#harrystylessmut

[ijustmissyouraccenths]

No Boats Involved (Raya Harry)

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After a brutal breakup, your influencer best friend hands you a Raya invite code as a distraction, and somehow you end up matching with the one person you never expected to see on a dating app.

word count: 8.5k

You are sitting on Camille’s kitchen counter while she rearranges a cluster of candles on her dining table, muttering to herself about lighting.

“Don’t move,” she says, angling her phone toward the window. “You’re accidentally in frame and it looks candid.”

“I refuse to be background texture in your oat milk sponsorship.”

“It’s not sponsored. It’s aspirational.”

You swing your legs idly and watch her fuss with the tripod. Camille has always been like this. Confident in a way that looks effortless but is actually engineered. She calls her job lifestyle content, but it’s really just her life filtered through better angles and cleaner fonts. A few years ago a video of her ranking iced coffees in the city blew up, and she never quite stepped out of the spotlight after that. Now brands send her candles and oversized blazers and she goes to events she claims she hates and somehow leaves with three new contacts and a story.

She stops recording and glances at you. “You look sad.”

“I am not sad.”

“You are aggressively neutral. Which is worse.”

You pull at the sleeve of your sweater. “It’s been three weeks.”

“Three weeks since the breakup,” she says, hopping onto the counter across from you. “And you are still defending a man who thought oat milk was a personality.”

You huff out a small laugh despite yourself. “He was not that bad.”

“He was that boring.”

The thing about Camille is that she could have said I told you so months ago. She saw the cracks before you did. Instead she let you figure it out, and now she is careful with you, even when she’s teasing.

“You need a distraction,” she says, softer now.

“I have work.”

“You write about city council meetings.”

“I like writing about city council meetings.”

“I know you do,” she says quickly. “I’m not diminishing your civic passion. I’m saying you deserve something that makes your stomach flip in a good way.”

You give her a look. “That sounds dangerous.”

She grins and reaches for her phone. “It is.”

You already know that expression. It’s the one she gets right before she convinces you to do something you swore you wouldn’t.

“Camille.”

“Raya.”

You laugh immediately. “Absolutely not.”

“Why not?”

“Because that is for models and DJs and men who own boats. I am a writer for an online newspaper. I am painfully normal.”

She slides off the counter and comes to stand in front of you, arms crossed. “First of all, you are not painfully normal. You are emotionally literate and hot. That’s a rare combination. Second, I have an invite code.”

“How do you just have an invite code?”

She shrugs. “It circulates.”

“That is not an answer.”

“One of the stylists I worked with last month had extras. Influencer privilege. It resets every so often.”

You stare at her. “Your life sounds fake.”

“And yet here I am, using it for good.”

She types something quickly and your phone buzzes in your hand.

“Camille.”

“Just download it. You don’t have to use it. Think of it as exposure therapy.”

“I do not need exposure therapy. I need to stop wanting to text my ex.”

“Exactly,” she says, like you just proved her point. “This is you moving forward without actually moving forward. Low stakes. No expectations.”

You look down at the string of letters and numbers on your screen. A code. A tiny door you did not ask for.

“You’re going to make fun of every man on there with me, aren’t you.”

“Respectfully,” she says. “Yes.”

You slide off the counter and open the app store before you can overthink it. Camille watches like she’s overseeing a soft launch.

When the app opens and asks for photos, you hesitate.

“Use the one from Emma’s birthday,” she says immediately.

“I look shiny.”

“You look dewy. Big difference.”

You scroll anyway, choosing three that feel honest. You laughing mid sentence. You walking down a street. You at your desk with coffee and a stack of papers.

It asks for your job.

You type: Writer, online newspaper. You pause, then add: Painfully normal.

Camille leans over your shoulder and smiles. “That’s charming.”

“It’s true.”

“It’s self aware. People love self aware.”

“I do not want people loving anything. I want them mildly intrigued at best.”

She nudges you. “You say that now.”

You finish setting it up. The profile exists. A version of you sitting in a digital room full of strangers.

“Now what,” you ask.

“Now nothing,” she says. “Close it. Let it breathe. You don’t have to dive in tonight.”

You study her for a second. “You’re being surprisingly chill about this.”

She softens. “I’m not trying to throw you into chaos. I just don’t want you shrinking.”

The words land heavier than the joke did.

You swallow and nod once. “Okay.”

That night, the app sits on your home screen. Small. Unassuming. You open it once, just to look. Profiles slide past. People with glossy photos and inside jokes in their bios. It feels like a room where everyone already knows each other.

You close it. You are not ready. The next day you don’t open it at all. Or the day after that. But you don’t delete it either. You don’t open the app again.

Not when you’re bored on the train. Not when you’re half tempted to text your ex and need a distraction. It just sits there, tucked between your news app and your notes, quietly existing.

A week passes.

Then Camille texts: Girls night. Emergency vibes. Bring pajamas.

You show up at her apartment with a tote bag and low expectations. She’s already in matching satin shorts she claims were gifted but absolutely bought herself. There’s a charcuterie board that looks suspiciously sponsored but isn’t, and a bottle of wine breathing on the counter.

“You look alive,” she says approvingly as you kick off your shoes.

“I showered.”

“Growth.”

You roll your eyes and accept the glass she hands you. The apartment smells like whatever expensive candle she’s currently pretending not to be emotionally attached to. Music plays softly in the background. It feels easy.

You talk about work first. You tell her about a piece you’re drafting and how your editor keeps asking for more bite. She tells you about a brand dinner where a micro celebrity tried to explain crypto to her for twenty minutes.

By the second glass of wine, you feel looser. Not reckless. Just less tight in your chest.

Camille studies you from across the couch. “Did you delete it?”

You know exactly what she means.

“No.”

Her eyes light up. “So you kept it.”

“That does not mean anything.”

“It means you’re curious.”

“It means I forgot.”

She gives you a look that says she does not believe you for a second.

“Open it.”

“Camille.”

“Open it. We’re in a safe environment. I will curate.”

“You are the least neutral curator alive.”

“Correct.”

You hesitate, then reach for your phone. The app opens faster than you expect, like it’s been waiting.

Profiles start sliding past. A director in Berlin. A DJ in Miami. A guy whose bio is just a single black square emoji.

Camille narrates like it’s a sport.

“Absolutely not.”

“He looks like he says ‘let’s circle back.’”

“Oh he owns a boat. You were right about the boats.”

You laugh more than you have in days. It feels harmless. Distant. These are just faces on a screen.

You swipe left. Left. Left. Then you pause.

Camille notices immediately. “What.”

“Nothing.”

“Show me.”

You turn the phone toward her.

The first photo is candid. Slightly blurry. Sunglasses. A half smile that feels familiar in a way your brain takes a second to process. The second is him on what looks like a boat, wind pushing his hair back. The third is simple. Black shirt. Direct eye contact with the camera.

There’s no over the top bio. Just his name. Harry. A few understated details. A song playing in the background of the profile that you recognize immediately.

Your stomach drops in a way that has nothing to do with wine.

Camille blinks. Then blinks again. “Is that…”

“Yes.”

She grabs your wrist. “Oh my god.”

“It’s fake.”

“It does not look fake.”

“It’s absolutely fake.”

The photos don’t look like press shots. They look like someone handed a friend a phone. The prompts are understated. Almost boring. Which somehow makes it worse.

Camille leans closer to the screen. “Location?”

You glance at the top. It lists New York, but there’s a small note about frequent travel.

Your heart is beating faster now, and you hate that it is.

“This is stupid,” you say, more to yourself than to her.

“Swipe right.”

“No.”

“Why not.”

“Because what if it matches.”

“That is the point of the app.”

“Camille.”

She softens, just slightly. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. But if you’re going to tell this story one day, you’re going to wish you swiped right.”

You stare at the screen. At the small, digital version of a man you have only ever seen on stages and magazine covers. It feels ridiculous. Unreal. He is just another profile. Just another person in a room full of people.

You swallow.

“This is insane.”

“I know,” she whispers, grinning.

You swipe right.

The screen barely has time to settle before it flashes.

It’s a match.

You and Camille freeze at the exact same time, staring at the glowing words like they might rearrange themselves into something more reasonable.

“No,” you say immediately.

Camille grabs your arm. “No way.”

The phone is still in your hand. Still warm. Still real.

You both scream. It’s not cute. It’s not controlled. It’s loud and sharp and slightly panicked. Camille knocks over her wine glass in the process and you fling the phone onto the couch like it just burned you.

“Oh my god,” she says, half laughing, half hyperventilating.

“This is not funny,” you say, backing away from the couch like the phone might start speaking.

“You matched with him.”

“It’s fake.”

“It literally says matched.”

“That does not mean anything. People hack things.”

She lunges for the phone. You lunge too. You both miss and it slides off the couch and lands face down on the rug.

You stare at it.

“Pick it up,” she whispers.

“You pick it up.”

“It’s your life.”

“It was your code.”

She laughs in this nervous, stressed out way that makes everything feel ten times more unhinged. “Okay. Okay. Breathe. This is fine. You’re fine.”

“I am not fine.”

She scoops up the phone and flips it over. Still there. His name at the top of the screen. The little notification bubble waiting.

“You have to message him,” she says.

You actually yell. “No.”

“Yes.”

“No. Absolutely not. I am not messaging him.”

“You cannot match with Harry Styles and then just sit there.”

“I can and I will.”

She shoves the phone toward you. “Say hi.”

“I don’t know how to say hi to that.”

“You say hi like you would to anyone else.”

“That is objectively untrue.”

You grab the phone from her and clutch it to your chest like you’re protecting it from her.

“What if it’s not him,” you say quickly. “What if it’s someone pretending to be him and I say something normal and they screenshot it and it’s humiliating.”

Camille squints at the profile again. “The photos look real. The prompts look real. It’s understated in a way that feels real.”

“That is not comforting.”

She tilts her head. “Do you want him to message first?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t control that.”

You glance down at the screen like it might betray you at any second. “This was supposed to be funny.”

“It is funny.”

“It is not funny. It’s deeply stressful.”

She grins despite herself. “You are glowing right now.”

“I am panicking.”

“Same,” she says brightly.

Your thumb hovers over the message bar. Blank. Waiting.

“Okay,” Camille says, suddenly serious. “If you don’t message him, you’re going to think about it all week. If you do message him, worst case scenario he doesn’t respond and we move on.”

“And best case.”

She smiles slowly. “We get a story.”

You look at the phone. At his name. At the tiny space where words are supposed to go.

You feel ridiculous. You feel curious. You feel a small flicker of something that does not feel like your ex.

“I hate you,” you tell her.

“I know,” she says sweetly.

Your thumb taps the keyboard. Then you panic and throw the phone back onto the couch again.

“No. I can’t.”

Camille bursts out laughing and dives for it before you can. “You are impossible.”

“Do not send anything,” you warn, scrambling after her.

“I won’t. I promise. I’m just looking.”

You both collapse onto the couch, shoulders pressed together, staring at the screen like it’s a live wire.

The message bar is still empty. Waiting. You stare at the blinking cursor like it’s personally judging you.

Camille is practically vibrating next to you.

“Okay,” she says carefully, like she’s negotiating with a wild animal. “Give me the phone.”

“No.”

“You are spiraling.”

“I am thinking.”

“You have been thinking for ten full minutes.”

You glance at the clock. She’s right. It has been ten full minutes of you typing something, deleting it, typing something else, deleting that too.

“What if I say something weird,” you say.

“You won’t.”

“What if I black out and accidentally propose.”

She snorts. “Then at least it would be memorable.”

You press your lips together and look back down at his name. It still feels surreal. Too big for the tiny screen.

“Okay,” you say slowly. “You can send it.”

Her eyes widen. “Really.”

“Yes. But nothing embarrassing. Nothing flirty. Nothing that sounds like I’ve ever listened to music in my life.”

She grabs the phone gently, like it might shatter. “Relax.”

“I don’t trust you.”

“You shouldn’t.”

You watch her thumbs hover over the keyboard. Your heart is pounding again, which is ridiculous. This is a dating app. People message each other every day. This is normal.

Painfully normal, you remind yourself.

“Just say hi,” you whisper.

“That’s boring.”

“Boring is safe.”

She thinks for a second, then starts typing. You crane your neck to see.

Hi. I was told this app was for models and DJs and men who own boats, so I’m slightly confused.

You stare at it.

“That’s actually good,” you admit quietly.

“I know.”

“It sounds like me.”

“Because I am a genius.”

She looks at you one more time. “Last chance.”

You take a breath. The worst that happens is nothing. The worst that happens is it is him and he doesn’t respond. The worst that happens is you wake up tomorrow and your life is exactly the same as it was this morning.

“Send it,” you say.

She taps the screen. The message flies off into the void. You both immediately scream again and she drops the phone onto your lap this time.

“It’s done,” she says, laughing in that stressed out way that makes everything feel unreal. “You did it.”

“I didn’t do it. You did it.”

“You approved it.”

You stare at the chat. The message sits there, small and harmless looking. Sent. Now you wait.

Camille leans her head against your shoulder. “See. That wasn’t so bad.”

You swallow. “It was terrible.”

She smiles. “Admit it. You’re curious.”

You are.

There isn’t an immediate response. Of course there isn’t.

You and Camille stare at the screen for a full minute like something dramatic is supposed to happen. It doesn’t. The chat just sits there with your message hanging in polite, digital silence.

Camille eventually clears her throat. “Well. He’s busy.”

“Right,” you say quickly. “He’s… him.”

“He could be in a studio. Or asleep. Or on a boat.”

“Stop mentioning boats.”

She laughs, but after another minute of nothing, the intensity fizzles. The wine settles. The night moves on. You order takeout. You watch something mindless. You do not check the app again before you fall asleep on her couch.

The next morning, you half expect a notification. There isn’t one. And weirdly, that makes it easier.

Life resumes.

You go to work. You draft headlines. You sit in meetings where someone says the phrase content vertical without irony. The Raya message drifts to the back of your mind, filed somewhere between embarrassing and funny.

Every few days, Camille checks in.

“Any movement?”

“No.”

“Are you checking?”

“Not obsessively.”

“That is not what I asked.”

You roll your eyes at her texts and keep walking down the street, coffee in hand. It becomes a bit. A running joke. The time you matched with Harry Styles and nothing happened.

You stop opening the app altogether. You don’t want to see the unchanged chat. It feels cleaner to leave it unopened than to confirm the silence.

A week passes. Then another.

The sharpness of it dulls. You stop imagining what you would say if he responded. You stop replaying the message in your head. It becomes a story you’ll tell someday. Remember when.

One evening, you’re walking up the stairs to your apartment, juggling your tote bag and your keys. It’s been a long day. You stayed late finishing a piece and your brain feels like static. All you want is a shower and something easy to eat.

Your phone buzzes in your hand.

You don’t even look at the screen at first. You assume it’s Camille. She tends to text around this time, usually something chaotic like I have a new theory about men.

You push your door open with your shoulder and glance down casually.

It’s not iMessage blue.

It’s the Raya icon.

Your heart drops so fast you actually miss the doorway and bump your hip against the frame.

You stare at the notification. Harry sent you a message.

For a second, you just stand there in your dim apartment hallway, door half open behind you, keys still in your hand.

You genuinely consider not opening it. Preserving the possibility instead of facing whatever is actually there.

Your phone buzzes again. Another message.Your throat goes dry.

You step inside slowly and close the door with your foot, like you’re trying not to disturb something fragile. The apartment is quiet. The only sound is your own breathing, suddenly louder than it should be.

You unlock your phone.

Your thumb hovers over the app.

You think, absurdly, I thought this was Camille.

It isn’t.

It’s him.

You open it before you can talk yourself out of it.

The chat loads.

Your message is still there at the top, slightly smug now that it has company.

Below it:

I don’t own a boat. Feels important to clarify.

You stare at it.

Then the second message.

But I am slightly offended I got lumped in with DJs.

You let out a sound that is half laugh, half something close to hysteria.

It’s him. It has to be him. The tone is dry. Understated. Not trying too hard. Not grand.

You drop your bag on the floor without meaning to.

Your brain immediately starts overanalyzing. How long ago did he send this. You check.

Three minutes.

Three.

He is currently on the app.

Your heart begins beating in a way that feels wildly disproportionate to a dating app notification.

You pace once across your living room. Then back.

You consider calling Camille. You absolutely cannot call Camille. She will scream and make this worse.

You look back at the messages.

There are no emojis. No exclamation points. Just clean, simple sentences.

You sit down on the edge of your couch and type.

I appreciate the clarification.

It feels neutral. Slightly amused. Safe.

You hesitate for only a second this time before hitting send.

The message delivers.

You immediately lock your phone and toss it onto the couch like distance will regulate your nervous system.

It buzzes.

You freeze.

You turn slowly and pick it up.

That was faster than I expected. I thought you might have forgotten about this place.

Your stomach flips.

You type back before you can overthink it.

I did. Briefly.

Three dots appear almost instantly.

Fair. I disappear for weeks at a time. Occupational hazard.

You swallow. Occupational hazard. He’s referencing it without naming it. Casual.

You lean back into your couch now, letting yourself settle into it.

Hazard implies danger. Should I be concerned.

The typing bubble appears. Disappears. Appears again.

Only if you’re afraid of slightly inconsistent texting habits.

You actually smile.

That feels honest. Not polished. Not trying to charm.

You decide to push, just slightly.

And what exactly is the occupation that causes that.

You stare at the screen after sending it. It’s a normal question. Completely normal.

The three dots take longer this time.

Then:

I sing sometimes.

You laugh out loud in your empty apartment.

Sometimes.

You rest your head back against the couch and type:

Ah. Casual.

A pause.

Then:

And you’re painfully normal, if I remember correctly.

Your cheeks warm.

Writer. Online newspaper. I cover city council meetings sometimes. No boats involved.

Three dots.

That sounds more interesting than boats.

You blink at the screen.

You weren’t expecting that.

Before you can respond, another message appears.

How did you end up on this app if you’re so painfully normal.

There’s no judgment in it. It reads curious. Respectful.

You hesitate for a second, then decide honesty is easier than crafting something cool.

A friend passed along an invite code. She said it would be character building.

You add, after a beat:

I haven’t decided if she was right.

The typing bubble appears again.

I respect a friend with connections. Sounds efficient.

You smile at that.

Your apartment feels different now. Lighter somehow. Charged in a quiet way.

It stays small. Contained. Two people in a digital room, testing the edges.

And for the first time in weeks, your chest feels full of something that isn’t grief.

It’s curiosity.

And it feels dangerously close to excitement.

You stare at the screen for a second longer than necessary, letting the fact that this is happening settle somewhere in your chest.

You decide to keep it light.

She would be thrilled to hear that. She considers herself very well connected.

The typing bubble appears almost immediately.

Sounds intimidating. Should I be worried about her vetting process.

You smile.

She’d absolutely run a background check if she could.

That feels fair.

The ease of it surprises you. There’s no heavy flirting. No performance. Just conversation.

Another message appears.

So. Writer for an online newspaper.

You shift on the couch, tucking one leg under you.

Yes. Very glamorous.

What do you write about.

You consider giving him the short version. Instead, you answer properly.

Local things. City council meetings when they matter. Housing issues. Small business stories. Restaurant openings. The kind of pieces people actually click on at eight in the morning while they’re drinking coffee.

You pause, then add:

Sometimes it’s more human. I interviewed a man last month who’s been feeding the same stray cat outside a laundromat for nine years. That one did surprisingly well.

The typing bubble appears quickly.

That sounds more interesting than most things I’ve read today.

You blink at the screen.

It’s not glamorous. But it’s real.

A moment passes.

Real is better.

You feel that one land somewhere you weren’t expecting.

Then:

What got you into it.

It isn’t surface level. He keeps asking follow ups like he actually wants to know.

You think about it before answering.

I like paying attention to things that would get ignored otherwise. Small decisions. Small people. The stuff that doesn’t trend but still matters.

You hover over the screen, suddenly aware you might be revealing more than you planned to.

You send it anyway.

The typing bubble lingers.

That doesn’t sound painfully normal to me.

Your cheeks warm.

You’ve exchanged maybe fifteen messages with me. That’s not a thorough character study.

I work well with limited data.

You laugh under your breath.

You decide to pivot.

And you. You “sing sometimes.” Is that what you put on tax forms.

A beat.

Depends who’s asking.

I’m asking.

There’s a slightly longer pause this time.

I travel a lot. I write songs. I spend more time in airports than I’d like.

It’s understated. No résumé. No ego.

Then another message appears.

I’ve been spending a lot of time in Italy lately. I’m there now.

You sit up a little straighter.

Oh.

Work. I tend to stay longer than planned.

You picture it without meaning to. Warmer air. Different language. A life that moves at a different speed.

That sounds better than New York in February.

It’s quieter. Less arguing outside the window.

You smile.

On impulse, you switch languages.

Quindi ora sei ufficialmente italiano? (So are you officially Italian now?)

You immediately wonder if that was too much.

The typing bubble appears. Disappears. Appears again.

Capisco un po’. Not enough to get in trouble. (I understand a little.)

Your eyebrows lift.

That’s suspiciously vague.

It’s strategic.

You laugh.

How much is “un po’.” (“A little.”)

A beat.

Enough to order dinner. Not enough to win an argument.

You shake your head, smiling into your phone, alone in your apartment but suddenly not feeling it quite as much.

You stare at the last message for a while.

Enough to order dinner. Not enough to win an argument.

You type a response. Delete it. Type another. Delete that too.

You don’t want to overextend it. You don’t want to drag the conversation into the early morning just because you can. He said it was late there. You can feel the natural pause settling in.

So you send one last thing.

That feels like the correct level of fluency.

The message delivers.

You lock your phone before he can respond.

Not in a dramatic way. Just deliberately. You don’t want to sit there watching the typing bubble. You don’t want to turn this into something frantic.

You set your phone on the coffee table and lean back against the couch, staring at the ceiling.

Your apartment is quiet again.

It feels different though. Charged. Like the air shifted a few degrees.

You tell yourself you’re being normal. You had a conversation. That’s it. People have conversations every day.

Still.

After a minute, you reach for your phone again.

You don’t open the chat.

You open his profile.

The first photo loads. Slightly blurry. Sunglasses pushed up into his hair. A half smile that looks unguarded. The kind of picture that feels like it was taken by someone standing too close, not a press photographer.

You swipe.

The boat photo. Wind in his hair. Sun on his face. He looks relaxed in a way that feels almost private.

You swipe again.

The black shirt. Direct eye contact with the camera. No exaggerated expression. Just him.

You exhale slowly.

He’s beautiful.

Not in a distant, untouchable way. In a human way. In a way that feels almost unfair when it’s paired with the quiet, thoughtful messages you just read.

You zoom in slightly before you can stop yourself, studying details you would absolutely make fun of Camille for noticing. The curve of his mouth. The line of his jaw. The softness in his eyes that doesn’t fully translate on stage but shows up here.

Your stomach flips again.

You close the app.

Open it again.

Just to look one more time.

You’re not desperate. You’re curious. There’s a difference, you tell yourself.

You set your phone down for good this time and stand up, pacing once across your living room.

This is ridiculous, you think.

You give it a few days.

Not on purpose at first. Just life moving the way it does. Work piles up. Your editor sends back notes. You spend an entire afternoon interviewing a bakery owner who insists on telling you her full life story before answering a single question.

You do not open the app.

You think about it, though.

In line for coffee. On the train. When your phone buzzes and your heart does something irrational before you check the notification and it’s just a news alert.

You tell yourself this is healthy. Measured. You are not spiraling. You are not glued to a screen waiting for a typing bubble.

You are taking it slow.

By day three, you’ve convinced yourself that leaving space makes you mysterious.

By day four, you realize you are just nervous.

Camille texts you on Thursday night.

Are you alive.

You stare at the message.

Yes.

That’s it? she replies. Suspicious.

You hesitate, then type:

He messaged.

There are three dots immediately.

WHAT.

You call her before she can send anything else because you know she will escalate.

She answers on the first ring.

“You cannot just text ‘he messaged’ and leave it there,” she says, already breathless.

“It was normal,” you say quickly. “Very normal. Calm. Human.”

“Define human.”

“We talked about work. Italy came up.”

“Italy,” she repeats, like it’s a plot twist in a show she’s invested in.

“He’s there.”

“I hate that.”

