harry has to walk his drunk girlfriend home after girls night, but is that even his girlfriend?
wordcount: 2.2k+
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Harry swore he could have spotted (Y/N) from a mile away, even without the liquid shimmer of her dress wrapped around her form. Despite the glow of the neon lights over the entire sidewalk with the club name displayed in all caps, she still outshone every person still waiting in line to get in, the grouping of others on standby for their ride shares, and her group of friends that had been so gracious as to let him know that she was ready to go home and much too tipsy (read: drunk) to walk herself home despite her insistences.
Only when he made it close enough to hear the soft echoes of laughter and drunken conversation, sparkling heels clicking against pavement, was he spotted. It was almost heartbreaking to watch the way her jaw dropped in grinning surprise. He could feel his own lips stretching into a dimpled smile, though he attempted to temper the reaction when her grouping of friends followed her line of sight to catch his approach.
"Harry!" she bubbled, closing the distance between them on wobbly legs. Despite the even, obstacle-free length of the sidewalk, she still found something to catch under her heel to send her right into his arms.
"Woah," Harry laughed, wrapping a steadying arm around her waist with their chests now pressed flush together. Swathes of bare skin displayed by the heart-shaped cutouts stations on either side of her waist allowed him to graze his fingertips over the warmth of her. The candied raspberry liquor on her breath was especially sweet with the way her eyes sparkled up at him. "Hey, you."
"Hey yourself," she giggled, unperturbed by the lack of distance between them, "What are you doing here?" Her eyes momentarily widened as her arms clumsily looped around his neck. "Oh my god, did you come here to dance with us? 'M so sorry, H—we're just getting ready to leave!"
The silky material that made up her dress in between the sweetheart cutouts fluttered around her thighs as a faint breeze glanced between them. Goosebumps erupted over her skin though her moony eyes didn't so much as flick away from his.
"'M actually here to take y'home, love. Tara called me, said y'were trying to walk home all by yourself," he explained, tipping his head to the side only for her to mimic the movement without a thought.
"Tara called you?" she asked, voice suddenly quiet, heels teetering underneath her. "How'd she get your number?"
A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Y'called her from m'phone the last time y'stayed the weekend with me, remember? When y'didn't have service, but y'wanted to see if she'd watered your plants?"
Harry wasn't prepared for the way she practically went boneless in his arms. Her eyes went from moony to completely dreamy as she gazed up at him, her arms around his neck now shifted to card her fingers through his hair, nails drifting over his scalp.
"Oh yeah, huh," she smiled, just barely containing a giggle just short of being described as girlish, "We should have a sleepover again soon."
"Yeah?" Harry prodded, unable to help himself as he raised a single brow, dimples denting his cheeks, "Y'wanna? Y'have a crush on me or something?"
This time she really did giggle, pitched and sticky sweet, before diving into his neck in a clinging hug. Stumbling some on his own feet, Harry let out a puff of laughter before steadying the both of them, hands warm and heavy on her waist.
She was going to have a hell of a hangover tomorrow. Hopefully she'd had all the fun she wanted tonight to make it worth it.
Tara, dressed sleek and dark in a velveteen black dress, approached then. Her own eyes were glossy though they held much more clarity than the girl who was currently hanging off of him.
"Thanks for coming," she smiled, words only a tad slurred and slower than normal, "She's—Yeah, you see. There's no way she can go home by herself."
Another short breeze skimmed over the pavement, Harry bringing his hand down to his giggly girl's skirt to keep it pinned to the back of her thighs. A quiet hiccup sounded against his neck.
"No way," Harry agreed, speaking through his smile, "Thanks for calling me. Y'guys all have a way to get home?"
Tara glanced over her shoulder to the small grouping of the other girls who were half-watching the interaction. Harry was sure there had been an audience from the first moment (Y/N) had stumbled into his arms.
"Yeah; Gena's boyfriend's picking her up and then the rest of us are sharing an Uber," Tara rattled off, casting her eyes out to the street. "But, you two are good to start home whenever you're ready."
"Wait," (Y/N) suddenly chirped, pulling her head from where she had burrowed herself away in Harry's neck, "I didn't pack for a sleepover. I don't have any of my stuff, and I can't sleep in my dress."—her eyes abruptly widened, fingers tightening in his hair—"Oh my god, I cannot sleep in my makeup. I can't go home with you, H."
Tara just managed to stifle a laugh behind pursed lips. "Goodnight, guys. Text me when you make it home—whoever's home you get to," she teased, almost cracking herself into laughter.
Momentarily distracted, (Y/N) twirled away from Harry, though he made a point to keep his hands on her waist when she almost toppled face-first into the concrete before getting to hug her friend goodbye with coos of how much she loves her and how much fun she had.
Not long after she sent a tinkling wave to the rest of her friends did she spin again, back into Harry's chest. The lightness she had shared with her friends had fled as soon as she matched his gaze, canting her head with a puffed pout to her lips.
"Harry," she all but whined about the syllables, "I can't go home with you."
The pads of his thumbs ran careful, hopefully soothing circles, on the exposed skin framed by the heart cutouts of her dress. "Then, can I come home with you?"
This had been the original plan anyway, but she didn't need to worry about that right now.
She perked up at the offer, glittery lashes fluttering against her browbone. "You'd have a sleepover at my house?"
A lopsided smile took over his features. "If you'll let me."
An eager nod of her head threw her tousled hair over her shoulders before she pulled Harry in for another hug. "Yes, yes, yes," she practically cheered, "Of course, I'll let you."
"Thank you, love," he murmured, dropping a careful kiss on the line of her jaw just before drawing away from her embrace. "Let's head home then, 'kay? 'S getting a little cold, isn't it?"
"It is, huh?" she bubbled, taking it upon herself to tuck herself under his arm and right up against his side. "Has it been cold the whole time out here, or have I been too drunk to notice until now? You can be honest, it's okay."
Harry didn't even try to hold back the burst of laughter that left him at her words. His volunteered arm around her shoulders tightened, leading them away from the small club and towards her home. "I think you've been a little too drunk to notice until now, but 's alright, love. Y'had fun tonight, right?"
"So much fun," she sighed, steps slowing into lazy stumbles as she reminisced about times only hours earlier. "Those girls are my best friends, it's crazy, you know?"
The amusement on his features melted into pure affection as he glanced down at her. "'M happy y'had fun—especially with them. Are y'gonna see them again soon?"
"Maybe, I don't know," she drawled, "I think we made plans, but I really can't remember. There'll probably be something in the group chat tomorrow, maybe."
"Well, let me know, and I can plan on dropping y'off and picking y'up. That way y'don't have to worry about figuring out how you're getting home or packing to stay at my house, or anything like that."
She had her eyes trained on him only as he gently steered her out of the way of a murky puddle, the kind that would have no doubt ruined her shoes. Her starry eyes were on him only as she fluttered a blink up at him, just about making Harry forget which street to turn them down to head them down to her apartment.
"Okay," she sighed, "Can I ask you something?"
"Sure."
Did she even know that a pink glitter from her dress had somehow ended up on the tip of her nose? And that it was possibly the sweetest thing he'd ever seen?
"And promise me you'll be honest."
One corner of his mouth quirked up. A sly glance was sent her direction from the corner of his eye.
"Okay. I can be honest."
She coiled her fist in the fabric of his shirt, anchoring herself to him—as if there was anywhere he was going to be that wasn't right here.
"If I ask you to be my boyfriend, would you say yes?"
In his heart, Harry knew that the right reaction was not to laugh. Not to let his grin stretch wide enough over his lips that his eyes creased, lashes tangled, dimples deepened. That his chest could ache from the lack of air in his lungs. That was far from the right reaction to a question like that, Harry knew that.
And yet.
At his side, despite the fact he hadn't slowed his own steps, the girl at his side significantly stalled. She still had her fist tucked into his shirt, his arm around her shoulder, but was not as enthusiastic to keep up with his pace as before.
Stifling back any more chuckles, Harry looked down to his girl, tightening his arm around her shoulders before he dropped it to her waist. He corralled her in, looping her closer to his side and closing the distance that had opened with her slowed gait.
"Love, 'm sorry, 'm sorry," he started pleading. Though, he could admit that he may not be the most convincing given the fact that he was saying all of this through an amused grin. "I didn't mean to laugh, I promise."
"Then why did you? I wasn't trying to be funny, Harry."
At the sound of her wavering voice, Harry immediately sobered. This wasn't so funny now that she wasn't so much as pouting as she was pursing her lips to keep her chin from wobbling, that her fluttery lashes weren't something cute and flirty, but a technique to keep her tears at bay. The pretty, glossy sheen over her eyes wasn't the stars descending to her irises, but her hurt feelings coming to the surface.
"Hey," he started, pausing their journey home to tuck her out of the way and into an alcove between two late night restaurants. "Hey, 'm sorry, love. I didn't mean to, really. I wasn't laughing because—like... I don't think the idea of being your boyfriend is funny, I jus' thought your question was funny because...I already thought I was your boyfriend, love."
That wobbly bottom lip dropped, leaving (Y/N)'s mouth open in awed shock, brows pinched. Glossy eyes remained, though more from the alcohol than the tears that were now wading away.
"Huh?"
A gentle smile spread over his lips. A hand that had made a home over her waist drifted up to cradle her cheek, the pad of his thumb resting on the height of her cheekbone, the very tip feeling the tickle of her eyelashes.
"Remember?" he prompted, "I asked you a week ago. With all those roses, and the strawberries in the shape of a heart after dinner? It was Valentine's Day, baby."
Harry watched the moment that the memory returned to her. He got to see in real time as she relived the moment she had teased him, calling him "lame" as if she didn't have this same glossy sheen over her eyes though it was definitely from tears back then, before covering his face in kisses.
Does this mean yes? he'd said when he'd had a chance to come up for air.
What do you think? she'd said back, kiss swollen lips and moony eyes, You did all this just to ask me to be your girlfriend, of course I'm saying yes.
She'd spent a long weekend at his house then. Tara was on plant duty.
"Oh," she sounded, "Oh, yeah. Oh my god, I'm sorry. I'm way drunker than I thought."
"A little bit," Harry laughed, this time only a puff of air shaped by his smile. "'S alright, baby. No tears, yeah."
"No tears," she agreed, pliantly nodding, "I'm sorry I got upset—I can't believe I forgot all of that."
"But y'remember now, right?"
"I do," she nodded, a sweet smile on her lips, "I really, really do. Best weekend ever." She let out a dreamy sigh only for her features to melt into something sweetly distressed. "I'm going to be really sick in the morning, huh?"
"Probably," Harry deigned, unable to bite back his smile, "But I'll make sure y'have water and some medicine, and I'll hold your hair back."
Starry eyes, sweet smile, fluttery lashes were all trained up at him as Harry held her cheek in his warm palm. Her hand on his chest flexed, right over his beating heart, the pumps surely beating out the syllables of her name.
"Best boyfriend ever."
Harry could only manage to press a kiss to the tip of her nose—right over that pink glitter.
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I wrote this over a week but in a collective of like an hour and a half so I fear this may be rough but I really wanted to just get something out since its been so long since ive even written anything and I wanted to just try! thank u sm for reading, sorry for any mistakes, and if you have any ideas or anything u want to send please send them in!
You survive the sushi, the shower, and Camille’s interrogation, but it’s the dark quiet of his bedroom and his hand over yours that you’re not sure you’ll recover from.
word count: 5.9k
a/n: this is mostly just a space holder part for what will happen next crazy 🤪
The thing about Harry Styles, you are learning, is that he says things like that and then just stands there looking completely unbothered while you try to remember how your lungs work.
“I’ll show you the magic later.”
You hold his gaze for exactly one beat longer than is comfortable and then look away first, which you suspect he clocks immediately.
“Okay,” you say, to the room more than to him.
“Okay,” he agrees, and you can hear the smile in it without looking.
He grabs your bag from where he set it and carries it toward the stairs, easy, like it’s nothing, and you follow him through the house properly for the first time. It’s even better in the warm light of early evening. The records. The books. The couch that looks genuinely lived on. You trail your fingers along the back of it as you pass and think about how strange and right it feels to be here.
“Are you hungry?” he asks, turning back to look at you from the bottom of the stairs.
“A little, yeah.”
He nods slowly, thinking. “There’s a sushi place. About ten minutes from here. Best I’ve had outside of Japan.” He pauses. “We could go, if you haven’t eaten properly.”
You make a face before you can stop yourself. “I’ve actually never had sushi.”
The look on his face is immediate and theatrical. He sets your bag down at the foot of the stairs and turns to face you fully, hand pressed flat to his chest.
“Never.”
“Never.”
“Not once.”
“That’s generally what never means, yes.”
He shakes his head slowly, like you’ve said something genuinely devastating. “I flew you out here and you’ve never had sushi.”
“Those two things aren’t related.”
“They’re very related.” He picks your bag back up, starts up the stairs. “We’re going. Get your jacket.”
They’re a few minutes into the drive when he reaches over and changes the song without looking at the road, completely comfortable in the way people only are in their own city, and you watch him for a second from the passenger seat and think about how different he is here.
Not different like a stranger. Different like a fuller version. In New York he was present and easy but there was something slightly careful about it, like a person aware they are somewhere that isn’t theirs. Here he has both hands loose on the wheel of the Range Rover and the window cracked an inch and he knows exactly where he’s going without thinking about it.
“You’re going to love it,” he says.
“You don’t know that.”
“Just trust me.”
You look out the window at the city moving past, the wide streets and the palm trees and the particular golden quality of the light here even as it fades. It doesn’t look real. It looks like a backdrop.
He parks on a quiet side street and comes around to your side before you’ve fully gotten the door open. Not in a performative way. Just in the way of someone who was raised right and doesn’t make a production of it.
The restaurant is small and warm inside, the kind of place with no sign out front and maybe twelve tables. There’s a sushi bar along one wall and the whole room smells like something good. A host leads you to a table near the window and Harry puts his hand briefly at the small of your back as you follow and the warmth of it moves all the way up your spine.
He pulls your chair out. You sit. The menus are already on the table but he doesn’t open his.
“Do you know what you want?” you ask, opening yours.
“Always get the same thing.” He leans back in his chair, relaxed. “But we should get a few things for you to try. Start simple.”
You look down at the menu. It’s not as overwhelming as you expected but you also have no real frame of reference for any of it. You know the words. Salmon. Tuna. Yellowtail. You just don’t know what they mean yet in practice.
“Just order for me,” you say, closing it.
He looks at you for a second like he wasn’t expecting that. Then something in his face settles and he takes the menu from you and sets it on top of his.
“Okay.”
The waiter comes and Harry orders without hesitating, a handful of things you don’t catch all of, and then asks you if you’re allergic to anything and when you say no he adds one more thing to the order.
