had decided she wasn’t a threat, because he was still seeing you. But now she was probably at your old apartment, sleeping in your bed. Why did he even pick up in the first place? God, he was whispering because of her, and fuck, you knew it shouldn’t have mattered, but tonight, of all nights, it fucking mattered. The thought was suffocating you, and now you could hardly breathe around the thought of her.
You forced yourself into the living room, waiting by the door because you felt that if you sat down again, you would never get back up. When the knock sounded, you lurched forward and opened the door, surprised by your sudden burst of energy. Harry looked like a wreck—his T-shirt was inside out, the seams showing at the shoulders. He must’ve dressed in the dark so he wouldn’t wake her. You could see it all as you took him in.
You knew what it meant, and you let him in anyway. As soon as he took a step forward, you were on him before he could even get the door shut all the way—arms around his neck, face against his throat. You felt like it was the first time you could breathe since you had taken the test. It was that fast. After two months of neglecting your body, doing everything wrong, it only took one second against his neck, and you were alive again.
At first, his arms stayed at his sides, standing there like a statue carved from stone. Your stomach dropped, but you didn’t let go; you refused to let go. The seconds ticked by, but your grip stayed firm, his scent the only thing keeping you tethered in that moment. Then you felt him move; he was deciding. You could feel it in the shift of his breath, and when your bottom lip dragged against the pulse of his neck, his hand came up to the back of your head, fingers in your hair, drawing you closer as his other arm wrapped around you. He let out a heavy breath into your hair and held on as if he meant it.
You grazed his neck with your mouth again, your entire body pulsing with the energy of new life. Everything about this felt right, so fucking natural that you weren’t going to stop. Your mouth moved against the heat of his neck, because it was there, because he had come to you, and there was nothing else but him and you. That’s the truth of it. In that moment, he had chosen you; he was yours. Because in that moment, the delusion was a fact.
Because his skin was so warm, and he was right there, and your mouth was just doing what it knew best when it pressed to the heated hollow of his neck. This was what you guys did, as natural as breathing, what your body was designed for when you were in his arms. Then he made a low sound in his throat, and the door clicked shut as your feet lifted off the floor. He picked you up, and your legs went around him without a thought, your mouth sucking hard into his skin. Your mouth moved to his as he carried you across the living room, your mind going blank.
Maybe you knew this wasn’t supposed to happen, that you needed to stop it—or maybe you knew it was happening the entire time, and maybe both things were true at once, but neither one was slowing anything down. It was all happening so fast. It was fast and confusing, and it all seemed to carry new weight, like something rolling downhill. Like if you tried to catch the mistake while it was happening, you would lose the only thread you had keeping you sane in that breath.
Somewhere in you, there was a version of you, deep down, still holding the plan, all the words you had meant to say first. But the longer your mouth pressed to his, tasting him, wanting him more, that voice that should have been there grew quieter and quieter, and then you couldn’t hear anything at all except for your breath mixing. You couldn’t even remember why you had asked him to come. Because you had asked him to come, and here he was, and wasn’t that good enough? Couldn’t you just have this first? This was what you needed. That was all. To be here, just like this, just for now.
As soon as he laid you down on the couch, he lifted your shirt, and it came off in one fluid motion. He moved his face to your neck as his hands gripped your hips and tugged you down the couch, pulling back to get a look at you. His eyes were wild, and maybe you would have felt that insecure ping that had haunted you in the bathroom earlier, but you were too distracted by how different he looked, by the wild rushing through his gaze. Then he started talking—
“You’re so beautiful.” He rasped as his mouth moved to your jaw, then to your neck again. “God— baby, look at you.” He continued as a hand slid up from your hip and settled flat and warm against your ribs. “Your body—” He pulled back again.
“Fuck— You look so good.” He cooed, his mouth inching down your body, his hands squeezing you tight. “So fucking good, love—”
He kept saying it over and over, ‘You look so good.’ And every time he said it, something in you flinched because he could see it. The changes. The difference was being gripped and handled like meat, his touch explorative and untamed, as if he had never seen you like this. Part of you wanted him to slow down so he could see it, but he didn’t know what he was looking at, and you did. He was saying it like it was good news, like all along this was what he wanted.
Yet all the while he sounded confused, because that was the other thing—he kept saying it like he hadn’t planned to, like the words were coming out of him the same way everything else had been happening since you opened that door, or maybe even when you called. None of this had been decided because the choice was still there to be made.
But maybe the truth was that the choice had been made months ago, both of you unknowingly making it, without a conscious thought, or that’s what you wanted to believe. Maybe that should have made this easier. But it didn’t, it wasn’t, because you were so fucking scared, and the only choice you felt you had was to offer your body, whether you wanted this or not, you knew this was the only way you could make him yours, that you could have him a little longer. This is what he thought this was, right? Why else would you call him this late?
You wanted him to look at you, at your face, not just your body. But already he was distant. In that moment, you were just a body to him, because that’s what it felt like. This was the choice you were making with yourself, not with him, with you. This was the tone you had set with him the second you said “yes,” the first time he called you after your breakup, and every time after, when you found yourself beneath him, whenever he had been inside you. What did this even mean for him anymore? What did it mean to you? What had you guys let this become?
He pulled the cup of your bra down and put his hot mouth on your nipple, and you jerked underneath him, hard, because it hurt. Because everything was hurting, bearing down on you tenfold. The harder he sucked, the more you moaned. Your boobs had been tender for weeks, which is partly why you had found yourself standing in your bathroom earlier. His mouth was overwhelming—a little too much, and yet just right. When he sensed you flinch, he lifted his head and smiled.
“So sensitive for me,” he said, thinking it was him, and you let him because what was the alternative? You were going to have this no matter how it felt afterward. He wanted you; you could feel the hunger in his grasp, the way his eyes were locked on your tits spilling heavy out of your bra as he unhooked it with ease.
Then he was working your leggings down, stopping halfway down your thighs, just enough to drag two fingers up your slick center. You knew you were already wet, that your body was fucking vibrating to be touched, your clit so thick it hurt every time it pulsed. Harry breathed the word“fuck” against your neck, faintly, the way he always did, and slid two fingers inside you, and your hips came up to meet his hand as you shuddered in a deep breath.
It was so fucking good, but it wasn’t enough, because his fingers were leaving too much room for thought. Too much room for reality to creep back in. Room for the trash bag and the test and fucking Google search to loop in your head, and you didn’t want to think about any of it. You wanted there to be no room in you for anything but him, and the press of his big dick inside you.
“Fuck me,” you demanded, right into his mouth. “I want you inside me, right now—I need you.”
He didn’t make you say it twice. In seconds, he was shoving down the front of his sweatpants. There was no time to make this official by taking everything off. He was just as greedy, his thumbs hooking back into the band of your yoga pants, dragging them down and off one leg with a brutality you knew would leave marks later, your ankle still caught in the other. Then he pushed into you, his tip catching on your opening and making you wince. In one long stroke, you both were making the same sound at the same time as he stretched his way into you.
Fuck, it hurt so fucking good. You hadn’t had sex since him. It was good, exactly what you knew it would be, because it was never not good with him; that had always been the problem with you two. For a long, halting breath, you both stayed like that. His dick buried to the hilt deep—him waiting as your pussy walls spasmed around the girth of his thick cock.
You were already on the verge of coming, your body so turned on that you could probably even come just like this. But then he was pulling out slowly, thrusting against the tightness, your body tensing as he pushed back in just as hard as the first thrust. You knew this was going to be fast for both of you when he kept saying “fuck” over and over, as if he was already trying to hold on.
Then he was fucking you fast and hard with one knee braced into the cushion, the couch scraping across the floor a notch every time he thrust back in. He kept talking—so good, you feel so good, so beautiful as your sore tits bounced and you spread yourself wider for him.
He was falling apart the same way everything else was. Every time you felt yourself slipping toward that realm of thought, ready to let it take you, you would come back to the feeling of him inside you. To the weight of him, to the stretch of him, his mouth at your jaw. But then the creak of the couch would echo, and you would try to look him in the eye, but he was looking everywhere else but at you.
You were in and out of these pockets, dragging yourself back down into your body every time, because this was the last time. You knew it was the last time. You didn’t know how you knew, but you knew, and you were going to be here for it, and maybe somewhere underneath all of it, that whole time, you kept telling yourself, “he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know.”
Then all at once you were coming with no warning, no build that you could track—your fucking body just locked down around him and let go, the wave hitting like a hand twisting inside you as you gripped at his inside-out shirt. He followed, just as quick, your moaning release echoing through the space, spurring him on, as you repeated his name over and over. In a few more strokes, he was pressing a guttural groan into your neck, sucking and biting into your skin. He was coming inside you; there was no thought about it. He always came inside you, so it made no difference now. That was how it had always been with him, and it didn’t matter anymore. It couldn’t do anything that hadn’t already been done.
Neither of you moved. Then, suddenly, the room was too quiet, the air thick and still, humming with the rush of what had just happened. He stayed heavy against you, face buried in the crook of your neck, his breathing rough and ragged in your ear. You were stunned, lying there, staring at the ceiling fan spinning, wondering how the hell you were supposed to tell him now.
There had been a plan; there were supposed to be words first. But now, anything you said would sound like it came from someone wrapped up in whatever you had just done. It would sound like a lie or an afterthought; it wouldn’t sound like everything you had wanted to say since you read that note or saw the two pink strips on that plastic stick. What were you supposed to do now? How were you supposed to tell him? Every syllable you could say would be tarnished by the sweat and heat of what had just happened. You had those two words right there, but you couldn’t say them now, not on this couch, pinned under his weight while he was still inside you. There was just no way.
When he finally moved, it happened all at once. When he pulled back and pulled out, you felt the wet, sliding friction as he left you, the sudden gush as the air hit the mess spilling out with him. He didn’t even look at you. He tucked himself back into his pants, yanked the waistband of his sweats back up, and slumped onto the edge of the cushion. He was stone again, a statue sitting there with his elbows digging into his knees and his eyes cast to the floor, his own shame probably eating at him, everything about him unreadable. But you already knew what he was thinking. You didn’t need words to translate the distance you had felt since the moment he walked through that door. You sat up, shivering, and reached for your leggings, the bridge of your nose burning as you fought back tears.
You had never felt this way with him. Getting dressed while someone watches is one thing, but doing it while they’re pointedly not looking is worse. The whole time that you fumbled, he stayed silent as if he had nothing else to say. You had to lift your hips off the couch to squirm into the too-tight material, your body limp and clumsy, hands shaking in a frantic motion that felt pathetic and disgusting.
