aglimpseofharry

[aglimpseofharry]

writing something so utterly heart breaking and angsty that i need to share it with someone before i combust.

[aglimpseofharry]

MEAN IT || a harry styles x you one-shot. word count: 6,943 content warning: sex toys, masturbation, phone sex, intercourse (m/f), long hair harry (feel like this is a cw)

summary: harry styles, the famous boyband member, is your boyfriend. and when he comes to stay with you, he brings a gift from a beautiful little boutique in paris as almost a 6 month anniversary gift. it's a gift for you... but him, too. you're just always in mind when he's half-way across the world.

author's note: this is a love letter to the new pleasing drop - but I also seem to disregard lhh and I need to bring him into more stories <3 enjoy the smut!

There was something deeply satisfying about coming home to the smell of your own detergent without having been the one to use it.

It wasn’t like you minded doing your laundry. In fact, it was one of the few chores you didn’t actively avoid — a little bit of podcast-listening, a little people-watching from the laundromat window while your jeans tumbled around; it was a moment of peace for you at times.

But the past few days, ever since Harry got back from tour, you hadn’t touched your laundry basket. You hadn’t really touched much of anything in your apartment except your laptop and Harry’s bare chest, which had become a semi-permanent fixture on your couch.

That wasn’t a bad thing, either.

He’d been on the road nonstop for almost a month. A short European run — three cities in Spain, a radio spot in Belgium, a surprise pop-up show in Paris that practically melted the internet, and of course their shows in London that you had wished you could have gone to. You tried to keep up, but the time zone from England to New York, and your full-time job meant your check-ins were more often blurry morning voice notes or late-night texts saying are you still up?

You missed him—you missed being around him. Not just the sex, not just his voice or his hugs or his hands on your waist. You missed him in the mundane ways: brushing your teeth side-by-side at your tiny pedestal sink, arguing over who stole the other’s socks, finding his scribbled grocery notes next to your shopping list on the fridge.

So, when he finally got a week off with no cameras, no promo, no press, he chose to spend it here. In your cramped, third-floor walk-up. No Soho loft, no private chef, no fancy dinners with fancy people. It was just you, your cat, Garbanzo, a queen-sized mattress, and a perpetually janky fire escape you both pretended wasn’t wildly unsafe for you to both sit on when the sun went down.

You came home on a Wednesday evening to him humming with a toothbrush in his mouth, barefoot in your kitchen, folding your underwear like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Hi,” you said softly, unlatching your door with your hip as you held your water bottle in one hand, held your bag on your arm, and made your way through the door.

He looked up from his spot in your living room, eyes crinkling as he grinned around the toothbrush. “Hiii.”

There was a pile of clean clothes on your couch — there were socks matched, bras gently cupped in one another, t-shirts folded with an almost military precision. Your laundry basket, which had been overflowing this morning when you left, sat empty next to him.

“You didn’t have to do that.” You tell him with a bit of confusion.

Harry walked from his spot in the living to the sink in the bathroom, but you hear his voice over the water.

“I know.” He spat into the sink, head dropped as he rinsed. “Wanted to.”

You dropped your bags and leaned against the counter as he walked out of the bathroom, wiping his mouth with a hand towel.

He walked over and kissed your cheek which was soft and minty, and rested his chin on your shoulder, arms wrapping around your waist from behind. His hair was long; not pulled back like usual, because it seemed he may have gotten out of the shower only a little before you walked in.

“You looked tired in that photo you sent earlier,” he murmured in you. “Felt like I needed to do something useful. And I can be useful.”

You closed your eyes, letting the weight of the day slide off your back and into him, knowing he’d hold you up no matter how heavy it was.

“Okay,” you said, turning to kiss the corner of his mouth. “I’m officially keeping you.”

He grinned, cockiness sharply coming across. “Good. You’ve done all this work to train me, so I’m glad I get to keep the job.”

You let out a soft laugh, brushing your knuckles along the side of his jaw as you try to memorize the placement of his long fingers, the way that he holds you close; keeps you just in line with his eyes as you giggle at him. “You are so well-trained. You even separate whites from colors now.”

He scoffed dramatically, pulling away only to lean against the counter beside you. “Don’t act like that wasn’t a three-day seminar! I practically had handouts made.”