“I know.”

She goes quiet for a second. “So what’s the problem.”

“There isn’t one.”

“Then why do you sound like there is.”

You sit on the edge of your bed, twisting the hem of your shirt around your fingers.

“I just… I don’t want to ruin it.”

“Ruin what.”

“I don’t know. The tone. The ease.”

Camille softens.

“You’re allowed to enjoy something without pre ruining it.”

“I’m not pre ruining it.”

“You’re rationing it,” she says gently.

You look at the floor.

She’s not wrong.

“I haven’t opened the app in a few days,” you admit.

“On purpose?”

“Kind of.”

“Why.”

You search for the right words.

“Because if I answer too fast, it feels like I care too much. And if I answer too slow, it feels like I’m playing a game. I don’t want to play a game.”

Camille exhales.

“You are overthinking this.”

“I know.”

“He is a man. On a dating app. You are a woman. On a dating app. You are allowed to respond when you want to respond.”

“It’s different.”

“Because he’s famous.”

You don’t answer.

She continues, softer now.

“Is he talking to you like he’s famous.”

“No.”

“Is he acting like you should be impressed.”

“No.”

“Then stop assigning weight to it.”

You lean back onto your bed and stare at the ceiling.

“I’ve just been taking it slow,” you say finally.

“Slow is fine,” she replies. “Slow is sexy. Slow is mysterious. Slow is emotionally regulated. But slow is not avoidance.”

You laugh quietly.

“Which one am I.”

“A little of both,” she says.

You glance at your phone on your nightstand.

It hasn’t buzzed.

But you know the conversation is still there. Waiting. Not in a demanding way. Just existing.

You shift on your bed, tucking the phone tighter between your shoulder and your ear so you can free up one hand.

“Don’t,” Camille says immediately.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You don’t have to. I can hear it.”

You roll your eyes even though she can’t see you. “I’m just looking.”

“You are absolutely about to open the app.”

You don’t deny it this time. You pull the phone away from your ear for a second, switch to speaker, and open Raya.

The screen loads.

Your thumb hesitates before you tap the chat.

Nothing new.

The last message is still there. Calm. Unmoved. No typing bubble. No fresh notification.

You stare at it longer than you should.

“Well?” Camille asks through the speaker.

“Nothing.”

There’s a small pause.

“That’s okay,” you add quickly. “He’s busy.”

Camille hums in a way that says she’s watching you spiral from miles away.

“Yeah,” she says. “He probably is.”

You exit the chat but don’t close the app right away. You linger on his profile picture at the top of the screen like it might offer some kind of reassurance.

“He said he disappears for weeks sometimes,” you say, trying to sound unaffected. “Occupational hazard.”

“You remember the exact phrasing,” she points out.

“Stop.”

You finally lock your phone and set it on your nightstand.

“I don’t want to be the girl who waits around,” you admit.

“You checked once,” she says calmly. “While actively talking to me.”

“That still counts.”

“It counts as being human.”

You roll onto your back and stare at the ceiling.

“It’s fine,” you say again, softer this time. “He’s in Italy. It’s late there. He probably has a life.”

Camille laughs gently. “I hope so.”

You smile despite yourself.

“It was one conversation,” you continue. “A good one. But still.”

“And if that’s all it is, that’s still nice,” she says.

The week stretches longer than you expect.

Not in a dramatic way. Just quietly.

You stop checking every day. Then you stop checking at all. Work fills the space. You finish the bakery piece. You sit through a zoning meeting that runs forty minutes past what it should. You have dinner with Camille where neither of you says his name out loud.

It settles into something that almost feels finished.

You tell yourself that was nice. A good conversation. A small reminder that the world is bigger than one breakup.

You don’t delete the app.

You just let it exist.

It’s the following Tuesday when it happens.

You’re on the train, wedged between a woman reading a thriller and a man aggressively eating almonds out of a plastic bag. You’re half listening to a podcast, half staring at nothing.

Your phone buzzes in your hand.

You glance down automatically.

Raya.

Your stomach drops so fast you actually miss your stop announcement.

You stare at the notification without opening it.

Harry sent you a message.

The train keeps moving. Someone coughs. The world continues like this is not a seismic event.

You open it.

The chat loads.

The last message is still yours. Then below it, new.

Sorry. I disappeared.

Your throat tightens.

Another message comes through.

You were right about the argument thing. I lost one in Italian. Very humbling experience.

You let out a soft, startled laugh on the train, earning a brief look from the almond man.

It’s been a week.

A full week.

And yet the tone is exactly the same. Dry. Casual. Like no time has passed.

You type slowly, deliberately.

That does sound humbling.

You stare at it.

Then add:

I assumed you were busy.

The typing bubble appears almost immediately.

I was.

A pause.

Didn’t mean to vanish.

There’s something in that. Not defensive. Not overly apologetic. Just acknowledging.

You lean back against the train pole, trying to keep your expression neutral.

Occupational hazard, you write.

Three dots.

Exactly.

Another pause.

How’s New York.

You smile to yourself.

The fact that he remembers where you are.

Still cold. Still loud. No progress on the arguing neighbors.

The typing bubble.

I admire their commitment.

You laugh softly.

The train lurches and you grab the pole with your free hand, heart still beating faster than it needs

The train rattles forward and you stay where you are, letting two stops pass without even thinking about it.

Your phone buzzes again.

Did you write anything interesting this week.

You blink at the screen.

It’s such a simple question. And yet it doesn’t feel like filler.

You shift your weight and type carefully.

I wrote about a bakery that almost closed because of a rent increase. The neighborhood showed up for them. It worked.

There’s a pause.

Then:

That’s a good story.

You smile.

It felt like one.

Another message appears before you can overanalyze.

Do you ever want to write something bigger.

You hesitate.

Bigger how.

More glamorous. More visible. Less local.

You decide not to shrink.

Sometimes. But I like knowing exactly who I’m writing for. It feels less abstract.

The typing bubble lingers.

That makes sense.

Then:

Abstract gets lonely.

That lingers quietly.

You swallow.

The train announces the next stop. Yours. You step off, weaving through people while still holding your phone low against your chest.

Lonely in what way, you type as you climb the stairs to street level.

A longer pause this time.

You reach the sidewalk just as the reply comes through.

You play to a lot of people. It doesn’t mean they know you.

Your steps slow.

The city noise rushes around you. Taxis. Conversations. Wind cutting down the block.

You type carefully.

Do you want them to?

Three dots.

Disappear.

Reappear.

Not all of them.

There’s something steady in that answer. Not self pitying. Not dramatic.

You walk toward your apartment, pulse still elevated.

Selective, you write.

Almost instantly:

Exactly.

You smile.

There’s a rhythm now. A comfort.

Another message comes through.

What are you doing right now.

You glance around at the sidewalk, at the guy walking a dog in a tiny sweater.

Walking home. It’s disgustingly cold.

Italy would like to offer an alternative.

You laugh.

That feels like a marketing pitch.

It is.

You shake your head.

What are you doing?

A beat.

On a terrace. It’s late. I should be inside.

You can almost see it without trying. Warm air. Quiet. Different sky.

And yet, you type.

And yet I’m not.

There’s a softness to that.

You unlock your apartment door and step inside, shutting out the noise of the street.

Why not, you ask.

The typing bubble appears almost immediately this time.

Because I’m enjoying this conversation.

Your breath catches just slightly.

You sit down on the edge of your couch again, like your body instinctively knows you need to brace for impact.

You stare at the screen.

Then, slowly:

Me too.

There’s no immediate response.

Just the quiet hum of your apartment and the faint echo of traffic outside.

Then:

Good.

It continues like that.

Not intense. Not dramatic. Just steady.

A few messages in the morning. Sometimes late at night. Sometimes nothing for a full day, then a casual reappearance like no time has passed.

You fall into a rhythm without meaning to.

How’s the bakery.

Thriving. The power of carbs.

Impressive.

—————

How’s Italy.

Still warm. Still confusing me grammatically.

Have you won an argument yet.

Absolutely not.

—————

What are you writing today?

Housing piece. Slightly less charming than stray cats.

You make it sound charming.

—————

Some days it’s just:

Morning.

Morning.

Or:

You alive?

Barely.

It never tips into too much.

He disappears occasionally. Reappears with something small and thoughtful.

Heard a song today that felt like something you’d write about.

Saw a café that would make a good scene in an article.

You don’t ask for proof. You don’t demand consistency. You just let it exist.

Camille notices the shift before you say anything.

“You’re calmer,” she observes one night over dinner.

“Am I.”

“Yes. You’re not spiraling. You’re just… talking.”

That’s exactly it.

You’re just talking. Having fun even.

No declarations. No flirting that feels forced. Just pieces of each other exchanged in manageable amounts.

He tells you about long studio days without naming locations. You tell him about a zoning vote that got unexpectedly heated. He sends a photo once, unprompted. A blurry shot of a street at night. Warm lights. Stone buildings.

It’s quieter than New York, he writes.

You send back a photo of your street. Snow piled against the curb. A bodega glowing under fluorescent light.

It’s louder, you reply.

The time difference becomes familiar. You start to recognize when he’s likely awake. He learns your routine too.

You’re usually on the train around now, he texts one morning.

You pause at that.

Observant.

Limited data, he replies.

You smile.

It’s been three weeks.

Three weeks of casual conversation. Of checking the app without panic. Of feeling something build slowly instead of crashing all at once.

There are no grand gestures.

Just consistency.

It’s a random Wednesday afternoon when it shifts.

You’re at your desk, halfway through rewriting a paragraph for the third time, when your phone buzzes.

You glance down automatically.

Raya.

You open it without thinking now. No dramatic pause. No pacing.

I’m coming back to the States for a bit.

Your fingers still over the keyboard.

You stare at the message for a second.

Then:

Oh?

The typing bubble appears quickly.

Yeah. A few weeks.

Your heart picks up, just slightly.

Where.

A pause. Not long. Just long enough for you to become aware of your own breathing.

Los Angeles.

You lean back in your chair.

Of course.

Work? you type.

Promo. New album coming out. Record meetings. The usual chaos.

You smile at the understatement.

That sounds mildly busy.

It’ll be fine, he replies. Just loud.

You glance around your small office. Your muted computer screen. The hum of fluorescent lights.

You thrive in loud, you write.

There’s a pause.

Sometimes, he replies. Sometimes it’s just noise.

You sit with that for a second.

Then:

When are you back.

Next week.

Your stomach flips. You hate that it does.

Next week feels close. Close in a way Italy never did.

You try to sound casual.

That’s soon.

Yeah.

Another pause.

Will you be in New York at all, you ask before you can talk yourself out of it.

There’s a slightly longer beat this time.

Possibly. Not sure yet. Schedules are still moving around.

You nod to yourself like that makes it less vague.

Fair.

The typing bubble appears again.

Would you want to know if I am?

Your breath catches.

You read it twice.

It’s not a grand gesture. Not an invitation. Just a question.

But it feels like one.

You swallow and type carefully.

I think I would.

There’s no immediate response.

Just the faint hum of your office and your own pulse in your ears.

Then:

Okay.

Life keeps moving.

He flies back to the States and the day he lands your phone buzzes mid afternoon.

Made it. LA is aggressively sunny.

You smile at your desk.

Welcome back to chaos.

A photo comes through. Blurry palm trees from the window of a car. Another of what looks like a studio. Cables. A mic stand. Nothing flashy.

Proof of life, he writes.

You send one back without overthinking it. Your laptop open. Notes scattered across your desk. A coffee cup with lipstick on the rim.

Proof of deadlines.

He replies almost instantly.

Yours looks more organized than mine.

That’s a generous interpretation.

The weeks in LA settle into the same rhythm you built before. Messages between meetings. Late night replies when he’s done for the day.

Long one today, he texts one evening.

Good long or exhausting long.

A bit of both.

He sends a photo of a sunset over the hills. The sky pink and unreal.

You send back a photo of your street in the rain. Reflections in the pavement. A taxi splashing through a puddle.

Still louder, you caption it.

Still warmer here, he replies.

It feels steady. Not performative. Just two lives running parallel with small windows into each other.

You don’t talk about meeting. Not directly. It floats unspoken between you.

Until one night.

It’s late afternoon. You’re already in bed, half asleep, when your phone buzzes on your nightstand.

Raya.

You squint at the screen.

You up.

You blink, suddenly awake.

Unfortunately yes.

The typing bubble appears immediately.

I’m in New York.

You sit up in bed so fast you almost knock your lamp over.

What.

Another message.

One night. Early meetings tomorrow. Flying back out after.

Your heart is pounding now. Loud in the quiet of your apartment.

That’s… random.

Very.

You stare at the screen, trying to slow your breathing.

Where in the city, you type.

A pause.

Midtown. Hotel near the park.

Of course.

You swallow.

The distance between Italy and New York felt theoretical. LA felt far enough to be safe.

But this.

This is different.

Another message comes through.

Thought you’d want to know.

You stare at that one for a long time.

Your city. His one night.

The possibility hanging there.

You stare at Thought you’d want to know until the screen dims.

Your heart is beating too loud for how quiet your apartment is.

You could ignore the implication. You could say that’s exciting, hope it goes well. You could play it safe.

Instead, you sit up straighter and type carefully.

Busy schedule? Or do you get to pretend you’re a normal person for a few hours.

You erase it.

Too pointed.

You try again.

Any plans after your meetings.

Neutral. Almost casual.

You hit send before you can overthink it.

The typing bubble appears quickly. Disappears. Comes back.

I was hoping you might ask that.

Your stomach flips.

Then, another message.

No plans yet.

You inhale slowly.

He doesn’t leave it there.

Do you want to get a drink?

There’s no hedging. No vague maybe we should. No soft landing.

Just direct.

Your pulse kicks up again.

You stare at the message, reading it twice to make sure you didn’t invent it.

This is real. He is in your city. For one night.

You type back, forcing your fingers to stay steady.

That depends.

A pause.

On what.

You smile despite yourself.

On whether you’ve improved your argument skills.

Three dots.

I can lose in English too. Very versatile.

You laugh quietly.

Then you type what you actually mean.

What time?

It takes a few seconds longer this time.

I’m free after nine. I can come to you. Or we can meet somewhere you’re comfortable. If that’s not too late.

There it is again. Direct. But careful.

Not assuming.

Your chest feels tight in a way that isn’t panic. It’s anticipation.

You glance around your apartment like it might offer guidance.

There’s a place near me. Quiet but nice. Not Midtown chaos, you write.

The reply comes quickly.

Send me the name.

Another pause.

See you at nine.

Your breath catches at the simplicity of it.

No overcomplicating. No dramatic build.

Just a plan.

You lock your phone slowly and stare at your reflection in the dark window.

One night.

Nine o’clock.

The second you lock your phone, the calm dissolves.

You stand in the middle of your bedroom staring at your closet like it personally orchestrated this.

“This is ridiculous,” you mutter.

It is one drink. One man. One normal human interaction.

Except it is not normal and you know it.

You start pulling hangers aside too fast. Sweater. No. Too casual. Black dress. Absolutely not. That feels like you’re trying too hard. Jeans. Maybe. But which ones. The good ones. Obviously the good ones.

You sit on the edge of your bed and take a breath.

Cute and comfy. Well dressed. Effortless.

You settle on high waisted tailored trousers and a soft cream button up that drapes just right. Simple gold hoops. Loafers. Hair down, brushed out, not overly styled.

You look at yourself in the mirror.

You look like you. Just slightly steadier.

“Okay,” you whisper.

At 8:45 you’re pacing. At 8:50 you grab your coat. At 8:55 you’re walking faster than necessary.

The bar you chose is dim and narrow and usually quiet on weeknights. You push the door open at exactly 9:00.

No one else is there.

Just the bartender wiping down the counter and a couple in the corner booth speaking in low voices.

You swallow and walk to the bar, sliding onto a stool.

“Can I get you something?”

“Just a glass of red.”

Your phone sits face down on the bar in front of you.

9:02.

That’s fine. Two minutes means nothing.

You take a small sip of your wine and try not to look at the door every time it opens.

9:05.

He’s in Midtown. Traffic exists. Elevators exist. Security exists.

9:08.

Your stomach starts doing something uncomfortable.

You flip your phone over casually.

No new messages.

You open the app.

Nothing.

The last thing he said still sits there.

See you at nine.

You swallow.

9:10.

The bartender glances at the door when it opens. It’s not him. Just someone picking up a takeout order.

Heat creeps up your neck.

This is fine. You are early. Or he is late. That happens. That’s human.

9:12.

You open his profile again without meaning to. The same photos. The same half smile.

A ridiculous thought creeps in.

What if this is the long game.

What if you have been talking to someone who is not him. What if this is the punchline. What if you are about to become a story Camille tells at dinner parties.

9:15.

Your chest feels tight now.

You pick up your phone and hover over the chat.

You could send something casual.

You alive.

Too pointed.

All good.

Too needy.

You lock your phone again and place it back down carefully.

You will not spiral in public.

9:17.

The door opens again.

You look up automatically.

And for a split second, before your brain catches up, you think you might actually be getting catfished.

The door closes behind him and the cold air follows.

For half a second your brain doesn’t register anything except tall.

Then the details come into focus.

Black coat. Slightly windblown hair. That same half smile from the photos, only less curated. More real. His eyes scan the room quickly, adjusting to the dim light.

And then they land on you.

Recognition is instant.

Not confusion. Not hesitation.

Recognition.

Your stomach drops in a completely different way.

He walks toward the bar without rushing. Calm. Almost casual. Like this is just another Wednesday night and not the culmination of three weeks of careful conversation.

You are suddenly very aware of how you’re sitting. Of your hands. Of your face.

He stops a few feet away.

“Hi.”

His voice is softer than you expected. Warmer.

You blink once like your body needs to reboot.

“Hi.”

There’s a flicker of something in his expression. Relief, maybe. Like he wasn’t entirely sure either.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “Elevator situation.”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. “That tracks.”

He smiles properly at that.

Up close, he looks exactly like himself and not at all like a screen version. There’s texture. Movement. A small crease near his eyes when he smiles.

“Is this seat taken?” he asks, nodding to the stool beside you.

You shake your head. “No.”

He slides onto it and shrugs off his coat, draping it over the back. The bartender appears immediately.

“Whiskey,” he says, then glances at you. “That okay?”

You nod, like you have any authority over it.

There’s a small beat of quiet once the bartender steps away.

This is the moment that could be awkward.

It isn’t.

He turns slightly toward you.

“You look like yourself,” he says.

You blink. “I don’t know what that means.”

“It means I wasn’t catfished.”

You laugh before you can stop yourself.

“That was absolutely my fear fifteen minutes ago.”

His eyebrows lift. “Really.”

“9:15 was dark for me.”

He laughs softly at that, shaking his head. “I should’ve sent a message. That’s on me.”

“It’s fine,” you say quickly. “You’re here.”

The simplicity of that lands between you.

He studies you for a second in a way that doesn’t feel invasive. Just present.

“You’re real,” he says quietly.

“I could say the same.”

He smiles again, smaller this time. Less public. More private.

The bartender sets his drink down. He thanks him absentmindedly without breaking eye contact with you.

For a moment the noise of the bar fades into the background.

It’s just the two of you. No typing bubbles. No time difference. No distance.

Just this.

He takes a sip of his drink and tilts his head slightly.

“So,” he says. “Hi.”

And somehow it feels like the beginning all over again.

Authors Note: Thank you to my friend @zclhes for making the new cover photo for this story!

[unabashegirl]

The Cover {h.s} — I

Best friends. A fake relationship. One weekend in Edinburgh—and maybe a shot at something real.

Author's note: This is a repost of the original story I first shared on Patreon. I’ve done a bit of light editing throughout—tightening up the prose, tweaking a few lines, and adding in some original text that was previously only on Patreon (including a few extended moments I really loved). Thank you so much for reading (or re-reading!)—your support means the world. I hope you enjoy this version just as much, if not more. 🤍

wc-> 4.5K

📌 pls, let me know if you would like to be tagged!

📌 Please consider joining my Patreon -> Patreon

The soft hum of the evening surrounded them as they sat on Harry’s plush couch, nestled in the heart of his spacious home. The minimalist decor of his living room reflected the careful balance between his hectic life in the spotlight and his need for peace. His house, though large, was warm, with low lighting that gave it a cozy, intimate feel. The air was thick with the scent of the coffee table candles he’d lit earlier—notes of sandalwood and something sweet.

Harry sat next to Y/N, his body half-turned toward her as he read a book, legs tucked beneath him like a cat seeking comfort. There was a distinct softness about him when he was in his own space, away from the flashing cameras and curious eyes of the public. His hair, dark and messy, tumbled over his forehead, catching in the dim light, giving him a boyish charm that contrasted sharply with his usual confident and polished public persona.

He wore a simple white t-shirt, the fabric clinging loosely to his lean frame. His broad shoulders spoke of strength, but his posture, slightly hunched as he leaned into his book, gave off an air of vulnerability. His long fingers traced the edges of the pages absentmindedly, and now and then, his green eyes flicked up from the book, studying Y/N with a kind of quiet amusement, like he was aware of the unspoken understanding that lay between them.

Harry had always been attentive, almost in a way that felt second nature, as though he knew more about her moods than she did. There was something undeniably magnetic about him—his laugh was a little softer here, his voice a touch lower. His fame could never overshadow the gentle heart he showed her when they were alone.

Y/N’s eyes hovered over the same paragraph for what felt like the hundredth time. The words blurred together, the meaning lost as her mind wandered to the man sitting beside her. She was supposed to be reading a novel on leadership—something meant to inspire her as she navigated her demanding corporate job—but her thoughts kept drifting back to him. It was ironic, really. The book talked about control and decisiveness, yet here she was, lost in the one thing she couldn’t control: her feelings for Harry.

She had always found him attractive. No—more than attractive. Beautiful in the kind of way that felt effortless. His messy hair, the way his lips quirked into a half-smile, those green eyes that seemed to see straight through her… It all added up to someone she could never quite believe was real. He’d always been larger than life to her, even before the fame. Back when they were younger, when they were just two young adults with dreams and no idea where life would take them.

But then, his life had soared into stardom, and hers had stayed grounded in the corporate world. He became Harry Styles—the Harry Styles—and she remained his best friend, hidden away from the glamour of his world. She had watched as women swooned over him, throwing themselves at his feet, and she had silently swallowed her feelings. She knew she could never compete. He was out of her league, in every possible way.

And yet, sitting here next to him, as close as they were, it was impossible not to be reminded of just how deep her feelings for him ran. His presence had always had this effect on her, an electric undercurrent that made her skin tingle and her heart pound just a little harder. She stole a glance at him over the top of her book. He was engrossed in whatever he was reading, completely unaware of the thoughts swirling in her mind.

That’s what made it all so painful—he would never see her that way. She was just Y/N, his best mate, his confidant. The one person who was always there, but never the one he looked at with desire. She felt a knot tighten in her chest as she allowed herself, for just a moment, to imagine what it would be like if things were different. If she were someone else. If he saw her the way she saw him.

As if sensing her gaze, Harry suddenly looked up, catching her in the act. His lips twitched into a small, knowing smile, and he set his book down on the coffee table.

“What’s going on in that head of yours?” he asked, his voice low, breaking the silence between them. His eyes locked onto hers, and the way he studied her made her feel exposed, as though he could read her thoughts without her saying a word. “You’ve been staring at that same page for ages.”

Y/N quickly dropped her gaze, closing the book to avoid his probing eyes. “It’s nothing,” she mumbled, though the heat rising to her cheeks gave her away.

He tilted his head, not buying it for a second. “Come on,” he coaxed, a teasing edge to his voice. “Spill it. I know you. You’ve got that look.”

She shifted uncomfortably, trying to laugh it off. “What look?”

“The one where you’re overthinking everything,” he said, leaning back against the couch, still watching her closely. His gaze softened. “Talk to me, Y/N. What’s going on?”

Y/N’s breath hitched in her throat as Harry’s green eyes bore into hers, his expression filled with gentle concern. She had always struggled to lie to him. Whenever he looked at her like that, like he truly cared, she felt like he could see right through her. The panic rose quickly, threatening to bubble over, and she knew she had to say something—anything—to steer the conversation away from the thoughts that were tangled up in her mind.

She blurted out the first thing that came to her. “My cousin’s getting married.”