You felt exposed, you felt used—all the while your stomach twisting as the skin of your thighs stuck to the fabric, the smell of him still heavy on your skin. You kept trying to catch his eye, desperate for a hook, but he wouldn’t let you in. He was three feet away and already gone—you could practically see the regret settling over him like ash. There was nothing to grab onto, no way to bridge the gap, because he was already buried in his head, face hidden in his hands.
“This was a mistake,” he said, words you knew were coming.
A mistake. You had just had him inside you, and now you were just a mistake. It felt cruel, a slow-twisting knife of a realization that had been buzzing in the background since the moment he walked in. You had felt it then, in the way he didn’t hug you right away—the hesitation, the stiff distance in his arms that told you he was already questioning why he was there. He had known it was a mistake before he even touched you, and yet he had stayed. Why? Had he only come here for this? Had your tears on the phone not suggested more?
Now, the silence in the room was confirming the worst of it: he hadn’t come for you, or for the words you needed to say. Had he come here just to take what he wanted? Was his opinion of you really that low? Were you another body being added to his list—the ones he had discarded, the ones that didn’t matter? Because more than anything, it felt like he had just used you to drown out any indecision he might have had, and now all that was left was the cold, gritty reality of what you guys had done. Maybe you weren’t a person to him anymore; maybe you were just going to be the body where he left his regret.
When he didn’t say anything else, you waited, the silence stretching with the sharp ache of suffering that was already settling in, “Why did you leave?” you asked, because in the moment, that was the only thing you could think about.
“That morning. I woke up—and you were just gone, Harry. You stayed for two days. You even held me, and it felt like—I don’t know—like maybe you wanted more… And then you were gone, and you left a fucking note—a note, Harry, what was that?”
He stood up fast, took a few steps away, then turned around. “Because you didn’t want it—” He rasped out fast, like he had been waiting to say it for months. “Because you ended things. You. And then that whole time you never called—not once, not one time, not ever. How could I know if I was the only one who ever called or took any initiative?”
In a way, it was true, you knew it, but tonight you had called him. Tonight you had begged him even. You wanted to say that. You wanted to ask if it counted, if it could redeem the foolish game you had made this into. Harry was looking you in the eyes now, his gaze intent on searching for the truth. His green eyes were piercing you, stunting the words in your chest. You opened your mouth to tell him what tonight’s call was, what it was actually for, but nothing came out, and you shook your head, not feeling strong enough to convince him. The words you wanted to say were getting lost, adding pressure to every second stretching by, and he was still going, still slipping, barely a tether to reach for—
“I shouldn’t have come.” He snapped, already frustrated by your lack of words, and dragged both hands down his face. “You know what—I’m fucking seeing someone. She’s at my place right now. I knew this was going to happen. Why else would you call me? What else have we been—the two of us? This fucking game we’ve made it into—”
“You mean our old place.” You answered, your voice coming out flat, already feeling the loss of him all over again, his words only confirming what you felt was coming the second he said someone was there. “That was our place—And now you’re fucking her in our bed.”
“Oh—don’t give me that shit now. It stopped being “our” place the day you decided to leave.”
Now you were getting up, your own frustration rising with your tone, “What do you mean, don’t give you that shit? Harry, you didn’t even fight me on it. You just let me leave—”
“Yeah—And what was I supposed to say?” he said, matching your anger. “It was your choice. Your decision, and you made it for both of us—What is this fucking game? I never wanted it to end. You did that. Not me. So don’t you dare throw that back on me. I was the one who never stopped calling.”
“Give me a fucking break—” you scoffed, “It’s funny how none of that seemed to matter when you were still getting what you wanted, did it—All that fucking sex—”
He laughed, a sharp, bitter laugh that sliced right through you, “Oh, please—Like you weren’t benefiting from that too. Like, I didn’t see the game from the start. How stupid do you think I am? It’s like you give me no credit for anything,”
God, it was all true. That was the sting of it—the worst things he said were the things you couldn’t argue with, the parts you had both lived through and even enjoyed. But the truth felt useless now; it didn’t fit, it was only adding more devastation. You were shaking so hard you could feel your pulse in your teeth. When you finally spoke, your voice didn’t even feel like yours. It was someone else inhabiting your body, your throat. That frustration was turning mean, colder. You didn’t give a shit about the consequences; you were ready to let it rip.
Part of you didn’t care anymore. You were ready to have this out, and maybe it was the hormones—you had been Googling it in the bathroom, trying to flesh out every symptom that you had been feeling in that sudden panic—but knowing the science didn’t make the wreckage any less real. Nothing was stopping the downfall you knew was coming. You could tell you were about to burn the bridge by the way your anger was flashing red. You were still standing right in the middle of it; it was going to hurt you, too, but you needed him to hurt, needed him to feel the emptiness that you were becoming
“And the last time?” you asked, your voice breaking in the middle. “You could have said something—anything. But you didn’t. You just left. Why did you just leave? If you had been putting so much effort into it—why did you just walk away like a fucking coward? You want to talk about games—well then what the fuck was that?”
He shook his head, his gaze dropping to the floor. When he finally spoke, all the fight was gone from his voice. That was the part that hit harder than anything else. It wasn’t a roar you were still ready to combat, the defense he was holding; it was empty, it was him finally revealing the hollow of his own sunken emptiness. The sound of his breaking stole your breath. You knew how to survive a screaming match, how to hold your ground when things were heated and loud, but you didn’t know how to exist in the silence you had made of him. You didn’t know how to be in the ruins once the fire had gone out, once you really saw what your damage had done—what it was still doing.
“Because I thought if I stayed, we’d end up right back where we started. And I wasn’t sure I could survive it… Losing you all over again—if you didn’t want the same thing.” He answered.
And when he went quiet, the silence pressed around you, sucking the air out of the room until the breath in your lungs was thin and useless. It wasn’t just quiet—it was the fucking finale, a dense, strangling stillness that made the space between you feel like a grave opening up. You stood there staring at him, waiting for a breath or a blink, but there was nothing left to say and nowhere left to go. His stillness was stripping you bare, turning the memory of his flesh pressed to yours into remorse, leaving you both sitting in the collapse of a life that had ended the second he pulled out of you.
That was your moment, you felt it. You could have said it then. He was being honest, and you could have been honest back, and the words were right there, but standing there, knowing he was defeated, all you could say was—
“And now?”
“I’m with her. We’ve talked about everything. We’re together.”
He was with someone else; Harry had promised himself to somebody else. That was his truth, that was the reality of all of this, and all you could do was stand there. You didn’t collapse and cry like you thought you would; you were going to stand there and take it—you deserved this blow, and now you were bracing against his stare because there was no other version of you left to be, but unlike him, there was still that one reason to hang on—
“But you’re here.” You forced.
Harry closed his eyes and let out a long, shuddering breath. “Yeah… And I think you know as much as I do that this was a mistake—and now I have to go.” Then he turned away, walking toward the door, and you went after him, not missing a step as your heart jumped to your throat, pounding so hard you felt dizzy.
“But Harry—”
“Listen,” He said, halting you in place as his hand came up between you. “This can’t happen again, okay? I’m with her. I can’t have you call me again. We’re over, okay? We have to be over this time. I can’t do this anymore.”
“But I—I’m—”
God, it was right fucking there. It was in your mouth, you could feel it, you could hear the words playing on repeat in your head.
“I can’t hear anymore—I have to go.” He forced, already standing at the door, patting his pockets for his keys, his phone. “I have to fucking leave. God—fuck—what was I fucking thinking?”
His eyes were everywhere but on you, he wasn’t even talking to you anymore, his panic thick and grating in the tension between you, and when his hand closed around the doorknob, you grabbed his arm. You were gripping hard, but he didn’t pull away. He just stood there and let you hold on, and somehow that felt more painful than if he had shaken you off.
“Harry, please, baby—wait—okay, please.”
When he turned to look at you, his eyes were filling with tears. “What else could you want from me?” he asked as they spilled over and ran down his flushed cheeks.
As you searched his face, your eyes drifted to his neck. There was a mark. You had left a small dark spot of evidence, a reminder that he was yours first, and now someone else was going to find it. How could you keep him? What could you say to keep him from walking through that door? What could you give him that was just as true as the truth waiting to be revealed?
“What else can I give that you haven’t already taken? I’m begging you—can we please just end it? Let me go… so I can let you go. I need to move on. I want to move on, okay? I want to. I deserve to see where this goes with her.”
When he said “I want to” twice, the first for you, the second for him. He wasn’t saying it to you anymore; that much was clear. Maybe this was even the first time he had said it out loud to himself, and you watched it hit its mark in his mind and settle into his features, pulling him completely away from you.
Standing there, your hand trembling on his arm, the realization settled in like ice. You knew the card you could play. One sentence, two words, and his hand would drop from that doorknob. He would stay, but he wouldn’t be staying for you. He would be staying because he was trapped, and for the rest of your life, you would never know if he was there because he wanted to be or because you had shackled him to you with another selfish line.
As you took him in, your eyes roamed over him, and something in you knew you couldn’t do it. It was the set of his shoulders and the way he wouldn’t meet your eyes. He wasn’t just leaving; he really was begging you to let him go with every fiber of his being. He was pleading with his whole body for an exit, and you were the only thing standing in the way of his escape.
So you buried it. You felt the shift deep inside, a stony, tectonic slide of emotions as you took the heaviest thing you had ever carried and shoved it down into the darkest crevice of yourself, its weight settling in your gut, knowing it would stay there, decaying. You let go of the truth that would have shattered him even more, and instead, you reached for the only other honest thing you had left, that one other truth—
“But I love you.”
Under your touch, he went still, his muscles locking tight as if he were bracing for a blow that would never come, but that was your last one. When he finally answered, his voice was soft and level, worse almost kind. That was the part that actually destroyed you—the kindness. His tone was gentle, like he was already standing on the other side of the door, like someone who had already stopped loving you enough to just stay angry—stage two of the grieving process playing out in real time. The kind of soft you heard people use for the dead—
“Well. Sometimes love isn’t enough,” he said. Then his arm slid out from under your fingers, easy as water. The door opened, and then it clicked shut, and he was gone. He did it quietly. Even now, even as he was ending you, he couldn’t even be bothered doing it with his chest, with more sound, because then at least it would feel real.