You grinned and reached into the fridge, grabbing a can of sparkling water and holding it out to him. He took it with a grateful nod and cracked it open, taking a long sip while his eyes roamed lazily over you; you could never get used to the way that he looked at you.

“What?” you asked, pretending to be suspicious.

“Nothing,” he said, and then shook his head as he took another sip. “Just like seeing you come through that door. S’been a long few weeks.”

You paused then as you took the can that he had then offered you, warmth blooming behind your ribs again like it had the first moments had when you met him. It was moments like these that got you — how someone like him, who could be anywhere, doing anything, and he chose this. Your 700 square foot apartment, your couch that you thrifted. It was your laundry detergent and sad little houseplants and squeaky cabinet hinges that no one, except you, was ever going to fix.

You bumped your hip against his as you took a lean against the counter with him. “You can go sit down. I’m gonna throw dinner together – maybe that salmon we bought a couple days ago.”

But he didn’t move. Just gave you a slow, unreadable look almost like he was going to say something else, so you just studied him for a long moment to almost prompt him to keep going.

“Actually…” he said, voice dipping but the sparkle in his eyes heightened which kept you intrigued for a moment, “there’s something I wanna show you first.”

Your brows lifted then. “Yeah?”

He moved away from the kitchen as he started to make his way into your bedroom. He moved to the side of his bed, where his duffle bag sat that contained all of his clothes—practically everything to his name, where he traveled the world and only had so many items that he kept with him.

When he dug through his things, he pulled out a black box. It was sleek, wrapped in a silk black ribbon that that was discreet and hardly meddled through the airport security.

When he returned, he held the item behind him before he was able to present it to you. You blinked, giving him a slow smile before you reached for it. “Harry… you didn’t have to.”

He held it out with both hands like a peace offering, like he was nervous. You had never seen Harry Styles nervous. “Before you freak out, let me explain.”

Your eyebrows knit at his words, “I’m not freaking out—should I be?”

“Okay, great—well, no. But I just—” He ran a hand through his still-damp hair, cheeks pink now as he held his lip between his thumb and index finger with a sheepish smile that was trying to come together. “I was in Paris… and I went into this… boutique” He paused, “Don’t make a face.”

You looked back at him, shaking your head, “I’m not making a face.”

“You’re absolutely making a face.” He smirks, leaning against the counter again with a squint as he tries to not laugh.

You found yourself giggling a little bit as you continued to look at the box. “Okay, fine. Maybe a little.”

He huffed, trying to explain and not feel entirely embarrassed that he may have been a bit too forward with the purchase. “It was one of those, like, wellness-forward places. Fancy packaging, plants everywhere. They even offered me tea while I browsed.”

“It may have been that you are international popstar Harry Styles that they offered you tea,” you say as you started to unravel the ribbon, laying it on the counter so Garbanzo wouldn’t get it.

“Well, maybe,” He shrugged, almost ready to pounce on you as you opened it slowly, “And I saw this on the shelf. And I thought…” He scratched his neck with a bit of anxiety. “We haven’t really done anything with toys yet—not that we have to. But I thought — if we were going to start somewhere, maybe this could be it.”

You looked down at the box in your hands; minimal branding, elegant and innocuous. Something you could leave on a nightstand and pretend it was a candle, probably.

“It’s—I mean, it’s just a little stimulator, really. Clitoris stimulator, to be specific.” he added quickly, then cringed. “That sounded clinical, sorry.”

“It did,” you teased, taking the vibrator in your hand before looking at it and feeling it in your hand, “But I got what you meant.”

He watched you closely as you turned it over, scanning the back. “I thought maybe we could try it together. But if you want it just for yourself — that’s fine too.”

You turned your gaze back to him, your heart tilting a little at the way he was standing there — nervous, but excited. Soft, but so clearly turned on by the idea of this, even if he didn’t know exactly how it would go.

“I want it to be something we use together,” you said. “It feels different if we explore it like that. Not just something for me, but something for us.”

He visibly relaxed, that shy little grin spreading across his face again. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You stepped forward, curling your arms around his middle. “Though I am a little concerned about what TikTok corners you’ve ended up in lately.”

“Hey,” he defended, holding you close. “My algorithm is very sex-positive.”