Harry raised an eyebrow, clearly taken aback by the abrupt change of subject. “Which cousin?”

Y/N let out a long sigh, glad for the distraction, though the topic she’d chosen wasn’t much better. “The worst one. Out of the three, I mean. You know, the one who’s always got something to say about everything. Perfect life, perfect fiancé, perfect job… perfect everything.”

Harry’s expression softened into one of amused sympathy. He knew exactly the kind of family pressure Y/N was talking about. He stretched out his legs, making himself more comfortable, as if settling in for a story. “Ah, her. That sounds like fun,” he teased, his voice laced with sarcasm.

Y/N rolled her eyes, tucking her legs beneath her as she faced him. “It’s not just her. It’s the whole family. They’re all so excited, and for some reason, they’re all hell-bent on me bringing a date.” She threw her hands up in frustration. “I don’t even have a boyfriend, but everyone keeps asking if I’m bringing someone. They’re already assuming I’m going to show up with a ‘plus one,’ and I just… I don’t want to deal with the humiliation of telling them I’m still single. Again.”

Harry’s brow furrowed slightly as he listened, a small frown tugging at his lips. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he looked at her thoughtfully. “Y/N, you don’t owe anyone an explanation. If you don’t want to bring someone, then don’t. Your family’s expectations shouldn’t dictate your happiness.”

Y/N smiled weakly, appreciating the sentiment, but her heart was still heavy with the weight of the situation. “I know, but it’s just… hard. It’s like they see me as incomplete because I don’t have someone.” She let out a bitter laugh. “They don’t understand that I’m happy with my life. But at a wedding, it’s like a flashing neon sign that I’m alone.”

Y/N smiled weakly, appreciating the sentiment, but her heart was still heavy with the weight of the situation. “I know, but it’s just… hard. It’s like they see me as incomplete because I don’t have someone.” She let out a bitter laugh. “They don’t understand that I’m happy with my life. But at a wedding, it’s like a flashing neon sign that I’m alone.”

The room fell silent for a moment as Harry absorbed her words, his gaze softening even further. He opened his mouth, about to say something, but then paused, seemingly deep in thought.

Y/N bit her lip, realizing she was rambling, but it was easier to talk about this than the real issue she was trying to avoid. And with Harry sitting so close, his concern for her so palpable, it made her feel even more off-balance. Every time he cared, every time he listened so intently, it reminded her of how much she longed for something more than just friendship.

But that wasn’t an option. Not with him. So, she buried it all under the wedding invitation and the pressures from her family, hoping it would be enough to keep him from asking more.

Harry studied her for a long moment, eyes searching her face like he could sense there was something more she wasn’t saying. He tilted his head slightly, lips pressing together in that way he always did when he was thinking hard.

“Is that really why you’re freaking out?” he asked gently, his voice laced with quiet skepticism.

Y/N felt her stomach twist, the question catching her off guard. She hated how easily he could see through her, but she wasn’t about to crack. Not when it came to her deeper feelings. So, she nodded quickly, clutching onto the family wedding excuse like a lifeline. “Yes, it is. It’s a big issue, Harry. Every time I visit my family, it just… it tears me down a little more. They make me feel like I’m somehow falling behind because I don’t have someone. It’s exhausting.”

He sighed softly, his eyes softening with sympathy, though there was still a trace of doubt in his gaze. Without saying anything more, he leaned back against the couch and picked up his book again, his fingers absently running along the spine.

For a few minutes, silence fell between them, the crackling of the fire and the soft rustle of turning pages the only sounds filling the room. Y/N watched him out of the corner of her eye, heart still racing from the close call. She didn’t know what she’d do if he pushed further—if he managed to pry open the lid she’d been keeping on her feelings. She shifted in her seat, trying to focus on her book, but the words refused to make sense.

Then, just as she was beginning to lose herself in her own anxious thoughts, Harry broke the silence.

“I’ve got an easy solution,” he said suddenly, his voice calm and casual, like he hadn’t just spent several minutes in contemplative silence. He didn’t even look up from his book. “I’ll go with you.”

Y/N blinked, his words not quite registering at first. “What?”

He glanced over at her, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “I’ll be your date. To the wedding,” he clarified, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Problem solved.”

Her heart skipped a beat, her mind racing to catch up. “You… you’re serious?” She could hardly believe what she was hearing. Harry Styles, her best friend—and secret crush—offering to be her date to her cousin’s wedding?

“Of course,” he said, shrugging as if it were no big deal. “If it’ll make things easier for you, I’m in. I’ll go, smile for the family, and be the perfect distraction. You won’t have to deal with any awkward questions about being single.”

Y/N stared at him, stunned. He made it sound so simple, like it was no trouble at all. But for her, it was anything but simple. Having him at her side, pretending to be her date, while she tried to keep her feelings under control… It sounded like both a dream and a nightmare all at once.

She swallowed hard, trying to find her voice. “Harry, you don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he interrupted, closing his book and turning his full attention to her now. His gaze was steady, sincere. “You’re my best friend, Y/N. If this is stressing you out, let me help. I’d be happy to go with you.”

Her heart swelled at his words, warmth spreading through her chest at the thought of him being there, by her side, at a time when she felt most vulnerable. But at the same time, the reality of pretending—of standing next to him, feeling things she shouldn’t, knowing it was all just for show—made her feel dizzy.

“Are you sure?” she asked, her voice quieter now, almost unsure.

Harry’s smile widened into that familiar, mischievous grin. “Positive. And besides, who wouldn’t want to show off a date like me?” he teased, his tone light, but his eyes still holding that warm, comforting sincerity.

Y/N couldn’t help but laugh, her anxiety easing just a little. Maybe, just maybe, having Harry with her wouldn’t be so bad. It might even be the perfect distraction—from her family, and from her feelings. If she could keep them in check, that is.

“He’s going with you?!” Maddie’s voice echoed through the apartment, loud and full of disbelief.

Y/N, sitting cross-legged on the floor in her bedroom, groaned and yelled back, “I know!”

Maddie appeared in the doorway a second later, her eyes wide with shock and excitement. “Harry Styles—your best friend and international superstar—is going to a wedding with you. As your date. This is… this is insane!”

Y/N let out a half-laugh, half-sigh as she flopped back onto her bed, staring up at the ceiling. “Trust me, I’m still trying to process it.”

Maddie crossed her arms, leaning against the doorframe. “Okay, let’s go over the logistics because this is a lot to unpack. First of all, the wedding is a whole weekend, right?”

“Yeah,” Y/N muttered, sitting up and running a hand through her hair. “It’s in Edinburgh, so we’re going up on Friday, staying until Sunday. Two full days of family, dinners, receptions, and a ton of small talk.”

“And Harry knows this?” Maddie asked, raising an eyebrow skeptically.

Y/N bit her lip, her voice dropping to a quiet murmur. “No, not exactly.”

Maddie’s eyes widened even further. “Wait, so you haven’t told him it’s a whole weekend thing? What if he backs out when he realizes it’s not just a one-night event?”

Y/N sat up straighter, her anxiety returning in full force. “I mean, I hope he won’t. He offered so casually, but I didn’t get into all the details.” She winced, feeling a bit guilty for not being completely upfront. “It’s just... he said yes so easily, and I didn’t want to overwhelm him with everything all at once.”

Maddie shook her head, pacing the room in thought. “Okay, well, you’ve got to tell him. He’s going to need to know what he’s signing up for. The last thing you want is him backing out last minute.”

“I know,” Y/N agreed, sighing. “I’ll tell him tomorrow. I just… I really hope he doesn’t change his mind. It’s already going to be awkward enough dealing with my family, and having Harry there is the only thing keeping me sane.”

Maddie stopped pacing and turned to her with a mischievous smile. “Well, there’s something else we need to focus on.”

“What’s that?” Y/N asked, dreading the answer.

“Your outfits!” Maddie exclaimed, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “This is a wedding weekend in Edinburgh with Harry as your date. You need to look absolutely perfect every single day.”

Y/N groaned, burying her face in her hands. “Maddie, please don’t make this into a fashion show. I’m already freaking out as it is.”

Her roommate crossed the room and sat down on the bed beside her, nudging her playfully. “Listen, if you want your family to shut up about you being single, you’ve got to show up looking like the best version of yourself. And besides…” She shot her a knowing look. “It wouldn’t hurt for Harry to see you in a new light.”

Y/N peeked up at her through her fingers. “What do you mean?”

Maddie grinned. “Come on, Y/N. You’ve had a crush on him for as long as I’ve known you. Maybe this is the chance to finally turn his head, you know? If he’s going to be by your side all weekend, you might as well look stunning while you’re at it.”

Y/N’s heart fluttered at the thought, but she quickly shook her head. “Harry doesn’t see me that way, Mads. He’s going because he’s a good friend. That’s it.”

“Maybe. But maybe not,” Maddie said with a wink. “Either way, we’re going to make sure you look incredible. Now, where’s that suitcase of yours? We’ve got some planning to do.”

The next day, Y/N stood outside Harry’s house, a small bouquet of flowers in her hand. She smiled as she reached for the familiar key in her pocket, the one Harry had given her ages ago. She slipped it into the lock, the click of the door unlocking bringing a sense of comfort. Harry’s house had always felt like a second home to her—sometimes more of a home than her own apartment, if she was honest.

Walking inside, the familiar scent fresh linen greeted her, making her feel instantly at ease. She made her way into the kitchen, glancing around at the cozy space before setting the flowers down on the counter. After a quick search for a vase, she arranged them carefully, letting out a satisfied sigh once they were settled. The bright colors of the flowers added a little warmth to the room, something she liked doing whenever she visited.

“Harry?” she called out, already heading towards the back of the house and into the familiar hallway that led to his bedroom.

“Closet!” his voice echoed, slightly muffled, from somewhere in the bedroom.

She stepped inside, smiling to herself. His bedroom looked like it always did—neatly chaotic, with a mix of designer clothes and random bits of his life scattered about. But one thing caught her eye immediately: his Gucci suitcase, already lying open on the floor, ready to be packed.

He’s really going through with it, she thought, a mixture of excitement and nerves bubbling up inside her.

As she approached the closet, Harry emerged, fresh out of the shower, a towel slung low around his hips. His damp curls clung to his forehead, and water still glistened on his skin. He caught her eye and grinned.

“Didn’t hear you come in,” he said, toweling off his hair as he glanced down at the suitcase. “I figured I’d start getting things ready for this weekend. here we come.”

Y/N chuckled, leaning against the doorway of his closet. “You’re already ahead of me. I haven’t even started packing yet.”

Harry shot her a playful look. “Don’t worry, I’ll help you choose your outfits. You know I have opinions.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, her heart lightened by his teasing. But as she looked at him—standing there so casually, like this whole wedding weekend was no big deal—a knot formed in her chest. It was all starting to feel very real, and the idea of spending an entire weekend with him, pretending he was her date, was starting to feel overwhelming. Still, she couldn’t deny how good it felt to be in his presence, the one place where everything seemed a little less complicated.

Y/N lingered by the doorway of Harry’s closet, watching as he continued to dry his hair, the smell of his cologne mixing with the steam from his shower. She glanced again at the Gucci suitcase on the floor, neatly positioned and ready to be packed. A wave of guilt hit her. She hadn’t told him everything yet—about the wedding being an entire weekend event.

Clearing her throat, she shifted her weight. “So, uh, Harry… there’s something I need to mention about the wedding.”

Harry raised an eyebrow, still toweling his hair, his grin never faltering. “What’s that? Do I need to brush up on my dance moves?”

She let out a small laugh, then bit her lip. “It’s not just the wedding ceremony, you know. It’s kind of… a whole weekend thing.”

He stopped drying his hair, the towel resting on his shoulders as he turned to face her fully. “A whole weekend?”

Y/N nodded, her heart picking up its pace. “Yeah. It’s in Edinburgh, and there’s a dinner on Friday, the ceremony and reception on Saturday, and a brunch on Sunday. It’s like… a three-day event.”

For a moment, Harry just stared at her, blinking. His eyes searched her face, processing what she’d just said.

“Wait, so it’s a full-on wedding extravaganza?” he asked, his voice tinged with amusement.

Y/N nodded again, suddenly feeling sheepish. “Yeah, I should’ve mentioned that before. But I didn’t want to scare you off.”

Harry let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Scare me off? Y/N, I’m already committed to this. You’re not getting rid of me that easily.” He tossed the towel aside and crossed the room, leaning casually against the wall beside her. “A weekend in Edinburgh with you? Honestly, that sounds like a good time.”

Y/N’s eyes flickered with relief, though a part of her was still nervous. “You sure? I mean, it’s a lot—my family, the pressure… all of it.”

Harry shrugged, giving her a reassuring smile. “I’ve done crazier things. Plus, I’m kind of looking forward to charming your family.” His grin widened, eyes sparkling. “So, when do we leave?”

Y/N smiled, her chest filling with warmth. He really wasn’t backing out. He was in this with her, and somehow, the weekend ahead didn’t seem so daunting anymore.

Y/N and Harry sat cross-legged on the floor of his living room, plates of Indian takeout spread across the coffee table. The comforting aroma of curry and naan filled the room as they half-watched How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days playing on the TV. They had seen it a million times, but it never got old—Harry always laughed at the same parts, and Y/N always teased him for knowing the lines better than she did.

As Y/N scooped up a bite of butter chicken with a piece of naan, she noticed Harry glancing at her with a mischievous look in his eyes. She raised an eyebrow, already suspicious. “What’s that look for?”

Harry grinned, leaning back against the couch, plate balanced on his lap. “I was just thinking about the wedding.”

“Please don’t remind me,” Y/N groaned, shaking her head. “I’m still processing the fact that you’re actually going.”

“Don’t worry, I’m still all in,” Harry assured her, nudging her playfully. “But I had a thought… Why don’t we drive to Edinburgh?”

Y/N blinked, lowering her fork. “Drive? Like, from here to Edinburgh? That’s over eight hours, H.”

“Exactly!” he said, his eyes lighting up like it was the best idea he’d ever had. “Think about it—if we drive, we have complete control. If things get weird at the wedding, we’ll have a getaway car. No waiting around for flights or relying on anyone. We can just leave whenever we want.”

Y/N gave him a skeptical look. “You’re planning our escape before we’ve even arrived?”

He shrugged, popping a piece of naan into his mouth. “I like to be prepared. And besides, it’s not just about the escape plan. We’d get a proper road trip! Snacks, music, random stops at those little roadside places—remember the last time we did a long drive?”

Y/N couldn’t help but smile at the memory. “Yeah, and you made us stop at every service station just to try the food.”

Harry’s grin widened. “Exactly! Imagine all the snacks we could pack—crisps, chocolate, samosas. And the music—oh, the music! I’ll make the ultimate road trip playlist. We’ll sing along the whole way, windows down, no stress.”

Y/N snorted, shaking her head. “You just want an excuse to sing loudly and off-key, don’t you?”

“Hey, I have excellent taste in road trip tunes,” he said, pointing a fork at her in mock offense. “Besides, don’t you think it’d be fun? Eight hours in the car, just us, no rush.”

She tilted her head, contemplating the idea for a moment. As much as she loved the thought of a carefree road trip with Harry, she was more focused on practicality. “Look, I get it. But it’s just… flying is so much quicker. We’ll be there in less than two hours, and we won’t be exhausted by the time we get there. We need our energy for my family and the whole wedding thing.”

Harry leaned back against the couch, pouting playfully. “Where’s your sense of adventure?”

She looked over at Harry, who was now munching on a piece of naan with an expectant grin on his face. He seemed to sense her change of heart and glanced up, eyebrows raised in question.

“You know,” Y/N said, breaking the comfortable silence, “Let’s do it!”.

Harry’s eyes widened in surprise and delight. “Really? Are you serious?”

Y/N nodded, a smile tugging at her lips. “Yeah, why not? It could be fun. And I guess having the car would be good for flexibility. If we need a quick escape or just want to explore a bit…”

Harry’s face lit up with enthusiasm. “Right”.

-> part II

‼️ let me know if you would want to get tagged!!

TAGS: @mads3502

[twohoursoflove]

TRUTH OR DARE

* previously titled I’VE GOT YOU *

At a house party thrown by your roommate and best friend Harry, you have a wobbly moment and need a breather. He's quick to pull you into the bathroom to give you that, but before long, he's suggesting that you both play the harmless game. Something you agree to...

Mature Content: explicit language, spit kink, oral sex (f and m receiving), light choking & unprotected sex. For an 18+ audience only.

Word Count: 10.7k (oops — she’s a long one!)

* This is the first one shot I ever wrote in 2022. It'll always have a special place in my heart, and I'm so happy to be bringing it back! *

"Harry, who the fuck is this guy?! Have you ever met him before?!” 

Over the thudding music, your voice was a shout desperately trying to reach your best friend, who thought it would be a good idea to throw a random rager – one that everyone and their mother has seemingly been invited to. There's people here that you know you both don't know, because you only have about five friends between you. 

You should have known this would happen. Harry gets carried away. Give him an inch, he'll take all of the miles. You love him, though, even if you do want to wring his neck most times. Like right now.

He purses his lips and tilts his head, fingers fiddling with the multicoloured bead necklace you made him so many years ago — something that's never left its place around his neck since the day you gave him it — as he looks down at the random man. He’s slumped in a drunken and drugged up state against the front door to your shared apartment, a swarm of people partying the night away behind you.

"Not a clue, love.” Harry finally says, shrugging with an expression worn that screams mischief, “But you know what they say. A stranger is just a friend you haven't met yet!"

You can't help but roll your eyes at his blasé manner. Harry is so relaxed, and you’re so… uptight. It's been this way for as long as you’ve known him, which is so long now that you can't remember life without him. 

A lot of people wonder how you’ve managed to remain as best friends considering you’re complete opposites. You’re the glass half-empty. He’s the glass half-full. You’re dressed in all black with a scowl on your face. He’s a grinning, walking rainbow. You’re chalk and cheese, but you just work. 

Before you realise it, Harry is slinging his arm over your shoulder like he's done a million times before, and he’s walking you through the sardine-like hallway. You can't spot your actual friends. There are too many people and too much happening, and it’s all starting to feel a bit much for you to handle. 

You slip out from under his hold, which isn’t something you do all too often. Now that you have, Harry is quick to whip around and look at you; concern contorting his perpetually happy face.

"You good?" 

You shake your head, because you can't lie to him. To other people, you can smile and pretend like you’re okay, but not with Harry. It’s always been different with him. He'd also see through your bullshit if you tried to give him it.

The sound of a glass smashing followed by a loud cheer startles you, your eyes bulging out of your skull from the noise and destruction being caused in your flat. 

Harry looks over his shoulder to the source of the disaster, but he’s back to looking at you in an instant with a very sorry smile. You know that he's deliberating between leaving to kick out whoever it is that's making a mess of your home because they've freaked you out, and just staying to comfort you instead.

The latter is opted for, with him stepping forward and holding out his hand out for you to take. You’ve both been in this situation before. He knows what to do. 

“I’ve got you.” Harry murmurs, guilt in his gaze, “I’m so sorry for all of this, babe. But I’m here. I’ve got you.”

You say nothing as you link your fingers with his, but you do smile despite feeling panicked. The touch offers that familiar comfort that you know, trust and love so much, and you’re not upset with him for throwing a party. More so yourself for not being able to enjoy it. 

Harry avoids taking you further into the crowd, a smart move given your now frenzied state, and heads towards the bathroom, instead. It's the closest door, with both of your bedrooms on the other end of the hallway too out of reach for this kind of situation.

The second you’re both in and Harry closes the door behind, the noise on the other side of it dulls and you already start to feel slightly better. The blue LED lighting he installed in here also helps with that, but then again, so does just his presence.

Harry walks you over to the toilet and closes the lid, guiding you to sit on top of it. You do so with a smile, one that’s returned as he gives your hand a quick and gentle squeeze before letting go and sauntering over to the tub, where you watch him climb in fully clothed.

A small giggle bursts out from you at the sound of his denim-covered ass squeaking against the dry porcelain, which makes him roll his eyes and fight a smirk at your immature behaviour. Next, he’s leaning against the back of the tub; eyelids closing, hands linking behind his head, and he’s  dramatically sighing like he’s never been more comfortable.

"You're a weirdo."

His eyes open fast at your playful dig, smile widening further and dimples deepening. You’re obsessed with his little cheek canyons, but you’re not special there. Everybody is. 

"Well, that's just rude. I bring you in here, like the hero I am, and this is the thanks I get? You calling me a weirdo?” 

You scoff out a laugh as you stand up, Harry's gaze felt following every movement you make over to the small window. It's cracked open a little bit already, which allows in a nice, cool breeze that you needed. You were feeling a bit too warm.

A tinge of melancholia washes over you now, your state contemplative as you stare outside. You're annoyed with yourself for being so easily startled. So quick to panic. You can't help but wonder if others feel the same.

"Don’t you ever get sick of playing the hero for me, H?" You quietly ask, turning to look at him with the back of your head resting against the tiled wall and heart feeling heavy, "You've done it for so long now. I'd be sick of me."

Harry’s brows are furrowed in confusion, as though what you’ve just said was the most ludicrous thing in the world. It wasn’t, though. It was true.

But he argues with a shake of his head, no room for negotiation, "Not a chance. It's me and you forever, babe. So no more stupid questions, or I’m not responsible for dishing out stupid answers.”

You flip him off with a smirk, actions and a facial expression that he matches with ease. That makes you laugh as you grab the carton of cigarettes you left on the window sill earlier on; one pulled out, lit up and puffed in a matter of seconds. 

Indoor smoking isn't allowed, but ‘fuck the landlord’ was chanted a long time ago. There’s also a strong smell of weed coming from outside the bathroom, so clearly other's don't give a shit, either.

Harry tsks teasingly,, "Naughty, naughty. What've I told you about smoking?"

You exhale out the corner of my mouth, your cigarette pinched there and brows raise in question, "Only do it if you're doing it?"

"Atta girl. Gimme a draw."

Taking the few steps over to the bathtub, you lower yourself to sit cross-legged on the tiled floor by it. Harry's left arm lazily dangles over the edge, hand doing grabby motions that make you giggle.

You give his grinning self the cigarette, your focus on the way his already sharp jaw sharpens some more from the draw he takes. It’s passed your way again as Harry throws his head back to blow out a thick plume of smoke, eyes on the ceiling while yours are on his throat. Your own has a lump in it, one you harshly swallow away. 

"We're never getting our security deposit back."

You giggle at his comment before taking another drag, his head dropping down showing you his sunshine smile as you exhale. 

"Think that ship sailed when you burnt a hole in the carpet with a blunt on your birthday last year." You tease. 

His focus on your lips is something you’ve noticed countless times before, but never paid much mind to. You know it’s just because he’s paying attention to what you’re saying. Harry is good like that. He really listens.

But it's happening right now, and you’re not speaking anymore.

You clear your throat, Harry snapped out of whatever daze he was in thanks to that. You offer him a curious look, the teasing moment forgotten about. You’re much too focused on what the hell that was, instead. 

But he isn’t. Harry nabs the cigarette from your fingers, staring at the burning end for a second before he takes another drag. 

You can tell there’s something on his mind, but you’re not the kind of person to pry. If he wanted to say, he would.

So silence surrounds you both as you pass the cigarette back and forth some more. The party still rages outside this room, but you don't find yourself caring or worrying anymore. You’re comforted and calm, even though there's a part of you that feels something else now, too. 

You just can't figure out what that is yet, or why it's happening.

"Wanna play a game?"

Upon Harry’s sudden suggestion, you zone back in from zoning out, your eyes landing on his stupidly pretty fingers. With nails painted yellow by you, and chunky gold jewellery wrapped around seven out of ten, they make stubbing the cigarette out in the ashtray balanced on the side of the white porcelain tub look like the most beautiful performance. 

Your lips twitch into a smirk as his question finally registers, “What are you… twelve years old?"

He sticks his tongue out at you in a petulant way, proving your point. You scoff a laugh as he slides further down the tub until the back of his neck rests on the edge of it, and he's facing you with a cheeky smile. 

“D’you wanna play or not?" 

"Depends on what game you had in mind."

"Truth or Dare."

You can't help but scoff another laugh as you shake your head, Harry watching with a fond look in his eyes as you do. You hate your laugh, but he has a way of making it come out in a way that you don't despise.