When the waiter leaves you lean your elbows on the table and look at him.
“So how did you find this place.”
“Friend brought me.” He picks up his water. “First month I lived here. I didn’t know anyone yet really and he took me around the city for a whole day, just eating. This was the last stop.” He sets the glass down. “Been coming back ever since.”
“That’s a nice memory.”
“It is,” he agrees, simply, without dressing it up.
The food starts arriving in small plates and he watches your face as you try the first piece, which you appreciate and also find slightly nerve wracking.
It’s good. Really good. Nothing like you expected, which you’re realizing is the theme of this entire trip.
“Well?” he says.
You reach for another piece instead of answering and he smiles and looks away.
The first piece sits on your tongue for a moment and you’re not entirely sure what to do with the information. It’s good. You think it’s good. But it’s also so different from anything you’ve eaten before that your brain is still catching up to your mouth, still trying to file it under something familiar and coming up empty. The texture is softer than you expected. The rice is warmer. There’s a clean, faint saltiness to it that you didn’t anticipate and underneath that something else you can’t name.
You chew slowly. Swallow. Sit with it.
Harry is watching you from across the table with the particular patience of someone who already knows the answer and is just waiting for you to get there yourself. He has his chopsticks resting loosely between his fingers and his elbow on the table and he looks completely at ease, the way he always does, the way that used to read as confidence and now reads as something quieter than that. Just comfort. Just a person who is okay wherever he is.
“I don’t know,” you say honestly.
“That’s fair.”
“It’s not bad. I just don’t know if I — “ you pause, searching for it. “I don’t have anything to compare it to.”
He nods like that makes complete sense, which it does, and reaches for one of the other plates without making a big thing of it. This one has something different on top, a small curl of something pink and soft, and he picks it up with his chopsticks and holds it out across the table toward you.
“Try this one,” he says.
You look at it, then at him. “What is it?”
“Crab.” He tilts it slightly so you can see. “Just try it.”
There’s something about the way he’s holding it, steady and patient, waiting for you to lean in, that makes your stomach do something that has nothing to do with the food. You hold his gaze for just a second and then you lean forward and take it from his chopsticks, your lips just barely brushing the ends of them, and you sit back and let yourself taste it properly.
It’s different. Immediately, noticeably different. Sweeter, somehow, and lighter, and there’s a richness to it that the first piece didn’t have, something that spreads warm across your tongue and makes you understand, maybe for the first time, why people love this. Why he’s been coming to this specific restaurant in this specific city for years just to sit at this table and eat this exact thing.
You look up and find him still watching you.
“That one,” you say.
The corner of his mouth lifts. “Yeah?”
“That one is really good.”
He reaches for his own chopsticks properly now, settling into the meal, and something about the moment closes gently around the two of you, the warm light and the quiet room and the small plates arriving one by one and Harry explaining each one without making you feel like you should already know. He doesn’t perform the knowledge. He just shares it, the same way he shares everything, like it’s the most natural thing in the world to be sitting across from you in his favourite restaurant in his city feeding you things off his chopsticks on a Tuesday night in Los Angeles.
You think about how four months ago you were sitting on your couch eating leftover pasta and watching Camille set up a dating profile for you on an app you’d never heard of, rolling your eyes at the whole thing, certain nothing would come of it.
You pick up another piece of crab and decide not to think about it too hard.
By the third plate you’ve stopped pretending to be undecided. You like it. You actually like it, not in the polite way you were prepared to deploy if necessary, the that’s really interesting, thank you for bringing me here way, but genuinely, actually like it. The kind of like that makes you reach for another piece before you’ve finished thinking about the last one.
“Okay,” you say, setting your chopsticks down with a small finality. “I like it.”
Harry looks up from his own plate. “Yeah?”
“I like it,” you say again, more certain this time. “I wasn’t going to just say it until I was sure but I’m sure.”
He looks quietly pleased in that way he has where it doesn’t spill over into anything excessive. Just a warmth that settles into his eyes and stays there. He doesn’t say I told you so, which you appreciate, and instead reaches for one of the last remaining plates and turns it slightly toward you.
“Try this one before you commit fully.”
You look at it. “What is this one?”
“Shrimp tempura roll.” He nudges the plate a fraction closer. “It’s different again.”
You pick it up with your chopsticks, which you’ve been using with varying degrees of success all evening and have made your peace with, and try it. It hits completely differently from everything else. Warm and a little crispy on the outside and soft in the middle and there’s a sweetness to the shrimp that makes you close your eyes for just a second without meaning to.
When you open them Harry is watching you with a small smile.
“That one,” you say, “is exceptional.”
“That one’s my favourite too.”
You sit back in your chair and look at the table, at all the small empty plates and the little dishes of soy sauce and the scattered remains of a meal you genuinely didn’t expect to enjoy this much, and you feel something warm and uncomplicated move through you. Pride, maybe. The quiet satisfaction of having said yes to something unfamiliar and been rewarded for it. You’ve been trying more of that lately. Saying yes when your instinct is to pull back. Flying to Los Angeles when your instinct is to stay home.
It’s been working out.
“I’m proud of myself,” you say, and mean it.
Harry laughs softly at that, not unkindly, just genuinely. “You should be.”
“I was very prepared to be polite about it.”
“I know,” he says. “I could tell.” He picks up his water glass. “I’m glad I brought you here.”
The way he says it is quiet and simple and it means more than the words themselves. Not just glad about the restaurant. Glad about the night. Glad you’re here, in his city, at his table, eating food off his chopsticks on a Tuesday evening like it’s something you’ve always done.
You look at him for a moment and then look away before you say something you’re not ready to say yet.
The waiter comes to clear the last of the plates and Harry asks if you want anything else. You’re about to say no when you spot the small chalkboard near the bar listing drinks and your eye catches boba tea and you point to it almost involuntarily.
“Can we get those for the road?”
Harry glances over his shoulder at the board and then back at you. “Obviously.”
He orders two without asking what flavor you want and when they arrive he slides one across the table toward you and it’s taro and it’s perfect and you don’t ask how he knew.
He pays without discussion, the card already out before the bill arrives, and you’ve stopped making a thing of it because you’ve learned it doesn’t go anywhere. He holds the door open on the way out and you step into the warm Los Angeles night with your drink in hand and the city spread quietly around you. He falls into step beside you back toward the car, close enough that your shoulders almost touch, and neither of you closes the distance or moves away from it.
He opens your door and you climb in and wrap both hands around your cup and watch him come around the front of the Range Rover and settle in beside you. When he starts the engine the same playlist from earlier picks up where it left off and he pulls back out onto the street and neither of you says anything and it’s the most comfortable silence you’ve been in a long time.
You’re maybe four minutes from his house when it comes on.
The opening is unmistakable, that low rolling guitar, and your whole body reacts before your brain catches up. You sit up slightly in your seat and turn toward the window and start singing under your breath without deciding to, the words just there the way they always are with songs you’ve loved long enough that they live somewhere below conscious thought.
You don’t even realize how loud you’ve gotten until Harry joins in.
His voice comes in low beside you, easy and unhurried, and you turn to look at him and he’s watching the road but he’s smiling and he knows every single word. Of course he does. You don’t know why you’re surprised. You look back out the windshield and something opens up in your chest and you stop holding back and just sing it properly, the two of you filling up the inside of the Range Rover with Fleetwood Mac on a warm Los Angeles night, boba tea in your hand and the city lights moving past the windows.
By the time it gets to the chain part you’re both fully committed. His voice is good, which is not surprising but is still somehow delightful to discover in this specific context, sitting in the passenger seat with your boba straw between your teeth. You point at him when his part comes and he glances over and grins and points back and it is so easy, so completely uncomplicated, that you feel it settle over you all at once.
The song winds down as he turns onto his street and you sink back into your seat and laugh quietly to yourself, the kind of laugh that comes from being genuinely happy rather than from anything being funny.
“I don’t remember the last time I had this much fun,” you say. You’re not performing it. You’re not saying it to give him something. It’s just true and it comes out before you can think about whether to say it. “Like actually. I can’t remember.”
Harry pulls into the driveway and puts the car in park and sits there for a second before he looks over at you.
“Me neither,” he says.
He says it the same way he says most things. Quietly and without decoration. But he holds your gaze when he says it and the car is very warm and very small and the song has ended but you can still feel it somewhere in your chest.
He gets out first and comes around to your door and you take his hand when he offers it without thinking about it, and he doesn’t let go when you’re standing, just keeps it loosely in his as he leads you up toward the front door, and you think about the ferry and the pizza and the streetlight in New York and how none of it felt like a beginning at the time and all of it obviously was.
He unlocks the front door, holds it open for you, and you step inside and the house wraps around you again, warm and quiet, exactly as you left it an hour ago. You stand in the entryway for a moment and breathe it in and it still does that thing where it feels like somewhere you’ve been before even though you haven’t.
“I’ve got a few things to sort out down here,” Harry says, setting his keys on the little table by the door. “Emails and stuff. Won’t take long.” He glances at you. “But if you want to shower and get comfortable you can. I’ll show you where everything is.”
You follow him up the stairs, down the short hall, into the primary bathroom, which is, predictably, beautiful in its simplicity. Big walk-in shower with stone tile. A double vanity. Good lighting that manages to be bright without being harsh. Everything clean and ordered without feeling sterile, the same quality the rest of the house has, like someone actually lives here and just happens to live well.
He opens the linen cupboard, pulls out a thick white towel, sets it on the counter without any ceremony.
“Shampoo and everything is in there,” he says, nodding toward the shower. “Use whatever you need.”
“Thank you.”
He looks at you for a moment in that way he does sometimes, like he’s about to say something and decides to let it sit instead. Then he gives you a small smile, pulls the bathroom door mostly closed behind him, and you listen to his footsteps move back down the hall, then down the stairs, until the house goes quiet.
You stand there for a second.
Then you turn to face the mirror and have a small, silent, completely internal crisis.
You are in Harry Styles’ bathroom. His actual bathroom, in his actual house, with his actual towel folded on the counter next to you, his actual products lined up along the vanity, his actual cologne sitting there like it’s nothing, like it’s just an object in a room and not the thing that has been driving you quietly insane since he hugged you at the airport and you got one devastating second of it before he pulled back.
You press both hands to your cheeks and look at yourself in the mirror.
Okay.
You go back to the guest room, unzip your bag, find your pyjamas, your toothbrush, your little travel bag of things, bring all of it back to the bathroom and set it on the counter with a practicality that makes you feel slightly more in control of yourself. You turn on the shower. The water pressure is excellent, which somehow makes everything worse, and you stand with your hand under the stream waiting for it to heat up, letting your eyes drift around the room.
You’re not snooping. You want to be clear about that, at least to yourself. You’re just looking. There’s a difference.
His cologne is on the counter, the bottle sitting simply among a few other things, and you pick it up before you’ve decided to, take the cap off, hold it close, breathe in. It is exactly what you remember from the airport, from the car, from every time he’s been close enough tonight that you caught the edge of it. Warm, woody, clean, something underneath that you don’t have a word for but that your nervous system apparently has very strong feelings about.
You put the cap back on, set it down exactly where it was.
His products are arranged neatly along the back of the vanity. A face wash. A moisturiser that you recognise as a good one. A hair product with a label you can’t quite make out. Nothing excessive, nothing performative. Just a person who takes care of himself without making a thing of it, which is, you are finding, a pattern with him.
The shower has steamed up the mirror by now, you strip down, get in, make a small involuntary sound at how good the water pressure actually is. You stand under it for a moment, just existing in the warmth of it, trying to get your heart rate down to something reasonable.
Then you reach for his body wash because yours is in your travel bag, you cannot be bothered, he offered you whatever you needed so it counts.
It is, genuinely, the best thing you have ever smelled in your life.
You’re not being dramatic. You stand there with the lather on your skin, the steam rising around you, the whole shower smelling like him, warm, clean, impossibly good, and you take much longer than necessary simply because you cannot bring yourself to rinse it off yet. You make a mental note to ask him what it is. You make a second mental note to not ask him what it is because there is no version of that conversation that doesn’t reveal too much about the last five minutes of your life.
You wash your hair with his shampoo too, because you’re already here, it smells just as good, and by the time you turn the water off you are clean, warm, smelling like him from head to toe, about to go downstairs and sit across from him and act like a normal person.
You towel off, pull on your pyjamas, brush your teeth, look at yourself in the now-cleared mirror, take one slow breath.
Okay, you think.
Okay.
You find him in the kitchen when you come back downstairs, laptop open on the island, reading something with the focused quiet of a person who actually works. He’s changed into sweats and a worn t-shirt and the sight of him like that, casual and unhurried in his own house, does something to you that the cologne on the counter probably started.
He looks up when he hears you on the stairs.
His eyes move over you once, quick, the way you might look at someone who has just walked into your space wearing your clothes and smelling like your shower, and then he looks back at his screen with the smallest smile you’ve almost missed entirely.
“Feel better?”
“So much better,” you say, which is true in every sense.
You climb up onto the stool across from him, tucking your feet up under you, and he closes the laptop without making a production of it, like whatever he was doing is finished or can wait, and reaches over to turn the small counter lamp on. The kitchen goes warmer. Softer. Outside the window the city is doing its quiet nighttime thing, just the occasional sound of something distant, nothing urgent.
“Do you want anything?” he asks. “Tea, water. I have that wine from earlier.”
“Tea would be nice actually.”
He gets up, fills the kettle, sets it on without asking what kind you want, which means he’s guessing again, and you watch him move around the kitchen in his sweats with his feet bare on the wood floor and think about how strange it is to feel this comfortable somewhere you’ve never been before. You’ve been in this house for a matter of hours. You should still be in the performing stage, the guest stage, the careful version of yourself you bring out when you’re somewhere new. Instead you’re sitting cross legged on his kitchen stool in your pyjamas while he makes you tea and it feels like the most natural thing in the world.
He sets a mug in front of you a few minutes later. Chamomile. You smile down at it without meaning to.
“Good guess,” you say.
“Not a guess.” He wraps both hands around his own mug, settles back onto his stool. “You had it on the plane. You told me.”
You did. You remember now, some early conversation, you complaining about not being able to sleep on flights and him asking what helps and you saying chamomile tea and an eye mask and he had apparently filed that away without any fuss and here it is months later, chamomile tea on his kitchen counter at eleven o’clock at night.
You look at him for a moment.
“What?” he says.
“Nothing,” you say. “Thank you.”
He holds your gaze for just a second, then looks down at his mug, and the kitchen stays warm around you both.
He’s looking at you in that gentle way he has sometimes, the one that doesn’t demand anything, just offers, and when he speaks his voice is easy and low.
“If you want the guest room tonight that’s completely fine,” he says. “But if you’d like to sleep in with me you’re more than welcome.”
You look at him across the island, both hands wrapped around your mug. “What are you comfortable with?”