You smirked, resting against his chest as you stared down at the item in your hand. “And somehow, the headline ‘Harry Styles Buys His Girlfriend a Vibrator in Paris’ didn’t end up on TMZ? Those Twitter girls couldn’t find you?”

His mouth dropped open in mock offense. “I’ll have you know I wore sunglasses and a hoodie for this one. Very stealth—I also went right when they opened.”

“Yeah, because nothing says low-profile like you looking like the Unabomber in a wellness boutique.”

He laughed at that, warm and boyish with the dimples popping just as you wanted. “It was a discreet shop! It was off of one those small Paris streets, kind of by the hotel, too. I didn’t take any security or anything. They wrapped it up in tissue paper like it was at a fucking spa or some shit.”

“Well,” you said, tapping your fingers against his hip, “we’ll find out soon if it’s as revitalizing as a good serum.” You leaned back, narrowing your eyes playfully. “So you have to have thought about me using it while you’re gone.”

“Thought about it,” he repeated, voice suddenly low, “dreamed about it.”

Your stomach flipped when he looked down at you with his mouth a little parted. “You, tucked under the covers, missing me. Playing with this while I’m on the phone. Telling me how good it feels, how bad you need me. Would love a video of it, but I can imagine the audio would be just as good.”

“Jesus,” you whispered; almost unsure how he could do that so easily. You hadn’t been home for an hour, and now you were practically wanting to rip off your work clothes in the middle of your kitchen.

“I’d be such a mess,” he said with a soft laugh. “Would have to beg for a private plane home right then and there.”

Home. He considered you home; he considered this small apartment, and your broken hinged kitchen, and your creaky wooden floor space—he considered this home.

You reached for the box again, your fingers grazing his as you took it. “Then maybe we should test it out. See if it’s worth the daydream, and the trip home, hm?”

His eyes darkened almost immediately upon the request. “Now?”

Your eyes matched his then, nodding with a devilish smirk that you knew that he couldn’t pay enough. Money to see. “Now.”

He backed toward the bedroom slowly, holding your hand, a giddy flush in his cheeks almost like he had waited years for this. “You’re gonna laugh at me if I fumble the buttons, aren’t you?”

“Only a little.”

You kissed him again, sweet and slow, before whispering, “But you can make it up to me.”

He led you toward the bedroom, fingers laced with yours, not hurried. Not all lust and rush — though that was there too, humming just under the surface. But more than anything, it felt like something being unwrapped slowly. It was like a gift, a secret you were both letting out of the dark.

The box was light in your hand, but it might as well have been glowing.

You sat on the edge of the bed while he shut the door behind you, tugged the hem of his shirt up and over his head, ruffling his hair in the process. He still smelled like your expensive coconut shampoo you kept in your shower. His cross necklace caught the low light as it hung across his chest, directly between the birds on his collarbone.

You watched him — the way his body moved, how at home he looked in your space; he felt so much bigger and taller than your furniture — and you felt something flutter in your chest that had nothing to do with arousal and everything to do with how much you’d missed him.

He noticed the shift in your expression. “What’s that look for?”

You smiled, soft as you shook your head almost like you were trying to dissolve your daydream. “Just thinking about how weird it is that I get to keep you. Even after all this time.”

He smirked with a small tinge of possible sadness in it. “A month isn’t that long.”

“It is when you spend half of it on another continent—it is when we’ve only really been dating for six. That’s one sixth time apart, you know?”

His face gentled, almost like he hadn’t thought of it that way. He stepped closer, standing between your knees and brushing your hair behind your ear. “I know, and that’s why I want to spend all of my extra time with you.”

You leaned into the touch. “It’s not that I don’t understand why you have to be gone—of course I do. I just…” Your voice caught slightly, which you’re not really sure why when you knew that you two were doing in here in the first place. “There are nights where I fall asleep to old interviews, just to hear your voice.”

A simple chuckle leaves him at your admission; his hand cupped your jaw, thumb stroking gently. “You should’ve called instead.”

Your eyes soften when you stare at him, “I did. Time zones suck.”

He nodded, quiet. “They do.”

There were times when the distance didn’t feel so brutal — when tour just meant funny selfies from soundcheck or postcards from foreign hotels where he would just sign it with H xo or sending nudes over Wi-Fi in the middle of the night. But there were other times when it hurt. The ache of missing someone who was technically still yours, but so far away that even their smell felt like memory.