But this was the part you didn’t remember, because later, when you tried to play this part over in your head, it was blank every time. All you remembered was standing there, listening to the hollow thud of his footsteps down the stairs until the numb silence in your head swallowed it all. A piece of you waited for the footsteps to stutter, for the door downstairs to stay shut, for him to realize he couldn’t just walk away—but he didn’t come back.
You remembered sliding down the door’s wood until you hit the floor, your knees pulling toward your chest as your hand moved to your stomach instinctively. You had let the only person you had ever wanted just disappear into the night, and now you were left with the darkness of your mind, with a secret that was growing larger with every second. It was strange, the thoughts that followed—that in all of the terrifying ache of this, the thought of the baby seemed dull, seemed doable compared to the unknown. Because in that stifled breath, the vast, empty stretch of a life without him felt like a void that was going to consume you entirely.
The strange clarity was that even though your heart was breaking, you knew the answer you had been searching for. As you pressed your hand into your belly, you felt your answer prickle across your skin and up your spine, and as a sob burst from your chest, the answer was yes. The answer was that this was your baby, the universe had given you this, and what that meant, you still weren’t sure—the why. But you didn’t need to know that right now.
Now it was just the two of you, and that was the reality you needed to face.
hi!! i love your texting stories and was wondering if you could do something angsty with comfort? reader and harry are arguing over something stupid and then she stops replying so harry spams her thinking that it’s because she’s mad at him and done with the conversation but really she just got in a car accident. you could have her either be driving and using the text to speech on carplay or she’s with a friend who’s driving and she’s in the passenger seat! that way she’s not texting and driving cause that’s a big no!!! but basically harry is actually scary mad and is not playing around but then he finds out she was in an accident (whether that’s a medic letting him know or she just texts him that she just got hit but it’s no biggie even though it probably is cause she’s just in shock). i’d just love to see something angsty with a comfort ending please!! 💕💕
Hiii babes!! Sorry this took me way longer than it should to get this out but I hope you enjoy and I did it a little different I added a blurb at the end because it just felt like they needed some in person closure to their little fight! Thank you for being so patient and lovely!!!💖
Texting BF Harry Styles: Here
CW: this is dramatic so minor language, mentions of hospital, small accident, minor injury, angst, protective Harry, arguing and some fluff at the end
Word Count: 2.7K
A/N: I haven’t done this style text request before so tell me if you like having a little blurb at the end and honestly you should’ve known who you’d be in the car with so if it comes at a shock I’m sorry😂 enjoy💖
Summary: You and Harry have a little argument and he only sort of spirals when you stop replying in the middle of it✨
Harry isn’t exactly sure how fast he was driving or how many minutes it took for him to pull into the parking lot of the hospital after leaving the house, but he knows it couldn’t have been that long since the radio station he was listening to barley made it through their commercial break before he was putting the car in park. After turning the car off he sits there for a moment trying to clear his head so he doesn’t go in there and do exactly what you asked him not to and that would be cause a scene, he knows you’re okay for the most part so he tries to hold onto that knowledge as tightly as he can while getting out of the car and heading for the front doors that say “emergency” in bright red letters above them. There’s a tightness in his chest and a lump forming in his throat he knows will only begin to ease up once he gets to see you, because you’re good at making even the worst of situations seem like no big deal and Harry is working overtime to try not to let his mind get the better of him as he walks up to the front desk.
“Uhm good evening I’m looking for-”
“Mr. Horan and Mrs. Styles right?” Harry’s eyes widen at the sound of you being referred to as his wife but he quickly recovers and just nods making the lovely woman sitting behind the desk, whose name tag says Stephanie with a little heart sticker next to it give him a warm smile before pointing towards the hallway to his left. “Second door on the right.”
“Thank you.” She just gives Harry and nod but before he walks away he quietly clears his throat before he leans over the counter just a bit. “D—do you know uh if she’s—she’s okay?” Stephanie’s face softens as she reaches out and places her hand over his that’s resting on the counter near the clipboard for people to check in.
“She’s going to be just fine.” Her words bring Harry a small sense of relief as she gives his hand a pat, he gives her a smile before turning and heading off towards the hallway your room is on. He isn’t more than a few steps down the hall when he hears a very familiar Irish accent trickling out from a door that’s partially open that has a hospital security guard standing outside of it who is holding back what Harry can only assume is a laugh.
“M’not eatin that—not even on my worst day could you get me ta eat bugs and worms for a measly twenty five grand—ruinin’ a perfectly good mash.” Harry quirks a brow at the muffled words his bestfriend is saying as he approaches the door, giving the security guard a polite nod and tight lipped smile when the man recognizes Harry after a swift once over and moves to the side.
“That’s because you’re a ninny—I think the trick is don’t chew so it’s not all crunchy…just take small bites and swallow.” You explain as Harry pushes the door open just enough for him to fit through but just a he’s about to say something the door clicks closed behind him making Niall let out a small squeal and your hand to fly up to your chest as the two of you look over at him from where you’re cuddled up next to each other on the standard sized hospital bed while a rerun of some reality show plays on the tv hanging on the wall across from it.
“Jesus Harry ya bout gave me a fuckin’—owe what was that for?” Niall’s eyes narrow as he glares at you while rubbing the spot on his arm you just punched.
“Watch your language.” You tell him making him roll his eyes as he starts to get up from his spot on the bed, Harry watches Niall stand up and wince a little as he brings his left wrist that’s all wrapped up to his chest as he walks around the end of the bed.
“How bout you watch my perfectly toned arse as I walk out of here and leave you two fighting chickens alone for a bit—how’s that sound?” You flip him the bird as he turns to look at you over his shoulder making Niall laugh and stick his tongue out at you in response.
“Fighting chickens?” Harry asks with a raised brow as he looks Niall up and down, only finding a few scratches on his arm and a bruise above his knee that he can see thanks to the navy blue shorts he’s wearing.
“Yeah you two just peck at each other until one of ya walks away with a few less feathers and a whole lot of wounded pride.” Niall explains with a shrug as Harry moves to the side so Niall can open the door. “And for the record yer the one usually walkin away with no pride and no feathers.” He adds in a hushed tone as he pulls open the door making Harry give him a sideways glare that causes Niall to let out a laugh as he steps into the hallway. “Tootles.” Is all he says before he’s closing the door behind him leaving you and Harry alone in the small room.
“You’re still in your shorts.” The sound of your shaky voice has Harry’s heart twisting into a knot as he turns to face you making you look down at the blanket tossed over your lap not wanting to look at him just yet, he takes a slow step towards the side of the bed as his eyes roam over your face.
“I know.” He says softly as he looks over the small gash above your right eyebrow while taking another step closer to you, not wanting to crowd your space and accidentally upset you since he knows the last time the two of you were in the same room together this morning it didn’t go so well.
“You lied.” Harry knows you’re not just talking about the fact he made it seem as if he changed out of his gym clothes so he just nods as he stands just a single step away from being able to reach out and grab your hands that are folded together in your lap.
“I did and I’m sorry.” You turn your head to look away from him to hide the way your bottom lip is starting to quiver but it allows Harry to see the bruise on the side of your neck from your seatbelt, the sight of the red and purple mark has his heart plummeting to the pit of his stomach. “Baby.” You let out a sniffle as Harry closes the space between himself and the side of the bed so he can reach out and gently tuck his thumb under your chin. “Please look at me.” You let him turn your head so you’re looking at him and when your tear filled eyes find his Harry thinks he finally understands what the true meaning of the word regret is because he knows his behavior this morning mixed with his inability to try to see things your way and understand how you’re feeling is the reason you have tears threatening to spill over your lash line and stream down your face.
“I don’t—don’t want to be mad at you anymore.” You tell him as he moves his hand so it’s softly cupping the side of your face. “But I am—I’m so mad at you.” Your voice is watery as you let out a deep breath while Harry does his best to keep his own emotions at bay. “And I—I know you love me Harry and I love you too—but sometimes you forget that my life is my life and it doesn’t always revolve around you.” You wrap your hand around Harry’s wrist as a few tears roll down your cheeks.
“You don’t even ask me anymore if I want to go to events with you—I just get told the plans the day before or the day of and that’s not fair to me Harry because I always ask you before agreeing to something for the two of us and—and you always forget even when I write it down on the calendar you lied about checking every day and—you expect me to cancel the plans I made for us or myself and I do—I don’t ever hesitate I just do it and that’s—it’s my fault for letting you think it’s okay but it’s not—my plans are just as important as yours.”
Harry stands there, running his thumb up and down your cheekbone trying to soothe you in anyway he can as you tell him how you’re feeling. With every shaky breath and quiet sniffle that comes out of you he feels a tiny piece of his heart break off and crumble because he knows there’s been times he’s informed you the day of a dinner party or an event some head of the studio needs Harry to attend and he knows that’s not okay but what he didn’t realize was just how much of your own life you’ve been giving up so you can be a part of his. You’ve been a part of his life for so long he’s begun to take your love and support for granted, you knew how hectic his life could be and yet you chose to stick around, helping him control the chaos as much as possible and somewhere down the line Harry stopped checking in and making sure you’re still happy and this life with him is something you still want.
“You have to do better because-” Your words get stuck in your throat as you try to hold back a sob and Harry doesn’t hesitate to pull you into his chest, his hand moves to gently hold the back of your head while you press your cheek against the soft material of his t shirt.
“I’m going to do better.” He promises as your arms wrap around him while his other hand runs up and down your back. “I can’t live in a world where you’re not the one I get to come home to so—I’ll do whatever it takes.” He feels your body shake as you let out a quiet sob, your tears start to dampen his shirt as he tightens his hold on you just enough to let you know he’s not going anywhere. “I’m sorry—I’m so so sorry I’ve been taking your love for granted and—and making you feel like your plans don’t matter and your life should just revolve around mine—I never meant for you to feel that way and I’m so sorry that I let it happen.” Harry swallows down his emotions as he places his lips to the top of your head while your hands clutch onto the back of his shirt as if you’re afraid he’s going to slip away.
“We both let it happen.” You mumble into his chest as he places a few kisses against your hair. “I’m sorry I called you a jackass—and an asshole I didn’t mean it.” Harry lets out a breathy chuckle as he gives you a small squeeze.
“Yeah you did but that’s okay I deserved it.”
“Yeah…you did.”