The corner of his mouth lifts. “Snuggles never hurt.”
You laugh at that, a real one, surprised out of you, and he looks pleased with himself in the quiet way he gets when he’s said exactly the right thing.
You set your mug down. “I trust you,” you say simply. “I’ll sleep with you.”
Something in his face settles into something warm. He stands up from his stool, comes around the island, holds out his hand, you take it without hesitating, let him lead you up the stairs.
His bedroom is exactly what you saw briefly on the tour. Big bed, dark linen, the lamp on the nightstand throwing warm low light across the room. The window is cracked, the curtain moves slightly, the whole room smells clean, like the shower, like him.
He pulls the duvet back on one side and looks at you. “Get comfortable. I’ll be quick.”
You climb in, pull the covers up, listen to the bathroom door close softly, the shower start up, then reach for your phone because if you don’t tell Camille immediately you will actually combust.
You: are you up
Cami: unfortunately yes I have a 6am brand call kill me. why what’s happening
You: I’m in his bed
Cami: I’m sorry I have to ask you to clarify because if I scream and wake my entire apartment building that’s on you
You: his bed. his house. la. currently lying on his pillow as we speak.
Cami: okay I’m screaming internally. tell me everything right now.
You pull the duvet up higher, sink back into his pillow, start typing. You tell her about the airport, the Range Rover, the restaurant, the chopsticks, the Fleetwood Mac, the shower, the chamomile tea he remembered from a conversation months ago. The dots on her end appear and disappear several times, which means she is losing her mind in real time, which is exactly what you needed.
Cami: he remembered the chamomile tea
You: I know
Cami: that’s insane. men don’t do that. who even is he.
You: I genuinely do not know anymore
Cami: and the chopsticks thing?? he fed you off his own chopsticks??
You: it was very natural in the moment I promise
Cami: I’m sure it was. okay so what’s the situation right now is anything happening
You: he’s in the shower
Cami: and then???
You: and then I genuinely don’t know
Cami: yes you do babe
You: he actually offered me the guest room to be respectful
Cami: and you said?
You: that I’d sleep with him
Cami: as you should. okay I genuinely have to sleep but you are texting me everything tomorrow
You: obviously
Cami: I mean everything. I want a full debrief. don’t leave anything out.
You: goodnight cami
Cami: use the trip well 🫶🏼
You lock your phone, set it face down on the nightstand just as the bathroom door opens and Harry comes out in sweats and a soft t-shirt, running a hand through his damp hair. He moves quietly around to his side of the bed, lifting the covers, settling in beside you. Not close, not far. Just easy.
The room goes dark, just the faint glow of the city through the curtain, the sound of the breeze moving through the window.
“You warm enough?” he asks.
“Very.”
“Pillow okay?”
“The pillow is incredible actually.”
He laughs softly at that, the sound low in the room. “Good.”
He reaches over and turns the lamp off.
You lie there for a moment, both of you on your backs, the curtain moving in the breeze, the city outside doing its quiet thing. It doesn’t feel awkward. That’s the part that surprises you most. You’re in this man’s bed in the dark and it feels like the most natural place you’ve been in a long time.
“Are you glad you came?” he asks.
“So glad,” you say, without having to think about it.
“Good.” A pause. “I’m glad you’re here.”
You turn your head toward him in the dark. You can just make out the shape of him, the line of his jaw, his eyes open, looking at the ceiling. You lie there for a moment, then reach out slowly, your hand finding the covers first, then the warmth of his arm, then up, your fingers reading the edge of his jaw in the dark, turning his face gently toward you.
He goes still.
You lean in, kiss him softly. Just that. Warm, quiet, unhurried. His hand comes up to cover yours where it’s resting on his face, kissing you back the same way, gentle, like there’s no rush, like you have all the time in the world.
You pull back after a moment. His thumb traces slow along the back of your hand.
“Hi,” he says quietly.
“Hi,” you say back.
The room settles back into its quiet warmth around you. His hand stays over yours, loose, easy, neither of you moving away.
You lie there for a little while longer, his hand over yours, neither of you in any hurry to do anything about the quiet. At some point he shifts slightly, turning more toward you, and you can feel the warmth of him even without being closer.
“What do you want to do tomorrow?” he asks. His voice is low and unhurried, the way everything is with him at this hour.
“I don’t know. I don’t really know LA.”
“I know.” You can hear the smile in it. “I was thinking I could take you to the farmers market in the morning. There’s one not far from here, it’s good. We could walk around, get breakfast there.” A pause. “Then maybe the beach in the afternoon if you want. Nothing planned. Just see how the day goes.”
You think about that. Farmers market and the beach and a whole unscheduled day in his city with nowhere to be.
“That sounds perfect,” you say.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He’s quiet for a moment. “Good. Get some sleep then.”
You close your eyes. The curtain moves. The city hums its soft distant hum. His hand is still loosely over yours and you think about the ferry and the pizza and the streetlight and now this, his bedroom in Los Angeles, a farmers market tomorrow, and how none of it felt possible four months ago.
You’re passed out before you finish the thought.
Authors Note: Thank you to my friend @zclhes for making the cover photo for this story!
summary: after fighting with himself over a past encounter with you, harry decides he can’t forget about you like the rest (or take that elevator ever again). when he calls you into his office to discuss “reports”, things go exactly how he planned.
a/n: heyyyyyy. it’s been a while. a very long while. i had this in my docs for months and just now got around to finishing it. guess lawyer harry really inspired me. this is the part two of broken elevator that some people asked for, so, you’re welcome. enjoy you freaks ;)
𐔌 ﹒ ⋆ ꩜ ⋆ 𓂃 ₊ ⊹
Things are…tense today, to put it mildly. It seems the whole office is feeling it. Perhaps it’s my problem? A tone I’m setting that everyone is forced to bask in. But is that really my fault? Yeah, probably.
Truth be told, I’ve been feeling quite odd for the last few weeks. An incessant stirring in my chest that’s main goal is to keep me on edge. Something I can’t put my finger on, but have a mild inkling of what it could be—what could be causing it. And it’s not something I’d like to admit to myself, let alone aloud. But it’s slowly becoming something I can’t ignore.
Maybe I can get out of the office early today? Drive down to the bar, alone—like the loser I’ve recently become—and find the first willing victim to help resolve my…problem. See if that will quiet the dull throbbing in my head and the restless jittering in my bones. A nice fuck to take my mind off of it all. Because that’s all it will do; take my mind off of it. I’m certain, come the next morning, the ache will return.
I stay awake at night fearing that you’re the only one that can completely silence it all. It was you who ignited these feelings after all.
One month. That’s how long it’s been since that fateful night in the elevator. The one I haven’t stepped foot in since. Luckily, my calves have stopped burning from the stairs now after exclusively using them for so long. One whole month and I still can’t shake the images—the sounds and feelings—from my brain. Maybe that’s why I haven’t gotten laid since.
I’ve taken notice of prospects, don’t get me wrong. Trying has become my new motto, and it’s all I seem to do these days. Even though none of those attempts to try lead anywhere. I get close sometimes. Buy a pretty girl a drink at the bar, make casual flirtatious comments, even extend an offer back at my place. But the second the word ‘yes’ leaves their lips, all I hear is your moans of the same word. The ones I made you scream over and over in that cramped space. The most unromantic setting in the world has quickly become the most erotic to me in my head.
Damn… Now I’m sitting at half-mast in the middle of the workday. Great.
What am I meant to do when distractions don’t work anymore? What am I meant to do when my number one distraction is sitting in a cubicle not 100 feet away?
One of the reasons my feelings toward this whole fucked up situation are so confusing is because of your lack of reaction.
You come into work everyday like nothing ever happened. Like I didn’t have you screaming beneath me, begging for more. You continue wearing those godforsaken pencil skirts like you have no clue what they do to me. I can still feel the fabric of it under my fingertips as I hiked it over your hips. You sit at your desk, do your work, and seem completely unbothered. You even have the audacity to continue using the elevator. It’s aggravatingly annoying.
Why aren’t you just as wrecked as I am? Riddled with the memories of skin on skin? Why aren’t you barging into my office and begging for more? Was it truly only so memorable for me? Will I ever be able to shake you from my system? Move on?
A thought strikes me.
What if the only reason I’m so stuck on this one encounter is because you’re not? Maybe if I got my answers, cleared the steamy air between us, it would all go away? I could finally be free of it all. The visuals, the sounds, the feelings. All of it; gone. Hopefully that’s the answer, because it’s my last resort.
I find myself leaping up out of my chair without a second thought, unable to spend another single second in the uncomfortable unknown. Words flurry around in my head as I head for my office door, planning out which to use to make my questions come off correctly. You could reject speaking to me all together. But that’d only be if you knew what I needed to speak with you about. I guess I’ll just have to lie.
Familiar sounds of typing and murmurs float through the air as I step out onto the office floor. Light conversations happening all around, work getting done, and yet I’m here on a mission. One no one knows about. One no one can know about.
“Can I see you in my office?” are the first words out of my mouth as soon as I round your cubicle, hushed and secretive, meant just for you. Your eyes flick to my face, surprise evident in your gaze. It’s like I can see the cogs turning in your head, mulling over every possible answer for this random visit from me. It occurs to me that you might think you’re getting fired for what transpired between us, so I add, “I’d like to go over some…reports with you.”
You clear your throat, nodding hesitantly as you push away from your desk to stand. I don’t move an inch as you do, leaving your hip to nearly brush my hand. I pray my shuttering breath wasn’t as loud as it felt, and I damn myself for even reacting like that over something so minuscule.
But it's monumental in relation to how my body has reacted in the past month. And it was only for you. Fuck.
The sound of our footsteps, mine heavy and determined, yours light and weary, are added to the atmospheric sounds around us. I have to hope that no one around can sense the same tension I’m feeling as we travel to my office. And I pray that you can’t feel the burning gaze of my eyes on your backside. It’s distracting—sue me!
When the door to my office closes behind us, you obediently take a seat in one of my guest chairs. As I waltz to my side, I watch as you cross your legs politely. My reaction to it is anything but. The feeling of my cock twitching inside of my pants as your skirt rides up your thighs gives away how I’m truly feeling about it. Luckily, my large desk covers me as I adjust myself when I sit down.
“So, these…reports?” you’re the first one to speak, making all of this too real.
I flounder for a second, realizing that you’re here for a meeting that doesn’t exist. I’m forced to come up with something fast. Something to bide my time until I can bring up the real reason you’re here. So, naturally, I reach into my filing cabinet and grab a random folder full of papers that don’t pertain to anything. But as soon as the papers smack onto my desk, a plan forms in my head.
“I need you to look these over for me.” My palm lays flat against the manila folder, not pushing it toward you an inch. Your eyes flick from my hand to my eyes, a hesitancy in your subtle movements that makes the hair stand up on my arms. My hand leaves the folder for just a second, and you immediately go to reach for it, to bring it closer to yourself. My hand slams down over it, keeping it right where it is. “You need to look these over for me…got it?”
I see it then. The way your lips part slightly, bringing in more air for your shallow breaths. You're getting the hint. Now I just have to hope that you take the bait.
It plays out like a choreographed dance. You lean forward as I lean back. One moment you’re sitting in the chair across from me, and the next, you’re bending at the hips, hovering over my desk. Your eyes haven’t left mine. My eyebrows lift in challenge, hands gripping my chairs arms like it’s a liferaft, and you don’t crack. But you do fold. Eyes casting downward to the nonsense documents below you. I take that as my chance.
I’m out of my chair in the matter of a second, striding around my desk like I’m a man on a mission. And I am. I don’t even check a look back at you to make sure you’re still where I left you. For some reason, deep down, I know you haven’t moved an inch. Not as I reach the front of my office and shut all the blinds. Not as I head for the door and click the lock. Not even as I come right up behind you, hips pressing against your ass—you still don’t move. But your breath hitches, and I know I’ve won.
“Tell me to stop…” I reach down to grab a handful of your hips, feeling like I could black out from the familiarity. You don’t respond, though. You don’t tell me to stop, you don’t push me away—but you don’t tell me to keep going.
I bend over your body, covering you like a sheet until my face is nestled in the crook of your neck. I breathe against your skin there, watching goosebumps rise in the wake. My body churns. But I repeat, “Tell me to stop.”
“D-Don’t stop…” you whisper, breathy and uncontrolled.
And that was all I needed to hear.
I straighten up behind you and give no warning before my hand cracks down on your ass. You yelp, jolting forward from the impact. A rumbling hum growls deep in my chest, my hand smoothing over the fabric of your skirt before gripping your hips with a vice hold in both my hands. I move you for my own viewing pleasure. Pulling you away and tugging you back, mimicking the act of you gliding on and off of my cock. It makes me feel insane.
“God… I’ve missed your body. This fucking ass of yours—shit.” I thrust my hips against said ass, groaning at the feel. “Tell me I’m not crazy. Tell me you missed this too.”
My hips have a mind of their own as they continue grinding against your ass, making you squirm against my desk.
“You’re not crazy…” you whisper again, another confession straight to my gut.
“Fuck…” I sigh, watching my bulge glide between you crease of your ass cheeks in that godforsaken pencil skirt. “You know what you wearing these skirts does to me, baby?” I grip your hips tighter for emphasis. You just crane your neck back, peering at me over your shoulder with a small smirk on your lips. Telling me that you know exactly what you’re doing by wearing them. “Oh, you’re cruel…” I laugh lightly, spanking you again to prove my point. “You know I’m gonna have to punish you for that, baby.”
“I know…” Your words are just a breath, teasing me and pulling me deeper and deeper into your spell. I’m hooked. Have been since that first time I took you. Clearly.
I mirror your smirk, though mine is much more dangerous. A promise of my words hidden in the lines of my lips.
And there’s no warning when I slam my hips against yours from behind. The rough motion has your pelvis hitting the edge of my desk with a brutal force, making the whole thing shake. Pencils fall to the floor, papers floating down in their escape, but nothing's broken—yet.
“Have you fucked anyone since me, baby?” I hold my breath as I wait for your answer, selfishly hoping that you say no. Lord knows I couldn’t get it up for anyone else. It might actually wreck me if you say yes.
“N-no,” you finally reply, shaky, like you didn’t want to admit it.
I hum, pleased with your answer. “Good girl… Were you waiting for this? Waiting for my cock to fill you up again?” You nod, but I don’t push for your words this time. I’m too fucking antsy. I need to get my hands on you. Need to feel you beneath my fingertips. Feel your warmth wrapped around my cock.
My fingers reach for the zipper of your skirt, deciding I want it off this time. I want to see all of you. I drag it down slowly, the sound of it mixing with your labored breaths. Once it’s undone, I push the waistband of it down past your hips until it’s pooled on the floor around your heels. My gaze drags up from there, those black stilettos making your legs look like they go on for miles. Sheer black tights encase you, and my fingertip drags along the stitching on the back. Up, up, and up… Leading me right where you want me.