"You really are twelve, but sure. I'll play. I act as infantile as you, so why not?" 

"You know the rules." He smirks, "Can't pick truth twice in a row. It's a cop out." 

You give him a deadpan look and go to call him out for the playful jibe, but the sound of a banging on the door interrupts. 

"Fuck off, it's occupied!" Harry shouts out abruptly, the sound of dull mumbling and groaning on the other side of the door quick to follow.

That has you giggling and him grinning. His eyes do a slow up and down dance across the entirety of you before locking with your own.

"So… where were we?” He ponders, lips pursing in thought before they're stretched into another brilliant smile, “Oh yeah, the rules. You got it?" 

You finally throw him that deadpan look. "H, we've been playing this game on and off for years. I think I know by now."

"Just checking." Harry shrugs, hands raised in defence, “Okay, ladies first. Truth or Dare?"

You know that he expects you to pick truth. Everybody expects it whenever you play, and for good reason. You always pick it. 

It's why Harry brought up the rule. You're the shy one, but that's usually because even around all of your other friends, you don't feel fully comfortable.

But it's just you and Harry now. He makes you feel that and more. You’re safe with him.

"Dare." 

At that, Harry's eyebrows raise, "Oo, somebody's bold." 

You scowl at him playfully, something he laughs at before his gaze wanders the room and lands on something. His face lights up. Inspiration has struck. 

"Okay, I dare you to eat the rest of the toothpaste in that tube."

Following his vision, you find the almost finished tube he speaks of lying beside the pot holding your toothbrushes. Any fuller and you'd have said no, not really fancying stomach problems from all the fluoride. But this you can manage.

You stare at him teasingly unimpressed, "Toothpaste? Really? That's the best you can do?"

"Listen, darling, I'm working with what I've got." Harry laughs, nudging his chin toward the tube, "Now go on. Eat!"

Rolling your eyes, you push up to stand and walk towards the toothpaste tube on the countertop. You grab and get to it, the rest of its contents squeezed into your mouth from a height, your tongue out to catch the minty cream. You can feel Harry watching, no doubt with a proud smile that you're doing his dare with a bit of flare.

With a mouth full of toothpaste now closed and stretched into a grin, you glance back his way, finding him indeed watching, but his proud smile is nowhere to be seen. 

Instead, you watch as he runs his tongue across his plump bottom lip before he's tugging it behind his two front teeth, his eyes glazed over and black.

The colour change could be from the lighting, but you know you're kidding yourself thinking that. They didn't look that shade before you stood up, and they definitely weren't looking at you with such hunger, either.

You swallow the contents with a hard gulp, bringing a thumb up to clean away a bit of paste at the corner of your mouth. For some reason, you can't look away from Harry as you do it. This new expression of his, one you've never witnessed before... it’s got you in a trance.

Silence swarms you both, a buzz in the air that didn't exist before. You can't place why there is, why it's here, but it makes you feel more comfortable. You feel safer than ever.

"Ta-dah!" You sing out, cracking the silence while waving the empty tube in victory.

Your words break Harry out of whatever daze he seemed to have found himself in yet again. His gaze flits from your mouth to your eyes, a half-smile appearing. 

You bow, he claps, and then you're back to the tub and sitting yourself on the edge of it this time, looking down at him looking up at you. That new, wild look is still in his eyes.

What’s caused the change is something you need to know. You wish you could be direct and just ask him, but that's not your style. 

But maybe it's time to give your brain a break from all the overthinking and overworking it does by being upfront. By asking questions.

You're comfortable. Safe. The cause of such feelings are the few drinks you've had tonight, the comforting blue bathroom lighting and Harry. Most of all, it's thanks to him. Even if he's looking at you in a way that says anything but comfort.

"What?" You ask, voice barely a whisper. 

You wanted to sound a lot more confident, and you also wanted to say more than one vague word. But then again, Harry knows you so well. He knows what you meant.

A small smirk appears on his lips again, the dark shade of his eyes yet to falter as he shakes his head slowly, "Nothing."

That's the first lie Harry’s ever told you. There's definitely something.

Looking at him with squinted eyes that silently calls bullshit, his answer lingers in the air, but you're willing to brush it off. If he wanted to tell you, he would. Moving on from it will just have to suffice. He knows you won't press for more, so he's off the hook.

"Okay, my turn." You mutter, "Truth or Dare, H?"

"Dare."

You knew that was coming, your eyes quick to roam around the bathroom, looking for inspiration. You can feel him watching you. Grinning at you. You're smiling now, too. 

Your sights land on the shower head hanging up high in front of him and behind you. A lightbulb goes off in your mind, your grin back to pointing his way.

“Sit in the tub fully clothed while I turn the shower on."

"And you judged me for picking toothpaste?" He taunts, "At least your breath is smelling nice now."

Your mouth drops in faux offence, "Shut up and do it. You need a wash."

He flips you off, giggles pouring from you as you shift to stand. The water is turned on before he can think twice, sputtering to life and shutting his smug self up. Sort of. 

"Fuck! Shit! That's so cold!"

His gasped words and fight for breath makes you laugh even more. You hadn’t forgotten how freezing cold the water is before it finally reaches the perfect temperature. 

A quick-to-soak Harry seems to realise what you’re in the know of too, his glare betrayed by his grin and giggles, “You're a little fucking witch!"

"You love it really."

At that, his laughter softens and that unfamiliar look crosses his face again. He brings a hand up to wipe the water from his face before he brushes his hair back, all of him now completely drenched.

The water hitting him and the tub is all that can be heard now. There’s no sound of the party anymore. 

It's just the pair of you, like you’re the only two people in the world. It always feels like that when it's just you and him.

From the way Harry looks at you again, he seems to think that, too. And it looks like he likes that. 

You know you do.

Swallowing hard, you fidget with the hem of your dress, feeling nervous again, "It's your turn to ask me."

Harry smirks once more, an expression of surprise on his face despite the cocky curve of his lips. You’re always quick to end the game. The fact that you’re pressing to play on… that’s new to him. Much like the way he looks at you is new to you.

"Truth or Dare?" 

You could easily pick the former since you chose the latter last time, but you’re a little anxious of what he might ask you. You don't have any answers to anything right now. 

"Dare."  

"Get in the tub with me."

You were quick with your answer, and Harry was quick with his suggestion, but neither of you were as quick as your movements now. There’s no hesitation from you to do as you’ve been dared; another unusual thing for you. You always take a minute to think, or, more accurately, overthink.

Stepping into the tub and under the stream, the water soaks you; sticking your t-shirt dress to you like a second skin as it makes your hair hang heavy in front of your face. You’re both laughing as Harry creates some more space for you by sitting himself up straight. 

With his knees popped some more, you lower yourself to the floor and sit facing him cross-legged, your legs narrowly avoiding one another. It's uncomfortable, though.

"Not like that, silly. Put your legs over mine." Harry speaks softly, patting the small space by his hips, "Feet here."

You nod and do as he says, shimmying forward. Your ass now squeaks against the tub, and you’re both laughing louder as you get yourself situated.

Once your feet are planted where he instructed, the sight of one of his hands coming close to your face catches you off guard. Harry hovers by it briefly before reaching to tuck your hair behind my ear; your face no longer hidden, and his bright eyes on full display again.

"There." He murmurs, pulling his hand back after lingering for a moment or two, "Much better."

You find yourself mesmerised not only by his words and touch, but by him. By the droplets running down his face and off of his chiselled jawline. By his eyelashes that are damp and stuck together. By his sopping wet curls chaotically hanging over his forehead. 

Harry really is beautiful. It's no wonder that everybody loves him.

The near proximity you’re both in makes you feel nervous, and you don’t know why. But you give yourself a mental head shake, desperate to rid the anxiety you feel and trance you’re under. You’re spiralling, and you shouldn’t be. There’s no reason to.

"Truth or Dare?" You ask, moving the game along. 

"Truth." 

His reply was quick. Determined. Serious. No theatrics. 

And it’s also caught you completely off guard, but something about it is very telling. Like choosing truth is his way of getting you to say, or ask, what you failed to earlier.

So you will. 

"Why are you looking at me like that?" 

Harry's brows furrow, his expression puzzled, "Like what?"

You tilt your head, letting your gaze flit over his face for a moment while pondering how to word what you’re thinking and what his gaze looks like to you. 

It comes to you pretty fast, and makes you feel more nervous than ever; a hard swallow following your findings.

"Like you love me." 

As you watch Harry's face relax into that familiar smile that you know and love, you also pay witness to his eyes shining brighter than ever. All confusion is gone in him, and stronger than ever in you. 

"Because I do." 

There’s nothing but truth and conviction in his tone. You know Harry loves you, because he's told you enough times. He’s your best friend for fuck sake, of course he loves you.

But that look he's been giving you, the one he still gives you right now… it’s more than that. So you shake your head dismissively. 

"No, that's not it."

"I dunno what else to tell you, babe. That's my answer.” He shrugs, nudging his chin your way, “Truth or Dare?"

That's the second lie Harry has ever told you. You can't stop yourself from growing a little annoyed, as well as more anxious, at his flippant answer and the need to move past it so quickly.

You huff out a sigh, willing to go on even if you’re frustrated, "Dare."

"Kiss me."

Your heart drops to your stomach at the sound of those two words, "Excuse me?!" 

"You heard me.” Harry counters quickly,, leaning forward some more with his elbows now resting on the edge of the tub. Water hits your shoulders and sprays onto him, his smile gleaming. His aura bold, “Kiss me." 

A nervous laugh leaves your lips, "Friends don't kiss, H.”

His grin widens as he inches closer again. You can smell his cologne, tobacco and vanilla, and it's sending you into a frenzy. 

He doesn't look phased by your statement. Instead, Harry roams his gaze over your face, landing on your lips briefly before finding your eyes again, that new but fast-becoming-familiar look in his own more intense. Captivating. Magnetic.

"What if I told you I don't wanna be just friends anymore?" 

Your whole body runs hot and cold from his calm confession. There's a swarm of butterflies in your stomach that shouldn't be caused by just a friend. Your best friend. That’s all he's ever been to you, and all you thought he ever would be.

But really, if you’re being totally honest with yourself, to you, Harry has been more than just your best friend for a while. 

There have been moments where jealousy has twisted your stomach seeing him kiss his short-lived lovers. Times of tossing and turning where you wished he was in bed next to you, cuddling you to his chest while you chatted. Occasions of pining where you’d both see couples in the street walk hand-in-hand, and you felt tempted to reach out and take Harry’s in yours.

You’ve never made any moves. Never hinted toward having a crush on him. Never really admitted it to yourself, until now. 

The fear of things fucking up between you if you took things further, or even opened up about how you felt, was too much to even entertain the idea, so you’d brushed it away. Having Harry in your life as your best friend was better than not having him at all.

And you didn’t think he’d ever feel the same way about you, but now, upon his questioned confession, that’s changed. Everything has, and you want to be as bold as he is about it. To dive in head first. To indulge in the inklings that have been brewing for years. To give yourself over to him in a whole new way.

So you will.

"What if I said I felt the same?" You whisper, sounding nowhere near as confident as Harry did, but that’s standard. He's always been a butterfly. You’ve always been a caterpillar.

You know he sees you as you see him, though. It’s even written all over his beautiful face right now. 

Harry inches forward once again, his smile wider than ever so close to your own, "Then I'd say show me exactly what friends aren't supposed to do.”

Unlike so many occasions where you take pause to think of your next move, that's not happening now. It can’t. You’ve paused for too long when it comes to him.

So  you push your own head forward, two pairs of smiling mouths so close to meeting that your breaths have struck up a dance. Yours shaky and nervous. Harry's collected and strong. 

The tension right now… you need it to snap. You just know it's going to feel so good when it does.

You’re proven right the moment your lips softly connect. Euphoria runs through every inch of your body, a feeling you revel in. One you didn’t think could exist between you and your best friend, but it’s chaos and calm and you already can’t get enough.

Your mouths move in perfect synchronicity, slight trepidation to the embrace like you’d expect from two people kissing for the first time. It’s sweet and wholesome, though, even if the pulse between your thighs and small throaty moan have very different emotions behind them.

Harry breaks the kiss apart, resting his forehead against yours, “You can't be making noises like that, love."

"Why not?" You ask, eyes opening to find his still closed and a smile of contentment on his now glossy lips.

"Because I'll never want you to make any other."

Harry pulls back and gives you his gaze, his pupils now entirely blown out, and you’re hit with understanding of what that look from before meant. Means. You've finally pieced it all together. 

It's lust.

He runs his tongue across his lower lip before you’re given another smirk. It's dangerous and divine, and your body reacts to it further in the form of hitched breaths, more butterflies, and a throbbing pussy. You’re falling apart already and all you’ve done is kiss. Maybe that’s all you’ll both do…

But you want to go further, and you can tell Harry does, too. It’s crystal clear. You just need to let him know how you feel in case he doesn’t already know.

"Sounds good to me." You murmur, at peace with your decision. You crave more. Crave him.

Harry seems to agree too, because now it's him that closes the gap between you both. Your lips piece together seamlessly again, starting off sweet and slow like the first one, but it’s quick to transition into anything but that. 

You’re both moving messily. Maniacally. The feeling of his tongue lapping itself around yours lets you taste the cigarette you just shared, and the tequila he's been swigging all night. Your body arches into him, hands knotting in his hair tugging at his soaked locks. 

Harry groans, the sound guttural and gorgeous. It makes you understand what he meant about only wanting to hear one sound from you, because the noise he just made… it was heavenly. It’s the only one you ever want to hear him make now. 

"Harder." He mumbles against your lips, his pleading command doing nothing but make more arousal pool in your panties. 

You do as he says, yanking harder. Another gorgeous groan given from him as he cups your face, hands tilting your head back to deepen the kiss. He’s taking full control, which is more than fine by you. You want him to have every bit of you, however he wants it.

The air is hot from the water still pouring as much as it is from the embrace. You smooth your hands away from their hold in Harry's hair to the collar of his rainbow striped t-shirt, grinning against his mouth when he shivers from your touch.

Pulling at it in a silent request for him to take it off makes him laugh through his nose, his hands leaving your face to give you what you want. He stops the kiss to rid the material, the temperature heating up further with the rugged breaths you both make through your separated, swollen lips ghosting one anothers.

Laughter pours too, because Harry struggles to peel his top off. The material is completely drenched and stuck to his skin, but when he frees himself from the fabric and throws it onto the bathroom floor, the laughter fades out fast. Silence swallows you both up comfortably. Nervously. Excitedly.

He cradles your jaw again, gaze darting between your own drinking you in. You nestle into his palm and do the same, absorbing every detail of him. 

The strands of wet hair that have fallen over his face and how they’re already starting to adorably curl. His lips plumper than usual from all of the kissing. His stuck-together lashes framing his pretty eyes blinking more frequently, like he’s dazed and can’t believe what’s happening. 

Looking down at his torso all naked and on full display, you feel blessed. You’ve seen Harry shirtless a million times, although none quite like right now. 

In the blue hue you’re surrounded by, his tattoos pop and look blacker than ever. You get lost looking at his prominent collarbones, subtle pecs, and toned stomach that looks so soft and sweet in his seated position. 

And you also fall victim to following the happy trail of sparse hair beneath his belly button that disappears into the waistband of his jeans, a blush on your cheeks as you glance briefly at the hardness confined within them. 

"You're so fucking beautiful." 

Harry’s mumbled words pull your eyes up, finding him lost in a trance caused by you. Your cheeks that he strokes with his thumbs are rosy red from his compliment, your hands running up his ribs as you give him a dizzy smile.

"Right back atcha, Styles." 

He grins and laughs lightly before catching your lips with his again, the kiss picking up where you left off. The pulse between your thighs grows with every swirl of your tongues, every line he gently traces over your cheeks, every soft moan emanating from him. 

Your mind spins in the most amazing way, and that only accelerates further when Harry breaks away from your lips to sloppily and hungrily make his way along the jawline he holds, going down to the space beneath your ear. His lips feel incredible, small sparks left behind when he ventures onto your neck and to the hollow of your throat.

Your hands knit in his hair even tighter than before, your moans hitting the air unabashedly. If his mouth feels as magical as this, you’re equal parts nervous and excited to find out how good other parts of him feel, too. 

Pressing one more kiss, he now pulls back with a smirk, "So… what else don't friends do?" 

He's putting the ball in your court right now, and you know why. Harry, the forever gentleman, is living up to that name. He's making sure you’re comfortable, that you know you’ve got the power here, even if he has the physical upperhand. He wants you to speak your mind now more than ever.

Screwing your mouth to the side in faux thought lasts for a second before you give him a dazzling smile and a shrug, "Friends don't go down on one another."

At that, his brows raise and smile deepens, "They sure as shit don't."

He wastes no time in pressing his lips to yours again, the pair of you simultaneously scooting back until you’re leaning against the edge of the tub behind you; the pouring water ahead.  

On his knees between your spread legs, your fingers tangled up in his hair fall from place as he pulls back to sit on his ankles. Harry grins, the stream of water behind him hitting off his broad back and trickling down his front; your eyes shamelessly on the droplets that run down his torso and pool at the hem of his low waist jeans.

Your gaze doesn't stop where the water does, though. With his jeans drenched and clung to him, and the fact they were already slim fitting, the outline of his large, thick cock strains against the material more visible than ever. 

You know Harry is well endowed having heard it enough times from many of his conquests. He's always been casual about it, which only confirms the fact he's got a big dick. He exudes that energy, too.

You’ve both also had more discussions than you can count about sexual experiences to know one another's most embarrassing moments, best experiences, kinks and what neither of you like. 

For example, you know Harry loves eating pussy as he's talked about the power of it enough times. You say talked, but praised would be a better descriptive word.

While this is all so new and unfamiliar between you, it also feels old and familiar. The information and knowledge about one another is there. You just haven't put it into practice.

But that’s about to change.

Harry's hands move to pull up the fabric of your dress, bunching it up at your hips. Your black lace panties are exposed to him, which makes him let out a gentle groan, before he’s hungrily looking up at you through his lashes.

"How attached are you to these?" He asks, nudging his chin to your underwear.

You smirk, shaking your head, "Not very."

"Was hoping you'd say that." 

Before you realise it, your panties are gone. Harry has ripped them effortlessly off your body and thrown the flimsy fabric aside. A small stinging sensation hits your hips from the force, and you moan from the feeling and action. 

You’re now completely bare down there, your pussy on full display to Harry for the first time ever. Never in a million years did you think this would be something he'd see, and while you feel you should shy away from that, you can’t. Not when he’s looking at it, at you, with so much desire. 

"So pretty." He hums mindlessly, sounding and looking to be in another trance.

You can’t help but giggle, however it's a sound that dies in your throat when Harry takes hold of your calves and lifts them onto his shoulders. Your hands grip the side of the tub as his snake under your ass to grab handfuls of it, elevating you slightly. 

His lopsided smile, dangerous and delicious, now hovers between your thighs, only inches away from your dripping cunt. 

"Let's see what other sweet sounds I can get out of you, yeah?"

You don't have a response for that. His lust-filled words have you stunned. 

Even if you did have one, it wouldn’t see the light of day. Not when Harry pulls a moan from you instead by closing the gap between his mouth and your pussy; his tongue licking a teasingly slow stripe up through it. 

Immediately, you fall apart, body tingling from head to toe as you watch him while he watches you. You couldn’t look away even if you tried. You’re hypnotised. 

Harry stops at your clit, smiling against you. You pant and squirm; Needy your first, middle and last name.

"I know, babe. I know." He murmurs, his breath fanning and tickling against your hot, soaked skin, "I'll give you more."

Wasting no more time, he completely buries his face between your thighs. Nose flush against your mound, he breathes you in. Lips wrapped around your clit, sucking, licking and kissing it. Head gently and repeatedly moving from left to right, nuzzling as he eats you out like you’re his last meal.

Your hands grip the porcelain of the tub so hard, you swear it could crack. All you can do is moan, moan and moan some more, your head lighter than air and the ability to speak long gone. 

But upon his tongue now dipping into your hole, you become a new woman. One possessed. 

"Oh my God!" You yell, throat tight and thighs tensing, “Please, H…more!”

And he gives you it, fucking your cunt with his tongue like a man on a mission. You know you’re making a mess of him, although it’s hard to tell what’s you and what’s from the shower head that still sprays and soaks you both. 

He’s still grinning against you, and feeling that is as arousing as the way he eats you out. The cockiness. The confidence. The cheekiness. You love it, and it’s got your orgasm building quickly, quicker than it’s ever built up before. It's not hard to tell that Harry knows what he's doing. He really does worship pussy.

Humming in satisfaction, the feeling of it vibrates against you. Sends shockwaves through you. You’re writhing and wriggling uninhibited, your toes curling fiercely and fists white-knuckling the tub.  

His mouth moving back to your clit makes your hips buck up, his face pressing further into your cunt. You’d panic, but Harry seems into it, and if anything, he takes it as an invitation to squeeze your ass harder. Devour you even more. 

One particularly hard suck on your swollen bud makes the balloon in your stomach pop. A sense of calm and warmth rushes through you as you climax, Harry’s grip on your behind tightening even more than before as you do. 

His blunt nails bite the flesh as he pulls off your clit and heads down to your hole, tongue back inside it to collect your release. Through your weary eyes that he’s still locked onto, you watch as he laps up every drop you give him. 

Your trembling body starts to settle after what feels like forever of earth-shattering pleasure. Harry lowers you carefully, your ass meeting the tub while you suck in desperate breaths.

He sits back on his ankles, your eyes honing on his tongue. Harry runs it across his bottom lip, savouring every bit of you. He hums at the taste, smiling wickedly.

You’re spent from your orgasm, but also turned on at the prospect of giving him one. He’s had a taste of you. Now, you want a taste of him.

At that, you grin and nudge your chin towards him, "Stand up."

With raised brows and widened eyes, Harry’s grin grows some more. He doesn’t say a thing, but he does do as he was told.

On his feet, water hits the top of his shoulders and sprays over them, thicker beads of it back to running down every delicious contour of his torso. You swallow hard as you shift to rest on your knees, your focus dropping to look at the very prominent bulge in his jeans just begging to be freed.

Smirking up at him, you smooth your palms up his calves and thighs. His chest heaves, breaths rugged from your touch. Harry is putty in your hands, just like you were in his.

You stop the taunting journey at his waistband, running the pad of your index finger along his jagged left hip bone and the fern tattoo inked there. The way he gasps, his stomach twitches and eyes locked on yours grow more feral… it’s intense. It’s incredible.

"Are you always such a cock tease?" 

His voice, rough and so arousing, makes you giggle. You dip your digit beneath the denim, gently trailing the back of it along the soft skin.

“Maybe… is that a problem?"

Harry is quick to shake his head, his smirk back and better than ever, "Not at all, love. But I'll be sure to show you just what happens to those who are if you wanna keep it up."

At that, your breath hitches. Your cunt throbs again, thighs squeezed together to satiate it as you move on to undo his jeans; your focus on his face to make sure what you’re doing is okay by him. That he’s okay in general.

The look on Harry’s tells you he's more than that. He looks thrilled. 

But he knows you. He understands that you’re looking for reassurance, so he nods and smiles while smoothing your hair back away from your face.

"Go ahead, darling. Do what you want to me. I’m all yours to use however you want." 

You can’t help but moan, moving faster, too. Harry chuckles quietly at your eagerness, a shy smile on your face and cheeks painted pink because of it. 

With his jeans now undone, you pull the wet material along with his boxers down his legs until they’re at his feet, leaving Harry to step out and kick them away while you hone in on his now free cock. 

The tip, all red, swollen and leaking, rests against his lower stomach, staining his skin and happy trail with the milky-coloured precome. Prominent veins run up the length of a silky smooth, thick and long shaft. And his balls, well-groomed and heavy-looking, are just begging to be drained.

You salivate at the sight, looking up at him in total awe only to find he’s looking down at you with the same expression, his hands continuing to run through your hair. You’re starving for Harry, just like he was, and probably still is, for you.

Grabbing his length, you don't waste any time in gently stroking up the skin you knew would be as soft as velvet. A divine whine tumbles from Harry, your hand wrapped around him with a good amount of pressure feeling him out. Squeezing him a little.

Flattening your tongue and swiping it over his slit, cleaning up the precome spilling from it, makes Harry groan. The sound rattles in his chest while the salty taste of him coats your tongue. You hum at the flavour, needing more. Needing all of it.