“I’m going to start checking the calendar twice a day when I’m home.” He tells you as he feels you pull away from the comfort of his chest, his hands cup the sides of your face so he can wipe away the last of your tears with the pad of his thumbs as he looks down at you. “I’m going to ask you first before agreeing to things and I’m—I’m going to get better at showing you how much you mean to me because you—fuck baby you mean everything to me.” He doesn’t even realize a few tears have slipped past his waterline until your soft hands are wiping them away. “Please tell me you forgive me? Or—or just tell me what you need from me so you can because I don’t want-”
“I forgive you Harry.” Your words cause a wave of relief to wash over him as you pull his face down towards yours so you can press your lips against his in a sweet kiss.
“I told Mitch we couldn’t go to his dinner because we have an engagement party that night.” He tells you as you pull away from him but his hold on your face keeps you from getting too far away. “That is if you’ll still let me be your plus one.”
“You’ll have to fight Niall for that spot—know he loves a good engagement party.” Harry lets out a laugh as you gently bump your nose against his.
“I think I can take him now that he’s got a bad wrist and wonky knees.” The sound of your laughter gets cut off by Harry’s lips finding yours in a deep kiss that has your hands tangling in his hair as he leans over the side of the bed. “I love you.” He says as he tries to catch his breath after pulling away.
“I love you too.”
“Ready to go home or did you want to finish this episode of—what show is this?” Harry asks as his hands slide down to the tops of your shoulders as he stands up and looks over at the tv on the wall. You let out a laugh as you give his chest a playful pat.
“Yes I’m ready to go home and it’s survivor—it’s quite entertaining and—oh Niall needs a ride home as well.” Harry playfully rolls his eyes as he looks back over at you while your hands slide down his chest until they are resting back in your lap.
“Fine we can take the hobbit home that’s-” Harry forgets what he was about to say as you toss the covers off of your legs revealing a few bruises across the tops of your thighs.
“Don’t look at me like that—I’m fine I promise.” You tell him in an attempt to get the worried look off his face but it doesn’t seem to help as his hands reach out to help you sit up so you can slide down to the end of the bed. “Did you mean what you said? Will you really get me a new disco cup?” You ask as you grab one of Harry’s outstretched hands so he can help you stand up.
“Yes baby I’ll get you a new disco cup.” He answers with a smile as you let him help you walk towards the door after grabbing your purse off the little table next to the bed.
“God I can’t believe you came here dressed like that.”
“I was in a rush and I didn’t cause anyone any health issues on the way here or cause a scene.”
“But still—you’re showing so much leg in a hospital Harry.” You argue as he opens the door for you, the nice security guard gives the two of you a smile and follows behind you towards the front desk so Harry can sign you out.
“I’m sorry Mrs. Styles—next time I’ll come dressed more appropriately.” He teases making you roll your eyes when he shoots you a little wink. “Did you do that on purpose? Have them call you Mrs. Styles?”
“Yes—wanted to see how it sounded before I agree to being called that permanently.”
“Oh well how does it sound to you then?”
“It’s not bad—kinda like it.” You answer with a shrug making Harry fight off a grin as he just nods and adjusts the strap of your purse on his shoulder.
hiiii can you make a dadrry one shot with this part of the new video we got where he’s playing the piano to his twin toddlers 🥺 thank youuu
It took almost two months to get this out, I'm so sorry @mmithsfreak 😭 hope you like it!
Music Time with Daddy
Warnings: None, just fluff.
Word count: 600ish
A/N: Not proofread
Masterlist I Join My Taglist
It was a sunny afternoon. Harry's wife had gone out to get some groceries after putting their lovely little two year olds to an afternoon nap. Harry was in the home studio, working on a new song for a couple of days now, saying that inspiration had struck him.
He was too immersed in what he was doing to hear the pitter patter of tiny feet and the little hands pushing his studio door open. It was only when a little hand grabbed a fistful of his shirt and pulled on it that he noticed them. Little Charlotte and Oliver were up from their nap and had come in, in search of their father. Charlie had a little stuffed bunny clutched tightly against her chest. Her curls were sticking in every which way.
He took off his headphones and picked her up,
“Hi Charlie-girl,” he cooed.
“Why are you up early, hm? Do you wanna sleep for a little more?”
“Daddy,” he heard another little voice from the corner of the room. Oliver was standing near the coffee table, in his hand a paper which was on the table, now crumpled.
“Hi Ollie, c'mere, baby,” he called out to the toddler.
He waddled over to his father with his hands up towards him, expecting to be picked up. With Charlie in one hand, Harry scooped up her brother into the other, settling them in his hold and then pressing little kisses to their chubby cheeks.
“Why are you cheeky munchkins up, hm? Didn't mumma put you down for a nap?”
“No daddy, don't wanna sleep,” Ollie said, raising his finger as if saying no.
Harry chuckled, “okay, okay, no sleep then. Do you wanna listen to a song?”
“Yes daddy,” they replied in unison. Harry couldn't help but smile. There was hardly a day that went by when the twins didn't wander into his studio asking for music, and he secretly loved that they did. Adjusting them on his hips, he walked over to the piano and sat down, and then placed Charlotte on one side and Oliver on the other.
“Ready, bubbies?” he asked, glancing between them.
“Ready,” they shouted. Harry's fingers lowered onto the keys of the piano as he played the first few lines of ‘Mary had a Little Lamb,’ one of the twins' favourites, and within seconds Charlotte was swaying happily, trying to sing along, whereas Oliver watched his father's hands moving swiftly over the keys. After a moment's hesitation, he carefully stretched out one finger and pressed a single white key, the sound cutting through the melody.
Harry looked down at him, feigning surprise before a laugh escaped him.
"Oh, have I got a little pianist helping me now, hm?" he teased, seamlessly weaving the rogue note into the melody instead of stopping.
“Keep going Ollie baby, you're doing well,” he praised the little boy. Oliver giggled and reached for another key and he was far more confident this time. Charlotte, watching all this, dissolved into a round of applause. Harry couldn't stop smiling. Even though the song no longer sounded quite like Mary Had a Little Lamb, he thought it sounded even better this way.
Thank you so much for reading, lovelies! Feedback is very much appreciated. If you have any requests, feel free to send them in! And if you want to be added to the taglist please lmk.
❏ before anyone anons me i made the gif 😧 and thank u for the request anon !! this was so fun to write :) i hope it met ur expectations
masterlist
harry was in the kitchen, holding a wine glass half-filled with straight tequila, his pinky finger looped over the rim like it was fine champagne. YN stood next to him, one hand on his arm, steadying herself—or maybe steadying him.
"you're a liability, you know that?" she giggled, her words slurring just enough to make him grin.
"me?" he huffed, leaning into her slightly, his drink sloshing dangerously close to the edge of the glass. "'m the liability? you've been clingin' to me all night, petal, can't walk straight without me."
she smacked his arm lightly, laughing. "it's 'cause you keep givin' me tequila! this is your fault."
he tilted his head, his eyes squinting like he was genuinely considering this. then he shrugged, nonchalant, dimples flashing. "s'pose you're right. but i reckon you love me for it, yeah?”
"love you despite it," she corrected, but she was smiling, her fingers curling into the sleeve of his shirt.
the flat was warm, soft yellow light spilling over cluttered corners and half-empty glasses, the air thick with laughter. it was the kind of late evening that felt like the exact middle of spring—windows cracked open, a cool breeze sneaking in, ruffling the edges of the curtains. someone had put on a playlist an hour ago, though the music had long since melted into the background, now just a hum beneath the chatter. the small group, crowded into the cozy living room, was exactly the right size to make the space feel alive but not cramped.
their flat always smelled faintly of cedarwood and something clean, though tonight it carried undertones of tequila and lime. he’d insisted on tequila because, as he explained with a wide grin and an unconvincing shrug, “s’just easier that way, innit?” no one really argued, though mitch had given a (poorly executed) rick sanchez imitation as a counter, something that harry didn’t quite understand, leaving him to furrow his eyebrows and dart his eyes around as he mulled it over, mumbling, “why are y’speaking like that? i don’t get it.”
now, hours later, harry was sprawled in the corner of the couch, long legs stretched out, a glass balanced precariously on his knee.
“i swear—i’m swearin’ right now—this is the last one.” he mumbled, lifting his glass as though making a toast. his speech was just a little slurred, the tips of his curls sticking to his temples. YN, perched beside him, nudged his side with her elbow, laughing.
“you said that half an hour ago, baby.” she teased, leaning closer to steal a sip from his glass. his free hand immediately looped around her waist, pulling her snug against his side.
“’s different this time,” he insisted, his voice dipping low, mock serious. “i mean it now. promise.”
“oh, you’re so convincing.” she smiled, her fingers absently running along the seam of his shirt, her touch light and familiar.
on the other side of the coffee table, mitch snorted, tipping his head back against the edge of the sofa. his hair, always a little unruly, had fallen out of whatever loose tie it had been in earlier. sarah, seated on the floor beside him with her legs crossed, nudged him in the ribs.
“you’re not much better,” she pointed out, gesturing to the glass in his hand.
“oi, don’t start,” he shot back, lifting a hand in mock defense.
the back-and-forth had been going on like this for the better part of the evening—easy, unfiltered, slightly nonsensical. everyone was comfortably slouched, shoulders loose, cheeks warm, the kind of drunk that makes the room feel like it’s spinning just the tiniest bit, but not enough to care.
harry had been stealing glances at YN all night, grinning at the way her nose crinkled when she laughed, her cheeks flushed from a combination of alcohol and the warmth of the room. she caught him staring at one point and poked his chest, her voice dropping conspiratorially.
“what are you looking at?”
“you.” he shrugged simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, blinking at her as if she was blurry and needed to come into focus.
YN rolled her eyes, though her smile gave her away. she parted her lips to speak, though harry cut her off before she could bother.
"you're all–” he gestured vaguely at her face, his voice lilting like he hadn't figured out the rest of the sentence yet. "and i'm–" another aimless wave of his hand, this time at himself.
"you're what?" she asked, tilting her head, the corner of her mouth twitching like she was trying not to laugh.
harry leaned closer, his knee brushing hers. his curls had started to flatten at his temples, damp from the heat of the room, and his cheeks were flushed in a way that had nothing to do with the alcohol. “i’m in love.” his words were slightly sing-song, punctuated by the tilt of his head.
the room dissolved into chaos not long after, though no one could say for certain what triggered it. maybe it was the tequila. maybe it was just the kind of energy that builds when a group of close friends is together in one place, everyone feeding off the same shared sense of silliness.
“right,” mitch announced suddenly, sitting up straight and nearly spilling his drink in the process. “i bet—” he paused, frowning in concentration as though piecing the words together took effort. “i bet i could do more push-ups than you.”
he blinked, the challenge taking a moment to register. then his brows lifted, a slow grin spreading across his face.