I cup your heat with my whole hand, gripping it like it’s mine—because it is.
“God, you’re warm. Can only imagine the mess you’ve made of yourself already.” I slap your pussy, watching you jolt. I smile to myself, fully taking in the scene of you spread out like this for me. But I need more.
Before you can protest, my hands fist into the sheer material of your tights and pull. Ripping them right down the middle and finally giving me access to your ass. Of course, I spank it. The bare flesh turning red right before my eyes. My fingers hook into the tiny scrap of fabric you call panties, groaning at the sight of it nestled between your cheeks, and tug it to the side. Finally, getting the view I’ve been quite literally dreaming about for a month. Can’t even count how many times I had to rub one out in the shower before coming into work just from the memory.
And there it is, in all of its glory.
Your perfect, beautifully pink pussy on display just for me. It glistens in the fluorescent lighting, giving away how turned on you are. My cock strains against my slacks, begging to bury itself deep inside. But I can’t just yet. I need this to last. Who knows when I’ll get you like this again.
I smooth my hand down from your ass cheek in between your legs, cupping your heat once again, only this time, you’re completely bare. My middle finger gets enveloped by your folds, nestled in your slit like a hug. I slowly rock my hand back and forth over your entire sex, feeling you shiver beneath my touch.
“Has your pussy missed me? Been aching for me?”
“Yes,” you reply quickly, breathless and needy. It makes something in me settle, knowing I can still get you like this. A mess in my hands.
“Bet this pretty, little cunt missed feeling full.” All you can do is whine in response, especially since my fingers are now dragging up and down between your folds. Your wetness coats my digits with every swipe. I lean down over you again until my breath hits your ear. “This pussy—“ I drag my fingers down to your entrance, “—is mine.”
The final word is emphasized with my two fingers ramming inside of you. I don’t wait for you to adjust. I don’t even wait for you to swallow your gasp back in. My fingers work skillfully and quick, fucking into you at a relentless pace. You scream out when the twist of them brushes against that spongy muscle deep inside, but you quickly slap a hand over your mouth.
“Don’t want anyone to hear you, baby? Don’t want them to know how good I make you feel?” I slow my fingers, letting the twist and curl of them do most of the work. You shake your head, whining against your palm. It shouldn’t anger me that you want to keep quiet, it’s you being sensible so we don’t both lose our jobs. But I want to hear you. Want to hear those pretty noises you make when I’m making you feel so good, making you lose your mind. It’s a battle in my head, but I don’t want to push your boundaries on this. So, I settle for hearing your muffled cries.
I drag my fingers out of your hole slowly, letting you feel every bit of pleasure before I take it all away. You whine and wriggle around, begging for my fingers again. I’ve got to be honest, the sight of your hips moving, seeking me out—your pussy dripping and clenching in a plea—almost makes me fold. But I stand my ground.
I reach forward and twist your hair around my hand, yanking your head up from the desk. “You wanna keep quiet, baby? Cause I know a good way of shutting you up…” Your dark gaze connects with mine, your panting breaths spurring me on. I lift one eyebrow in question, and all you can do is nod.
I yank on your hair again. “Up,” I demand, pulling you up to stand straight. I do a once over of you like this. Standing before me in a rustled blouse, ripped pantyhose and crooked panties. You look like the most beautiful mess I’ve ever seen. “On your knees, baby.”
You hesitate for a second, questioning the seriousness of my instructions. I make my request solid when I tug your head backward with my grip still on your head. “I said on your knees.”
Finally, you sink down, sitting back on your heels below me. I can’t help but moan at the sight of you like this. “Unbutton your top.”
This time, you follow without question, working the buttons of your top undone until it flows open, giving me a glimpse of your breasts. I can already see how hard your nipples are through the thin cups, pebbled and needy just for me. I can’t wait to make those titties bounce while you ride my dick again.
“Tell me, baby… Do you like sucking dick?” You look thrown off by question, momentarily stunned by the bluntness. “Don’t worry, baby… You’re gonna love sucking mine.”
I keep your head in place with my hand still tangled in your hair, but my other hand starts working at my belt and pants. I’m a little frenzied, already halfway gone just from the sight of your anticipation. So much so that I don’t even push my pants down all the way. Just enough to let my cock spill out, hard and aching for that pretty mouth of yours.
“See what you do to me? Been rock hard since the last time.” And that’s not an overexaggeration. “Now, open that mouth of yours and let me fuck it.”
I watch you swallow hard, imagining the feel of that exact action when my cock is deep in your throat. But then your lips are popping open, wide and ready to pleasure me however I want. Your tongue hangs out eagerly for a taste. I hold my length in my free hand, pumping it a few times while just staring at you. I step just a fraction closer, enough to let me place the tip of my cock on your tongue. I tap it against it, letting you get used to the weight and girth before slowly pushing in.
Your lips mold around me, stretched and tight. I groan—loudly—at the feel. The warmth and wetness of your mouth is almost as good as your pussy. “Fuck, baby… Suck me tighter.”
You hollow out your cheeks, suctioning me in with a grip I choke on a breath over. And then it’s game over for both of us.
I tighten my grip on your hair and force you forward, forcing my cock deeper down your throat. You gag and choke around me, eyes already watering, but I keep you there, relishing in the tightening muscle milking me. When your eyes go wide, I give you some grace, pulling you off completely so you can suck in a sharp breath. A string of saliva connects your lips to my tip, and it’s a mesmerizing sight. I wipe below your eyes with my free hand, catching the tears before they can spill.
“Ready, baby?” I ask, voice husky and low. “Cause that was just the warm up. Open.”
You take a deep breath before opening your mouth again, and I don’t even wait to slide my cock deep inside. The warmth of you surrounds me once again making me moan, head titling back in pleasure. Even more so when your tongue swirls around me. “Fuck…”
I keep your head still as my hips start to move. With every roll of my hips, the tip of my dick hits deep in the base of your throat. You almost take all of me down. Your eyes never stray from mine as I fuck your mouth, wide and glassy. I smirk down at you between groans, my final warning before letting loose.
I thrust into your mouth with more force, hearing you gurgle and gag around me every time I hit your reflex. Your throat tightens, clenching around me perfectly. Fuck, you’re a sight like this. Mouth full and stretched with my cock between your lips. Eyes watery and wide as you moan around me. Your hands land on my thighs, digging into my slacks to ground yourself. I growl, my hips moving faster and faster. The sounds you make are insane. The wet sounds of your saliva, the choking when I slip too deep, and your moans—god, your moans.
“Think you can take me deeper?” I question, stilling my hips so you can have a second to breathe. And when you nod, all bets are off.
I let you take the lead this time, sitting up a little higher on your knees. You grip onto my thighs tighter as you slowly take me deeper and deeper. I can’t help the shaky moans that leave me as I watch, eyes still connected with mine. I feel my tip go past the curve of your throat and down into your esophagus. You swallow and I nearly come right then and there. And with just a few more steadying, sharp breaths through your nose, you guide me down the rest of the way. Until the tip of your nose is buried in the hair at my navel.
“Holy f-fuck…” I gasp, shaking from the pleasure of just this. I slowly tilt your chin up, not enough to make you uncomfortable in this position, but just enough to see your throat. And there it is. The bulge of my cock deep down under your skin. I am completely ruined for anyone else. Tears slip out of your eyes as you repeatedly gag, and that’s when I pull you off.
You rest back on your heels, sucking in a sharp breath and coughing harshly. I’m still stuck in my daze, watching you try to compose yourself. I fist my cock, pumping myself at the sight of you. Wiping under your eyes, cleaning up the saliva from your chin, and taking in unsteady breaths. You have no idea the effect you have on me. Once you’ve finally composed yourself enough, you notice me stroking myself. You try to lean forward and take me back into your mouth, but I halt you.
“No… You’re just gonna watch.” My hand works a little bit faster, brushing over my tip to spread my pre-cum over myself. “Take your shirt off.” You listen without any question, shrugging your open blouse off and letting it fall to the floor behind you. Sitting there with your hands in your lap, just your bra and panties. So fucking sexy. “Take your bra off, too. Wanna see you, baby. Wanna see those tits.”
You smile shyly—odd, since you shamelessly had my dick down your throat not a minute ago—but comply. Reaching behind yourself, you unclasp your bra and let it fall. Your breasts pour out, a beautiful sight. I groan, tightening my grip on myself. You reposition the way you're sitting to get a little more comfortable, but the movement just makes your tits jiggle and bounce.
“Fuck,” I curse, pumping myself faster. My muscles grow tight as more moans spill from my lips. Your eyes are trained on my hand, watching me stroke myself, listening intently to my low sounds of pleasure.
You think I don’t notice, but I do. You think your hand slowly slipping between your clenched thighs can fly under the radar, but it can’t. I groan, low and deep in my throat as I watch you slowly start to touch yourself. “Let me watch…” I murmur.
And you obey.
You lean back onto your free hand and let your legs spread for me. I moan, watching you move your panties to the side and expose yourself to me again. Your pussy is still red and wet from when I pounded it with my fingers earlier, and that just goes straight to my dick. I squeeze the base of my dick to try and get a grip on myself, but as soon as your fingers slip in between your folds, I don’t even try to restrain myself anymore.
“Fuck, yeah, baby… Touch yourself.” I watch you slowly rub your clit, wishing it was my fingers playing with that bud instead. I can’t take my eyes off your pussy, it’s physically impossible. The way your folds spread as your fingers speed up, your clit swelling with sensitivity—it’s intoxicating. I slowly sink down onto my knees in front of you, getting a closer view of the show. You moan lowly, leaning back farther onto your elbows as your fingers grow frantic. I don’t even notice the speed in which I’m stroking myself until the sound of my strangled grunts hits my ears. I let myself fall forward, trapping you beneath me with one hand next to your head. “You’re close. I can tell… Does touching myself get you off, baby?”
“Yes— Yes!” you whine, back arching toward me. Your fingers keep swirling yourself, pressing down harder.
“Fuck, you’re so sexy… Spread your lips. Let me see that tight hole, baby.”
You stop rubbing yourself for just a second so I can get a glimpse of your entrance, leaking down toward your ass and clenching around nothing. My mouth waters at the sight, growing overly impatient to be inside of you. My hand works faster and faster over myself until I’m breathless and panting above you. The daze of pleasure creeps up on me slowly, hearing your moans filter through my ears as you rub yourself again.
“I’m gonna—fuck! I’m gonna cum! Gonna cum all over your pussy.” My balls tighten as my teeth dig into my bottom lip. You squirm beneath me, trying to catch up. My eyes can’t choose a place to look. Your face, twinged with pleasure, needy and wrecked. Your tits, bouncing with each jerk of your hips. Or your pussy, spread and wet, just for me. The moment you pull your lips apart to rub deeper, I bust.
“Oh— G-God, fuck,” I moan, hips jerking my length into my hand as I come undone. Ribbons of white shooting out, painting itself all over your pussy. Coated in it. Such a mess. You shriek a moan and I’m back in the moment.
My fingers move without any thought, pushing your hand out of the way and swiping through your folds to collect my cum.
And then I’m ramming it deep inside your cunt.
I watch my fingers dive deep into you, my mess squelching along your walls. You thrash against the floor, overstimulated by all the sensations. So what do I do? I kick it up a notch.
I lower myself until I’m practically laying on my stomach, the perfect vantage point. Leaning in, I flick my tongue over your sensitive clit, making you scream. I smile into your cunt as you toss your arm over your mouth and bite down like a gag. My fingers curl toward your g-spot, my lips suck your bud into my mouth, and my hand reaches up to palm your breast. Every place you could get pleasure from, I’m stimulating it.
One pinch of your nipple, one swirl of my tongue, and one more long press deep inside of you, and you’re coming undone. Your hips writhe against my face and I accept it, letting you coat me in our mixed juices. I slowly pull my fingers out and hear you whine, making up for it by placing a kiss to your throbbing clit. That makes you jolt. But then I’m kissing my way up your body. Your pelvis, your hips, your stomach, your ribs, your sternum, your breasts, your collarbones, your neck, your jaw, and finally your lips.
Your arms wrap around my neck as you deepen the kiss, seeking out the taste of yourself on my tongue. I groan into your mouth, scooping my arms underneath you and helping you sit up. I pull back from your mouth to instead place two softer kisses against each of your cheeks.
“You alright?”
“Yeah…” you breathe, soft and still a bit shaky.
I scoop you up in my arms and stand on my wobbly legs, carrying you over to my desk. Setting you down on the edge of it, I take a small step back just to admire you. Completely bare for me and absolutely beautiful. I can’t help but lean in for a firm kiss. You smile against my lips and it makes my heart lurch. It’s almost too soft, having to remind myself that that isn’t what this is.
No matter what my traitorous brain is telling me.
So, instead, I think with my dick.
I take both of your thighs from around my waist and lift them up and over my shoulders. It stretches your muscles tight, making you lean back onto your elbows on the desk, sending more shit onto the floor. I stare down at your body instead of your face, deeming that the easiest option to avoid that heavy feeling again. The swell of your breasts, the curve of your waist, the fullness of your thighs, and the pinkness of your cunt. It’s a sight I’d happily choose to stare at for the rest of my life.
Well, shit. That didn’t work.
“What’re you doing?” you speak, questioning my frozen gaze, laughter evident in your voice.
“Nothin’… You’re just absolutely gorgeous,” my voice is low, quiet, and I mean every fucking word.
“Shut up,” you laugh, a light in your eyes.
“Oh? Getting mouthy on me now, are you?” I tease. “You know what mouthy girls get?”
I grab the base of my cock and use my hold to drag my tip through your drenched folds. You gasp, but try to hide the reaction. It just makes me smirk.
“What do they get?” you egg me on, already needy and breathless again.
And my restraint snaps.
I spear myself into you, bottoming out in the first stroke. You choke on a moan, back already arching up into the air. Masterpiece.
“They get fucked.”
Your short laugh gets cut off by a whining noise when my hips start to move me inside of you. Rolling and thrusting, giving no chance for a breath. My hands move from your waist to your ass, lifting it off the desk and gripping both cheeks. I watch as your tits bounce with every thrust, transfixed. I already know I’m not gonna last. Especially when you’re reaching up to palm yourself.
I slam into you harder, making the desk shake in tandem with your legs. The sound of our skin slapping together is like music to my ears.
“God, you take me so well, baby…” I groan, watching the scene between us. The ease in which my cock slips in and out of your heat, like it was made to fit here. “So fucking tight. So perfect.”
“Fuck! Right there!” you yell, and I listen, always when it’s said in that tone.