He was yours, but you shared him with every other girl in the world—and as much as you wanted to be a girls girl, as much as you fought for him to be loved by everyone else, you wanted him for yourself.

And yet, somehow, you made it work. You kept falling for each other over and over, even through grainy FaceTime and plane tickets you couldn’t always afford—you never told him that. You just made it work because you knew what you had.

Because even from the very beginning, even that night in the club, he had looked at you like you were the only person in the room.

“You remember the first thing I said to you?” he asked, still stroking your cheek.

“You asked if I was lost.” You bit your bottom lip as you answered him quietly.

He smiled back at you. “You looked like you’d taken a wrong turn on your way to the rooftop.”

“I had,” you admitted, giggling softly. “But I wasn’t gonna tell you that.”

He dipped his head, kissed your forehead. “You didn’t need to. You were all flushed and wide-eyed like you’d just wandered into Narnia or something.”

“I was just trying not to make eye contact with the six security guards around you.”

He chuckled, kneeling down between your legs now, palms sliding up your thighs. “You asked my name. Hadn’t had someone ask me that in a while.”

“I knew who you were. But you looked at me like… like I was someone you didn’t want to forget.”

He went still, like the memory itself made him nostalgic. “I didn’t.”

You smiled, threading your fingers into his hair as he kneeled on the floor in front of you. “That’s why I said yes when you asked to see me again.”

“And now I’m buying you sex toys in Paris,” he murmured against the warmth of your denim, kissing along the inside of your knee.

You laughed, breath catching at the moment of intimacy that made you wonder how lucky you would get to experience this. “I think they call that a full circle moment.”

You reached for the box again; you move to be settling back against the pillows while Harry followed your lead and crawled onto the bed beside you. He watched as you slid your finger under the edge of the packaging, opened it like you were unwrapping something sacred.

The toy was sleek and compact with matte black with gold trim, like something out of a design magazine. He whistled low when he caught full glimpse of it.

“Very bougie Parisian of you,” you teased as you held it in your hand then.

He shrugged, eyeing you before looking at the toy. “Only the best for you.”

You turned it on, pressing on the small button experimentally — a soft, rhythmic hum filled the room. He looked startled, almost like he hadn’t really seen one before, then intrigued as the buzzing surrounded the bedroom.

“You feel it first,” he said. “Tell me what it’s like.”

You pressed it gently to the pad of your fingertip on your opposite hand, then the inside of your wrist. A sharp exhale escaped your lips as you take in the real power of it. Especially on the lowest setting. “Oh, wow.”

Harry’s eyes were pitch black, the lust in them was hanging over you as he tried to contain himself. “Yeah?”

You looked at him with wide eyes, biting on your bottom lip. “Yeah. That’s…wow.”

“Hm,” He raised an eyebrow, grinning. “Encouraging.”

You reached for him, pulled him in for a kiss — slow, warm, filled with the kind of anticipation that made your stomach twist and tighten. When you broke apart, you set the toy down on the nightstand, just for now—just until you were able to get a part of him, just for yourself.

“Come here.”

He slid between your legs, kissing your neck, your collarbone, the edge of your jaw. His voice was low and warm in your ear.

“Tell me what you want,” he tells you quietly, just for you, “I’ll do anything for you.”

You blushed, already a little breathless at the way that he wanted you. “I want you to try it on me, guiding me, maybe.”

He swallowed hard, and you could feel the pulse in his throat when you kissed there.

“Okay,” he whispered. “Don’t want to give it a test drive yourself?”

You swallowed slowly, shaking your head as you took in a deep breath with his eyes set on you. “I want this to be an us thing first.”

You let him help you undress — gently, like unwrapping a gift he had purchased himself. His fingers were slow and gathered as he helped you out of your jeans, and you unbuttoned your shirt. He pulled the thong down your legs, smirking to himself almost like he couldn’t help it. You were already aching when you laid back against the pillows, baring yourself to him, his eyes dark and glittering above you.

With steady eyes, he let himself wander each inch of your body – he didn’t stray away from it.  He reached for the toy, flicked it on again. It instantly brought a light to his eyes that you hadn’t seen before; you watched him become a bit more confident and unsure at the same time. That quiet hum between you, that positively charged space.