“you’re jokin’, right?”
“nah, m’serious.” he leaned forward, setting his glass on the table with a decisive thunk.
“you’re both idiots.” sarah breathed, though she was already pulling her phone out, clearly ready to document whatever was about to happen.
YN groaned, burying her face in her hands. “please don’t encourage them.”
“what, you don’t believe in me?” harry asked, feigning hurt as he turned to look at her.
“you’ve had, like, seven shots of tequila, h.”
he held up a finger. “six. maybe five and a half.”
she looked at him, tongue in cheek, her eyes glimmering with amusement. “not helping your case.”
in the end, there was no stopping it. mitch had already shifted to his knees, clearing a space in front of the coffee table. harry followed suit, swaying slightly as he stood and then immediately dropping down to the floor.
“’s not fair, though,” harry slurred as YN slid a pillow beneath his fists. “i’ve got longer arms. more distance t’cover.”
“what kind of logic is that?” sarah asked, laughing.
“solid–“ hiccup “–solid logic.” he muttered, lowering himself into position.
for the first few push-ups, they were evenly matched. mitch, whose hair kept falling in his face, managed to hold his form pretty well, his elbows bending at clean angles. harry, despite the tequila, seemed entirely unbothered, his movements smooth and steady.
“oh, this is ridiculous,” YN mumbled, though she was grinning now, leaning forward with her chin resting in her palm.
“keep count.” mitch grunted, while sarah angled her phone to get both of them in the frame.
“seven,” YN called, her voice louder over the sound of their laughter.
“eight,” sarah chimed in.
“nine,” she smiled, though by this point, mitch was visibly struggling. his arms trembled, his breaths coming out in quick puffs, his hair falling into his mouth. harry, on the other hand, was still going strong, his movements punctuated by muttered comments.
“easy.” push. “light work.” push–hiccup. “this one’s for you, petal.” he added, shooting a quick wink at his girlfriend.
“oh my god.”
“thirteen,” sarah announced, though she sounded doubtful as mitch wobbled dangerously, his arms nearly giving out.
"how's he doin' that?" sarah asked, watching harry like he was some kind of anomaly.
harry started to strain just a bit, "core strength, love.”
"core strength my ass," mitch shot back, collapsing flat onto the floor. "he's built like a fuckin' slinky. bounces back."
YN laughed so hard she snorted, and harry immediately glanced up, his expression melting into something soft and dopey the second he saw her.
“i’m—i’m done.” mitch declared, already rolling over onto his back.
harry sat back on his knees, raising his fists in mock triumph. “and the crowd goes wild,” he said, grinning up at YN.
“you’re arrogant.” she sighed, though she reached for his wrist, tugging him back onto the couch beside her.
“what can i say,” harry mumbled, settling against her. “m’good at everything.”
the evening wound down slowly after that, the energy softening into something quieter, sleepier. sarah scrolled through the video on her phone, narrating bits of it for everyone’s amusement.
“look at mitch,” she said, laughing. “he looks like he’s dying.”
“i was dying,” mitch muttered from the floor, his arm thrown dramatically over his eyes.
YN reached for harry’s hand, threading her fingers through his, her voice low and teasing.
“are you proud of yourself?”
“very.” he murmured, his lips brushing against her temple.
and for a while, no one said much of anything. the playlist had shifted to something softer, the kind of music you hum along to without thinking. the tv, still on in the background, flickered faintly, casting shadows across the room. harry’s arm rested around YN’s shoulders, his eyes fluttered closed, his thumb drawing slow circles against her skin.
mitch was still on the floor, sprawled out like a martyr, while sarah waved her phone in his direction, wobbling as she stood.
"y'done, jesus christ?" she asked, her words swimming together in a way that made her laugh at herself. "need any help, or you reckon you'll just ascend back t'heaven on your own?"
“ha fuckin’ ha," mitch mumbled, lifting one hand in a weak attempt at a rude gesture. "perfectly fine, thank you."
"you're not," sarah replied, flopping onto the arm of the sofa. she nearly slid off, catching herself with a giggle before poking YN with her foot. "and neither's your fella."
YN glanced sideways at harry, who was leaning so far into her that she might as well have been holding him upright. his nose was tucked against her temple, and he was humming something under his breath—a soft, disjointed melody that might've been a song or might've been nothing at all.
"all good," he muttered, his words smudged around the edges. "better'n mitch, anyway."
"low bar.”
he opened one eye, a mischievous glint sparking through his drowsy expression as he glanced at mitch, then back toward YN. "m in love with you, y'know," he breathed, loud enough for the whole room to hear.
"we know.” mitch groaned from the floor.
"no, but like–” he pushed himself up slightly, though his movements were clumsy, his balance swaying like a tree in the wind. "like, really in love. like, proper. s’serious.”
“oh yeah?” she asked, though her hands flew to her cheeks, trying to cover the pink that bloomed there.
he reached out, his fingers fumbling to gently tug her hands away from her face. "don't hide from me," he pouted, his voice soft and warm. "can't handle it when you hide."
sarah made a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a groan, shaking her head as she leaned over to prod mitch with her foot. "we need to leave before he gets worse," she said.
"worse? how can he get worse?" he replied, his voice muffled from where he was still sprawled on the rug.
harry didn't seem to notice them. he was focused entirely on YN, his gaze heavy and unflinching as he settled his head into her lap.
"you're so pretty," he hummed, his words slow and drawn out like he was tasting them for the first time. "have i told you that tonight?"
"a couple of times.”
"doesn't feel like enough.” he frowned, his fingers brushing against her knee like he was grounding himself in her. "you're... you're unreal. sometimes i look at you and i can't believe—" he trailed off, shaking his head like words weren't enough.
"he's gonna make me cry.” sarah whispered, half-laughing as she leaned into mitch's shoulder.
"you'll get used to it.” YN rolled her eyes, though she was still smiling.
harry frowned deeper, looking up at her. "don't roll your eyes at me. 'm being serious."
"oh, i know you are, dork.” she grinned, leaning down to press a kiss to his forehead.
his eyes fluttered shut at the touch, a small, pleased sound escaping his lips.
"if i don't call an uber now, i'm never getting out of here.” sarah said suddenly, sitting up and reaching for her phone.
"why would you wanna leave?" harry asked, turning his head to squint at her. "you're comfy. stay."
"gotta leave before this turns into a whole bloody soft-core," mitch muttered, finally pushing himself into a sitting position.
harry’s eyes narrowed in slight confusion, his lips parting as he whispered the word soft-core in different tones over and over as if it might click.
mitch let out a noise that was half a laugh, half a sigh. "you’ll get it eventually, mate.”
sarah stood, brushing off her jeans as she looked down at YN. "you gonna be alright with him?"
she glanced at her boyfriend, who was still nestled into her lap, mulling mitch’s response still. "he's harmless," she shrugged. "just annoying when he's drunk–”
harry interrupted with a sharp clap of his hands that turned into a point in mitch’s direction, shoulders shaking in slurred, squeaky laughter. “s-soft–core porno!” he giggled, his cheeks flushed and eyes crinkled. “that was a good one. this guy.”
mitch rolled his eyes, waving harry’s laughter off before he looked at YN. “have fun with this fool in the morning.”
"love you.” he mumbled immediately, moving his hand to give her thigh an exaggerated squeeze.
"yeah, yeah.” she laughed as she pried his hand off her.
"alright, we're off," sarah announced, grabbing mitch's arm and pulling him to his feet.
"safe travels! love you guys!” harry called weakly, his words slurring together as he waved at them from where he lay.
YN walked them to the door, leaning against the frame as they stepped out into the hallway.
"text me when you're home.” she insisted, earning a nod from sarah.
when she turned back into the flat, harry was sitting upright on the couch, his legs tucked under him like a kid waiting to be told a bedtime story.
he pouted slightly, "you left me.”
“and you lived!” she smiled, as if she was astonished. “my boy’s a survivor.”
"barely.” he groaned, flopping dramatically back against the cushions.
YN crossed the room and plopped down beside him, nudging his shoulder with hers. "you're so much worse than usual tonight."
"can't help it," he shrugged, his head tipping to rest on her shoulder. "you bring it out in me."
"oh, so this is my fault now?" she teased, her hand sliding into his hair again.
he only hummed an, “mhm,” before he tried to push himself closer toward her.
"stay here forever," he mumbled.
"i already live here," she reminded him.
"no, like—forever," he insisted, his fingers brushing hers where they rested on the couch. "promise you won't leave me. not ever."
YN turned her head to look at him, her heart twisting at the vulnerable expression on his face. “baby, where's this coming from?"
he shrugged, looking down at their hands. "just love you so much it scares me sometimes."
"i'm not going anywhere.”
"promise?"
"promise.” she whispered, leaning forward to press her forehead to his.
his breath hitched, and for a moment, they just stayed like that, the quiet settling around them like a blanket.
"alright," he breathed finally, his voice shaky but lighter now. "but you have to keep scratching my head or i'll revoke your girlfriend privileges."
the flat felt too quiet now that mitch and sarah were gone, the absence of their voices leaving only the faint buzz of the tv and the occasional sound of cars splashing through puddles outside. the mess of empty bottles and glasses scattered across the coffee table didn't seem to matter. nothing did, really. just him. just her.
harry's lips found hers eventually, and god, it was all so drunk and messy. the kind of kiss where his mouth didn't quite find the right angle, and she ended up laughing against him, her hands pushing gently at his chest.
"you're so bad at this," she teased, her words soft and slurred, her face warm with the alcohol coursing through her.
he pulled back just enough to look at her, his brows furrowing dramatically, lips parted in mock-offense. "bad at this? me?"
"yeah," she said, biting back another laugh. “you're awful. terrible. completely hopeless."
"hopeless?" he repeated, his accent thicker, vowels stretching and tangling together. his hands slid down her back, settling on her hips with a grip that was just firm enough to make her breath hitch. "you're sittin' with me, kissin' me, tellin' me i'm hopeless. 's'not very nice, is it?"
"maybe you deserve it.” she grinned, her forehead leaning against his.
he made a low, disbelieving sound in his throat, but his lips were twitching, caught somewhere between outrage and affection. "you're trouble, you are. absolute trouble."
"and you love it."
"fuckin' right, i do," he said, smiling as his hands tugged her hips forward slightly, pulling her more firmly into his lap.
the movement had her tumbling into him, her face pressed against his neck as they both laughed, a breathless, bubbling kind of laughter that only made her feel warmer. his breath tickled her ear as he spoke again, voice soft but tinged with that familiar teasing edge.