I continue hitting you deep inside, not straying from the spot that made you scream. You start to squirm against the desk, desperate for more. So, I drag one of my hands back to your front and let it slip between your legs, rubbing slow strokes over your clit. Your pussy clenches around me and I know you’re close.
“Gonna come, baby? Gonna come all over my cock like a good girl?” I taunt, hips picking up speed as my own pleasure chases me down.
“Y-yes…” Your back arches, hips grind, and eyes nearly roll back.
“Good. Cause I’m gonna fill you up so good, baby, I’ll be dripping from you for the next week.”
I start to grunt as it becomes a struggle not to lose my tempo, pleasure taking over. But I need to make sure you cum first. I rub your clit faster, watching as your hips lift and writhe against my thrusts.
“Come for me… Let me watch you.”
Your eyes slowly blink open and connect with mine, jaw slack with whimpers escaping you. And with one more thrust, you’re done for. Silent screams, convulsing muscles, and your cunt squeezing the hell out of me. I have to brace my hands on the desk beside your hips as my pleasure slaps me in the face. Strangled moans leave my lips as my hips stutter, my cock pulsing inside of you as I fill you to the brim. Your pussy continues to clench around me, beckoning me to stay forever and milking me dry.
Once I’ve come back to earth, I grab onto your shoulders and lift your back up off the desk. You’re like a ragdoll at this point. You look like you just got a good fucking—which you did. Slowly, your arms come to circle around my neck. I hum in contentment, a bad sign.
I lean in and brush my lips against your neck, feeling you shiver in my hold. My lips ghost a path up to your ear. “You’re mine now…”
“I already was,” you whisper back.
Fuck.
*BEEP*
“Mr. Styles, I have a Mr. Winters on line 3 for you.”
Harry Styles x Reader
A flight where you meet a cute guy with green eyes and a smirk that could convince you to do crimes had never felt so good
wc: 7.2K
warnings: Smut smut smut - there is some plot, but the main topic is smut
taglist: @triski73 @run-for-the-hills
Your pupils blurred as you looked up towards the giant screen set in the heavy foot traffic of the airport. Large letters of destinations, gate numbers, and other random numbers and letters your brain couldn't bear to comprehend rotated through like a revolving door until eventually, you couldn't bear to look at it anymore.
You groaned.
Your neck was already aching, though you hadn't set foot on the plane yet, let alone been able to find the proper queue you were meant to be in.
Rubbing the sleep from your eyes seemed to help for a very short moment, just long enough for you to pair your flight with its proper gate number on that dreadful screen with the most heinous neon green font color.
------
You'd never been more grateful to be cramped inside this big ball of steel that would somehow soar through the sky as it carried people from different walks of life to one destination.
If not for the opportunity to sit afterwards, feeling like it took ages of walking on your part to find your gate, you wouldn't have been so pleased to be in the company of a much too small seat sat next to a much too small window that you'd have the pleasure of occupying for the next eight hours.
But right now, this sorry excuse for a cushioned chair was heaven.
As the plane began filling up, you were pleased to see that the entire row you were occupying was empty, except for yourself.
A surge of hope occupied your thoughts, but you tried to smother and suffocate it down, not wanting to get your hopes up. And it turns out that was for the best.
At what seemed to be the very last possible moment, once nearly every other seat had been taken up in the rows both forward and backward from yours, you heard footsteps. Heavy footsteps that pounded down the aisle in urgency.
Your neck was pressed against the insanely underpadded headrest as your eyes widened in horror. Your inner monologue pleading to the creator in the sky that this mystery person was not going to take up residence in what you now felt like was your row.
God didn't listen, but at least it wasn't a complete disappointment, you would come to find. In fact, it would be a plane ride you'd never forget.
At first, a large breath puffed from your lungs, and your lips subconsciously pursed as a man stopped at the opening of your aisle. A feeling of annoyance-though you know you had no right to feel this way towards someone for simply taking up the seat they paid for-surged within. That is, until you saw what this man looked like.
Once your mind was able to piece together that, yes, this man felt like an intruder of sorts at this very moment-again, you knew it was irrational, but that didn't take the feeling away whatsoever-, but as your eyes wandered from his grey, worn denim up to the shirt covering his torse, you realized that maybe this man wouldn't be so much of a threat afterall.
With a scruff that lined the length of his jaw and upper lip and a pair of sunglasses now sitting on top of his brunette head, your eyes plucked away, probably staring for an inappropriate amount of time, before you came to the realization that this man was incredibly attractive.
Suddenly, you weren't really mad anymore.
Politely, he smiled as he slung his backpack off his shoulders and placed it underneath what you assumed to be his assigned seat-aka, the aisle seat in the same row as you.
His rapidly moving chest made it evident that he had run the entire length of the airport until he ended up in this exact spot. You wondered if he was always someone who runs a bit late for everything-not that that was relevant to the situation at hand. Merely an observation and a curious one at that. It wasn't a crime to gnaw at the idea of who this man could be to the outside world. As he sat himself in the aisle seat, with only a middle seat separating the two of you, you already knew you were in for a quite enthralling trip.
You smiled back even more politely, but quickly removed your gaze from his, feeling as if you knew your eyes would linger even more than they had should you allow them that type of freedom to do so.
But your eyes would soon betray you the moment the stranger slung his blue colored jacket off of his upper body, leaving him in a thin, cream colored shirt that looked tattered, but in a cool, vintage sort of way.
Tattoos decorated his tan arms-you found your eyes tracing over the ones that you could make out, without it being too obvious that you were, to put it simply, checking him out.
Just when you thought he couldn't get any more appealing to your eye, the stranger bent down to hold his luggage in both arms, forcing his biceps to bulge out from the confines of the hemmed sleeves on his shirt.
Hold on; It gets worse--then, he lifts the luggage into the upper compartment, causing the cotton hem of his shirt to rise, which gives a peek at the black ink decorating his lower abdomen.
They seemed to be some sort of floral artistry to the ink stain, but you didn't dare allow your eyes to linger, because a). You weren't sure you would be able to break your eye contact on the needle-poked art once your gaze was fixated, and b). If you were caught staring - which you very much would've - that would mean you had to sit on a several-hour flight next to a man who caught you checking him out.
Quickly, you turn your head in the complete opposite direction, looking out at the black tarmac from the window that felt like a prized possession at the time. Now, it felt like something even better than a prize - a treasure, if you will, or an escape.
“Hey.”
His voice--how was his voice that level of attractive and coarse, paired with everything else he had going on in the physical appearance department?
Slowly, you turned your head in his direction again.
“How’re you liking that book? I heard it's a good one.”
He was now sitting comfortably in his assigned seat with a seatbelt strapped across his low waist and eyes that looked at you curiously.
His head nodded in the direction of your lap. Your eyes following suit–that’s when you recall the novel that you had only gotten so far as to read the back cover of.
“Oh”, you said softly, your fingers running across the colorful hard cover. “I haven’t even opened it yet, to be honest.”
The stranger nodded with an amused smile, “Saving it just for this?”
You nodded back with a simple, soft “exactly" and a nod.
You hated the way your words were coming up timid and almost scared. You weren’t scared, nervous-yes, but not scared. Intimidated would be a better word for it.
“I’m Harry”, the stranger, now known as Harry, outstretched his hand to you in greeting.
Your eyes followed the vein that ran from his tattooed forearm all the way up to his middle finger.
“Y/N”, you spoke, again, much too soft as you reached your hand out and met the skin of his palm.
Harry seemed pleased with that as he nodded. “That suits you.”
His eyes were pointed and paired with a smirk as he watched your straight-lined lips form into a grin, making him feel a sense of pride and cockiness that wasn't anything too heady.
“Nice to meet you, Harry.”
Harry was usually cool, calm, and collected around women he thought were attractive, but the way his name rolled off your tongue sent a tiny, sinful shock to his groin that even he couldn’t hide the power it held over him as his top row of teeth ever so slightly sank into his lower lip.
“Likewise”, he said with a friendly smile, yet it held something else to it that you weren't able to distinguish at the time.
Under his powerful gaze, you turned your face to point downwards and finally crack open that book. Meanwhile, Harry kept his form straight, but his eyes were very much trained on your side profile.
He was seemingly captivated by you despite your interaction not stretching further than plane entertainment subjects and government names. Yet something was torturously addicting about the way your black flared cotton pants pressed against your rounded thighs; the way your hair fell in wisps as it framed your facial features wasn’t helping fight his recent dependency on you either.
He found himself searching for excuses in his head on how to continue the conversation.
“So, Rome.”
Your head perked up at his voice. “Rome?”
“That’s where this plane is going, right? I hope so.”
You chuckled, “Oh. Yeah Rome. I’m going to visit a friend.”
Harry nodded, though his mind began to spiral on who this friend was and why on earth he felt a tinge of jealousy towards the fact that you were traveling across the country to visit them. They must’ve been special to you–Harry found himself wanting to be that special, too.
“Boyfriend or girlfriend. But not like.. that I mean-” Harry’s tongue twisted in his mouth as he tried to extricate his words that, the moment they left his mouth, he knew sounded too prying of your romantic life. Not that he wasn’t interested, because he very much was-but you didn’t need to know that.
“It’s fine. Just a friend from college.”, you smiled as Harry bailed on trying to find proper wording and instead settled into a nod and friendly smile.
“What about you? Visiting a boyfriend or girlfriend… you know a friend or-”, your hand revolved in a circle to hint at your implication, which played off of Harry’s double entendre.
Harry smirked, “Family and friends, actually. No boyfriend or girlfriend at the moment.”
The conversation transitions through the basic stages of forming a new acquaintanceship. Favorite movies, TV shows, music artists, foods, colors - you name it, Harry and you cover it all over the next couple of hours that passed in a blink too quickly in your opinion.
“Look, all I’m saying is blue is a much better color than green.”
“Okay, but how? Green is so versatile and blue is just.. Blue.”
“That doesn’t even make sense”, Harry says, amused with a shake of his head.
“Funny coming from someone who is wearing a blue shirt at this very second”, Harry points a finger that prods into the side of your clothed arm. It’s shockingly annoying how just that simple poke could send a warmth and set of tingles up the back of your neck.
“I didn’t say I hate the color blue. It’s just not green.”
“Oh, yeah, yeah. Totally. I absolutely get it now. You’re absolutely right, green is superior to blue. I can’t believe I never saw it before. Thanks so much for opening my eyes to the truth.”
Sarcastically, Harry looked at you with big eyes and an upturned corner smile, then his hand fell to your thigh as he patted it, except a pat would imply a quick tap and then loss of contact, which was the opposite of his hand that was still lying on your warm upper thigh, moments later.
Your eyes followed his ringed hand that remained- something that just meeting acquaintances wouldn’t normally do, regardless of how much they got along. And you and Harry were getting on quite well, even better than that.
You cleared your throat as your eyes moved up to his for a brief moment before he flinched his hand away. As if nothing unusual happened from his point of view - though his cheeks were already turning red from his lingering accidental touch-Harry combed his hand through the hair that sat on the top of his head as an excuse to utilize the hand that was once pressed down onto the warmth of your thigh.
Simultaneously, you both pulled your eyes from each other. Harry opted to look at the pocket on the back of the seat in front of him, and you chose to focus on the setting sun that had hued the sky a pink and orange tone.
Then,by the grace of god, the flight attendant began making her rounds and quickly made her stop at your aisle that served you and Harry.
“Can I buy you a drink? I know it’s shitty airplane booze, but..”, his sentence tapered off with a shrug of his shoulders and you couldn’t tell if this was a situation like a man coming up to you at a bar, saying “come here often”, and then purchasing your drink of choice in the hopes of getting under the waistband of your jeans later, or if this was a simple offer that didn’t go anything above kindness to a just met stranger.
Your mind already seemed smitten, encouraging you to believe that, despite mentally telling yourself that it was most likely friendly.
“Sure”, you nodded as nonchalantly as you could.
Harry’s gaze lingered on yours longer than normal, and you could’ve sworn you saw his pupils move from your eyes downward in the direction of your chest. Your breath began to quicken at the silly thought as it entered your head.
Shortly after, you and Harry were comfortable in your now dimly lit row. A plastic cup containing red wine was safely tucked in your hand, and a glass of some sort of IPA was tucked away in his.
“You know what my favorite part about overnight flights is?”
You raised your eyebrows in amusement, “What’s that?”
“These blankets”, he said with way too much excitement in his voice as he pulled the cheap fleece from the plastic cover that had been passed down by a flight attendant at the same time as the alcohol.
“Really?”, you chuckled and watched as Harry draped the blanket over his front, sadly making his prominently muscular thighs disappear from view.
Harry caught on to your dissatisfaction with what he found enthused him. “You’re telling me you don’t love these?"
You shrug at the way Harry’s eyes seemed like they would pop out of his head in disbelief. He looked quite cute.
“They’re fine, I guess, but also kind of scratchy, don’t you think?”
“Great, I'm sat in a row with a crazy person.”
“Hey!”, your arm flew, lightly smacking what you assumed was Harry’s abdomen-you nearly groaned out loud at the hardened muscle that your hand collided with that probably didn't even feel like a speck of dust on his skin.
“When’s the last time you actually used one of these?” Harry questioned as if there was no way on god’s green earth that you just insulted his favorite advantage to an overnight flight through the sky.
This made you think. It had actually been a while since you last took an overnight flight that resulted in you being dependent on one of these things.
This realization caused your hands to become curious as they reached for the plastic-covered blanket from the pocket in the back of the seat in front of you. Harry watched in amusement as you busted open the package and laid the blanket across your lap with palms soothing along the texture.
“So..”, Harry asked expectantly, making you chuckle.
“It’s.. better than I remembered, I guess.”
“Told you!”
“But!-”, you interrupted Harry before he could continue on and explain how he was correct and you were not- he seemed like the type to play something up in the most non-serious way ever.
“-It’s still not a highlight of the flight.”
“Then what is? What’s been your favorite part of this flight so far?”, Harry’s voice became tinted with a sort of hoarseness that you weren’t sure was because he was in dire need of liquid in his throat or something else entirely; something much much more off subject, yet the thoughts had been swirling around your brain since you saw his shirt raise and the skin just above his low waisted jeans peak out to the world.
You escaped your zoned thoughts and focused on Harry’s expression. A smirk adorned in a single dimple on the side his lips were pulled up towards, his god chiseled arms crossed in front of him.
“The company isn’t too bad, I suppose”, you fluttered eyelashes above your doe eyes that attempted to match the message that you hoped came across.
Thankfully, Harry caught on to your obvious flirting, making his teeth dig into the skin of his cheek and his smirk look almost arrogant from your point of view.
You thought it made him look even more sexually appealing, which you hadn’t thought possible unless he were to be fully unclothed, of course…
“Glad I can be of service.” Harry’s voice was warm as his eyes held yours in confidence, nearly making you feel the urge to crawl under your seat and have a fit of giggles and flailing of your hands.