You wrap your lips around his tip, suckling and flicking your tongue against it. You continue to work his length with your hand, your eyes remaining on his face. You don't want to miss a second of watching him come completely undone from your touch. 

And what Harry gives you is pure art. His head alternates between dropping back in pleasure, and his stubbled chin meeting his shaky chest. He fists your hair tightly, fighting his lids to keep his focus on yours. He seems determined to not miss a minute of you, too.

It makes you smile, just like he did when he gave you head. Harry gives you a lazy one back, the glint in his eyes as devilish as your thoughts. 

You bring one of them to life by pulling back and delivering a quick spit to his cock. The atmosphere shifts from somewhat slow and sweet to filthy and feral fast,  your move catching him by surprise. One he seems to appreciate by the way his fist in your hair tightens further as his eyes grow darker. 

"Again." 

After moaning at his raspy command, you don’t hesitate to obey it. You spit again, his own groan hitting the air as your saliva hits his cock. 

“Such a good girl.” He coos, smirking as he does, “Now clean it up."

You whimper and comply, picking up where you just left off only now, you bob your head as you suck while twirling your tongue around his shaft, lapping up your spit while sinking lower and lower. The more that his cock disappears in your mouth, the louder Harry’s moans get. The more euphoric he looks. 

"Look at you almost taking all of me.” He hums, eyes on your lips wrapped around him before meeting your hazy vision, “Think you can fit it all? You’re so close, darling. You wanna keep going for me?”

Nodding as best as you can makes him grin. His tip is grazing the back of your mouth now and there isn’t too much of him left out, but you want it all in just like he does.

Breathing in and out through your nose and gripping Harry's thighs hard, you push your head forward until there’s no more room to go. Your nose is pressed against his lower abdomen, and his cock is curved down your throat, stretching it out.

Spit bubbles in the corner of your mouth as tears spring from your eyes. You’re more light-headed than ever before. Something you can just tell Harry feels, too.

Swallowing around him brings forth the most pornographic-sounding moan, his legs trembling along with it. His eyes roll into the back of his head. His lazy smile lazier.

"Fuck… that it. That’s my good girl.” 

You let your throat clamp around and tease his tip for as long as you can before pulling back as soon as you’ve reached your limit. A string of saliva connects your lower lip to his tip as you cough and breathe in much needed air.

Harry's hands in your hair are quick to cup your face again, the pads of his thumbs wiping away the tears before he moves them to sever the spit string. He rubs the moisture across your now swollen, parted lips, grinning down at you brightly.

"God, you’re fucking incredible. " He hums in awe, "Stand up for me, babe."

You pout at him with stitched-together brows, "But I'm not finished."

“If you keep going with your pretty mouth working magic on me like it just did, I will be, and I'm nowhere near ready to let that happen yet.” Harry chuckles, taking a hold of both your hands, " C'mon, now. Be a good girl and stand."

The praise. The nickname. The way he touches you. Looks at you. He could have you do whatever he wanted, truly.

You let him help you up, your wet dress stuck to your body capturing his attention. His eyes are brazenly glued to your tits, a smirk worn while you fight your own. 

Pinching the hem of your dress that fell back to your mid-thigh as you stood up, you now pull it up and off your body, and toss the fabric to lie with his clothes. You stand before Harry entirely naked now as he does for you, no bra to take off. You’re not a fan of them. 

His blown-out gaze lingers on your chest as his hands find their home on your hips, his thumb rubbing soft and slow circles. He hides his bottom lip behind his sweet bunny teeth, but when his eyes meet yours again, his lips shift from twitching at the corners into a full blown smile.

"You're so pretty, babe." He whispers, tone low but honesty loud, "So fucking pretty."

Your skin tints pinker at yet another one of his compliments. It’s not the first time he's ever said such a thing, but it’s different now. It means something more. 

Your mouths meet again, the pair of you humming as you kiss. You swipe your tongue across his lower lip, asking him to let you in. You want to taste yourself on his tongue. You want him to taste himself on yours.

He lets you in, clearly just as eager. The second your tongues touch and the taste of one another is shared, you’re both moaning in delight. 

Harry pulls you closer to his body until you’re flush against him. His quivering cock is pressed against your stomach, and his hands slip down to once more take greedy handfuls of your backside. 

He grins against your mouth before pulling his away, "You okay, babe?" 

His voice so full of care warms you up. You nod fast, grinning back just as wide.

"More than. Let's fuck away our friendship, yeah?"

At that, Harry laughs loudly, the sound filling your heart to the point you worry it could explode. You've loved his laugh for so many years, but now it's like you’re hearing it for the first time. Everything is brand new and beautiful.

The sound fades out, but his grin remains. Harry jerks his chin towards the wall behind you. 

“Put your back against the wall, and lift a foot onto the side of the tub."

You once more clench around nothing thanks to his words and the dominant cadence he delivered them in. You take the steps back until you reach the wall, your spine meeting the tile, and raise your right leg before resting your foot on the edge of the porcelain.

Harry follows in your footsteps, stopping between your parted legs. He roams every inch of your face and torso, honing in on your pussy all spread and soaked. 

He groans at the sight, which makes you shiver and mewl, and the sound earns his eyes back on yours. 

"You're still on the pill, right?" 

“I am." You tell him truthfully, swallowing hard, “Why? You wanna fuck without a condom?”

His gaze grows hazy. Smirk as devilish as ever, "Only if you’re comfortable with that. There’s a box of them in the cabinet if not, so I don’t mind grabbing one.”

You shake your head fast, “No condom. I wanna feel every bit of you, but only if you’re comfortable with it, too.”

“I am.” He echoes your earlier words, lips stretching from a smirk into a toothy grin, “I wanna feel every bit of this sweet cunt, too. Been dreaming about it for so long.”

The back of your head falls back to press against the tiles, tipped that way to stare up at Harry staring down at you. Your eyes are wide with the surprise you feel hearing him say such a thing.

“You have?”

“Mhm.” He hums, dipping down to run his nose along the length of yours, “‘M more than happy to divulge my dirty daydreams about you later, babe. But right now, I’m a little more focused on making them a reality. What d’ya say?”

You choke on a breath, blinking rapidly as you nod, “Okay. Yeah. Sounds good.”

Harry laughs, the sound as infectious as ever pulling giggles from you. Your hands slide along his arms while his grip your hips, the firmness in his touch almost as dizzying as watching him now gather saliva behind his teeth to spit a string of it down onto his rock solid cock.

You try to swallow the moan that comes from the sight of that, but it’s impossible. It was just too hot, and watching Harry now fuck his fist with his right hand only makes it more of a challenge. Especially when he’s moaning, too. 

Squirming impatiently, a desperation like no other has taken over you. Harry pulls himself together a tad, sending you a taunting grin mixed in with a scolding expression.

"Needy little thing, aren't you?" 

You nod and whimper “yes” as he continues to stroke his cock, the tip of it brushing against your stomach. More precome blurts from his slit, staining your skin. Teasing you.

"C'mon, Harry.” You whine and writhe, “Give it to me." 

Before you realise it, Harry's cock is at your entrance, the head of it gently grazing your hole. He removes his hand now that he’s anchored in, his fingers gathering the saliva and precome cocktail from his shaft before he’s smearing it across your parted lips that pant out heavy breaths of want.

Just when you think he’s about to give in and give you what you want, he’s gripping your face tightly. Your mouth puckers up while his stretches into a grin, his stare more intense and wicked than ever.

"Say please." 

"Please. God- please." You beg, mumbled thanks to Harry's hold on your face, and his words scrambling your brain. You can feel yourself dripping down your thighs, so turned on you could actually cry.

His hand softens until he’s cupping your chin in his palm, fingers either side of your cheeks so soft and tender, “Good girl.”

Pushing his hips up, his cock slowly starts to slide in. You moan loudly, your wet walls stretching to allow his thick length in, yet they hug him so tightly, too. You can feel every delicious ridge of his length, your pussy fluttering as your eyelids do the same.

With his mouth back on yours, Harry catches your sounds. They harmonise gorgeously with his own; every inch of Harry sinking inside of you causing both to grow in volume. 

Balls deep, he stops. Your lips separate, sweat-slicked foreheads pressing together and broken breaths fanning across one another’s faces. You’re smiling lazily. Harry is, too.

“You okay?” He sweetly asks, sounding as dizzy as you are, “How d’you feel?" 

"So fucking good. Better than good. Perfect. You’re perfect.”

Harry chuckles gently, kissing the tip of your nose. "Right back atcha. How d’you want me?”

“Fast. Rough. Please.”

“You got it, love.”

The sweet, tender moment ends there. He pulls out fast only to push back in even faster, fucking up into you just how you wanted. The atmosphere becomes as feral as the noises you both make, the squelching sound of your cunt wrapped around his cock and his balls slapping against you.

"Fuck, Harry… right there!” You cry out, tears rolling down your face, “Please, don't stop!" 

Your hands in his hair are white-knuckled, much like his right hand on your hip. His left now slaps against the tiled wall beside your head behind you, using it to support himself to keep up the animalistic pace.

Sex on someone else has never looked so good. Harry is sex. Pure fucking sex. 

His brow is all furrowed and sweat-slicked, with soaked strands of hair clinging to it and hanging over his blacked eyes that flit between your fucked-out face and bouncing tits. His sharp jaw twitching. His swollen lips parted allowing out pants and groans.

You’re on cloud nine, and you know he’s right there with you. But you can both go beyond there. Together, you can fly through space. 

“Choke me, Harry.”

At your request, his jaw clenches harder and he sends you another dangerous smile. His hand on the wall moves to cup the side of your neck, his head cocked in intrigue.

"Is that what you want?"

You nod slowly, smirking back, "Wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t. Give me a necklace as pretty as the one I gave you."

Your focus flits down to the beaded accessory still worn by him as he laughs through his nose, palm sliding to the front of your throat. The way he moves it is slow. Careful. A complete juxtaposition to the fast and hard fucking he's giving you.

"What else do you want?" He asks, his tone laced with challenge.

“Your come.” You whine, wetting your lips while clenching your cunt, “Wanna milk every last drop from you. Want you to fuck it deep inside me.”

Harry’s eyes roll from your words before he’s back to pinning them on you and piercing you with his stare. 

Panting sharp puffs of air through his parted lips that are curled at the corners from his smirk, his hand wraps around your throat; his fingers pressing into the exact right places with the exact right amount of pressure. 

You grow dizzier, more light-headed, than ever. Your grin is lazy, and you’re totally lost to the incredible feeling of being choked as you’re being ruined, your moans croaky and pussy wetter than it already was.

"Such a good girl taking me like this.” Harry grunts, your hazy vision clearing to find his looking glazed over, “You thought about this happening between us like I have, baby? Thought about me balls deep in your tight little cunt? My hand squeezing your throat as tightly as your pussy squeezes my cock?”

Whimpering at his words, you nod your head as best as you can, "Fuck, I have. So many times, H."

You’re not lying there. There have been more than a few occasions that you’ve thought about it, especially when you’d heard him fucking somebody else through the thin wall that connects your bedrooms. 

But you were just friends. Best friends. You had no intentions of telling him your thoughts or how you wished it was you he was fucking. You didn’t want to lose him if he didn’t feel the same way about you.

That’s no longer a concern anymore, and thank God for it. 

Harry moans, pulling you towards him by his grip on your throat. Your mouths meet hard, tongue and teeth clashing together in a way that feels dirty, messy and completely perfect. 

Separating, he rests his forehead against your own, your eyes locked on one another's as he continues to fuck up into you with all he has. The position he's got you in hits so deep, you swear you can feel him in your belly. You’re so full. So fed. So happy.

While he adds a little more pressure to your throat, his left hand leaves your hip to press against your lower stomach. You choke on your restricted breaths as he palms where his tip bulges, your whole body trembling and orgasm so close to wrecking you.

“Fuck.” Harry hisses, jaw clenched and teeth gritted, “Got me all the way up here, huh? S’it feel good for you, baby?”

“So good.” You hum, tone tight as you nod needily, “Swear your cock was made for me. Feels so right.”

Harry whimpers at that, "Fuck, it was. It does. Keep going, darling."

"Nobody's fucked me as good as you, ‘n I know nobody ever will again.” You pant, swallowing hard against his palm while you pull his cock in deeper with a squeeze of your cunt, “A match made in heaven, you and me."

"Fucking heaven." He mumbles and nods mindlessly, clearly as blissed-out as you are.

Your high now hits so hard that it almost pushes him out of you, but Harry fights to stay inside. He somehow fucks you even harder, and it’s to the point that you see white and scream his name with all you can muster.

And your orgasm triggers his. His body hunching and hot load painting your walls only extends the euphoria you’re experiencing. 

His hand on your throat remains tight, with yours in his hair the exact same as you moan into one another’s open mouths. If you weren’t pressed against the wall and somewhat held up by Harry, you’d be on the ground while your soul floats away. 

Your climax fades, but little aftershocks of it tingles your skin while you pant as breathlessly as he does. Both of you start laughing lightly and deliriously, like you’re both in disbelief over what just happened.

Harry pulls back, mouths separating so he can show you his grinning self properly, "I think I saw stars." 

You can't help but giggle at his comment, nodding slowly, “Me too." 

"We could get used to it, you know? Set up home amongst them… would be a pretty view all the time. What d'ya think?"

"I say let’s do it. It’s cheaper than what we pay for this shit hole we call a home, and waaaaay more fun to get to."

His louder laughter fills the air and warms your heart, "Can't say I disagree with you there, babe."

You hum at the kiss he presses to your forehead, but a hiss follows upon him slowly pulling out. Harry murmurs apologies, then gives your pouting lips from missing him inside of you already another quick peck as you feel his release trickling down your leg.

He steps back, greedy gaze on his come blurting out of your cunt. A filthy-sounding groan rumbles in his chest, a cheeky smirk stretching his lips as he meets your eyes again.

“Now that right there? That's the third prettiest view." 

Your brows stitch together in confusion, “Huh?”

"Second spot is the stars that our magical sex sent us to.” Harry elaborates quickly, grabbing the shower head and rinsing his release away, “First is your face."

And while you should blush, roll your eyes and try to fight a smile from his cute albeit cheeky compliment, you can’t. 

You feel anxious, because you two just fucked. Where you stand with one another needs to be talked about.

"Things aren't gonna be weird between us now… right?"

"Weirder than how we usually are or?"

“You know what I mean.” You send him a deadpan look, but it shifts to match the panic that twists your stomach, "You mean so much to me, H. I can't lose you, I just can't-”

“Hey, hey.” Harry is quick to cut you off, hanging the shower head up before he’s cupping your face, “That’s not gonna happen, babe. I fucking promise, okay? I’ve got you now and always. ‘M not going anywhere. Not without you, ‘n I want weird anyway.”

"What do you mean?" 

He sighs shakily, a look of nervousness across his face now. It's a look you never see from him. He's always so confident and put together.

"If things weren't weird now, it would mean that we're still just friends and that we went back to our normal after this." He hums, thumbs stroking circles against your skin, "I don't wanna be just friends anymore. I haven't wanted to be just friends for a long time."

"You haven't?" 

A shy head shake is his answer. You’ve got more questions to ask. 

"For how long?"

"Probably since the moment I met you."

Your mouth drops open in complete shock, "What the fuck, Harry?! Why didn't you say anything?!"

"You know me, love. I open up when I feel ready.” He chuckles, shrugging casually as he takes a subtle deep breath in and out, his smile brightening by the second, “I'm ready now, though. I'm sorry I took so long to be."

Your eyes dart between his, and you’re at a complete loss for words. There's no way you ever expected this to happen, for tonight to have gone the way it has. That you would hear Harry admit years-long feelings that he’s had. 

But it makes sense that he has. That you have, too. 

You're the perfect match in every way. You balance each other out completely. You know everything about each other. You love everything about each other, too; flaws and all. That's a rare thing to find.

And now, thinking about it, you’re glad you both waited until tonight to say, or do, a thing about your feelings. Building a foundation as strong as yours means that your future together will be all the more solid. 

Your mind jumps back to earlier on when you asked Harry why he was looking at you like he loved you, and he said it's because he does. You knew then that the look meant more than friendship, but you couldn’t quite figure out exactly what else it could be. Or perhaps you did know, but just wouldn’t let yourself believe it out of fear of heartbreak.

But now, you’re not afraid. You’re excited. And you’re looking back at Harry in the exact same way, for the exact same reason.

"You really love me, don't you?"

With a twinkle in his eyes, Harry lets that shy smile stretch wider. He knows you know now. He knows you feel it in the same way, too.

"More than anything." 

And upon him whispering those three little words that have the same effect as three other different ones, you just know that absolutely everything will be okay. 

Harry’s got you now, and always. 

[emeraldsandpearlsss]

Under Pressure

As a graduation present to yourself you head to the spa to finally get some relaxation. Lucky for you, your masseuse knows just how to work out that tension.

(this is my first attempt at a one shot so be gentle)

WC: 4.4k

content warnings: strangers, fingering (f receiving), oral (m and f receiving), hand job, riding the tiger

After six grueling years of college, I had finally earned this spa day. Going straight into grad school after getting my Bachelor’s was a decision I knew would be challenging, but I hadn’t anticipated the physical toll it would take on me. The mental hardships I managed with various prescriptions and my nightly date with Lady Indica, but nothing seemed to ease the tension that had been locked in my shoulders for the past three years.

So there I soaked, neck deep in the outdoor mineral bath, as the 104-degree water soothed my aching joints. The spa was hidden away in the mountains, down a winding road flanked by lush greenery. I’d been here for two hours already, cycling between the hot and cold plunge pools and swimming laps. Now I lounged, waiting for my upcoming aromatherapy massage. With the day pass costing upwards of $500, I was determined to make every cent count.

When my 15 minutes were up, I headed inside to the spa’s service area. The receptionist checked me in, handed me a towel, and guided me to the showers to rinse off before my treatment. The hallways were dimly lit and refreshingly cool, infused with the earthy aroma of stone walls, subtly mingled with hints of jasmine and eucalyptus oils. My shower resembled a rock waterfall. This whole place knew how to set a tone.

I quickly undressed, rinsed off, and wrapped myself in the plush towel. My hands lightly shook as I knotted my hair into a silk scrunchie and I felt a flutter of tension deep into my belly. I had never had a massage like this before. I had never spent this much on myself before. But I earned this. I had to keep reminding myself I worked hard for this.

Entering Room 3, I paused to take in the serene atmosphere. The soft, white massage table rested at the heart of a dimly lit room, bathed in a soothing blue glow. The stone-lined walls evoked the serene ambiance of a tranquil cave, inviting a deep sense of calm. I took my place on the table, face up as instructed, and let out a slow, steadying breath.

A soft knock broke the quiet, followed by the gentle creak of the door opening. I turned my head to greet my masseuse and was met with a pair of jade-green eyes illuminated by the room’s soft light.

"Hello," he said, his voice carrying a gentle British accent. "My name is Harry, and I’ll be your massage therapist today."

For a moment, I forgot myself, taking in the sight of him. His soft brown hair was tied back in a bun, mirroring my own. He wore a simple short-sleeved button-down and matching trousers, accented only by a blue name tag. Tattoos adorned his left arm in an intricate array, with just a few scattered on his right. As my gaze traveled back up to meet his eyes, I felt the need to steady my breath. 

"H-hi. Hello," I stammered, suddenly hyper aware of the fact that I had nothing but a pair of cotton panties beneath my towel.

"Are there any areas you’d like me to focus on today?" he asked as he moved around the room, setting out lotions and placing a few drops of oil into the diffuser. He was so at ease in his routine and I felt like my world had tilted on its axis. 

His words caused an unexpected ache to thrum low in my belly. I clenched my thighs together, hoping to dispel the sensation as discreetly as possible. That particular area hadn't received any focus since the start of my grad program.

By another person that is.

And god three years was a long time to go with only the company of a pink vibrator. And maybe a dildo…and a purple vibrator that had the thrusting motion…and occasionally a plug but only on special occasions…

But no men. 

And certainly not men who looked like him. I’d been here for two hours already, cycling between the hot and cold plunge pools and doing some laps in the pool. His hands seemed capable of molding me like play-doh, with veins running along them and up along his firm forearms… It was easy to imagine them working out…tension. 

"My shoulders have been sore," I managed to choke out, wincing slightly at the crack in my voice. My shoulders weren’t any more sore than any other part of my body, but I felt like I had to say something. 

"Alright," he said with a reassuring nod. "We’ll start there and see how you’re feeling. Just close your eyes and try to relax." 

I did as instructed, taking a few calming breaths. The sound of him rolling a stool closer and the faint squeezing of lotion filled the room.

"Is it alright if I touch you now?" he asked gently.

I nodded softly, and his hands found their place on my shoulders, warm and reassuring. His palms pressed firmly into my traps, kneading with a steady rhythm that radiated a soothing warmth through my muscles. His thumbs traced slow, deliberate circles, each motion dissolving knots of tension that had accumulated from countless hours hunched over a computer screen. The relief was immediate, like all of the weight I had been carrying was slowly lifting away.

His fingers traveled with a knowing precision, working their way across the ridges of my shoulders and upper back. A satisfying pressure built with each movement—firm enough to coax the tension from my muscles but never harsh, as if he intuitively understood my threshold. As he moved his hands to my neck, his touch deepened. He slipped his fingers beneath my shoulder blades, a light stretch accompanying the glide upward.

His hands transitioned seamlessly into my hair, the silky strands parting as his fingertips brushed against my scalp. The sensation magnifying the ache between my legs. His touch grounded me in the moment while leaving my senses heightened.

Slowly his hands began to curl around to the sides of my neck, along my pulse point and up to my temples. My heart rate picked up with each pass, my legs flexing and releasing. As he worked his way up to my jaw, his thumbs gently massaging near my earlobes, an unrestrained moan escaped my lips.

Harry’s hands paused, and my breath caught.

I opened my eyes cautiously, only to find his locked with mine, his lips slightly parted.

"Sorry..." I whispered, mortified.

He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing visibly, and with a subtle nod, resumed his motions without a word.

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying desperately to calm my racing thoughts and praying he couldn't feel the pounding of my pulse along my throat. But the crimson flush of embarrassment burned across my skin, and my mind refused to settle.

Did I make it weird? I made it weird. Why was he looking at me like that though? I'm sure I just imagined it. It's his job to do this, I doubt I'm the first person to ever make a noise, it's fine. But oh god why is he so quiet? I guess he was quiet before... Was it awkward before? Have I been making this whole thing weird? No, no, it's a spa, you're supposed to relax. It's fine. You're fine. Breathe.

After tending to my arms Harry asked me to turn onto my stomach. I awkwardly maneuvered myself, clinging to the towel as I tried not to tumble off the table. I don't think I could handle embarrassing myself again today. Once in position, I felt a gentle tap on my back.

"I’m going to need you to pull down the towel so I can see your back," he said softly. "I also have this pillow for under your hips."

I shimmied the towel down to my lower back and adjusted the pillow beneath me. To my surprise, it eased a pressure I hadn’t realized had been building in my lower spine.

I looked over my shoulder, daring to make eye contact again. "Is this okay?" I gently ask.

He held my gaze for a moment, his hand resting gently on my calf, before responding, "Perfect." I thought I could see him give a harsh swallow, but surely I must have mistaken it. 

Turning to face the ground through the cushioned face hole of the massage bed I felt myself flush again. This man has said little to nothing to me and yet I am disolving into a pile of goo on the floor. Truly pathetic. Call me the Wicked Witch because I, too, will apparently die if I get a little wet.

As Harry gently kneads my legs I feel the ache between my thighs becoming harder to ignore and debate ending the session. This is supposed to be relaxing but I'm so wound up and in my head that I fear I'm making everything worse. 

After several more minutes of imagining what other areas my masseuse could work on I let out a frustrated sigh and resigned myself to end the session. I begin to lift myself up when I feel him place a firm hand on the back of my upper thigh. I freeze, my hands gripping the edge of the table but waiting for any indication of what's happening.

"Wh-"

"Just lay back down. I know. I've got you."

I tilt my head in his direction, still too scared to make eye contact for fear that I'm imagining what he's implying.

"Harry what do you..."

He moves his hand up my thigh a fraction of an inch.