"bet i'm not that bad at it," he murmured, his lips brushing the sensitive skin just beneath her ear.
"you are, though," she insisted, but her voice was quieter now, a little unsteady.
"mm, don't think so," he hummed, his mouth trailing clumsily down her neck, his stubble rough against her skin. "reckon you'd've gone t’bed by now if i was, wouldn't you?"
her fingers slid into his hair, tugging lightly at the curls at the nape of his neck. "reckon i'm too drunk to leave," she teased, but the way her voice caught on the last word betrayed her.
"nah," he said, one hand drifting under the hem of her shirt, his fingers brushing against her bare skin. "you're drunk, but not that drunk. you like me too much."
"you're so full of yourself," she whispered, laughing again, but it came out breathier this time, her body leaning into his touch without thinking.
he hummed, his thumb tracing slow circles over her side. "but y'don't seem t'mind."
she didn't. not one bit.
his lips found hers again, slower this time, a little steadier despite the alcohol making his movements clumsy. he kissed her like he had all the time in the world, like they weren't surrounded by a sea of half-empty glasses and the faint smell of tequila.
things felt hazy, lazier, punctuated by quiet giggles and the occasional whispered comment that sent them both into fits of laughter. his hands were warm and wandering, slipping under her shirt, tracing the curve of her waist, sliding up her back.
"you're gonna get me all tangled," she muttered when his hand accidentally caught the hem of her bra, tugging it sideways.
"oops," he said, grinning sheepishly, his fingers clumsily fixing it. "sorry, petal. too drunk f’precision, aren't i?"
"you're too drunk for a lot of things," she teased, leaning forward to press a soft, lingering kiss to the corner of his mouth.
"uh-uh," he murmured, his hands settling on her hips again, adjusting them roughly, sloppily as he shifted her back to rest against the cushions. "not for this. not for you."
her chest tightened at the way he said it, his voice soft and so full of affection that it made her feel like the center of the universe.
the couch creaked under their combined weight, and harry was leaning too far into her, half on top of her, his body slumped and heavy in that jellied, boneless way. his mouth was pressed to her neck, leaving messy kisses between murmured half-thoughts, most of which didn't even make sense. '…m’tellin' you," he mumbled, his lips brushing against her skin. "you're too beautiful for your own good. s'gonna be a problem f’me."
"a problem?" she repeated, laughing breathlessly as her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, trying to steady him. "harry, you're literally falling over."
"no m’not," he insisted, though his weight shifted again, and his elbow slipped off the armrest. he caught himself just in time, his hand landing somewhere between the cushion and her thigh.
"you are!" she laughed a bit harder now, her body shaking with it.
he looked at her, all wide, glassy green eyes and flushed cheeks, his hair a mess of curls that kept falling into his face. "i’m not," he said again, grinning in that slow, drunk way that made her heart trip over itself.
then, as if to prove his point, he leaned in closer, nudging her chin with his nose before kissing her again, clumsily and so, so sweet.
"har–” she started, but she barely got the word out before his knee slipped, and suddenly he was gone, tumbling sideways off the couch.
it happened so fast she didn't even have time to grab him. one second, he was on her, warm and heavy and everywhere, and the next, he was on the floor in a heap of gangly limbs and laughter.
"jesus,” she gasped, leaning over the edge of the couch to look at him.
but harry wasn't upset. not even a little bit. he was lying on his back, laughing so hard his eyes squeezed shut, his chest heaving with it.
she covered her face with her hands, though she couldn't stop laughing either. "you okay?"
"all good.” he said through his laughter, his voice a little high-pitched from how breathless he was.
he rolled onto his side, one hand braced on the floor, the other wiping at his face as he grinned up at her. "just... miscalculated. s'all."
"think that’s an understatement, baby.” she shook her head as she sat up on the cushions, still giggling.
“see?” he pushed himself up to his knees with a dramatic groan, "you’re too gorgeous for me t'function right now."
she watched him, her laughter softening into a fond smile as he sat back on his heels, looking up at her like she was the only thing in the world that mattered.
his hands, big and clumsy but warm, found her knees, gently pushing them apart as he shifted closer, his breath still unsteady from laughing.
"harry,” she murmured, a little breathless now, her voice caught somewhere between a laugh and a warning.
he shushed her, his fingers brushing up her thighs, just barely slipping under the hem of her shorts. "just…lemme,”
"lemme what?" she asked, though her body was already responding to him, her knees falling wider apart.
he grinned, tilting his head to press a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of her thigh. "taste you," he slurred, his voice low and warm and so full of affection that it made her toes curl. "s’been all i can think about."
her tummy flipped, and she bit her lip, her fingers curling into the edge of the couch cushion. "you’re too drunk for this."
he shook his head, pressing another kiss to her thigh, this one a little higher. "no, m’not. i’m exactly drunk enough. look–” he gestured vaguely at himself, nearly losing his balance before catching himself on her leg. "perfectly steady."
she couldn't help it—she laughed, her head tipping back against the couch as she looked down at him.
his hands slid farther up her legs, feather-light and teasing, enough to make a heat pool between her thighs, harry gazing up at her through his eyelashes.
she tried to say something, but the words got caught in her throat as he leaned forward, his face so close now, his lips brushing over the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. the heat of him, the desperation in his touch, sent a shiver racing up her spine.
"baby–” she breathed, her voice softer now, less sure.
his eyes were hazy but so full of love it made her chest ache. "please," he said, his voice barely above a whisper, something that sounded dangerously close to a whimper. "lemme taste it, yeah? promise i’ll be good."
her breath hitched, and for a moment, all she could do was nod, her hands trembling slightly as they moved to his hair.
"yeah, petal?” he asked, his grin widening, and the sheer joy in his expression made her heart feel like it was going to burst.
“yeah.”
his hands were unsteady, but they were so careful, so sure of their purpose as they slid further up her thighs, the soft cotton of her shorts bunching under his fingertips. he was still grinning like an idiot, lips hovering just above her skin, his curls brushing against her as he peppered sloppy, open-mouthed kisses along the inside of her leg. "you're so soft," he mumbled, voice muffled against her thigh, his words sticky with alcohol and affection.
"it feels good.” she whispered back, her hands carding through his curls, tugging gently when his teeth scraped just a little too hard.
"you love me?” he asked, turning his head to rest his cheek against her, blinking up at her like a puppy who'd just been caught making a mess.
her fingers stilled in his hair as he looked up at her, all wide, glassy green eyes and flushed cheeks, his lips parted slightly as he waited for her answer. she bit her bottom lip, feeling the words catch in her throat as she stared down at him.
"you already know i do.” she murmured, her voice soft and shaky, her hands sliding down to cup his face. her thumbs brushed over his cheeks, his skin warm beneath her touch.
"say it, though," he slurred, a little whiny now, his lips forming into a slight pout.
"i love you, h.” she whispered, her voice trembling but firm, and his expression softened immediately, his eyes fluttering shut as he pressed his face into her palm.
"love you too," he muttered, almost too quiet for her to hear, though his words were followed by a sloppy kiss to the inside of her wrist, his lips warm and soft against her skin.
and then, without missing a beat, his mouth was back on her thigh, moving higher with a desperation that had her legs trembling.
"smell so fuckin' good," he muttered, his voice muffled against her skin. his hands slid up to the waistband of her shorts, fumbling slightly as he tugged at the fabric. "need these off, petal. lemme see you."
her breath caught in her throat, her cheeks flushing as she lifted her hips slightly, helping him ease the shorts down her legs. his hands were uncoordinated, tugging too hard at one side and almost making her laugh, but the intensity in his expression stopped her. he was looking at her like she was something sacred, his tongue darting out to wet his lips as he pushed the shorts off and tossed them aside.
"you're s’beautiful," he said, his words slurring together as his hands settled on her thighs again, his thumbs stroking the soft skin there. "you know that? d'you even know?"
"you're drunk.”
"no such thing," he muttered, shaking his head as he leaned in, his lips brushing over her panties. "could be fuckin' blackout and i'd still want you more than anything. always want you, YN."
she couldn't help it—she whimpered, the sound surprising even herself as her fingers slid into his hair again, tugging gently to pull him closer.
he looked up at her with that soft, pleading expression that made her heart stutter. "gonna let me?”
her voice caught in her throat, and all she could do was nod, her fingers tightening in his curls as he grinned, his dimples flashing even in his drunken haze.
"that's m’girl," he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to her hip before hooking his fingers under the waistband of her panties and sliding them down.
the cool air made her shiver, but it was nothing compared to the heat of his mouth, the way he pressed soft, deliberate kisses to the sensitive skin of her inner thighs, working his way higher.
he let out a breathy laugh as he settled between her legs, his hands gripping her thighs to hold her steady. "smell like heaven. taste like it too, i bet."
she whimpered, her head tipping back against the couch as his tongue flicked out, the first slow, teasing stroke making her whole body jolt.
he groaned against her, the sound vibrating through her, and she couldn't hold back the moan that spilled from her lips, loud and unrestrained.
"that's it," he sighed, his voice muffled as his tongue moved against her clit, his hands tightening on her thighs. "that's m’good girl. so sweet for me."
his words were slurred and incoherent, broken up by the way he licked and sucked at her pussy like she was spilling honey, like he couldn't get enough.
her hands clutched at his hair, her breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps as her legs trembled on either side of his head.
his tongue swirled and flattened against her until her hips bucked more than once, a shaking mess in his hands as he pulled her closer to his mouth—so close he could drown in her (not that he’d mind).