You had a little crush on him; there was absolutely no denying it now. Even more importantly, due to his gaze, lingering touches, and continuation of conversation, you felt that Harry was on the same page-which you’d be correct in thinking.
You were thankful for the chatting between you both tapering off when it did. This way, you could properly dive into your brain and curate daydreams of you and him in both innocent and… lewd situations.
Eventually, your eyes gave way to the exhaustion of air travel as you rested them without fully falling asleep. Meanwhile, your head played out some of these little fantasies.
One scenario in particular, you were finding yourself replaying over and over. It involved Harry and the palm of his hand spread wide along the length of your neck. In your mind, his breath was heavy and panting as he pressed just the right amount of pressure across your windpipe, with his other hand around your waist, holding your body down as he fucked into your whining form.
You’d moan out a common “right there”, triggering him to move his cock in and out of your creaming hole even harder in order to hit the spot you were proclaiming was giving you an immense amount of pleasure.
Meanwhile, in the reality of the airplane, Harry noted the way you began to squirm in the seat next to him. Shifting your leg to have crossed over the right and then the left, adjusting where your arms were from across your chest to down in your lap. You hadn’t been this mobile the entire flight, which had him intrigued.
He watched as you subconsciously dug your top front teeth into the plumpness of your lower lip–his cock quite liked that sight as it twitched underneath the cloth of his pants.
You knew getting yourself worked up and wet on a flight as you thought of the man sitting next to you wasn’t moral, yet you couldn’t stop yourself. Just the imagery in your head made a very noticeable amount of wetness gather in your cunt that you didn’t need to touch to know it existed.
Your head swam with more visions-this new acquaintance fucking you in the shower with his strong arm holding your leg around his waist, or his mouth on your pussy making the most obscene noises. You hadn’t even noticed your teeth causing your bottom lip to bleed ever so slightly or the way whines seeped through your teeth.
This was Harry’s last straw.
At first, he was hesitant. He wasn’t frequently-or ever-entertaining the thought of sneaking a hand under a fresh and extremely attractive acquaintance's blanket and offering to, well, assist if you will. Yet there was something about the way your teeth dug into your lip as a small grin covered your mouth that was begging for him to have his mouth pressed against.
Your lashes would flutter ever so often above your closed lids, something he knew would make you look like the embodiment of innocence, even though it appeared whatever you were thinking about was entirely the opposite of innocent.
Meanwhile, you continued to indulge in whatever visions of you and your new acquaintance decided to flutter into your brain. However, your visions ceased when you felt a touch-so featherlight, you could've convinced yourself it was made up if you tried hard enough or something you could’ve blamed on a mosquito or a random itch set off by a layer of dead skin so microscopic that you never saw it fall from your skin.
Except it was neither of those things.
You shifted your body, assuming that maybe the blanket caught on a particular spot on your clothes or something along those lines of pure accident. That is, until the touch began to move, tracing the expanse on the side of your thigh.
Your eyes shot open, panic naturally coming over your features as you looked around. However, it wasn’t a phantom; it was Harry smiling at you with a darkness tinged into his pupils that you could somehow still make out despite the plane's main cabin lights being dimmed for the next several hours.
Your eyebrows pulled together in confusion, especially when, once caught, Harry didn’t pull his hand away or act as if he was doing anything out of the ordinary.
You know, the standard putting your hand on the thigh of the person sharing the row of seats with you on an extremely long flight, that just so happens to be someone Harry finds an insane amount of attraction to in both physical and mental capacities.
It took you several seconds of analyzing Harry to come to terms with the fact that he was doing this on purpose. It wasn’t an accidental touch of casual circumstances–this felt very, severely intentional.
With his eyes boring into yours, his hand slid just a tad bit further so his warm palm was resting on the top of your thigh, fully pressed several inches above your knee or so. It was him asking for consent-verifying that this taboo act was something that was okay, before he made any other move.
Your gaze softened as you seemed to grasp what was happening here. Something deeply frowned upon to the public eye, yet teasingly erotic and tempting all the same.
Your head swayed in and out, up and around, as you searched for strangling glances or straight-up stares from the other attendees on the flight. Thankfully, the coast was clear. Everyone seemed to be tucked away in their makeshift bed for the night with eye covers on or preoccupied with their devices that glowed against their face.
Once confirmed, your eyes moved back to Harry’s, and a slight smile spread along your lips as you gave a slow nod.
At that, Harry-much like you-did a quick take in of his surroundings before removing his seatbelt from around his waist and scooting to the middle seat–finding the expanse that had been separating the two of you for the entirety of the flight being something that needed to disappear immediately.
“Is this okay?” His accented voice was whispered directly into the side of your neck as his hand came back to cling to the top of your thigh.
His method of acquiring consent was a pleasurable breath of fresh air, making a smile on your lips stretch even wider as you nodded an agreed “Yeah”, that was meant for only him to hear.
“Just relax, okay?” you nodded, lulling your head to one side, giving into gravity, and closing your eyes as Harry’s hand gave your thigh a squeeze.
For a moment, the most he did was gently move his thumb back and forth across the fabric of your pants resting over your body. It felt polite, maybe even hesitant in a way-as if he hadn’t done something like this before.
Your eyes fluttered open, Harry’s meeting your gaze instantly as you muttered something so desperate and borderline begging.
“Please”
He smirked, “Impatient thing you are” his low voice was so tauntingly full of rasp that it made you clench your thighs together.
He chuckled darkly as he nuzzled the tip of his nose into your hair and placed a brief kiss on the top of your head.
Here is where it gets interesting.
A shaky breath fanned in front of your face at the first feeling of Harry’s hand drifting towards your inner thigh. His enlarged palm felt as if it were burning a hole through your skin as he gripped the softness of your inner thigh in his hand and let out a primal groan that was as quiet as he could muster given the circumstances.
“Fucking perfect”, he whispered in your ear as he continued his gripping assault on the squishy meat of your inner thigh. His fingers just barely graze your clothed core as if you were the softest fabric that he wanted to be gentle with, yet appreciate all at once.
But when he did it with intention and purpose–his hand cupping your sex over your clothes had your hand instinctively reaching upwards.
In a usual scenario, you’d find your hand drifting to lay on the top of your stomach or twist and pinch at your pert nipples, but obviously, this situation didn’t allow for that sort of thing. The best you could do was bring your hand up to your mouth and gently press your front teeth into the side of your pointer finger. The sight alone made another groan rumble through Harry’s chest.
“The things I would do to you if we weren't on a plane right now.” He didn’t give you much time to bask in the sensuality of his words before his hand moved in a spider-like fashion to the top of your pants.
You gave yourself a mental pat on the back for giving in and wearing a pair of joggers as opposed to jeans, which would’ve made this situation a lot harder. Though you were sure Harry would've found a way to further his mission regardless.
“Can I touch you?”
His voice was confident, yet needy as your eyelids fluttered open to briefly stare at him.
You nodded with a fucked-out, relaxed expression. Something that made Harry smirk as his hand snuck beneath the top layer of fabric that separated his hand from your thin panties.
You let out a wince, gnawing deeper into your finger as he pressed into your cloth-covered cunt.
“Poor thing, you must’ve been having some good mental images to be this drenched.”
His taunting only intensified your need for him –thankfully, he must’ve been able to read your mind as he began moving his pointer and middle fingers in a circular motion directly over your clit.
You whined, but it was much too loud for the current predicament, resulting in Harry stopping his hand movement altogether.
He breathed a “shhh” in your ear, which was soothing and also served as a reminder that getting caught was not an option.
"Keep quiet or I stop", he whispered with the picture-perfect combination of possessive and relaxed.
You obeyed, making Harry's hand pick up where it left off.
A gratified sigh left your lips, along with a hiss of air.
“Yeah, right there?” he mumbled in your ear, sending you nodding frantically alongside a “fuck” as his hand seemed to be applying more and more pressure with each graze of his fingertips.
The immense amount of friction his fingers were able to create over your panties had your body subconsciously leaning back and to the side, moving further into Harry until your shoulder was directly leaning on him for support to keep yourself afloat.
"Yeah relax. Just like that", he breathed in your ear as his fingers teasingly moved along the side seam of your panties that belonged to the specific piece of cloth that covered your cunt.
"Can I slip these to the side? Feel how wet you are?", his voice lingered with a remnant of husk in your ear.
"Mhm", you hummed at his teasing movements that didn't hesitate once given the full consenting package.
Harry's middle finger dipped below the fabric, a singular digit gliding slowly, teasingly along your slit that was already leaking with an amount of arousal that you felt was borderline embarrassing.
He groaned quietly as your hips dared to squirm under his ministrations, yet remained still in fear he would stop - the very last thing you wanted him to do.
For a beat, his finger merely glided along your slick lower lips, avoiding the very sensitive blossoming bud he knew lay beyond the barrier of skin, yet teasingly avoided.
"Harry", you breathe his name quietly for the first time, nearly making him give in to touch you where you wanted. However, his mission to milk this sexual interaction as much as possible weighed much more heavily in his decision.
"Hmm?", his voice was an erotic hum behind smirking lips and eyes that peered down at you. He monitored the way your eyes twitched behind your closed lids each time he dragged his finger upward, moving tantalizingly slow in the direction of your puffy clit, yet not reaching the destination just yet.
"I want it."
Harry smirked, "Want what?"
You let out a whine, forcing Harry to stop his teasing and instead cup your bare sex completely in the palm of his hand.
"Keep. Quiet.", he spoke straight in your ear; you nodded quickly for way longer than needed, but the last thing you wanted was for him to stop.
"Sorry, please don't stop."
"Thought so", he smirked just before dipping two of his fingers beyond the threshold of your slit and onto your absolutely drenched core that felt as if it would explode just from his minor touch.
You sucked in a breath, making sure to keep quiet in the process.
"Good job, keep quiet."
The rough command of his voice had your legs shaking, not to mention the way one of his single finger tips dragged upwards from your wet hole to your clit.
Your teeth dug desperately deep into your bottom lip, trying to suppress the noises you were so needily accustomed to making during sexual encounters that go above and beyond your expectations-and Harry can tell.
It gets him off even more—makes his cock that much harder as he watches you struggle underneath his circular movements that have made way to your clit. So needy and so, so warm under his touch, he can't help but imagine what it would feel like on his tongue whilst flicking it back and forward as your juices spilled down the corners of his mouth.
At this moment, he wishes he weren't locked in this steel cage of transportation so he could properly give you what you oh so clearly deserved.
A right and proper fucking would do him some good, and to have you being the one he'd be thrusting himself in and out of would make it that much more ideal.
But this would do for now. Not like he had a choice.
"Fuck", you whimpered so quietly as you dug your teeth still in your teeth. Harry, who is quite literally pressed against the edge of your shoulder hardly hears it.
"You're doing so fucking good", he husks in your ear with a voice that could only be described as a roughness comparable to sandpaper. His lips pressed to your neck for a moment-a much too short moment, but again, either of you were unfortunately left with the option of having to be sneaky over giving into the greedy needs of lust.
His two fingers that were still tantalizingly revolving around your swollen bud at a slow pace hit every single nerve within you as your hips begin to grind forward on nothing at all. Desperation very clearly getting the best of you, which made Harry let out a quiet, dark chuckle.
Your cunt is-quite literally-pulsing around air as Harry picks up his ministrations, now utilizing an insane amount of power and pressure as he presses down harder and moves his fingers quicker.
"You're so fucking wet, i'd be shocked if everyone can't hear how much you're dripping right now."
And you know he's right. As his fingers got more pleasingly and aggressively pleasurable, you could feel wetness continuing to run along your cunt. The faint noise of your arousal is insanely audible as four of his fingers begin furiously rubbing against your pussy with a flat hand.
You'd fear everyone on the plane could hear it, that is, if you even bothered to care, because at this very moment, you couldn't care less.
"Hear how good I make you feel?", Harry grits with his lips brushing your earlobe as his hand remains relentless, rubbing your clit back and forth with an insane amount of force that has you gripping the armrests of your seat.
You chant a low hummed 'mmmm' sound over and over that has a pride-filled smile latching onto Harry's smirk.
"'M gonna cum—oh, fuck", Your swear at the end comes out at a much louder volume as Harry dips one of his fingers inside of your pussy, which he has a hunch is the prettiest shade of pink he could ever fathom.
Remaining true to his promise, his hand ceases all movement, instead hovering over your pussy that is still desperately clenching as it begs to be touched until it's devouring an explosive release.
"No, no, no. I'm sorry", you say with a flushed face and hair that now sticks to your hairline.
Harry wants to keep a stern face and show that he's disappointed in you, but the way you immediately apologize at the pause of his hand has him snickering into the crook of your neck. Severally amused by your desperation to come by the touch of his digits and palm.
"If you're sorry, then stop doing it", he says through near clenched teeth, his mouth running along the skin of your neck with each word he says.
You nod-frantic and begging. Harry decides he will allow that as an appropriate enough answer.
Harshly, his hand comes down against your pussy three times in a gentle slap until his finger dips inside of you again, relentlessly fucking into you at an angle that has your hips stuttering and toes curling inside of your shoes.
"Want another?"
"Obviously", you breathily reply and let out a whine that is quiet and approving according to Harry's standards.
"Got a mouth on you, huh? Bet that mouth can do all sorts of things."
Though he would usually prefer to drag this interaction out further and edge you until your legs were shaking and your clit was near numbness, he knew the close confines of the plan wouldn't allow him to tease you in the way he truly wanted, should either of you be tucked away in his flat and stripped entirely of clothing.
Harry's second finger joins his first, twisting the combined digits even deeper up inside you, making you sit up a little straighter with tightly closed eyes as you grip the armrests until you're sure there are moon-shaped marks permanently sketched into the faux leather.
Instinctually, you spread your legs wider, making Harry bite his lip as he looked down at you, utterly flushed and consumed.
His fingers pump and pump and pump inside of you until eventually curling upwards, fingertips rubbing along the soft patch inside of you that has stars blurring underneath your closed eyes.
"Make a mess on my fingers. C'mon." Harry's words are half demand and half groan as he speaks them into your hair that's lazily tousled around your face.
You didn't think it was possible for the euphoric waves of pleasure to get any better, but then you feel his palm bumping into your clit with every upward thrust of his fingers inside you, making you grip even harder with your tooth on the skin of your finger as it, no doubt, peels layers of skin off your bottom lip.
"Please don't stop", you beg, letting out silent gasps with an open mouth for him, and Harry keeps that promise, never slowing down or speeding up. Keeping him exactly where you need him.
The time span is short between this teetering on the edge feeling and your orgasm punching you in the face.
You knew you couldn't keep quiet even if your life depended on it - you didn't trust yourself. Instead, you pressed your palm to your mouth to create a barrier of sound as your hips desperately moved along with Harry's fingers and palm.