Clearing his throat he asks, "Is it alright..." he moves another inch, "if I touch you?"

The question hangs in the air as I try to imagine a world in which things like this happen to people like me. 

"Yes," I say in a breathless whisper. Scared that someone will hear. Scared that I'll make him disappear.

He places a hand on my shoulder and delicately pushes me back down onto the table, holding me between the shoulderblades as he slides his hand between my thighs. When I feel the tips of his cool fingers caress me my body tenses on instinct and I clench my legs around him. His minty cool breath hits my face as he bends down and whispers, "relax," in my ear as his index finger begins to glide up and down my now soaked panties.

After a deep breath I begin to ease the tension in my legs, letting them fall farther apart to give him more access. 

His hand moves slowly, exploring everything still hidden from him by thin cotton. It’s a dramatic difference from the pounding of my pulse ringing in my ears. My breath comes out in choppy puffs as I harshly swallow and try to calm myself down.  The friction of cotton against me sends zings of pleasure through my body and I clench my fingers trying to hold onto this side of the earth as it begins to spin around me. But the pleasure is outweighed by my need to feel him on me. In me. 

Without much thought I gently ease my hips up from their propped position on the pillow, my body taking over and letting him know I need more. That’s when I feel his fingers gliding along the seam of my panties, teasing me. 

“Can I-”

“Yes,” I let out in a low moan. I’m not above begging at this point. I appreciate the checking in. I do. But if he doesn’t touch me right now I fear I will fall apart, fractured and broken, unable to hold together the ache that's been building inside me.

When he pulls aside my drenched underwear and begins to slide a finger through my arousal everything else in the room turns to fog. There is only the soft glow of blue light, me, and Harry. I am in the clouds and he is propelling me higher. When he finally makes his way to my throbbing clit the ground falls away beneath me. 

Harry’s free hand trails up my back until gently tangling with the hair at the base of my neck, giving it a firm hold. His other hand is working slow, torturous circles around my aching nub. Every time I start to feel the pressure build in my lower belly he moves away, collecting more of my arousal before starting the process all over again. 

Swirl. Swirl. Swirl. Stop.

Again. And again. 

I can’t help it when a whimper escapes my lips as he does it for the fourth time. At the sound Harry gently releases my hair allowing me to look over my shoulder at him, where his sparkling green eyes are already trained on mine. A small smirk is on his lips. He’s enjoying working me up. As we look at eachother I can see the challenge in his eyes. He’s pushing me and I have no stamina to put up a fight. Another desperate whine escaped my throat as I breathlessly choke out a, “please.”

Please is always the magic word. 

He keeps our eyes connected as he removes his hand just long enough to drag down my now soaked underwear. One finger slides inside of my dripping pussy, and then a second. My eyes roll back and then close as my jaw falls open, taking in the pleasure and the pressure of the fullness. His fingers are long and hit that spot inside of me that makes stars explode behind my eyes with ease. As he begins to massage my g-spot his thumb resumes the tortuous circling of my clit and I bury my head in the cushions to attempt stifling my moans. My hips begin to rock back, urging him to… I don’t know what. But I need more of him. 

Suddenly a firm hand slips around my waist and between my breasts, pulling me up so I’m forced to prop myself on my forearms. His hand continues up and gently locks around my throat. A sob of appreciation escapes me as he begins to fuck me harder with his fingers. Tears pool in my eyes as the pressure in my belly becomes almost too much, begging for release. Harry tightens his thumb and ring finger against my airways, giving me a delicious high as I feel him lean over me again, breathing in sync with me.

“You’re so tense…” he gently pants next to my ear. “You really shouldn’t let it get this bad you know. We’ve got to get all of these knots out…” 

Just then Harry releases my throat and tears spill as the headrush overcomes me. I’m gasping, trying to bring myself back to reality, when I’m suddenly pushed back down to the table by my shoulders. Harry holds me firmly to the table as I hear him shuffle around behind me. Then his mouth is on me. He moves to wrap his arms underneath my thighs, his rough fingers digging into my soft skin as he spreads me open and buries his face in my cunt, his tongue gliding up and down - savoring me -  before settling on my throbbing clit. 

I hear a moan escape him as he firmly sucks my clit between his lips. The pressure of his tongue is the only thing keeping me grounded. Everything else falls away and all that matters is that plump pink mouth pulling me towards nirvana.

His left arm remains holding me tight as his right hand slides up the back of my thigh, leaving a train of goosebumps in their wake. A firm hand gently kneads at my ass before sliding his fingers back into my entrance. The feeling of his mouth and his fingers are so intense I try to lock my legs, but his grip is firm. I am at his mercy and god I fucking love it. I bite on my palm to stifle my moans, not wanting to get caught in here. 

Harry is all about the tease. Working me up and leaving me wanting again. My body is all stars and electric currents, twinkling so bright and zapping me back into clarity. But if I am the stars, Harry is the sun, blinding me to every sensation except that mouth. That fucking mouth. 

The only sounds are choked sobs, panting breath, and the slick slide of skin on dripping skin. My body is sticky with sweat but the room keeps me cool, despite feeling like every nerve ending is on fire. 

I begin to move my hips again, riding his fingers and his mouth as he flicks and sucks and slides in and out of me all at once. Harry groans in appreciation, his fingers digging into my flesh harder. I reach back and grab Harry by his bun, holding him to me, too scared of the moment slipping away. With a low chuckle Harry nips at my swollen nub and then applies pressure with his tongue in a pulsing motion. 

The sensation starts in my toes, a gentle fizz like bubbles rising in a glass of celebratory champagne. The tingling spreads, climbing higher and higher. As it reaches my legs, they tense on their own, every muscle coiled tight with anticipation. I don’t notice I’m holding my breath until a dark haze begins to blur the edges of my vision. And then everything inside me shatters. 

The orgasm that hits fractures me into a million pieces, too powerful for a sound or a breath to escape. I am frozen with pleasure, completely at his mercy. Harry’s fingers continue to thrust into me, helping me ride out the orgasm as long as I could. Removing his mouth, he blows a cool breath on my sensitive clit and I throb around his fingers as I start to come down. When he finally takes away his hand he softly massages my calves and I work to regain control of my breathing. 

Neither of us look at each other for several minutes, the only sound to be heard is our jagged breaths. 

In. (hold) Out…

In. (hold) Out…

I gather enough strength to sit up and remove the pillow from under my hips and look over to see Harry leaning against the stone wall, watching me closely. His hands are at his sides and he’s subtly flexing his fingers, clearly unsure of what to do next. Despite his black pants and the dim lighting of the room I can still make out that he is in need of a release. The bulge beneath his scrubs looks painfully restrained.

I slide off of the massage table and tentatively walk over to him, never breaking eye contact. 

Worry crosses his face as he opens his mouth to speak. “I don’t normally…” but his voice trails off as I slowly lower myself to my knees in front of him. I never take my eyes off of his and can’t help but smile inside as I see his chest begin to rise and fall at a rapid pace. 

I place a soft hand on his thigh and tilt my head, giving my best doe eyes. “You really shouldn’t let it get this bad you know…” I glance down and back up, repeating his own words back to him. Sliding my hands up his thighs I let my fingers run along the waistband of his pants. “Can I…?”

Harry lets out a strangled, “yes” as his head falls back against the wall. A few strands of hair have fallen out of his bun and gently curl around his face. I almost lose sight of my task as I take in just how beautiful this absolute stranger is. A faint flush creeps up his neck, his lips are full and slightly swollen, and his eyes carry a subtle, dreamy haze.

I attempt to return his torture by taking my time untying the knot from his scrub pants and pulling them down, but when I see the tiger tattoo on his thigh all plans are thrown out the window. I’m suddenly salivating and desperate to see all of him. More tattoos reveal themselves to me - soft words by his knees and jagged lyrics along his ankles, disappearing behind socks. I bend down to press my lips to one knee, then the other, without thinking. Taking hold of his thighs I begin to kiss my way up, savoring the feel of his muscular thighs as the clench in anticipation. I rise over the tiger and past his hips until my mouth landed on the ferns resting just above his black boxer briefs. My tongue traces the lines of the ink as my hands work down his underwear.

Pulling back I take a moment to admire his cock that has so patiently - and painfully - been begging for some attention. His heavy erection twitches as I take a soft lick of the precum that’s starting to drip before sliding my mouth over him and taking him into the back of my throat. Any attempt at going slow was now abandoned. His hips buck at my swiftness and I feel his knee give a tremble beneath my hands. I pull off of him, giving the tip of his cock a swirl of my tongue before sliding back down and setting a steady pace. 

As my nails trail softly down his thighs, his hands dart to my hair, gripping it firmly. I can sense the tension radiating through him, his body taut with restraint. Pulling away, I pause, waiting for his gaze to lock with mine. Reaching up, I touch his arms, letting my hands glide down to meet his. With a small, reassuring nod, I signal it’s okay, and his grip tightens in response. He guides me back onto him and gives a few testing rocks of his hips to make sure I’m okay. A shuddering sigh escapes his lips when he finally pulls me to the hilt of his cock and holds me there for a few moments. I swallow around him and he begins to move his hips again. 

My eye’s never leave his face as he slides his cock in and out of my mouth. I want him to know my gratitude. I want him to feel as good as he made me feel. I can feel my arousal building again as I watch him, amazed that I’m the one making these emotions of pleasure cross his face. His eyes are closed, his mouth gently hanging open as soft puffs of breath and stuttered gasps fall from his lips. The serenity of his face are a stark contrast to the fevered pace he is keeping. Tears fall and saliva dips down my chin as he roughly fucks my throat, but I’m so turned on I can’t stop myself from reaching down to relieve the pressure between my legs. 

When Harry sees me touching myself he withdraws my mouth from him, a string of spit connecting my mouth to his still swollen cock. His eyes are dark as he tugs my head further back and looks from my face to my fingers working fast circles on my clit. Giving him a smirk I lift my fingers to my mouth, but as I go in for a lick I’m met with his tongue already there, desperate to taste me again. For the first time our mouths meet in a desperate kiss and Harry drops down to his knees to meet me. Hands and lips and tongues become tangled as we pull each other closer, closer, closer. 

Harry hoists me up and places me so I’m straddling his thigh, his hands tightly gripping my hips and sliding my dripping cunt along his tiger tattoo. I wrap one arm around his shoulder, my fingers fumbling with the hair tie as I release his long curls. I pull away from our kiss and take a moment to admire him before spitting in my hand and gripping his still needy cock. We work our bodies in sync, my hips sliding up and down with every stroke of my hand on him. Desperate moans escape me as my head falls forward and rests in the crook of his neck. 

I grind my clit down harder on Harry’s thigh, savoring the blissful friction as I roll my hips but so desperate for a second release. His hips had started rocking into my hand letting me know he was just as eager to come. Without breaking my stride I let the spit pool behind my teeth before releasing it to dribble down, meeting the hand that was frantically working him towards his release. Harry leaned forward and captured my lips again, his hungry togue sliding into my mouth. 

Losing control, I moan into his mouth as the champagne bubbles float upwards again. Harry’s grip turns bruising as he pulls me down harder along his thigh while I maintain my rocking motion. When the bubbles finally reached the surface and overflowed I let out a silent gasp, unaware that I had been holding my breath again. I feel Harry’s cock pulsing in my hand and open my eyes to meet his as we finish together. Our hair is stuck to the sweat along our foreheads and our cheeks have a matching flush. I can’t bring myself to break his gaze as we both release soft, uneven breaths, waiting for our breathing to steady.

Several moments pass before a giggle escapes me, followed by another, and another. Harry shakes his head but begin to laugh as well. And so we sit there, naked, on the floor of this massage room, laughing until our stomachs hurt and tears run down our faces. 

As I walked back to my car my cheeks still ached from smiling. Harry and I hadn’t spoken a word about it while we cleaned up, just shared quiet chuckles whenever our eyes met. At the locker room, his fingers brushed my arm, lingering for a fleeting moment before he turned and disappeared back into the spa center. I drove away with a sense of calm I hadn’t felt since before grad school, a weight lifted off my shoulders—and a package for five more sessions tucked in my pocket. 

After all, some knots need more than one visit to work out.

[catching-the-light]

wc: 1.2k

[18+ only]

content: mentions of oral sex [f receiving], unprotected sex and cockwarming [very brief]

[just a little something i wrote. pretty much all smut with little to no plot.]

With the side of her face pressed down into the mattress and hips snapping against her ass - all that flooded her ears were his deep grunts, the sound of skin clashing and her lewd moans. He had woken her up in the middle of the night, but she didn’t mind. She had given him permission to wake her up whenever he needed it. More specifically, she had even given him permission to wake her up by kissing her right between her plush thighs. It was one of her favorite things - waking up to her boyfriend eating her out. She didn’t understand how he could be so good at it. All her previous boyfriends had complained when she asked for it. They would say it made their jaw hurt. That they didn’t like the thought of putting their tongue down there, but they never did complain when she would put her tongue on them.

Harry was unlike any other man she had met. He doted on her. He took care of her. He provided for her. If it were up to him, (Y/N) would never have to lift a finger, but he knew that his girl also liked being self-sufficient. He both admired and loathed how independent she could be sometimes. He loved how strong she was, but sometimes it scared him. He couldn’t help but wonder every now and then what would happen if (Y/N) realized she didn’t need him anymore - didn’t want to be his anymore. Harry was sure that his heart would never be mended if that happened.

(Y/N) was his everything. He never had a love like her before, and he had no intention of having another love ever. He was going to marry her. That was a cold hard fact.

“Harry,” she whimpered as she brought one of her hands back and behind her.

He knew what she wanted, and he gave it to her. Placing his large hand in hers, he intertwined their fingers - flexing his to give hers a soft squeeze.

“Feeling good, baby?” Harry’s chin rested against his chest as he looked down at where his thick cock entered his girlfriend.

(Y/N) just hummed in response, but that wasn’t enough for Harry. Propping one foot up on the mattress, he brought his freehand down and swatted at one of her ass cheeks. “You know that’s not going to cut it.”

Stopping his thrusts, he pulled out which caused (Y/N) to gasp, and she looked over her shoulder at him with wide eyes. She was flipped onto her back faster than she could blink.

Harry’s hands came down to her thighs, and he pushed them apart before plunging back inside of her with one fluid roll of his hips.

“Oh my god,” (Y/N) moaned with her eyes screwed shut. “You’re so fucking deep, H.”

Smirking to himself, Harry leaned down and scraped his teeth against his beautiful girlfriend’s jawline. “Do you like that, (Y/N)? Feeling me so deep in there?”

“Yes, yes,” she panted as he started pounding into her once more. “I love it when you’re this deep. I feel you all the way…all the way in here.”

Placing a hand over her lower stomach, (Y/N) pressed down - eliciting a groan from Harry and another mewl of pleasure from her with just how good that felt. 

(Y/N) was never properly fucked before, and Harry caught onto that by the first time they slept together. She made him work for it, something he didn’t mind doing by any means, but when the time actually came, he was seething at her past lovers at what he had seen. Sexy and confident (Y/N) had retreated into a shell of herself the moment he had her laid out on his mattress. She had asked him to turn almost all the lights off, and the ones that were left on had been turned down. She had asked that he not remove her bra, and that he just pull her panties to the side. It pained him to realize that she didn’t want him to see her fully naked.

That changed before Harry entered her that night. He took his time to kiss over every inch of her skin. To compliment every piece of her that he could see. He let her know that she was by far the prettiest thing he had ever seen in the world. The most beautiful woman to ever be in his bed. He made it clear that no one before her ever compared, and that no one ever would.

By the time he took her home the next morning, (Y/N) had allowed Harry to take her in four different positions, resulting in six orgasms total. It was obvious to both of them that they’d never get enough of each other just after that one night. 

“Squeezin’ my cock so tight. You’re gonna have me coming sooner than I want to,” Harry huffed out a laugh at himself, and it caused (Y/N) to also giggle. “But, fuck, honey, you just feel too damn good. Such a snug little thing.”

His words had (Y/N)’s cunt pulsing around him even more, and he could tell she was right on the edge of her orgasm. 

Sucking on the pad of his thumb, Harry brought it down to start rubbing precise circles against his girlfriend’s clit, and that had her arching her back off the bed.

“Holy shit,” she gasped - toes curling and fists clenching against the pale pink sheets surrounding them. “I’m about to cum.”

Harry watched as (Y/N) threw her head back which resulted in her pretty neck being completely exposed to him. He could feel her walls beginning to clamp down around him, and with one more deep thrust, her orgasm gushed around his length.

“Good girl,” he crooned, leaning down to kiss over (Y/N)’s collarbone. “Such a good girl f’me.”

Once she felt like the air had properly returned to her lungs, (Y/N) blinked her eyes open to stare at the gorgeous man above her.

“Fill me up, please,” she pouted her lips at him as she tapped her fingertips against the spot on her stomach that she had pressed down on earlier. “Right in here.”

“Yeah?” Harry smirked as he gripped onto her hips and angled them up just a little more. “Want it tucked up in there?”

“Mhmm,” (Y/N) hummed with a nod of her head. “I like it when it’s up there that far. It takes longer to drip out of me, and I like feeling it for as long as I can.”

(Y/N) could be dirty when she wanted to be, but he had never heard her say something like that to him before. Choking out a moan, Harry felt the warmth in his lower abdomen boil over, and before he could process it, he was shooting his load inside her slick pussy.

Biting down on her bottom lip, (Y/N) reeled from the feeling of Harry pumping his cum into her. He didn’t stop until he felt like he couldn’t hold himself up with his shaky arms anymore. He collapsed against her chest, and she wrapped her arms around him as they both continued to come down from their highs.

“I love when you wake me up in the middle of the night like that,” (Y/N) played with Harry’s curls as she spoke. “Can we fall back asleep like this?”

“Sure, baby,” Harry puckered a kiss to the top of one of her breasts. “And then when we wake up in a few hours, I’ll continue fucking that same load into you before giving you another."

[paulyenvol6]

Toxic pt. 2

Contains: Smut, oral (m receiving), hair pulling, p in v, unprotected sex, degrading, choking, gagging, dom and mean Harry, subby reader, fingering, fluff

Wordcount: 2.42k

Masterlist

Y/n felt the breeze in her hair and just hoped it wouldn’t be all messy when she would try to comb it later. And she also prayed she wouldn’t catch a cold and lay sick in bed for the rest of the week.

'Fuck,' y/n thought looking at her phone again but there was no notification.

She was sitting by this stupid bench alone on a Friday night. Harry had promised her a 'beautiful romantic date, just the two of us' and she had been surprised. In a very good way.

She had smiled and nodded and told him that it sounded lovely. But then a day later on Thursday Harry had texted her to ask her whether it would be okay if she would just pick him up after his football training and then the two of them could go on a stroll to go to a bar nearby.

Y/n had frowned at her phone, kind of felt the need to throw it against the wall but had agreed. She had been disappointed that a 'beautiful, romantic date' turned out to be a date in a bar but she wanted to give him a chance as she was still charmed by the gesture.

But well, now y/n wondered if it had been a mistake.

Harry had told her to be by the football team house at 7 pm and she had been there at 6:57 pm. When he hadn’t been there at 7:03 she had simply started to count the window panes of the shed that Harry had called a house. At 7:08 y/n had looked around to peek through one of the windows and at 7:16 she had texted him.

She could go in, sure. Harry was only a few feet away from her but you didn’t want to. He had invited her and y/n wouldn’t give in and chase after him.

Now it was 7:29 and she was annoyed. Now and then she could hear some laughter from inside the shed and y/n rolled her eyes. It was a Friday night and she had just spent half and hour in front of a stupid shed waiting for her boyfriend.

'No,' y/n thought. She was 22 years old and supposed to have fun in her life. Fuck this. Fuck his dumb idea of a date. Tonight she wouldn’t think about him. She wouldn’t storm into that shed, embarrassing herself by interrupting him and drag him out of there.

Y/n got up from the bench and took her bag. With a last look at the building she turned around and walked away. 10 minutes later she wasn't so sure about her plans anymore. Y/n didn’t really know where she actually wanted to go. She had walked through the small park next to the football pitch and now stood on a more lively street. She wanted to have fun, so that meant to find herself a warm place because her feet felt like ice by now.

While walking down the street she looked around trying to spot a nice bar or restaurant and then her eyes caught a sign. 'At Peter’s' Y/n was thinking. That might just be the bar Harry had wanted to take her to. He had mentioned the name on the phone but of course she had forgotten.

But that didn’t matter now, the bar looked nice and y/n really wanted to get inside so she headed right towards it. Once she had entered it she was looking for somewhere to sit and actually spotted a stool at the counter.

Y/n ordered a beer and forced herself not to look at her phone. She had sworn herself not to think about Harry tonight. He had treated her badly, had neglected her and now he didn’t deserve to be the center of her thoughts.

Y/n sipped on her beer and looked around in the bar when she noticed someone sat down to her left. Curiously she turned around and looked right into the eyes of a young man with dark hair and piercing brown eyes.

She almost choked on her drink, so surprised by his gaze and coughed.

"I’m sorry," y/n pressed and the man grinned.

"What for?"

She chuckled when her breathing had calmed down.

"For staring right at you and then almost choke at my beer. I was just startled."

The man smiled and she noticed that he had dimples. Like Harry. No, she couldn’t think about him again.

"It’s alright," the man said.

"My name is Nick, by the way." Y/n smiled back at him.

"My name is y/n. Very nice to meet you."

He took her hand and softly shook it which made her laugh again.

"What brings you here alone on a Friday night?"

Y/n rested her elbows on the counter.

"Mhmm, I don’t know really. I think I needed a new environment." Nick nodded. "Respectable."

"And what about you?"

Y/n rested her chin on the palm of her hands and watched him precisely. He chuckled and watched his hands on the counter.

"Will it be enough for you if I simply say the air in my flat was too thin?" She laughed and Nick joined it. But then he got serious again.

"You know, I don’t want to be rude, y/n. If you don’t want any company right now I don’t want to bother you. I just want to make sure you want me to sit here next to you, you know…"

"She does not."

The voice made her jump and y/n quickly turned around.

"Harry!" she said loudly and widened her eyes.

No, no! She was mad at him, she couldn’t feel guilty or scared now. HE was the one who had messed up. HE was the one who should come here and apologise. But the way he stood there. His hair still slightly wet from his shower and he just looked so confident. She slapped herself mentally and changed her eyes to looking angry.

"What was that, Harry? You told me to be there at 7 pm. And half an hour later, no sight of you, no message, nothing!"

Harry didn’t look at y/n. He hadn’t looked at her while she had hissed these words but just looked at Nick furiously.

Speaking of, Nick looked from y/n to Harry and he obviously was confused by this situation.

"Is… everything fine?" Harry chuckled sarcastically and leaned down to him.

"Yes. If you leave this bar right now. And if you’re never gonna look at her again."

Nick frowned and she could clearly see the fear in his eyes. So he quickly got up, grabbed his jacket not without letting her boyfriend out of sight and then left.

"Harry?" y/n asked again but he ignored her. Then he grabbed her upper arm and pulled her with him.

"What the fuck are you doing?" she hissed trying to make him let go of her but his grip was tight. He dragged y/n to the toilets of the bar, into a cabin and locked the door behind her.

"What the hell are you doing, Harry?" she pressed and crossed her arms in front of her chest. It was the first time he looked at her tonight and took a step in y/n's direction.

"I don’t want to EVER walk into a bar again and see you talking to another man. Do you understand me?"

She raised her chin. "You are the one who – "

Harry cut her off by grabbing the side of her face with his right and putting his hand on her mouth with his left.

"Mhmm. No. Wrong answer."

He made another step towards y/n and her back hit the wall. He then removed his hand from her mouth and held her neck with it.

"You’re mine, y/n. And I don’t like seeing other men toying with what’s mine."

She looked up to him and felt her knees getting weak. Fuck, this wasn’t how she had planned this. How was he able to turn her into a thoughtless mess so quickly? She knew she wouldn’t be able to stay strong if he looked at her like that.

"Say it," Harry spoke and he ran the thumb of his right hand over her lips.

"What?" she breathed.

"Say who you belong to."

"No," y/n spitted and Harry tightly pressed her against the wall while his hand put a little pressure on her throat.

"Yes. You will. Because if you don’t I’ll leave you here and go home alone. And I know that you're little panties are soaked right now and my poor girl is craving my touch."