“fuck–” she moaned, a shaky exhale leaving her lips as he dipped lower, his tongue flicking against her hole, sloppy and eager.
he hummed against her, the sound low and rough and completely unselfconscious, like he couldn't help but lose himself in her. "could stay here forever," he muttered, his lips moving against her like a prayer. "live here. die here. s'worth it."
his hands gripped her thighs tighter as she let out the lightest giggle from his words, pulling her closer, spreading her wider. he kissed her deeper, his tongue sliding into her, slow and deliberate and so desperate it made her chest ache.
her breath hitched, her legs trembling on either side of his head, and he groaned like she was the best thing he'd ever tasted, like he couldn't get enough. "god, you're so good," he slurred, his voice unsteady as he pulled back just enough to look up at her, his lips slick and swollen. "so, so good, YN. d'you even know? fuckin' perfect, petal. can't believe you're mine."
the rest of his words melted into incoherent sounds, soft groans and murmured praise that blended with her own breathy moans as he delved back in to lap at her, circling her clit like it was the only thing that mattered.
her head tipped back, her body arching into his touch as he dragged her closer and closer to the edge, his movements clumsy but so desperate, so full of love that it made her chest ache.
when she came, it was sudden and all-consuming, her body shaking as she cried out, her moans spilling into the quiet room like music. harry didn't stop, his hands holding her steady as his tongue worked her through it, his own groans muffled against her as though he was enjoying every second as much as she was.
when her body finally stilled, her breath coming in short, shallow gasps, he pressed one last soft kiss to her inner thigh before leaning back, his face flushed and glistening, his grin wide and satisfied.
harry shifted up the couch with all the determination of a man who was too drunk to move properly but too stubborn to let that stop him. his arms framed either side of her, his body hovering as best he could, though it was more of a slow collapse than anything elegant. he grunted softly as he settled his weight, pressing her deeper into the cushions, their bodies flush in a way that made both of them shiver despite the warmth of the room.
she let out a quiet laugh, breathless against the way his curls brushed against her face, sticking to his damp forehead. he huffed at the sound, lips tugging into a sloppy grin before pressing them clumsily to hers. the kiss was slow and sweet at first-warm and gentle, his mouth barely brushing against hers like he was trying to memorize the feeling.
but then she shifted slightly beneath him, her fingers curling into his sides, and it was like something broke loose in him. the kiss deepened, messy and urgent, all soft gasps and the taste of tequila lingering on his lips. he kissed her like he was starved for it, as if every second that passed without her mouth on his was unbearable.
his hands roamed her body as if he didn't know where to settle, tugging at her waist, smoothing over her thighs, curling under her back like he needed to feel every part of her. his hips pressed against hers instinctively, and he groaned into her mouth, the sound loud and unfiltered as he broke the kiss just long enough to catch his breath, his forehead falling to hers.
harry looked down at her, his eyes blown wide, his chest rising and falling rapidly. he tried to push himself up further, but his movements were clumsy, his arms wobbling under his own weight. she couldn't help the soft laugh that escaped her lips, and he scrunched his face into a dramatic pout, shaking his head slightly like a sleepy puppy.
his hands fumbled at the hem of his jeans, tugging once before stopping completely, his shoulders sagging. he groaned softly, his head dropping to her shoulder with an audible thud.
"bloody things," he mumbled against her skin, though the words were barely coherent.
she smiled softly to herself, her hands sliding up his back, her fingers brushing over the waistband where he'd given up.
gently, she nudged at his hips, wordlessly guiding him upward until he sat back on his knees, his hands resting heavily against her thighs for balance. his breathing was heavy, his cheeks flushed pink, his curls damp against his forehead.
there was a quiet kind of helplessness in the way he looked at her then—needy and desperate, his lips parted, his brows furrowed slightly like he couldn't figure out how to do this on his own. she didn't make him ask.
her hands moved to the button of his jeans, quick but careful as she popped it open. he let out a soft, shaky exhale as she tugged the zipper down, his body trembling just slightly under her touch. the denim caught on his hips as she tried to push it down, and harry huffed again, adjusting his weight clumsily to help her pull the fabric free.
"lift," she murmured softly, and he obeyed without hesitation, planting his hands firmly on either side of her hips and raising his body just enough to let her drag the jeans down.
he collapsed back onto his knees with a relieved groan as the fabric pooled around his legs, his head tipping back, his chest rising and falling like he'd just run a marathon. she reached for the waistband of his boxers next, her movements slower this time, deliberate, her fingers brushing against the bare skin of his hips as she slid the fabric down.
his breath hitched at the contact, and he swayed slightly, his hands curling into the cushions beside her for balance. for a moment, he just stared down at her, his expression soft and hazy and so full of need that it made her stomach flip.
"there," she whispered softly, her hands moving to rest against his thighs, steadying him.
harry blinked slowly, his eyes dragging over her face as if he were seeing her for the first time. then, without a word, he leaned back down, his body pressing hers into the cushions again as his lips found hers.
the kiss was desperate now, sloppier than before, their teeth bumping together as they both tried to breathe and laugh through it. his hands slid beneath her, wrapping around her back like he was holding her in place, his chest pressing firmly to hers with every ragged breath.
he just rocked against her instinctively, his movements uncoordinated but eager, drawing a quiet gasp from her lips. harry groaned softly in response, burying his face in the crook of her neck, his lips brushing against her skin as he muttered something incoherent.
his body was heavy against hers, his warmth and weight overwhelming, but there was something grounding in the way he held her, in the quiet hum of his breathing against her neck. she threaded her fingers into his hair, stroking softly at the curls, and he shivered, his hips pressing closer against hers with a whimper that he didn't bother trying to hold back.
"feel so good," he murmured, his voice muffled and thick, each word dripping with need. "fuckin—love you. need–need to be inside.”
her chest ached at the way he said it, so raw and honest, and she pulled him closer, their bodies tangling together in the dim light of the flat. harry kissed her again, his hands curling around her waist, holding her like she was the only thing keeping him steady.
he was desperate and clumsy, but god, he was hers. every part of him, hers.
harry moved in desperation, his body heavy and warm against hers as he lined himself up, his forehead pressing to hers. his breathing was ragged, sharp exhales mingling with hers, their chests rising and falling in time. every movement he made was tinged with an uncoordinated eagerness, like he couldn't bear to wait any longer.
he pushed in slowly at first, a groan catching in his throat as he sank into her dripping cunt, his hands gripping at her waist, rough and unsteady.
her body arched instinctively beneath him, her breath hitching as the stretch of his cock pulled a quiet gasp from her lips.
he froze for a moment, his chest pressed to hers, his arms trembling just slightly from the effort of holding himself up. it was like the sensation alone had shattered him, that raw, shaky pause where the world stopped and all that was left was her.
a shaky exhale escaped him, his lips brushing against her cheek as he buried his face in the crook of her neck. he groaned low and drawn-out, the sound muffled against her skin, his grip on her hips tightening as though he was trying to catch his breath.
he started to move, slow and unsteady, his hips rocking forward with a rhythm that was anything but precise—clumsy and needy but so full of need it didn't matter. every thrust drove him deeper into her velvety walls, his body trembling with the effort, soft curses slipping from his lips as he moved.
his weight pressed her further into the cushions, the creak of the couch mixing with the faint, unrestrained sounds escaping them both—her breathless moans, his whiny, broken groans, sounds neither of them were capable of stifling. everything felt louder in the quiet of the flat, the slow slap of skin against skin, the occasional sharp intake of breath when he hit just the right spot.
her hands slid up his back, her nails scraping lightly against his skin, and harry's body jolted in response, his thrusts faltering. he let out a choked whimper, his face still buried in her neck, his lips pressing sloppy kisses against her skin between ragged breaths.
"fuck," he groaned into her ear, though the word wasn't clear, his voice so shaky and low it dissolved into nothing.
he shifted slightly, adjusting his angle, and the next thrust pulled a gasp from her lips—a sharp rut right against the spongy spot where she felt him the most.
her legs wrapped around his waist, holding him closer, and harry groaned again, his movements growing rougher, needier.
his arms shook where they braced against the cushions, his entire body trembling from the effort as he picked up his pace, the steady slap of his hips against hers becoming louder, more insistent. there was no rhythm to it, no finesse—just harry losing himself in her, fucking into her like he'd come undone, like his body couldn't stop itself from chasing the feeling of her pussy wrapped around him.
his curls brushed against her cheeks, damp with sweat, his breath hot and uneven as he nuzzled into her neck. the sounds he made were broken now—small, helpless whines and whimpers escaping him between harsh, ragged breaths.
her fingers tangled in his hair, tugging softly, and his whole body stuttered in response, his hips driving forward with a sharp snap that had her gasping, her voice loud and unrestrained. the sound pulled another whine from him, his hands slipping from her hips to drag up her sides, his thumbs stroking over the curve of her waist, up toward the swell of her tits, the sensitive bud that tightened with his touch.
the couch creaked with every frantic movement, the room filled with the echo of their ragged breaths and soft cries. harry's body never stilled, his thrusts erratic and desperate, his chest pressed tightly to hers their sweat-slicked skin sticking together.
his body tensed as he started to lose control, his pace faltering, his movements turning jerky and uneven. his arms gave out then, and he collapsed on top of her, his forehead pressing against her shoulder as his hips snapped into her, over and over, his entire body trembling.
her breath caught, her back arching as the pressure built between them, everything else blurring into the background—nothing but the feeling of his cock, the sound of him, the weight of him.
and then she felt him shudder, a broken groan ripping from his throat as he buried himself deep, the twitch of his length as he spilt himself inside her, his entire body going rigid. he trembled against her, his hands clutching at her waist as though holding on for dear life, his voice dissolving into breathless whimpers against her neck.
harry didn't pull away, didn't move. he stayed draped over her, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath, his face still buried in her neck. his hands smoothed over her sides, shaking slightly as he traced soft, lazy patterns against her skin, grounding himself in the warmth of her.
the silence settled over them slowly, the only sound left in the room their breathing, loud and uneven as they both came down. harry pressed a kiss to her shoulder-soft, tender, nothing like the desperation from moments before.
"fuck," he mumbled finally, his voice hoarse and muffled. "m’addicted to your pussy. swear it."
she let out a soft, breathless laugh, her hands still tangled in his hair as she scratched lightly at his scalp. his whole body relaxed at the motion, a quiet, contented sigh escaping him as he melted further into her.
they stayed tangled together on the couch for a while, the quiet hum of the flat settling around them, their breathing slowly evening out. harry didn’t move much—just shifted enough to nuzzle his face further into her neck, pressing soft, lazy kisses to her skin like he couldn’t quite help himself. her fingers carded through his hair, slow and steady, the repetitive motion lulling him into a contented daze.
“you comfortable there?” she murmured, her voice soft, muffled slightly by the way her cheek pressed against the curls at his temple.
“mmh,” he hummed, the sound low and heavy. “too comfortable. can’t move.”
“i’m not carrying you to bed,” she teased, her lips curving into a tired smile.
he let out a quiet groan, a sound so dramatic it made her laugh softly, her body shaking beneath him. he lifted his head slowly, resting his chin against her chest as he blinked up at her, his green eyes sleepy and glassy.
“‘s not fair, you’re too pretty,” he mumbled, grinning softly. “don’t wanna leave you here.”