Riding out your orgasm in utter silence was one of the harder challenges you'd been handed, yet you were forced to do so whether you wanted to or not. Not that you were complaining, especially when the experience was happening in a taboo fashion, paired with an extremely attractive man.
Eventually, your breathing settled as the pleasure dwindled from intense to a bearable, quaint hum.
A warm chuckle resounded from a slightly higher elevation.
Your eyes moved upwards to find Harry staring down at you, concentrated, amused, and utterly infatuated by you.
"What?", you asked with a face that quickly felt a wave of warmth.
"You're really going to ask me what's amusing me right now?" His accent is much thicker when whispered directly into the top of your head, strands of your hair gently tickling the apple of his cheeks.
Your smile grew wider, though your teeth were still concealed as your gaze moved down to your lap. Somehow finding the cheap fabric of the blanket that covered your and his sins was awfully distracting.
"Was that okay?" His voice breathed into the side of your head this time, eerily close to the shell of your ear.
"Yeah. More than okay if I'm being honest", you chuckled, moving your gaze back up to his sultry pupils.
The final straw in the interaction between you and this new acquaintance was his eyes grazing your face as if he were being fed by the way your nose sat on your face and the shape of your lips and eyes. His top teeth dug into his lower lip, as if he were fighting a temptation.
Unluckily for both of you, a flight attendant seemed to be making the rounds as the lights slightly grew brighter and brighter, until they reached their default setting.
You sat up straight, as did Harry. And then your time together seemed to morph into you ensuring your carry-on was filled with everything you'd packed in preparation, including that book you had good intentions of diving into, yet something, or rather someone, seemed to occupy that attention instead.
It wasn't long until the plane had come to a pressured landing, thus enabling each of the riders to exit the plane efficiently with a bag in hand.
"Hey."
Your neck jerked up from your previous position of peering down at your phone at the sound of his voice.
"It was uh-nice to meet you. Definitely a unique trip on my end."
You let out a breathy chuckle through your nose and nodded. "For me as well, for sure. Thank you?"
"You're welcome?", Harry pinched his eyes, mimicking your question-marked tone.
You followed behind Harry through the slender aisle until your shoes met the rubber ground of the jetway. It was silent, but nothing uncomfortable as you walked in parallel with him until the insanely atrocious fluorescent lighting of the airport came closer and closer.
"Maybe I'll see you in another life or something?" Harry looked at you as he placed his over-the-ear headphones on the top of his head, one ear already being covered by the ear cup.
You felt only a smidge of disappointment that it didn't seem as though Harry would type his number in your phone or request yours, but what were the odds of anything other than what had already occurred happening between you both when you barely knew each other?
"Yeah, we'll see. Safe travels," you waved him off, and as did he, as his back turned to you and walked with an easy-going swagger down the main hall of the airport.
______________
The cab to the hotel was fueled by dissociation at its absolute worst. You could hardly focus on anything, not even the gorgeous surroundings painted outside the window of the moving vehicle. Everything was a blur-and all because of this stranger on the plane.
It was a casual, temporary interaction- a transaction if you will-yet it was stuck like a wad of gum with the imprint of a shoe decorating its pink hue as it was stamped against dark pavement.
Eventually, your much-overpriced Uber dropped you off in the hotel that you'd only had the pleasure of viewing via your phone screen. Now, with it sat in your physical vision-the rose bushes, European balconies lined with iron wrought railing; your thoughts were pulled away from the man from the plane.
Your room boasted a well-kept, beautiful garden view that you were anxious to get an eyeful of as you pressed your designated floor's button.
Impatiently, your foot tapped on the ground as your hand rested on the handle of your rolling luggage. And when that glorious 'ding' of a noise resounded, your feet moved quicker than your brain could, not even processing the person who just so happened to be aiming to walk into the elevator at the same time you were practically speed walking out.
"I'm so sorry-oh my god", you said mortified-embarassed even-by your lack of spatial awareness at the time.
However, that humiliation soon subsided once you got a proper look at the shoulder you'd not so kindly ran into.
"Are you following me now?"
The voice was familiar-a little too familiar. Familiar enough that you could've sworn you'd heard it maybe an hour ago…in the airport…or whispering filthy things in your ear.
Your brain doesn't fully register the voice, only when your eyes lay on his smirking figure, who's leaning on the wall with arms crossed in front of his chest, do you properly take him in with wide-eyed disbelief.
"When I said maybe I'll see you around, I didn't quite have this in mind", Harry spoke, amused and much too smooth for the amount of shock you were in right now.
"What are the odds?", you breathe, trying your best to mimic his tone that's oh so cool, calm, and collected; everything that you are absolutely not at the moment. "Are you staying in this hotel too?"
A playfully boyish grin smothered that obscenely rouge pout of his as he nodded. "Must be fate, I guess."
prompt: harry thought he had better control over his emotions.
word count: 6k
warnings: angst, harry is not niceee (to anyone but YN), infertility
author's note: please excuse my dumb interview questions, I don't know anything about businesses 🫠🫠
author's note [2]:
I upload 3x weekly with two uploads ranging usually from 6k-10k and one mini that usually is around 3-6k
I have a schedule that patreons voted on so that you get the most of what you want and know what to expect.
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Harry has her sat up on the counter, kissing her quiet when she whines about how cold the marble is against her bum, and one hand is holding the bunched fabric of her expensive dress up around her hips, and the other is wedged between them.
YN has her legs wrapped around his waist, surely her heels were painfully digging into his back harshly but he didn’t complain.
He was too focused on the way he was filling her up and he was absolutely going way too slow for this to be considered a quickie.
YN had her hand cupped around his neck, fingernails digging in as a light flush covered her skin, glowing in the dim light because he got her to come with the thumb that was pressed tight up against her clit, rubbing rough circles with his knuckle pinning back her hood.
Harry’s so honed in, his thought process nothing but primal caveman of ‘mine’ that he has no wherewithal of anything else that was going on around them, the world could be ending for all he knew, and he’d be too focused on this.
Harry’s barely picking up the pace as he starts to chase the arousal that was building heavy and unavoidable in his belly.
When YN’s voice, breathless, still recovering from her orgasm, manages out, “Ha-baby.”
“Yeah,” He rumbles in reply, his muscles starting to tense up as he huffs out an agreeable, “S’good, yeah.”
YN moves her hand to tug at the hair at the nape of his neck, getting distracted for a moment herself when he hits her spot head on, and he hisses when she squeezes snug around, “It’s good but…the announcement.”
Harry finally focuses on the voice booming over the speaker, encouraging people to get back to their seats in the next five minutes so that Harry can take the stage.
“Giving you a baby s’more important to me,” Harry mumbles stubbornly but he does pick up his pace.
He hated being rushed which he shouldn’t complain about because he knew they had a time crunch but the idea of not satiating that jealously, that possessiveness seemed worse than this.
Despite herself, even though she had tried to focus him, YN gasps out, seeming like she’s surprising herself, “I can…I can again.”
Harry moves his thumb back to her bud from where it was resting at the crease of her hip to give her a break.
The same motions that she likes, the easy way to get her there, and when she squeezes around him as her second orgasm hits.
Harry follows right afterwards, hips stuttering as he presses in, in, in, and buries himself there while they both come down.
-
Harry attempts to help her clean up as he grabs the wet towelettes from the counter and starts dabbing gently between her thighs, careful because she gets so sensitive after she comes.
His focus entirely on her as if there wasn’t an entire event he was hosting on the other side of these walls, he has to hush her once when she whines about being too rough (he wasn’t, she just gets whiny after).
His name is announced over the speakers, and it is loud enough that it echoes through the hallway and into the bathroom.
Harry barely reacts and he doesn’t stop helping her clean up, his attention doesn’t shift because in his mind, this comes first.
It’s much more important to him that his wife was taken care of first.
He leans in slightly, still trying to wipe her off, his hand on her hip to keep her steady.
YN lets out a breathy laugh, still coming down from her nearly consecutive orgasms, she bats his hands away when he keeps trying, shaking her head at him.
“Go, H,” She tells him, there’s an eyeroll in her tone because she knows how stubborn he is, how she doesn’t always understand how he can be comfortable having a room of hundreds of people wait on him but still smiling as she nudges him back slightly, “You’re supposed to be up on stage. Get your ass out there.”
Harry exhales through his nose, clearly not pleased with the timing (even though he knew this was going to happen, it still annoyed the fuck out of him) as his jaw tightens for a moment.
His hands lingering at her waist because he doesn’t want to let go of her or leave this moment quite yet.
“Shouldn’t be rushing out like this,” He mutters lowly, more to himself than to her because he doesn’t feel like its proper treatment of the situation, of what they just shared or the intimacy of it.
“You act like it’s a random hook-up,” YN teases him, her hands coming to fix the messed up collar of his sleeve, smoothing it out, “You can’t hit it and quit it when you’re married. You stuck with me.”
He steps back, dragging a hand through his hair which probably only makes it more messy before yanking his pants up properly and adjusting himself, straightening his shirt and jacket to be presentable again.
Before he turns to leave, he leans in again, this time slower, pressing a softer, more sweet kiss to her lips.
“Good luck,” YN murmurs against his mouth when he pulls back, there’s a smile there because she can tell he's grumpy and sometimes, unlike anyone else in the world, she thinks when he’s grumpy he’s endearing which he doesn’t quite understand.
He finally turns and pushes the door open, stepping back into the hallway and toward the stage, and he doesn’t care how it looks, doesn’t care that he’s a half-minute late walking up to the podium, doesn’t care if people are whispering.
He steps up to the podium and adjusts the microphone but his gaze is already drifting back towards where their table was, and it takes an extra moment but he spots her as she starts walking back to her seat, put together again.
He watches as she makes her way back through the room, her expression relaxed as she returns to the table like nothing out of the ordinary has happened.
And then he sees Theo pull her chair out for her.
Whatever Harry had been hoping to work out of his system just minutes ago settles right back into his chest like it had never left.
It doesn’t matter that he just had her, it doesn't matter that his hands were on her, that she had been snug around him, that he got to claim her in every single way that he could as her husband.
It doesn’t fucking matter.
The feeling is still there.
Harry straightens slightly at the podium, rolling and broadening his shoulders as he begins his speech, his voice smooth and professional as every word comes out precise and as he intended.
Public speaking has never been something he struggles with, especially when he’s talking about his own company, his own success, and there’s no better person who could speak on those topics than him.
To everyone watching, it is a great, nearly perfect presentation but behind it, his focus continues to waver, his gaze pulling back to the table often, he can help but find himself tracking the interactions.
The way Theo leans slightly closer when he speaks because the room is quiet elsewise, the way YN responds even if she doesn’t even look at him but simply replies to whatever he’s saying because it’s casual.
When Harry finishes, the room erupts into applause, the crowd of employees and partners all giving him a standing ovation that fills the space with loud whistles, clapping, and it’s super overstimulating.
He doesn’t smile, doesn’t wave, all he does is gives a brief, acknowledging nod, and then he walks off the stage.
-
Numerous people stopped him on the way back to the table because it was going to be their only opportunity to chat with him, they all had been waiting for an opportunity to corner him all night and this was finally it.
So many hands reach out to shake his, voices overlap as they try to grab his attention by calling his name, questions about everything under the sun, and Harry handles it the way he always does.
He gives every person as little time as possible without coming off like a complete asshole, he’ll answer a question before turning to the next person, acknowledge someone else before moving on but there is an impatience in him now.
All he wants to do is get back to the table.
And it has nothing to do with mistrust.
Harry trusts YN completely, without hesitation, without question in his mind, body, and soul, in a way that has never wavered since they became a couple.
This is not about her.
It is about him, about something uncomfortable and unfamiliar that has been itching under his skin all night.
Something he has never had to address in the past because he never had to feel jealous like this before because he never cared about anyone enough to want to have that claim to them.
Now that he does, he finds himself reacting in ways that aren’t his normal behahvior.
By the time he finally makes it back to the table, his patience is nearly fucking gone, his shoulders tense from having to have at least twenty meaningless conversations that were a waste of time that Harry would never get back in his life.
Theo and YN are already having a conversation after the speech is over.
The moment YN spots him, she breaks off mid-sentence without a second thought to Theo, her attention shifting to him immediately as she stands, her expression bright and happy as she moves toward him.
“Harry—” She starts, clearly about to congratulate him by the lift of her tone, the smile that was on her lips but he doesn’t let her.
His hand comes up to her jaw the second she’s close enough, his fingers firm where they cup her cheek as he pulls her into him and kisses her.
The kiss isn’t inappropriate.
Not really.
But it’s just a fraction too long compared to their normal PDA.
His hand doesn’t drop immediately when he pulls back from the kiss, his thumb brushing once along her cheek as his gaze flicks past her shoulder toward Theo.
“So proud of you, always,” She says softly, interrupting tension she isn’t even noticing because she’s literally beaming, her tone warm and so genuine as she puts her hand up on his chest, over his heart.
Harry leans in and kisses her again because there is still something sitting under his skin that hasn’t chilled out, his hand still firm at her jaw as he holds her there just a second longer than necessary, the kiss turning into something more than it needs to be in a room like this.
She laughs softly into it, a little surprised but still completely receptive, her fingers tightening slightly against his shirt as she tilts her head to meet him.
As he ends the kiss, his attention shifts back to Theo, and the look on his face is what sets Harry off.
His eyebrows are raised slightly, his expression reads as amused like he just watched something entertaining or adorable, like he has any place reacting to it at all, and Harry doesn’t care if it’s meant as a joke or not because he doesn’t fucking like it.
The irritation spikes fast and sharp, and this time he doesn’t stop it.
“Am I not allowed to kiss my wife?” Harry says, his tone flat to not give away his anger, it seems like an innocent enough jest but if Theo was smart, he would catch the undertone of it.
YN’s head turns immediately, her brows pulling together as she looks between the two of them, trying to figure out if Harry is serious or if this is him just teasing because when he did, it was still dry.
Theo clearly assumes it’s a joke.
Of course he does because why would he assume that Harry is struggling with childish jealousy over a simple interaction?
He leans back slightly in his chair, lifting his hands in mock surrender with a grin as if they’re friends who have a back and forth.
And that only makes it way fucking worse because he’s comfortable.
He’s a fucking employee.
“Theo, jealous, are we?” She teases, her tone light, playful because Theo handles it well, she assumes it’s also a joke which Harry doesn’t feel anything negative towards her because she would expect better of her husband.
“More than you know,” Theo replies without missing a beat, his smile turning a wistful as he throws the comment back at her.
YN laughs loudly at his response, he’s clearly missing some type of inside joke between the two of them because he feels out of the loop, not on purpose, normally it wouldn’t bother him.