He lifted her chin.

"So go on. I’m listening."

God, why was he so good? Who had taught him that? She looked at him with big eyes, begging him to just touch her but he didn’t give in.

"I’m yours," y/n eventually quietly whispered.

"What was that?"

"I’m yours Harry." He smirked widely.

"Aha. There we go. Good girl."

She pressed her thighs together at his words and Harry chuckled.

"Just as I thought," he growled and then roughly spreaded her thighs. "Go on. Touch yourself," he said and y/n looked up to him surprised.

"Do it."

She hadn't expected him to demand her to touch herself and yet she obeyed him. Her shaky hand slid between her legs and under her skirt and her thumb found her clit.

"Rub yourself, darling," he whispered while watching y/n's hand disappear under her skirt.

She began drawing tight circles around her little nub and then after a while Harry's right hand wandered under her shirt. He massaged her breasts and rubbed her nipples between his fingers which made y/n sigh loudly. His left hand crawled up to her throat and he choked her lightly.

"Get on your fucking knees," he suddenly said and y/n immediately stopped rubbing her clit.

Harry pushed her down in front of him and didn't waste another second. He opened his jeans, pulled them down, freed his cock in a matter of seconds and then ran his tip over her mouth.

"Open, you little slut," he hissed and y/n knew better than to disobey him. She opened her lips and Harry thrusted deep inside her. She needed to cough, felt him trigger her gagging reflex but Harry didn't allow her to get away from his cock. His hand had grabbed the back of her head tightly and held her in this position.

"Don't fight," he moaned. "Just fucking relax."

Y/n tried her best to breathe through her nose and after a while could loosen around his cock.

"Good girl. Yes," Harry whispered when he felt her calm down and he started to thrust into her mouth. His hand moved her head along to his hips and hit the back of her throat every time.

"Fuck. Oh holy shit, your mouth is a fucking… paradise."

Harry had thrown his head back and moved her head faster and faster. Y/n knew him by now and could sense that it wouldn't take him long to reach his orgasm. She felt his thick cock thrust into her mouth over and over again and just when she expected him to shoot his seed into her throat he suddenly pulled out of her and y/n opened her eyes in surprise.

Harry took a fistful of her hair and pulled her up. Without saying a word he turned her around and pressed her to the wall while lifting her skirt.

"Harry," y/n moaned and blindly reached behind so he would take her hand but Harry simply pressed it to the wall.

"Shut up," he groaned and then ran his cock through her folds. She was incredibly wet and Harry grinned against the back of her head.

"You're a little whore, do you know that?" he whispered against her ear. "Getting soaked from getting your mouth fucked."

Y/n whimpered when his cock hit her clit and shifted nervously so Harry smacked her ass.

"Stop moving around." Y/n nodded quickly.

She just wanted him to fill her hole and couldn't wait for him to finally enter her. And he did, with one deep thrust he stretched her walls and both moaned loudly. Harry started to slam inside of her and y/n pressed her hands to the wall in an attempt to hold on to something.

"Mhmm," she made and felt her knees getting weak.

Harry's hand reached around her body and his hand wrapped around her throat. He lightly choked her and she felt a little dizzy from all this stimulation. Because Harry's other hand had started to make its way between her thighs and he rubbed at her clit.

"Harry. Please…," she whined but her voice sounded a bit croaky due to the hand around her neck that restricted the air coming to her lungs. Harry was relentless with his pace and he fucked her hard and deep against the wall. She felt him so deep inside her and in combination with his hand on her clit she felt like she was about to explode.

"Harry…," she whined and his hand around her neck wandered to her mouth.

"Shut it. You're gonna make the whole bar hear you."

Now she moaned against his mouth and after a few more moments y/n felt the knot in her stomach tightend pleasure washed over her.

"Shit," she shrieked and luckily her noises were supressed by Harry's hand. Feeling her clench around him sent him over the edge as well and he came with a deep growl. Y/n could feel his seed filling her up and know her knees really would have given in if Harry hadn't held her at her waist.

He breathed a few times deeply trying to recover from the high and then he pulled out of her. Y/n couldn't see what he was doing but then Harry turned her around and stroke her cheek. He smirked and kissed her swiftly on her lips. He had adjusted his own trousers and now grabbed a paper tissue, wettened it and cleaned y/n's pussy. His cum was leaking out and running down her thighs and it definitely would've been suspicious if she had walked out like that.

Then Harry pulled up her panties and adjusted her clothes. Y/n herself was too fucked out and powerless to do anything so she just let her boyfriend take care and it honestly felt good that he took cared of her. After Harry was finished he took her hand.

"Come," he said softly.

"What are we doing?"

"We're going on our date."

[stylesloveclub]

KARMA

In which y/n tends to make a lot of spontaneous decisions when she’s drunk, and Harry’s a tattoo artist. 

+++

On any average work day, Harry sees a lot of people come through his tattoo shop.

The majority of them are people who’ve gotten tattoos before – usually big burly men who come in to add a new tat to their sleeve, or teenage girls getting a secret butterfly on their side boob. There are the artsy people who come in for some detailed line work, and there are the silly drunk people who get a smiley face tattooed on their ass. Sometimes he’ll have someone come in for their first tattoo ever, shaking in their seat and tearing up before the tattoo gun even touches their skin.

Very rarely does he have someone come in for a piercing. But when they do, they’re usually older girls coming in for a helix or a belly button piercing. 

Not five year old girls, wearing sparkly pink shoes and a sunflower printed dress. 

“Hi!” Harry’s eyes flicker up to the lady standing behind the little kid. “Do you guys pierce ears here?”

“Erm… for her?” Harry says skeptically, pointing at the little girl. She can’t be older than five years old, standing with her thumb in her mouth and hiding behind the legs of the lady she’d come inside with. The lady seems young, probably the same age as him or a bit younger. He assumes the little girl must be her daughter. 

“Yup!” the mom exclaims (or maybe a nanny, or aunt… Harry doesn’t really know. Or care.) “We wanna get her ears pierced for her birthday!” She looks down at the little girl with a glimmer in her eyes. 

Harry contemplates saying no, he really does. He doesn’t like having kids in his shop— or anywhere near him if we’re being honest. They have snotty noses and sticky fingers and cry way too loud for him to be able to tolerate them. But this little girl seems relatively nice…  she’s been quiet so far, and her nose is clean. Plus, the shop’s not busy today. Even if she did start crying, she wouldn’t scare any customers away. So he decides to be nice – just this one time.

“Sure,” he sighs. “I can do her.” He decides to do it himself instead of assigning the job to one of his employees. He’s been here the longest and has the steadiest hands, so he can get this over with the quickest. 

He has the woman (y/n, he learns from the paperwork) sign a couple of papers, then has the two of them pick through the earring options that they have on display.

“Which one do you like the best, Lola?” Harry overhears her asking the little girl. Or– Lola, as he’s overheard. 

Lola, still sucking her thumb, points to a pair of heart-shaped pink studs. “Tha’ one,” she says through her stuffed mouth.

“Oh, the hearts are so pretty!” y/n says giddily. “Good choice sweetheart.” She looks up at Harry. “Could we get those ones, please?”

He nods, and makes note of it in their paperwork. 

“Follow me,” he says, leading them into the back room where he usually does the piercings. He motions towards a black, leather table that his clients usually sit or lay down on when getting their piercings done. The table is too tall for little Lola to climb onto all by herself, so y/n picks her up and plops her down on the seat. Her little sparkly shoes dangle from the edge, hanging two feet above the floor. 

Harry washes his hands and takes out his sterilized materials from the cabinet in the room, as well as the pair of pink earrings that Lola has requested. A pair of black gloves fit onto his hands tightly. He then sits on a little rolly stool and rolls over to where she’s sitting on the bench. 

“M’gonna disinfect your ears now,” he says to the little girl, tearing open a package of alcohol swabs. She just nods quietly, thumb in mouth. He can tell that Lola is nervous, her eyes wide and scared with her legs swinging nervously. She keeps looking over at y/n, who’s sitting on a chair right next to the table. 

“Are you excited Lola?” she asks enthusiastically, trying to hype the little girl up. 

It doesn’t work. Lola’s little eyes start to grow watery, her chin wobbling as she shakes her head no. “M’scared,” she whines, a frown taking over her face. 

Harry rolls away as soon as he sees the tears. Maybe this was a bad idea.

“Oh no, Lola!” she exclaims, squatting in the spot Harry had just been. She grabs Lola’s hands in hers and looks into the little girl’s tearful eyes. “Don’t be scared! We don’t have to pierce your ears if you don’t wanna baby.”

“But I do!” Lola whimpers. 

“Well then what’s the problem bubs?” she asks soothingly.

Lola looks at Harry, then leans over to (not so successfully) whisper in y/n’s ear. “He’s scary,” she says, the pout on her face only deepening. Y/n looks over at Harry helplessly.

Ah, yes. He supposes his all black clothes, tattooed arms, and black painted nails weren’t doing much to comfort the little girl… maybe he is a little scary.

“Hey,” he says rolling back to the table, his voice somewhat softer than the deep, grumpy rumble it had been before.  He’s gonna have to really up the niceness if he wants to get through the session smoothly. “Nothing to be scared of, little lady. It’ll just take a second and s’not even gonna hurt.” He gives a tight smile, the best he can muster up despite his apprehensiveness about talking to a kid on the verge of tears. 

“Y’hear that, bubs?” she reassures the little girl with a big smile on her face. She plays with Lola’s hands encouragingly. “Come one, you’re a big girl. You can do it!”

Lola sniffles deeply and wipes her eyes with her tiny fists. “M’a big girl,” she affirms with a confident nod. 

“Good girl!” y/n says, giving Lola a stellar high five. She gets up from where she’d been squatting and goes back to her seat, letting Harry roll back to where he’d previously been.

“I’m going to wipe your ears again, okay? We’ve gotta make sure they’re nice and clean.” Harry explains. He’s added a bit of an enthusiastic kick to his voice, really selling the “I’m not a big meanie!” vibe to Lola. She nods, a few leftover tears hanging onto her long eyelashes.

She winces when the cold wipe touches her earlobe, and Harry fears for his life. Was every little thing going to make this little girl cry? He decides to distract her. “How old are you, Lola?” He asks the first question that comes to mind. 

She holds up five fingers. “Wow! Five years old!” he bursts. “You’re a big girl!” 

That makes her smile and nod happily. Harry internally lets out a sigh of relief. He got a smile out of her, who would’ve thought! 

He takes a sterile pen and marks two dots on Lola’s earlobe for where the piercing would go. “What do you think?” he says, turning to y/n. She nods and holds up an excited thumbs up. 

“Okay, Lola,” Harry says nervously, pulling out the needle he’d be using to pierce her ear. He cleans it below the table so that the little girl doesn’t see it and start crying. “M’gonna need you to stay very still for this next part. Okay, sweetheart?” Lola agrees, but her composure falters when he brings the needle into view. “I know it’s a little scary, but I need you to be brave. Can you do that for me? Be a brave girl for me?”

She nods her head. “Brave,” she mumbles to herself. “Brave girl.”

He realizes that the clamps that he usually uses for piercing ears is too big for Lola’s small earlobes – but it’s okay. He’s done so many impromptu piercings that he has a shit ton of experience not using the proper equipment. Instead, he just holds the skin of her earlobe tightly and stretches it taut so that the needle would go in smoothly. 

“Okay Lola, take a deep breath in,” he instructs gently, piercing the needle through her skin in one smooth motion, “...and out.” He quickly follows through with the heart shaped studs and secures it with the backing. “You did it! One ear done!” 

She looks up at him confused. “That was it?” she asks, reaching her hand up to feel if the earring is actually there. 

Harry catches her little hand and brings it down to her lap before it makes contact with her piercing. “Ah, ah-” he tuts, “we can’t touch it okay? You gotta let it heal or else it’ll start to hurt.” He notices the way her little fingers wrap around his hand as he holds them still in her lap. “Are you ready to do the other ear?” he asks patiently.

She nods a bit more enthusiastically this time, no longer scared.

“Atta girl!” he exclaims, piercing the other ear in the same manner. He sanitizes her ears one last time and makes sure that everything is secure before holding up a mirror for the little girl to see her reflection in. “What do you think?”

Lola’s eyes go round, glimmering happily. “Pretty,” she says, looking at y/n for confirmation.

“So pretty, Lola!” she exclaims, standing up and pinching the little girl’s cheek. “M’so proud of you, you’re such a big girl! Thank you…” she looks at Harry, trailing off at the fact that she doesn’t know his name. 

“Harry,” he fills in for her. He rolls away from Lola and throws away the trash.

She smiles softly. “Thank you, Harry.” 

+++

It’s a quiet night at the tattoo shop, which Harry is thankful for. 

There’d been a few appointments earlier in the day, larger pieces that people had scheduled months in advance because they took a lot of consultations and took long chunks of time to tattoo – but there had barely been any walk-ins. It’s a Thursday night, so of course his business isn’t bustling the way it would be on a Saturday. 

Harry decides to start cleaning up – if he’s lucky, nobody else would venture in before their closing time and he’d be able to get home a bit early. (His little cat is waiting for him at home!) He wipes down the tattoo chairs and puts away all the needles, sweeps the floors and turns off the lights in the staff room in silence, until suddenly, he hears the bell above the door ring and someone clumsily stumbles in. It’s y/n. 

Harry looks at her. She looks at him. 

“Hi…?” Harry says, his voice a little doubting, a little bit confused. Why was she back? 

She stands in front of him nervously. “Um…” she’d stumbled into the tattoo shop with such confidence, but finds herself suddenly nervous and unable to speak under Harry’s intimidating gaze. “Hi.”

She won’t lie– she’s a little, teensy weensy bit drunk right now. She’d been at the bar across the street with a couple of her girlfriends, just hanging out and having fun, when she spilled to them about the hot tattoo artist who worked at the shop across the street. 

She’s had plenty of fleeting crushes in her life, but none have been as quick and captivating as her crush on Harry. With his deep voice, green eyes, and tan skin, he’s cast some sort of spell on her. She’d been in his presence for what… a total of 45 minutes? And yet she can’t get him off her mind!

He was just… really hot! And he had that sexy, mysterious vibe to him…. With all those tattoos and the rings and the black eyeliner… gosh he was straight out of some bad boy romance novel! If it weren’t for the fact that she’d been with her five-year old goddaughter when she met him for the first time, she’s sure she would’ve started acting up. He was just so attractive! 

In her tipsy state, with her cheeks warm and a fuzzy feeling in her chest, she couldn’t help but rant to her friends about it. She’d met the hottest guy ever, and she’d never have the chance to see him again! It was tragic!

Well… it doesn’t have to be that way, her friends told her. What was stopping her from heading over to the tattoo shop right now? 

No, she thought to herself. Going over to the tattoo shop, drunk, with absolutely nothing to say except Hi, I think you’re hot? She could never do that…

The vodka lemonade in her system said otherwise, though. That, along with all her friends who hyped her, had somehow managed to convince her to venture across the street and visit her dreamy tattoo man! 

So now she’s in his tattoo shop, with absolutely no idea of what to say or how to act. 

“How can I help you?” he asks after a tense second of silence. 

“Um…” she doesn’t really have a game plan, but she decides on the spot, “I want a piercing.” 

“A piercing?” he clarifies. She nods. “Okay… where?” 

She points to the shell of her ear. “You want a helix piercing?” he asks once more.

“Yeah,” she says confidently, accompanied by an eager nod of her head.

“Okay…” he mulls it over for a second. “Are you… y’know– like, in the right headspace to do this?” Something is telling him that she’s not completely sober, and he doesn’t want to do something that she’d regret. 

“Yeah, yeah!” She brushes it off nonchalantly,  “I only had like, one drink! And I’ve been meaning to get a piercing, especially after I came in here with Lola.” 

The first half of that was a lie– she had like, three drinks. But, it is true that she’d been thinking about getting her helix pierced for a while. She’d always thought they were cool, and had thought to herself that she’d like to get it done. She just never had taken any initiative on that thought… until right now, at least.

“If you say so…” He’s still a bit doubtful, but he supposes his slight suspicion isn’t enough of a reason to refuse service to her. 

He brings her the paperwork on a clipboard and gets all his required equipment out as she fills it out. “Which do you want?” he asks her, pointing to the wide variety of helix piercing options displayed. 

“Um…what do you recommend?” She’s normally much more prepared and would have done a bunch of research on what kind of jewelry would heal best or what type of metal was safest… but again, this decision was kind of made on a whim.

“I always tell clients to start off with a stud, and then if you want you can switch it out for a hoop once the piercing has healed.” 

“Yeah, that sounds good.” A pretty, butterfly shaped stud catches her eye. “Can I do that one, please?”

He nods. Grabbing his equipment, he decides that y/n is gonna be the last customer of the night, so he flips the sign on the front of the door to read closed, and leads her into the backroom, the same room where he’d pierced Lola’s ears.

“Where’s your daughter?” he asks, turning on the lights. Y/n follows behind him, and sits on the bench that he guides her towards. 

“Oh, she’s not mine!” “She’s not?” Harry had assumed that was her daughter with how close they were and how easily y/n comforted the little girl. 

“Lola’s my goddaughter!” she bubbles. “She’s at home with her parents right now. I just got to take her out this week for a little pre-birthday surprise.” 

“That’s cute,” he hums. With a pair of black gloves on his hands, he rips open the sanitizing pad and stands in front of y/n. The cool alcohol wipe feels refreshing against her ear, a striking contrast to how flushed her face feels. 

Harry’s eyes are dark and stern as he focuses on his job. His knuckles nudge her chin, angling her head in a way so he could clean the backs of her ears too. She’s looking up at him with wide eyes, captivated by his every movement. With how close he’s standing to her, she can feel his breaths against her cheek, see the sparks of gold embedded in his green irises. She can’t help herself from staring at his pretty pink lips, how they pout as he marks the spot he wants to pierce. 

Now, usually it makes Harry really uncomfortable when people stare at him while he’s doing their tattoo or giving a piercing. He’d rather they just close their eyes, or stare at the staring, anywhere else but at him! But with her… he doesn’t fully mind it. She’s kind of cute, he has to admit.

He holds up a mirror for her. “Look good?”

She nods. She barely looks into the mirror and doesn’t overthink the placement of it at all. Somehow, she trusts Harry wholeheartedly. 

He takes the needle out of its sterile packaging, and y/n eyes it nervously. “Do helix piercings… hurt a lot?” she asks with a timid voice. The sight of a needle coming towards her face has sobered her up quite a bit. 

“Not necessarily.” He notices her nervous eyes, “They obviously hurt more than a lobe piercing, since it’s cartilage, but s’only like a pinch.” 

She still looks frightened. “Can you, um– count?”

His eyes narrow slightly, and she feels like he’s judging her. But he agrees nonetheless. “Sure. Ready?” She nods her head as best as she can with her ear pinched between his fingers. “3…2…1.” She squeezes her eyes shut and takes a sharp breath as the needle pierces through her cartilage.

She exhales with a shaky breath. “Ow,” her eyes open, stinging with tears. 

He looks at her with a furrow in his brow. If she knew him better, she’d know that he’s concerned. But since they’re practically strangers, it just looks like he’s annoyed with her. “Did it hurt?” he asks.

“Little bit,” she mumbles. “I think it’s just the thought of a needle that’s making me a wuss. I’m not good with needles.” She sniffles a bit, but her tears aren’t heavy enough to fall from her lashes. 

“Well that was the hard part,” he says, somewhat reassuringly. He follows through with the butterfly shaped stud, and secures it in the back. 

He holds the mirror up for her once more, and she gazes at her own reflection in awe. “It’s so pretty,” she whispers. The butterfly glimmers prettily on her ear, the jewels that make up the wings shining under the white lighting. He sanitizes the piercing once more, then takes a step back.

“Make sure you avoid touching the piercing, ‘cos that’ll irritate it and also potentially infect it. Little bit of swelling and redness is fine for the first few days, but if it persists or gets infected then go to the doctors.” He takes his gloves off and throws his trash into the bin, then grabs a bottle of an aftercare solution, “Y’have to wash it 2-3 times a day for the next 3 weeks, then once a day after that. Don’t go swimming or submerge it under water, don’t pick at it or play with the piercing, avoid sleeping on it. And if you think anything is wrong then feel free to come back and we’ll check it out for you, yeah?” 

She nods her head diligently. “How long does it take to fully heal?” 

“Helix piercings take anywhere from six months to two years to fully heal. The better you take care of it, the better it’ll heal.”

Her eyes widen, “I didn’t know piercings took so much work.”

He eyes her curiously. “What made you decide to get pierced today if you didn’t know anything about it?”

“Oh, I was just… like in a fun mood,” she explains, avoiding the fact that the only reason she’d come in here was because she wanted to see him, the hot tattoo artist she’d been fantasizing about for the past week. “Me and my friends perform at the bar across the street every Thursday night, and we got some drinks afterwards and I just… decided to do it.” She smiles nervously.

“You perform?” he asks.

“Oh, yeah!” she bubbles excitedly. “I mean, I just play the keys, but my friend is a really good singer and it’s a lot of fun. S’right across the street, you should check it out one day!” 

He hums. “Maybe one day.” 

+++

Y/n didn’t really think much of it when she told Harry to come check out one of their performances. It just kind of… slipped out. 

She didn’t think he’d actually show up! In fact, she thought she’d totally fumbled with him! She just got a piercing from him, and that’s it. No phone numbers, no flirting, nothing.

But here he is, sitting at a bar waiting for her as she walks off stage. 

“Ruby,” she whispers to the lead singer of their band. “He’s here.”

“Who?” Ruby whispers back, looking around inconspicuously.

“The tattoo artist,” y/n says nervously. 

Ruby’s eyes widen. “Where?!” she gasps excitedly. 

“Long hair, sitting by the bar with a drink.” 

Ruby finds him easily, “Girl… he’s hot.” 

Y/n nods. “What do I do?” 

“Go talk to him, duh!” Ruby spares another glance towards Harry. “He’s looking at you. Go over there right now, or I’ll do it for you.” 

Y/n’s palms sweat and she looks at Ruby helplessly. She’s nervous! But Ruby just raises her eyebrow and gives her a look, one that tells her to suck it up and go flirt with her dream man. 

With a deep breath, she walks to the bar, eyes glued to the floor and desperately avoiding Harry’s eyes until she’s right in front of him. “Hi,” she says.

He takes a sip of his drink, some type of golden whiskey sitting in a crystal glass. His eyes glimmer with familiarity. “Hi.”

“You came,” she says, fingers twisting behind her back. 

“I did.” He flags the bartender down. “Are you drinking anything?” 

“Oh, um… just a strawberry marg.” She smiles to herself– he’s buying her a drink! That must mean something, right? “How much of the show did you see?”

“Just the end. Had to close up shop and all before I came.” 

She nods understandingly. “How, um… What did you think?” Her drink arrives and she takes a long, nervous sip.

“It was good. You were great up there.” 

Her cheeks grow warm and she hopes Harry can’t tell how happy that small comment made her. “Thanks,” she says with a soft smile. 

He takes another sip of his drink, and says nothing more. He’s got an intimidating demeanor, one that makes y/n shrink into herself, and yet she doesn’t want to leave his side. She’s attracted to him, obviously, but also intrigued. His mysterious ways have captured her attention, his quiet personality something y/n wants to unravel.

She coughs dryly, even though her throat doesn’t itch or anything, and awkwardly takes a sip of her drink. She wishes she had something to say to Harry, and wonders if she should just walk away to save herself from this painful silence. 

“Y/n!” One of her bandmates, Benji, somehow hears her prayers and wraps his arms around her shoulder. “Killed it on the keys tonight! So groovy babe, you’re amazing.”

“Thanks Benji,” she mumbles, her face heating at the extravagant attention he’s drawn to them. Harry observes her quietly, not even acknowledging Benji’s presence – just watching her. He takes another long, quiet sip of his drink. 

“This a friend of yours?” Benji asks, nodding towards Harry. His arms are still wrapped around her shoulders, his hands rubbing up and down her arm warmly. She can feel Harry eyeing the contact.

She clears her throat. “Yeah, this is Harry. He tattoos at the shop across the street.”

“Oh, sick! Nice to meet you man.”

Harry tips his drink in acknowledgement, but still says nothing. 