“I’ll go slow,” he said, leaning in to kiss your belly. “If anything’s too much, tell me.”

“I will.” You promised him.

He trailed the toy along the inside of your thigh, avoiding where you needed him most. Your breath hitched, body already responding with every nerve alive and already anxious for the feeling.

“I missed you so much,” you murmured; the feeling of his hands completely covering your thighs at the size of them, you had waited to be touched by him for so long, and every moment you got of him you reveled.

His voice cracked a little, quiet and whispered as he focused on the way that matte black moved against your skin. “I missed you too, baby.”

Then he brought it to your clit, feather-light with an aching amount of a tease — and everything inside you jolted. Your hand flew to his shoulder, gripping. He paused immediately with a bit of fear in his eyes as they began searching yours.

“Too much?” He asked, pulling it away as easily as he settled it against you. You could practically feel his breath against you.

“No,” you breathed, shaking your head as you leaned it against your pillow. “Just—keep going.”

He adjusted on the bed between your legs, pressing the toy a little more firmly, watching your face with rapt attention as you reacted again. This time, you moaned softly, hips tilting up instinctively in his direction as your knees bent in the air.

“Oh, fuck,” you whispered out, a genuine feeling of shock crossing you as you felt yourself start to melt into the bed.

The sound of his raspy voice interrupted your thoughts with a gentle knock, “That good?”

You could barely nod at him, so you hummed in acknowledgement.

You knew he was hard; you could tell — straining behind his boxers but focused entirely on you. He leaned in to kiss your knee, your hip, the swell of your breast as he flicked the vibrator against you.

“Wish you could see yourself like I’m seeing you right now,” he said hoarsely. “You’re fucking stunning like this.”

The tension kept building with a sharp, hot, relentless power and he read every twitch and moan like sheet music, adjusting the angle, the pressure, kissing you through it, whispering how perfect you were.

When you came, it was overwhelming and more intense than you could have expected; the clitoral stimulation as almost bone-chilling. A gasping, curling, bone-deep kind of release that left you trembling.

Harry moved up and kissed you through it, gently setting the toy aside as he turned the power off and crawled up to hold you, his chest heaving like he’d just finished too.

“Holy shit,” you said breathlessly, clutching him as if he’s the only available lifeline around you.

He chuckled a little at your breath, voice wrecked like he had been through it right there with you. “Guess it’s got my stamp of approval, then.”

You kissed his cheek, dazed and flushed. “You are never allowed to tour without leaving that behind.”

“It’s all yours,” He laughed, rolling you onto your side and wrapping you up in his arms. “Maybe next time I’ll mail you one from each city, like a little reminder.”

“Harry—”

He grinned against your shoulder. “We can build a collection, since I know we have the green flag on toys.”

You let your eyes float up to his chin that rests over you and you still feel like you’re floating. “God, I love you.”

His voice dropped, low and certain with every ounce in him. “Love you too.”

You were still heavily breathing into his shoulder when you realized he hadn’t stopped touching you. His palm was slow on your thigh, thumb tracing lazy circles just above your knee, grounding you. He kissed the side of your neck, soft and indulgent, as though he wasn’t in a rush. But when you shifted,  your bare leg brushing against his boxer-clad thigh, you felt every ounce of him and the aching against you.

“Harry,” you whispered, nuzzling closer, knowing you just didn’t want to give up this moment with him.

“Yeah, love?” He practically purred.

You tilted your head to meet his eyes. “You didn’t want anything?”

He raised a brow at you, like he was a bit confused at your question. “Did I not just get to watch the sexiest fucking thing I’ve ever seen?”

You pursed your lips at him with a bit of an eye that made him go back to a bit of seriousness.

“I was more focused on making sure you got off.”

“And now I want you to,” you tell him with a nod, trying to escape the feeling of being between his biceps before you start to look over him.

He let out a breathy laugh, head falling back against the pillow. “Well, I’m not going to stop you—surely.”

You shifted your weight, climbing over him, straddling his lap with your bareness. He looked up at you, hands moving instinctively to your hips to steady you like the captain of a ship.

“You sure?” he asked, making sure everything felt right. “Don’t have to do more tonight.”