Harry feels his jaw lock hard enough that it almost hurts.
It’s the fact that Theo feels comfortable enough to joke like that in front of him, like he isn’t the one who decides whether Theo has a future in this company or not.
He feels stupid for all of the drama he’s creating.
He knows this is immature, knows that he’s reacting like some insecure asshole over nothing but knowing that doesn’t make it go away.
It just makes him more irritated because now he’s dealing with Theo and himself.
And right now, he doesn’t have the patience for either.
He exhales slowly through his nose with a forced smile, his posture staying rigid as he forces himself to stand there and not say something worse, not escalate it further.
They are not even flirting.
If they were, if there was something inappropriate happening right in front of him then at least his reaction would make sense but there isn’t.
Harry cannot even remember why they broke up, cannot recall YN ever speaking about it in any real detail, and he doesn’t like the unknown of that.
He knows that he wants YN to have friends, that at his core he has never cared about something as insignificant as the gender of the people she calls her friends because he is not insecure in their marriage, not in the way they chose each other, not in what they have built together.
That has never been the issue.
The problem is something else entirely.
It is the way he struggles with sharing what he views as his, a possessive instinct that he is fully aware is not always fair, not always reasonable but there regardless.
And right now, it is louder than it has ever been.
He knows exactly where this is headed if he lets it continue.
His filter is already slipping and his patience is already thin.
So the decision happens quickly, he wants to go home, and remove himself from the situation completely.
-
YN didn't know.
How could he expect her to pick up on his jealousy when there was no logical reason for it?
YN was usually so perceptive, so in tune to his moods that she could usually sense his stress before he even recognized it in himself.
"You were incredible tonight," She says and there's so much pride in her voice, "Your speech was perfect.”
"It went alright," Harry says, his voice more clipped than he wants it to because he didn’t want to take this out on YN.
"Alright?" YN laughs, the sound soft and teasing, "It was amazing. I can’t believe you’re my husband.”
Harry swallows, guilt starting to seep in because he doesn’t deserve any praise right now, not for his thoughts, "You don't have to—"
YN interrupts gently. "I'm so proud of you. You deserve to feel good about tonight."
But he doesn't feel good.
He feels like a miserable prick, sitting here while his wife…his kind, supportive, loving wife praises him with such genuine pride, completely unaware that he's been stewing in irrational jealousy all fucking night.
He reaches over, placing his hand on her upper thigh, sneaking up under the hem of her dress where the fabric had bunched up when she sat down, and squeezes as a silent ‘thank you’ for her words.
YN's hand immediately covers his, she begins toying with his wedding band as she always liked to do.
She moved it on his finger, ran her fingers over the smooth metal of it in a way she has when she's comfortable and feeling calm.
He loves her so fucking much.
Then she softens even more (if that’s even possible), "I wonder if this time was it."
"What's that, m'heart?" Harry murmurs, refocusing his attention now, pulling himself out of the spiral he's been trapped in all evening.
He glances over at her and what he sees makes his chest ache a little.
She's biting at the corner of her lip, a small but sad smile there as she thinks whatever through, processing and deciding how to say it.
She doesn't answer right away which Harry knows that means whatever she is going to say is going to hold emotional weight.
YN takes a moment, her fingers tightening around his hand before she guides it from her thigh, lifting it with both of hers, and places it on her lower belly.
"I wonder if this is the time," YN repeats softly, with a hopefulness that hurts, "If we get our baby this time.”
She guides his palm to spread flat against her, her own hand pressing his down as if she's imagining a round belly there.
Her eyes close briefly and Harry can see the flutter of her eyelashes as she holds back tears, the way her brow furrows as she tries to think through her emotion, and how her bottom lip quivers.
And god, that fucking breaks his heart because he could buy her nearly anything else on this earth.
Jewelry, cars, houses, vacations, whatever material thing she might want but he can't make this happen.
It breaks his heart because this isn't the first time she's said it.
It's something that YN has started doing in the past few months, always after they've tried during her peak ovulation days.
She puts it out there, "I wonder if this time was it."
And then, a week or two later, come the negative pregnancy tests.
The single line instead of two.
The disappointment that she tries to hide but that he sees anyway in the way her shoulders drop, in the extra moment she takes in the bathroom before emerging with a too-bright smile.
The jealousy, all of it, every petty, irrational bit of it, evaporates like steam.
The irrational possessiveness that had consumed Harry for hours is so fucking stupid, so embarrassingly small compared to this.
It's so much more important that he's present for his wife right now.
He moves his thumb back and forth over her belly in a soothing motion,"And if it isn't, we won't stop tryin' until I can give you what you want, dove. What we both want."
-
Harry's still half-asleep when YN pads into the shower, and he automatically reaches for her, pulling her under the spray with him, and positions her in front of him, her back to his chest, and letting her get the most of the spray.
He reaches for her shampoo and works it between his palms until it foams even though she normally washes his first, he wanted to take care of her this morning though she didn’t know what had gone on in his mind.
YN tips her head back automatically, welcoming it easily, and Harry begins working the soap through her hair, his fingers sliding through the wet strands.
"What has you up so early? Though you were going to sleep in, baby," He asks, his voice still rough with sleep because he’d skipped his workout, he had slept in because work had been kicking his ass, and he couldn’t find any interest in working out in his exhaustion.
He digs his nails lightly into her scalp, the way he knows she likes, and the mewl that escapes her is instant as she melts back against him, her body melting under his hands.
"S’good," YN hums, her eyes fluttering closed, head tilting back further to give him more to massage, greedy.
"Are you going to stay up or did you just want a chance to see my cock before you go back to bed?” He murmurs even though his voice was soft, his words were crude, and somehow still endearing.
YN gives him the appropriate reaction, a pretty giggle and she wiggles her bum back on him before she actually answers, " Wanted to see your cock and Theo invited me to morning yoga with Casey. I'm going to do that and then I have two meetings. One for the scholarship charity and another for the one I want to get up and running for single mums."
That bubbling feeling of jealousy that he'd thought he'd put to rest, that he'd told himself he'd let go of in the car, and he wasn’t going to revisit comes roaring back to life without his permission.
Theo invited her to yoga.
His fucking employee invited his wife to yoga.
"Theo invited you," Harry repeats, his voice carefully neutral to not give anything away about it, didn’t want YN to think he had a problem with her going because it wasn’t that, he knows she loves yoga and doesn’t do it enough.
YN doesn't seem to notice, still relaxed against him, still enjoying his attention as he starts to wash it out, "Mmhmm. He said Casey's been wanting to try this new instructor at that studio in Chelsea and he remembered I love yoga.”
“Sounds like fun,” Harry replies with as much realness as he can because it’s not really about jealousy at this point, it’s the fact that he feels like his employee is crossing boundaries.
Or maybe that’s just what he needs to keep telling himself.
-
Harry is sat behind his desk when Dorothy knocks lightly before opening the door to let Theo in then closing it behind him with a gentle click.
Theo's dressed in a nice suit, carrying a leather briefcase that looks new, and there's a smile on his face.
And that stupid smile, that easy, comfortable, chipper fucking smile makes his teeth itch.
"Hi, it's great to see—" Theo begins, his voice friendly and ready to make a good impression.
Harry cuts him off with a sharp gesture toward the chair across from his desk, not matching the warmth whatsoever, "Sit."
Theo's smile falters slightly, confusion flickering across his features but he moves to the chair, setting his briefcase down carefully beside it, and he's barely sat down when Harry speaks again.
"Before we get started," Harry says, his voice flat and harsh, "I'm making it crystal fucking clear right now that you're not getting any type of special treatment because of your connection to my wife."
Harry watches Theo's face carefully to see if it gets any reaction, watches the way his eyebrows rise in surprise before furrowing, the confusion deepens, "Sir, I would never expec—"
"Let's get started," Harry doesn't let him finish, doesn't give him the opportunity of completing a single sentence, "I don't have time for bullshitting."
Theo's mouth closes at Harry’s abruptness, there's a flicker of something in his eyes.
It may be hurt or frustration but he nods either way, straightening in his chair, trying to maintain his professional composure despite what’s being thrown at him.
Harry leans back in his chair, casual, relaxed but there's nothing relaxed about the way he's looking at Theo.
"You are a manager of a small branch of your department currently," Harry asks, his tone flat and bored, "How will you pivot when you're managing an multiple departments with nearly twelve times the staff?"
It's an easy enough question, it wouldn't be easy for someone who didn't know the field but Harry doubts Theo will struggle with the answer.
Theo clears his throat, shifting in his seat as he tries to steady himself, “Well, currently I manage a team of thirty, and my approach has been to—”
“Currently,” Harry cuts in, not raising his voice but it’s not friendly, it is enough that the word alone is enough to stop Theo mid-sentence, “I didn’t ask about your current responsibilities. I asked about how you will adjust, not how you manage now. You can clearly do the job you’re working now so answer the question I actually asked.”
Theo pauses briefly but he recovers quickly and instead gives Harry exactly what he is asking for.
And he does it well, he doesn’t fumble through it or default to something generic.
Harry doesn’t give him any reaction or response at first.
“What are your thoughts on the growth and improvement financial model now compared to the one that was in place when I first built the company?” Harry asks next but the question is purposefully more difficult but not impossible.
He breaks it down in a way that shows he has studied the company beyond surface level, that he understands how it began, and where it’s at now.
It is a strong answer because Theo is doing exactly what he should be doing, and showing the kind of skills that would normally make Harry interested, engaged, the way it challenged him in the first interview.
“Alright,” He says, his tone controlled, almost casual but there is something underneath it that signals a shift before the question even comes, “Walk me through how you'd handle a complete restructure of the European sector if we lost our primary vendor overnight."
The question hangs in the air, unreasonable and way too fucking specific and completely outside the range of anything Theo would need to know off the top of their head.
Harry knows this, it’s a question he wouldn’t normally ask.
Theo blinks, clearly taken aback, and he starts to shuffle through the papers he brought with him and says after a moment, his voice hesitant, "I don't think that was on the prep sheet that HR gave me."
"Those are the only things you decided to study?" Harry asked and there's clear judgement in his voice now.
"I prepared thoroughly for the interview based on the materials provided," Theo says, his tone was still impressively professional but there was a new hint of defensiveness creeping in that Harry didn’t miss, "The question you just asked requires access to information I don't currently have access to in my role."
Harry doesn't acknowledge that he was one hundred percent right.
Instead, he leans forward slightly, resting his forearms on the desk, and asks another question, this one even more specific, even more impossible.
“What do you think increased our sales in Q3 in South East Asia? Do you think it was a fluke, their recession or something that specifically crafted by the work out team had been working on in the region for the last five years? Why all of a sudden would this have occured? How would you continue to support this financial influx without fumbling it?"
"Sir," Theo says slowly, carefully because it’s clear he is in over his head with Harry, that he may have been prepared for the questions but not the person asking them, "I mean no disrespect but I feel like your goal is for me to fail this interview."
Harry's expression doesn't change.
"These are not anywhere close to the prep questions provided," Theo continues and he’s letting slight frustration show, "And I would need to do very specific research to have those answers. Which I can do if I have time to prepare."
Harry leans back in his chair, expression giving away nothing like his choice wasn’t made before Theo even stepped foot in here, his face remaining completely neutral.
“That won’t be necessary,” Harry says, his tone bored and unbothered though there is a decisiveness to it that leaves no space for argument, “I think the role that you are in currently is the best fit for you and I’ll be exploring other options to fill this role.”
He does not expand on it or offer clarification.
“Am I not getting the job because YN told you that I’m—” Theo starts, his tone sharper now, his anger rising.
Harry lifts his hand without breaking eye contact, the gesture dismissive as he cuts him off before he can finish, making it clear that whatever Theo is about to say is not something he is willing to discuss further.
“That’s all, Theo, thanks for coming in,” Harry says in a way that doesn’t seem appreciative at all.
Theo hesitates for a fraction of a second, clearly deciding whether he should push back against the treatment or challenge the outcome he just received but whatever he reads in Harry’s expression makes him decide against either.
He stands instead, the movement abrupt as his chair clanks behind him, his frustration visible in the way he gathers his things with less care than before, and he doesn’t say anything else to Harry.
The door closes behind him with more force than necessary.
Theo had been his best candidate by a far and under any other circumstances that would have been enough for Harry to hire him today.
The old version of Harry wouldn’t have felt guilt for a minute.
He most likely wouldn’t now either but he knows that this would be acceptable behavior by YN’s standard, and he instantly regrets letting his emotions get the best of him.
YN doesn’t ask about the interview, which is the only reason he is able to not be held accountable because he does not have an answer that would hold up if she asked him about it, and he is aware that is a real possibility of still happening even if it didn’t happen quite yet.
When he leaves for Australia the next day on a four day long work trip, he tells himself that the distance will help, that the space will give him enough time to get the fuck over all these feelings, and the guilt.
Even though he knows that the problem isn’t going to disappear just because he didn’t hire him.
-
YN has been texting Theo since Monday after yoga.
At first, it was just a thank you.
YN:Had such a great time this morning! We need to do that again soon.
Theo responded immediately.
THEO: Anytime. You know I'm always down for yoga and overpriced smoothies!!!
And then, around two in the afternoon, the messages just... stopped.
YN had sent him a link to an article about a new pottery studio she was thought would be fun for him and Casey.
No response.
She'd asked if he wanted to grab coffee later in the week.
Nothing.
By Tuesday, she was rereading their conversation, trying to figure out what she'd said wrong, trying to recount what happened at yoga that she did.
By Wednesday, she was genuinely worried.
And by Thursday morning, when her phone finally buzzed with Theo's name on the screen, it didn’t make her feel much better.
THEO: Can we meet for dinner tonight? I need to talk to you about something.
The message sits in her stomach all day, a massive knot of anxiety that gets worse with every passing hour.
-
Theo, already seated in the back of the small italian restaurant, his shoulders tense which was unlike him, and when he looks up to see YN, his smile is wrong.
It doesn't reach his eyes which makes her chest tighten with dread.
"Hey," She says hesitantly, sliding into the chair across from him.
"Hey," Theo replies and even that single word feels off.
"I've been wracking my brain to figure out what I did or said to hurt you, to make you need space," YN blurts out before she's even fully sat, the words tumbling over each other in her rush to get them out, "I am so sorry, Theo. It was never my intention to—"
"No, no," Theo cuts her off, shaking his head quickly, and there's something that soften slightly in his expression, "It's not anything you've done, YN. I'm sorry. I just - I needed time to process and to figure out how to talk to you about this without offending you. I'm worried if I bring up what's bothering me, it will make you upset with me."
"What is it about?" She asks, and her voice is barely above a whisper now.
Theo looks at her for a long moment, his expression conflicted, like he's still debating whether to say it at all.
Then he takes a breath, slow and deliberate, and says, "Your husband."