“Listen– me, Ruby, and Char are heading to Nora’s apartment in like, thirty minutes. You wanna come with? You can ride with me.”

Y/n glances at Harry, but he’s looking down at his drink, swirling it softly. The ice clinks in his glass softly, somehow standing out to y/n’s ear despite how loud the bar is. “Um, I’ll let you know, okay? I’ll text.” Benji pats her arm with an affirming nod, and heads back to his table where the rest of their friends are sitting. 

“S’that your boyfriend?” Harry says, finally looking up. His brows are furrowed, as usual, and his green eyes stare at her intensely. 

“Oh, Benji?” she laughs. “No way. He’s dating Nora.”

He hums. “No boyfriend at all, then?” 

She shakes her head softly, “No boyfriend.”

“Good,” he says, setting his glass down. “Would suck if I was trying to hook up with a girl who’s taken.”

Pause. 

 “You– what?” Her heart stutters in her chest, and she forgets how to breathe. “You want… with me?” 

He sets the drink down and stands from his stool, towering over her. Looking at her with those intense, green eyes, he unabashedly glances down at her lips. “What are you doing after this?”

“Um.” Benji’s invitation flashes through the forefront of her mind. Her eyes flicker between his nervously, looking for any signs that he might be messing with her. He’s dead serious. “Nothing.”

“I live just a little bit away. Do you want to come to mine?” 

“To yours? To um– like, you know…” her brain is going haywire and she can’t get a proper sentence out. “Like to… hook up?”

He nods, eyes hard but honest. “Would you want that?”

“Yeah!” She realizes how eager she sounds, and tones it down. “I mean, yes. I’d want that. I would want to go to yours and would like to, um… you know. I would wanna…” She stumbles over her words, struggling to formulate her thoughts into coherent words. She shakes her head and looks at the ground shyly, embarrassed that she can’t get it out.

Harry steps forward, lifts her chin, and gives her a kiss – mostly to shut her up, but also to test the waters, see if the chemistry is there. Her eyes flutter shut, her hands lifting softly with the intention of grabbing onto his arms, but too shy to actually touch him, so they just hang in the air between them. Harry, on the other hand, cups her jaw with the hand that he’d use to tilt her chin upwards, while the other hand rests on her hip. He puckers his lips softly against hers, sucking her bottom lip gently. 

His grip on her hip tightens as they kiss, and she relaxes into his touch. The whirlwind of thoughts disappears in the kiss, the anxiety of trying to speak with him and knowing how and where to touch him vanishes in seconds. Her hands finally feel comfortable enough to touch him, resting gently on his chest, fingers grabbing onto his shirt unconsciously. He pulls away with a soft click. When her eyes gently flutter open, glazed over with puppy-like eagerness, he confirms to himself that the chemistry is definitely there.

“Ready to go, then?”

+++

Harry’s apartment is oddly nothing like y/n expected. 

From his rugged exterior, you’d think his home would be dark and grungy, like himself. But he lives in a cute apartment, quaint and cozy. The building is in a nice area, with an apparently new lock and intercom system that y/n envies (getting into her building is a hassle – her key always gets stuck and she’s always getting calls from people who want the person in room 316. She lives in 318!). He keys them in with a small fob attached to a key chain, and she follows him through the lobby, up the elevator, down the hallway, and into his apartment.

A sweet little white cat with pretty blue eyes sits in front of the door as they walk in. She meows up at Harry, and tangles herself between his legs, her fluffy tail twirling behind her softly. “You don’t mind cats or anything, do you?” Harry asks.

“No, not at all!”

“This is Dandie,” he murmurs. Harry picks the cat up into his arms, his tattooed arms striking against her delicate white fur. “It’s short for dandelion.” 

“How sweet,” y/n coos, stepping forward. She tries to give Dandie a scratch on the head, but the cat flinches her head away, meowing grumpily. Y/n pouts. 

“Takes a while for her to warm up to people,” Harry explains. “Don’t take it personally.” 

He sets Dandie down, letting her prance away as she pleases while he leads y/n further into his apartment. It’s homey and comfortable, clearly lived in. Harry has dark, espresso colored shelves lined with books and little trinkets, souvenirs and little decorations that you’d find in antique shops. A sage green couch with a chunky knit white blanket draped on top sits in the center of his living room, matching the fluffy white rug that lays under his coffee table. A half full mug of tea sits on a coaster on top of the glass table. It faces the wall with a large television attached to it. 

Underneath the television is a short stand that has a record player sitting on top of it– a fancy one, she might add – with built-in shelves that store all of his records. She wanders towards them, straying away from Harry, who’s gone to the kitchen to set out some food for Dandie. There must be a hundred of them, she thinks to herself, most of them old artists that she’s never heard of. 

He startles her when he walks back into the room, snapping her out of her curious exploration of his home. “Put some food out so Dandie won’t bother us,” he says. Y/n nods, looking at Harry shyly. She’s not very well-versed in this whole… one night stand stuff, and doesn’t really know what to do, so she stands there nervously as he comes closer. She knows that the whole reason she’s here is to hook up with Harry, but she has no idea how to initiate it. She’s not some sexy vixen who knows how to seduce a man – she’s a nervous and clumsy girl who doesn’t know where to put her hands when she kisses someone!

It’s a miracle that she’s managed to somehow capture Harry’s attention, despite the fact that she constantly stumbles over her words and barely knows how to act around him. He’s just like… scarily intimidating! 

Lucky for her, he takes the lead and initiates the contact so that y/n can stop wracking her head over how to relieve the tension between them. He stands in front of her and cups a hand under her jaw, his fingers sliding into her hair.  Although his brows are still furrowed, his eyes are somewhat softer as he looks down at her, flickering between her eyes, then down to her lips. 

Did you want to put a record on?” He asks, eyes still fixated on her lips. 

Her breath hitches in her throat, and her tongue darts out to lick her dry lips. “Can I?” she responds gently. 

He gives an affirming hum, his dark eyes darting back up to hers, searching them intently. His pupils have dilated, his bright green irises now a deeper, forest green. “Anything in particular you wanna listen to?”  

“Um…” she pulls away from and bends down to the height of the shelf to look at his selection. She sees Billy Joel, The White Stripes, The Cranberries… all music that she never really listens to. Oldies aren’t necessarily her taste, she’s more of a Taylor Swift gal. The only artist she recognizes is Fleetwood Mac, which he has a whole selection of. She plays it safe and goes with a vinyl of their “Top Hits,” delicately removing the record from the shelf and standing up with it. 

She’s nervous about setting the record up (it seems like Harry’s a big record guy and she doesn’t want to scratch the vinyl or break the spinner or anything like that), so she gives the record to Harry, who stands closely behind her. With his chest pressed to her back, he wraps his arms around her and takes the vinyl out of her hands, easily taking it out of its case and placing it on the spinner. His soft, warm breaths tickle the back of her neck, and she wonders if she imagined the feeling of his lips skimming her shoulder. 

Delicately, he places the needle on the record and it starts spinning, a warm static noise playing before it fades into the strong piano of the first song. His hands now rest on her hips, large and warm and gentle, and this time she knows that she’s not imagining him pressing kisses along her shoulder, and up to her neck. Goosebumps trail down her spine, and she closes her eyes, subtly tilting her head to the side to give him more access. When his kisses reach the base of her neck, he sucks lightly – not enough to leave a permanent mark, but just enough to make her core pulse and the skin there throb.

His hands trail up her sides, twisting her around slowly so that she’s facing him again. She follows him easily, moony eyes staring up at him in anticipation of his next move. 

He finally leans in for a kiss. Y/n reciprocates eagerly, leaning up to kiss him back. Her eyes shut delicately, ready to fully relax into the kiss –  but he pulls away before she has the chance to fully appreciate the way his lips feel against her. 

Her eyes open and she looks up at him with a pout, concerned and a bit scared about why he might’ve pulled away so soon. He grabs her hands, which had been awkwardly hanging by her sides, and wraps them around his shoulders. 

She feels much more comfortable this way, relieved that Harry has taken the burden of figuring out what to do with her hands away from her. Then he leans down to kiss her again, and she lets him take control.

His blunt, black painted fingernails scratch softly against her scalp as his fingers curl in her hair, holding her steady so that he can kiss her as he pleases. His other hand holds onto her waist, palm resting over her clothes while his thumb sneaks under her shirt to tenderly tease her warm skin. Her stomach jolts at his light touch. Their lips fold over each other perfectly, linking and unlinking in a slow, sultry, continuous kiss. She doesn’t realize that she’s craning her neck upwards trying to get closer and closer to him as they kiss, or that her fingers are unconsciously gripping onto the back of his shirt.

Harry takes a step forward, never breaking their kiss, inching y/n backwards until she’s pressed against the wall. The hand that had been cradling her jaw slides down her neck, then over her shoulder, then presses against the wall to support his weight as he leans over her. His neck bends downwards to reach y/n’s lips so that she doesn’t have to keep getting up on her tippy toes. With a hand on her lower back, he presses her against him, her back arching so that her stomach is pressed against his firm abdomen. 

Although the sexual tension between Harry and y/n had been there since the moment they kissed in the bar, it had been a bit muted. Her anxiety over not embarrassing herself and figuring out how to initiate anything with him had muffled any of her desires, and distracted her from noticing the way Harry was eyeing her hungrily. Now that they’re kissing though, with their bodies pressed together and their hands roaming over each other, the tension is bursting. Y/n feels the heat in her core spreading all over her body, a desperate whimper growing in her chest and spilling out into Harry’s mouth. 

Here she was, kissing the hot tattoo artist that she’d been dreaming about all week, with his firm chest pressed against hers, his thick fingers tangled in her hair, and his pretty pink lips on her mouth. It made her head spin with excitement. She’s no longer embarrassed in communicating her eagerness, whimpering and pressing herself into him even more. 

Harry untangles his lips from hers and buries his face into her neck, kissing her there. She arches her head backwards, letting it knock against the wall to bare the skin of her throat to him. Her fingers untangle from the back of his shirt, only to tangle into his hair, long curly tendrils that she softly grasps as he kisses and sucks at the thin skin of her throat. Harry’s lips are soft and skilled, suckling gently at her most tender spots and breathing warm air over them to make her shiver. She moans softly, and not so subtly presses her hips into his center.

His hands roam her body, going from holding onto her hips, to grazing her ribs, then back down to skim over her ass. His palms feel warm, burning her skin through her clothes as he grips her thighs and lifts her into the air. With his hand under her thighs, her legs wrapped around his waist, and his hips pressing her into the wall, he somehow effortlessly picked her up.

The firm bulge confined in his black jeans presses deliciously against her soft heat, and she rolls her hips forward. With her fingers tangled in his roots, she guides his face back to hers so that she can start kissing him once more, feel his soft lips slick against hers and his warm breath against her face. 

In a spur of the moment decision, Harry tightens his grip on her thighs and pulls her off the wall, carrying her over to the green couch in the center of the room. Laying her down gently, he  breaks their kiss to kneel down on the floor next to her. She props herself up on her elbows and stares down at him with lust-blown eyes and swollen lips, breathing heavily as he teases the button of her denim jeans. 

“Off?” he asks, and she nods eagerly, letting him unbutton, unzip, and undress her without hesitation. She’s left in her plain underwear, which he also peels off, leaving him face to face with her soft folds. His hands find her knees, and she watches him spread her legs open, her pretty pussy blooming like a spring flower.

Harry bites his lip, eyes unblinking and fixated on her center as he inches closer and closer. When she feels his warm breath against her center, she shudders, a warm rush spreading from her core, all the way up her spine. Her breathing visibility quickens, chest rising and falling noticeably enough for Harry to finally look away from her pussy and flicker his eyes up to her. 

“Alright?” he murmurs, warm hands resting soothingly on her thighs. He’s a man of few words, yet he still manages to check in with her.

“Yeah,” she breathes shakily. 

Without saying anything else, he leans in and licks a bold stripe up her center. His tongue dips between her folds, spit mixing with the slick that had gathered there since he first kissed her at the bar. She whines and bucks her hips upwards as soon as he makes contact with her, shutting her eyes when he starts to swirl his tongue round her clit. He makes no noise, face stoic save for the furrow in his brow showing his sheer concentration. 

Pink lips wrap around her clit, sucking lightly and sending a shock throughout her entire body. When she wriggles around, he holds her hips still, his thick fingers pressing firmly into her plushy skin. Her hand shoots down to grip at the edge of his couch, holding herself steady as quiet whimpers escape her throat. She doesn’t want to embarrass herself by moaning obnoxiously, biting her lips to keep her noises in, but Harry’s making it really hard for her with the way he’s sucking her clit. 

When he slides a finger into her pussy, any shame or embarrassment flies out the window. A loud cry escapes her, and she feels herself practically sucking his finger in, eager to finally have something penetrating her. Harry pulls off her clit with a pop and watches his finger disappear into her heat, biting his lip at how warm and tight she feels. He nearly groans out imagining how amazing she’d feel wrapped around his cock. 

Slipping another finger in next to the first, he curls his fingers up and searches for that plushy spot on her front wall. Honestly, just having his fingers inside of her is enough to have her squirming, but when he finds her special spot, she feels her fingers go numb and her lip nearly bursts from how hard she bites down on it. 

He smiles to himself when she clenches around his fingers, a subtle confirmation that he’d indeed found her g-spot and was rubbing his fingers against it in the right way. And if she’s being honest… that smile alone could’ve made her cum. A self assured, cocky smirk, with a dimple piercing his cheek and a smug glimmer in his eye. It makes her head spin, having someone so attractive sitting between her thighs. 

When he leans back down to suck her clit, combined with the feeling of his fingers curling into that plushy spot, a familiar ringing starts in her ears. Before she knows it, she’s cumming around Harry’s fingers, clenching and whining and throwing her head back as pleasure overtakes her body.

It’d been so long since she’d come at the hands of someone other than herself, nevertheless someone as good as Harry. She’d given up on hookup culture and one night stands long ago, opting for her trusty Urban Outfitters vibrator over fake orgasms, and had nearly forgotten how good it felt letting someone else do all the work. How nice it felt to have broad hands skimming over your legs as you cum, or having someone’s lips teasing your skin as you come down from your high. 

Her heart beats sporadically as she calms down, regaining her vision and blinking open her eyes to see Harry kissing her inner thighs. His fingers slip out of her pussy gently, slicked in a glossy layer of her cum, which he licks off casually. Y/n nearly cums again just from seeing that. 

He pushes himself up from the ground to stand. “Up for more?” he asks, pressing down on the bulge in his jeans. Nodding, she sits up on the couch so that she’s face to face with his cock, and undoes the button of his tight, black jeans. She yanks them down to his knees, revealing a pair of black Calvin Kleins, and a large tiger tattoo on his thigh. Momentarily, she gets distracted, tracing the sharp inked teeth of the tiger, feeling the firm muscle of his thigh. But then he palms himself through his briefs, and she remembers the mission she’s on. 

Pulling those down as well, his cock bobs up in front of her face, pink and ruddy tip hypnotizing her as it sways up and down, finally free of its confines. She’s ready to return the favor, licking her lips and eager to get her lips around his cock – not only because she feels obligated to suck him off since he ate her out, but also because his cock is pretty. It’s thick and hard, with veins running up the sides, and he looks clean and well groomed. Her mouth waters, and she wants him in her mouth. But, before she can even lick the tip, he wraps his own fist around it, tilting it away from her mouth. 

Her eyes flicker up from his cock to his face, an upset furrow in her brow, but Harry disregards it. “How do you want it?” he asks instead, too impatient to get sucked off. He’s been dreaming of her warm cunt ever since she came around his fingers.

She says nothing, instead grabbing his hips and pulling him down to sit next to her on the couch. His cock bobs heavily between the two of them as she straddles him, her knees encasing his thick, muscled thighs. “Um… do you– condom?” she asks breathlessly. He wriggles a hand into the back pocket of his pants, which hang around his knees carelessly, and pops a trojan out. 

Ripping the foil with his teeth, he sheaths it onto his cock in less than a minute. Y/n lifts herself up on her knees, lines him up with her pussy, and sinks down gently. With her on top, she sets a slow, easy pace for herself, taking her time as she presses down. He fills her up, inch by inch, stretching her to the brim, and she loves it.

Harry spreads his arms on the back of the couch, casually watching as she lowers himself on his cock. She’s warm and wet and so fucking tight… he throws his head back in ecstacy, relieved to finally have his cock snugly inside of her. Her hands reach backwards to hold onto his knees, lifting herself up and down, angling in a way so that his cockhead rubs against her g-spot everytime she grinds down. 

With his lip between his teeth, his bright green eyes stare as she starts bouncing faster. He reaches a hand out to hold onto her hip, his palm smoothing over her soft skin and guiding her as she lifts herself on his cock. He makes no noises, but he breathes deeply through his nose and watches her with lust-blown pupils, eyelids heavy as if he were drunk. 

Y/n on the other hand, whimpers with every swivel of her hips, cheeks flushed and chest bursting. She’s doing her damn best but being on top is hard! The burning in her thighs is lowkey making her regret climbing onto his lap instead of letting him have his way with her, but just as she’s about to start cramping up, Harry’s other hand leaves the couch to grip her hip. With both hands burning on her hipbones, he helps her bounce up and down on his cock.

She relaxes now, his strong hands helping her immensely and letting her start focusing on the burning orgasm bubbling in the pit of her stomach. She falls forward, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and pressing her chest against his, whining into his ear when his cockhead kisses her g-spot each time he pulls her down. He grunts quietly when her fingernails dig into the muscles of his shoulders, and whispers a quiet praise in her ear. 

“Yeah, that’s good,” he murmurs with a low voice – that sends her over the edge. She clenches around his thick length, squeezing her thighs tightly around his hips as she lets out a choked moan, a quiet ohmygod escaping her through her orgasm.

She flutters around his cock the same way she’d done around his fingers and his vision goes white, throwing his head back on the couch and letting his eyes blink shut in bliss. A lazy smile overtakes his face as her pussy milks his cock, and he releases in long warm spurts into the condom. 

She breathes heavily in his lap, arms wrapped around his neck and holding on for dear life, while Harry sits there casually, blissed out and fully content. His hands rub over the skin of her bare thighs gently, thumbs tracing soft circles as her shaky breaths start to even out. She pulls her face out of his neck, and looks down at him with blown out eyes and hot cheeks.

“Good?” he asks with a cocky smirk, the cutest dimple in his cheek.

She nods breathlessly, fluttering her eyes unbelievingly. “Wow,” is all she can say. Harry chuckles cutely.

He’s still fitted snugly inside of her, so she lifts herself off his cock, hissing at the feeling of being empty after he filled her up so well. Harry takes the sloppy condom off of his prick and ties it off, standing up when y/n shuffles off of his lap to throw it out in the kitchen.

When he walks back in, cock bare and swinging about, y/n is getting herself dressed and ready to go. If there’s anything she hates more than the awkwardness that comes before hooking up with someone for the first time, it’s the awkwardness that comes after you actually have sex. She always felt insecure, extra vulnerable, and a little bit nervous… and she never knew what to do with herself. So even though she could really go for a cuddle or something right now, she gets herself dressed and ready to head home. That’s what you do after a one night stand, right? 

Harry seems a lot more… relaxed than she’d expected, though. She was worried he’d be rushing her out of his house, ordering her a taxi and getting dressed as soon as they were done. But no, he casually slides his black Calvin Kleins up his legs, kicking his black jeans onto the floor with no second thought. He sits himself on the couch, and opens up a water bottle. 

“Brought you some water,” he says casually, nodding towards the bottle he’d brought from the kitchen after he’d thrown the condom out. 

“...thanks,” she says, picking up the water and cautiously sitting back down next to him. She cracks the seal open and takes a small sip. Harry chugs half the bottle down, then throws it onto the coffee table. 

“Whereabouts do you live?” he then asks, throwing an arm on the back of the couch.

“Um… about 10 minutes from the tattoo shop. East side of town, in the apartment complex near the port.”

“Oh so you’re not too far,” he murmurs thoughtfully, and she shakes her head in confirmation. “That’s perfect.” He searches around himself for a minute before he finds his phone, face down on the side table, and passes it to y/n. “Why don’t you put your number in then, and we can do this again?” 

She grabs his phone a bit dazed, “you wanna hook up again?”

“Err, yeah?” he says dumbly. “Only if you want to, though.”

Her heart flutters giddily – so this wasn’t goodbye! She’s really winning the jackpot, and she wonders what she’s done to get this much good karma. First she got to hook up with the hot tattoo artist, and now he wants to turn it into a fling? “Yeah… yeah sounds good.” 

+++

THE REST OF TATTOORRY IS PATREON EXCLUSIVE!!! PART TWO IS ALREADY OUT ON PATREON!!!!! THANK U FOR READING!!! 

[harrystylesslutt]

Soothed

summary: just a little fluff inspired by this picture (just pretend the cream is soothing cream in the pic🥰)

As you stand backstage after one of Harry's electrifying shows, the adrenaline is still coursing through your veins, and your heart is beating wildly.

Harry's shirt is off, revealing his toned and chiseled abs, glistening with a thin sheen of sweat from his energetic performance. You can't help but blush as you catch a glimpse of his mesmerizing tattoos that adorn his chest and arms. His smile lights up the room, and he wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you in for a warm hug.

"Hey there, love," he whispers in that raspy, velvety voice that sends shivers down your spine. "You did great out there!" you compliment him, your fingers gently brushing through his damp curls.

He chuckles softly and leans down to plant a sweet kiss on your forehead. "I couldn't have done it without you here, supporting me," he says, sincerity shining in his beautiful green eyes.

You reach for a towel, dabbing away some sweat from his forehead, and he sighs contentedly. "Feels good," he mumbles, leaning into your touch.

"I brought some soothing cream for your muscles," you say, pulling out a small jar from your bag. Harry raises an eyebrow playfully, "Well, aren't you just the best girlfriend ever?"

You giggle, unscrewing the lid, and scoop a generous amount of the cream onto your fingers. Gently, you start rubbing it onto his abs, massaging in slow, circular motions. The contact of your fingers against his warm skin makes you both giggle like teenagers, and you feel a sense of intimacy and closeness that is uniquely yours.

Harry's eyes never leave you as you work your magic, and he can't help but feel incredibly lucky to have you in his life. "Mm, that feels amazing, baby," he murmurs, his voice low and appreciative. His eyes never leave you as he exaggerates his pleasure by subtly groaning, low enough for you to hear, the sound being all too familiar makes you squeeze your thighs together.

You decide to ignore the ache between your legs and continue to massage the soothing cream, making sure every inch of his abs is covered, "How did I get so lucky to have you?" he wonders lowly, his eyes filled with affection.

"You're pretty amazing yourself," you reply, leaning in to peck his lips softly. The soft, tender moment between you two is filled with unspoken love and appreciation for each other.

As you finish applying the cream, you gently run your fingers along the outlines of his tattoos, tracing the intricate designs. Harry leans into your touch, savoring the closeness between you. "You make me feel so loved, YN," he admits, his voice sincere and filled with emotion.

"That's cause you are baby, you're loved by everyone," you say, looking into his eyes with a reassuring smile, reminding him of the impact he has on people which secretly gives him an ego boost but he'll never admit that out loud. "I'm just grateful to be a part of your life."

Harry pulls you into his arms once again, wrapping you in a warm embrace. "I love you," he whispers into your ear, his breath combined with his toned body pressing against you sending tingles down your spine.

"I love you too," you reply, burying your face in the crook of his neck, inhaling his comforting scent. In that instant, the world around you fades away, leaving just the two of you, basking in the sweetness of your love, but that moment is shortlived when you feel his not so subtle erection rubbing against your tummy. You shake your head and laugh, harry's arms never leaving your waist and before he can murmur an apology about his hormones ruining the sweet and innocent moment, you grab his hand and walk backwards until you reach his dressing room, finally pulling him in for another kiss, one that does not share the innocence of your previous one.

And before you know it your back is against the now locked door, with harry's hands roaming and groping every part of your body. Next thing you know your hands are reaching his pants while you find yourself on your knees looking up at him innocently even though there was nothing sinless about what was going to go down next. While your eyes are still fixated on his dilated pupils you whisper seductively "Why don't you repeat those noises you were making back there a little louder yeah?" which was followed by a whimper from him, affirming to you his full submission to your touch.