“stuck with me either way, baby.” she whispered, brushing his curls back from his face, her fingers lingering at his temple.
his smile softened at that, his eyes fluttering shut briefly as he leaned into her touch. then, with an exaggerated sigh, he pushed himself up, his movements clumsy and uncoordinated.
“alright,” he said, though his voice was still thick with sleep and leftover drunkenness. “bedtime. c’mere.”
before she could protest, his arms were already curling around her, one under her knees and the other cradling her back as he lifted her off the couch.
“harry—” she gasped, her hands flying to his shoulders as her legs instinctively wrapped around his waist. “you’re gonna drop me.”
he scoffed at that, shaking his head as he adjusted his grip, pulling her closer against him. “m’gonna pretend i didn’t hear that.”
she sighed into him, letting her cheek rest against the crook of his shoulder as he carried her across the room, his bare feet padding softly against the hardwood floor. her fingers slid into his hair again, stroking gently, and he let out a quiet, pleased hum at the sensation.
he moved slowly, carefully, his steps deliberate despite the weight of the tequila still sitting in his veins. he was headed toward the bedroom, but as he passed the kitchen, something caught his eye.
a glass—half full of tequila, a lone lime slice floating lazily in the liquid.
harry paused mid-step, his arms tightening around YN to keep her secure as he turned his head, squinting at the glass like it had personally called his name.
“oh, for god’s sake,” she muttered, though her voice was warm and amused, her fingers still playing with the soft curls at the nape of his neck.
harry ignored her, shifting her weight slightly to free one hand, his arm still wrapped firmly around her waist. with the other, he reached for the glass, his movements slow and exaggerated, like he was performing a high-stakes maneuver.
“i can’t believe you,” she said, her laughter muffled by his shoulder.
“can’t leave it there,” he replied, lifting the glass to his lips and draining it in one go. the tequila burned down his throat, and he winced slightly, his face scrunching up before he set the empty glass back on the counter with a quiet clink.
“all better now?” she teased, tilting her head slightly to glance up at him.
“much.” he grinned widely, bunny teeth and dimples as he adjusted his grip on her again, turning back toward the bedroom.
he carried her the rest of the way, nudging the bedroom door open with his foot before stepping inside. the room was dimly lit by the streetlights filtering through the curtains, casting faint, golden shadows over the rumpled sheets and pillows.
harry eased her down onto the bed, following after her almost immediately, collapsing onto the mattress with a soft groan. she laughed as he pulled her close, his arms wrapping around her waist as he buried his face in her neck again, his legs tangling with hers.
“this is where i’m stayin’,” he mumbled, his voice muffled against her skin.
“good,” she whispered, pressing a soft kiss to the top of his head, her fingers brushing through his curls again.
they settled into the bed together, the weight of the night pulling them under like a blanket, warm and heavy and sweet. harry’s breathing slowed, his arms still tight around her as if he was afraid she might slip away in the dark.
“love you,” he murmured, the words barely audible, slurred with sleep.
“love you too,” she whispered back, her voice soft as her eyes fluttered shut, her hand still tangled in his hair.
I loveeee Harry angst if you ever want to write any! I’ll read them over and over again even if it’s the same plot lol. or grumpy x sunshine trope alwayssss
OMG SAME 😭
Harry angst is literally my Roman Empire! I could read (or write) the same heartbreaky, grumpy-boyfriend Harry plot 200 times and still eat it up every single time. Give me sunshine reader melting grumpy!Harry, give me arguments with big feelings, give me “I messed up but I’ll fight for you”… I’ll devour it every. single. time.
So yes. If you ever want more? Say less. I’m always ready for the pain and the pining 😌
You knew something was wrong the moment Harry walked through the door.
He didn’t slam it, that wasn’t his style, but he closed it with a sharp, controlled click that said everything: I’m pissed off, but I’m trying not to be. His jaw was tight, his neck tense, and he didn’t look at you when he shrugged off his jacket.
“Hey,” you said gently, offering a smile. “You’re home early…”
“Am I?” His voice cut through your sentence like a knife.
You blinked.
There it was.
The storm.
“What happened?” you asked softly.
He laughed, a cold, humorless sound. “Well, for starters, I got to read headlines about my own relationship while sitting in a meeting. That was fun.”
Your stomach dropped. “Headlines?”
“The fucking pictures,” he snapped, finally meeting your eyes and that’s when you saw it: jealousy, fear, and something wounded hiding beneath the anger. “You laughing with that guy. Letting him put his hand on your back. Leaning into him like…”
“Harry,” you breathed, “he’s my coworker.”
“And he was touching you.” His tone sharpened. “And you were letting him.”
You stepped closer, but he stepped back.
That hurt.
More than you wanted to admit.
“Harry,” you whispered, “I didn’t even realize he did that. I swear…”
“Of course you didn’t,” he bit out. “Because you’re always so damn nice to everyone that you don’t notice when someone takes it too far.”
That one landed like a slap.
Your breath hitched. “I’m nice because that’s who I am. I don’t flirt with people, Harry. I don’t want anyone else. I want you.”
He looked exhausted, conflicted, angry at you but angrier at himself for being angry.
“Doesn’t matter,” he muttered. “People saw it. They saw you with him. They assume I’m the idiot who can’t keep his girlfriend’s attention.”
Your chest cracked open slowly, painfully.
“Is that what you think?”
He didn’t answer.
He didn’t have to.
You swallowed hard. “I’m allowed to talk to people.”
“You’re allowed to do whatever you want,” he said, rubbing his hands over his face. “But don’t expect me to pretend it doesn’t fucking bother me.”
Your voice trembled, but you kept it steady. “I’m sorry it bothered you. Truly. But I didn’t do anything wrong.”
Harry scoffed under his breath, something dark flickering across his expression.
“Right. Because you’re perfect and I’m just…”
“Don’t do that,” you whispered, your heart pounding. “Don’t twist this into something it isn’t.”
His tone turned sharp, brittle. “Then explain it to me. Explain why I had to sit in a studio and listen to people joke about your ‘work flirtation.’ Explain why it looked like you were enjoying it.”
And something inside you snapped.
Because you were sunshine, always choosing softness first.
But sunshine could burn when pushed too far.
“You know me,” you said quietly, voice trembling. “You know my heart. And if one picture can make you doubt everything, then maybe the issue isn’t the coworker, Harry. Maybe it’s…”
“Don’t,” he growled, stepping forward. “Don’t you dare say it’s me.”
Your eyes stung. “Then what is it? Because I can’t keep proving myself to you every time someone stands too close.”
His jaw clenched. His eyes softened for half a second. Then hardened again.
“I didn’t ask you to prove anything.”
“No,” you whispered. “You just act like I’ve betrayed you when I haven’t.”
He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated, spiraling, breathing hard.
“I don’t want to fight.”
“But you are.”
He closed his eyes, shaking his head, like he was trying to keep himself together.
“I can’t talk about this right now,” he muttered. “I’m too angry.”
“Then stay,” you said, voice cracking. “Stay and talk to me. Please. Don’t shut me out.”
“I’m going upstairs.”
“Harry…”
He turned away.
And walked.
Not slamming the door.
Not yelling.
Just… leaving.
That hurt more than any shouting ever could.
You stood alone in the quiet living room, tears filling your eyes, chest tight and aching in a way that felt almost physical.
You waited.
Five minutes.
Ten.
Forty.
Silence.
When the sob finally tore out of you, it was soft and broken the kind of sound you didn’t mean to make but couldn’t stop.
You wiped your face and wrapped your arms around yourself, sinking into the couch. The clock ticked. Your vision blurred. You fell asleep curled in on yourself, exhausted from holding the pieces of your heart together.
————
HARRY’S POV
(He finds you hours later)
When I finally cooled down when the jealousy stopped blinding me, when the noise in my head quieted guilt hit like a fucking freight train.
I’d gone too far. Said too much. Hurt someone who never deserved it. You weren’t the problem.
My insecurity was.
My fear of losing you was.
And I left you alone with the mess I made.
I went downstairs, ready to apologize, to fix it, to fall on my knees if I had to and the sight of you broke me clean open.
You were curled into the corner of the couch, asleep in an uncomfortable position, dried tear tracks on your cheeks. You looked small, fragile in a way I’d never seen from you.
Sunshine shouldn’t look like it’s gone out.
My chest cracked in half.
“Love…” My voice cracked, too. “Oh God.”
I knelt in front of you, my hands hovering over your knees but not touching yet.
“Sweetheart,” I whispered, barely breathing. “I’m so fucking sorry.”
You stirred, eyes fluttering open slowly, confusion bleeding into hurt the moment you saw me.
“What are you doing down here?” you whispered.
“I…” My throat closed. “I came to apologize. I came because I shouldn’t have left you alone. I shouldn’t have said any of that. I shouldn’t have…”
Your lips trembled. “You really thought I’d want someone else?”
I grabbed your hands like they were lifelines.
“Never. I never truly thought that. I was jealous and scared and stupid and I handled it like an absolute idiot.”
You looked down. “You hurt me.”
The words gutted me.
I moved closer, cupping your face gently, thumbs brushing the skin beneath your eyes.
“I know. And I’ll spend as long as you need proving I won’t do it again.”
Your eyes glistened. “Harry…”
“I love you,” I whispered, forehead touching yours. “In this stupid, terrified way that makes me lose my mind sometimes. But that’s my issue. Not yours. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
A tear slipped down your cheek.
I caught it.
“Let me fix it,” I whispered. “Please.”
You hesitated.
Just long enough for my heart to stop.
Then you whispered, so quietly it nearly killed me:
“Then kiss me.”
I didn’t breathe.
I just…
…broke.
My mouth met yours with a desperate, aching need, deeper than any kiss we’d shared before a collision of apology and longing and relief. Your hands slid into my hair, pulling me closer, and I kissed you like I was drowning and you were oxygen.
Slow, then hungry.
Gentle, then desperate.
Soft, then devastating.
When we finally pulled apart, our foreheads remained pressed together, breaths uneven and warm.
“Don’t walk away like that again,” you whispered.
“Never,” I promised, voice raw. “Not from you.”
You exhaled shakily and curled into my chest, and I wrapped my arms around you like you were the only thing keeping me alive, because in so many ways, you were.
“I’m sorry,” I murmured into your hair. “Forgive me?”
You nodded against me. “Just… stay this time.”
“I will,” I whispered, kissing your temple. “Always.”
—————
like and reblog if you liked it and follow me to not miss my future content - I will very much appreciate it! Lots of love, A.