You leaned in, kissing his mouth slowly like everything had been built up in them; all the words, all the needs and wants and daydreams you had been having while he was away. “I want to. Want to feel you while it’s still all buzzing through me.”

His grip on your waist tightened. “Fuck.”

You reached down between you, guiding him free from his boxers as you pushed them down his thighs; he was thick and flushed and entirely too sensitive for you to be teasing him, the tip already wet. He hissed softly as you wrapped your hand around him, stroking once, twice, just enough to make his eyes flutter at the feeling of you.

Then you leaned back, reached for the toy again.

He blinked a few times in confusion. “Again?”

You nodded at him with a sheepish look, a wicked grin pulling at your lips. “I want to feel both.”

His pupils darkened at those words, licking his lips almost to prepare himself for the ride of his life. “Jesus Christ.”

You lined him up, sinking onto him slowly — your gasp catching as he filled you, the stretch deep and grounding, so much more now that your body was still humming from before; you felt sensitive but so ready to take him. His hands gripped your thighs, trying to be still, but failing when your warmth clenched around him.

“Fuck, baby,” he groaned, realizing how unprepared he had been as he settled against the bed. “You’re already so wet.”

“I told you it was effective.”

You both laughed, breathless, tangled together and glowing from it.

Once he was fully inside, you held still for a moment, rocking your hips once as you flicked the toy on again. The buzz against your clit while he was buried inside you made your whole-body jolt with an exhilaration that you weren’t sure you could contain.

“Oh my God—” you gasped outwardly, knowing it may have shocked him a bit.

Harry swore under his breath as he clenched his eyes shut for a moment, gripping your hips hard. “Fucking hell. You’re gonna make me come in two minutes.”

“Don’t,” you breathed, rocking slowly. “Not yet.”

He watched you, then — watched the way your face tilted back, your mouth parting, the toy trembling just at the edge of your clit as you rode him in slow, needy rolls. It was like watching an artist flick a stroke of a masterpiece he was witnessing with every movement that you guided your hips forward.

“Yeah,” His voice was low and wrecked when he spoke again. “Please yourself like you mean it.”

Your breath caught at the way that he praised you, wanted more for you and for you to feel him all over again. He brought one hand up to hold your jaw lightly, tilting your face down so he could watch your expression.

“Don’t half-ass it now, baby,” he murmured, eyes locked to yours in a way that kept your orgasm at bay—you couldn’t disappoint him and go too fast, you wanted to draw it out. “Wanna see you come again.”

The words went straight to your core. You pressed the toy harder against yourself and rode him with more purpose now — each thrust deeper, wetter, the toy sending jolts of heat up your spine. He was thick and solid inside you, grounding you while your clit pulsed with overstimulated want.

“Fuck, Harry—”

“That’s it,” he whispered to you, almost like a voice in the back of your head. “Use it. Show me how you need me. Show me you missed me.”

Your thighs trembled, your body burning up from the inside as you rocked harder, the pleasure climbing fast. He was groaning under you, trying to stay still, hands gripping onto you in a way that may leave bruises as he couldn’t trust himself not to flip you over and fuck you senseless.

You were close, so close — and he could feel it, you could feel him.

“You gonna come again?” he asked, voice raw. “Let go for me, baby. Want to feel you squeeze me.”

And you did — your body clenching tight around him, the toy pressed firm, your second orgasm tearing through you like a wave crashing. You collapsed against his chest with a cry, and he barely lasted another moment after that as he wrapped his arms around to hold you close.

“Fuck—” he gasped, hips thrusting up once, twice, then stilling as he spilled into you with a low, broken moan as he gripped your ass solidly to keep your hips moving on top of him to prolong the feeling.

You lay tangled together in the aftershocks, the toy discarded off to the side of the bed, your breath catching against his collarbone with the dance of the ink underneath your cheek.

Neither of you spoke for a moment because it wasn’t needed; it wasn’t warranted to make any noise as you let your breathing fall into the same rhythm as his. You laid with a heaviness that felt like such a comfort to him.

Then Harry laughed, breaking the silence softly with his voice hoarse. “I’m never topping that.”

You grinned into his chest before lifting up just a bit to look at him. “Oh, we’re definitely bringing it into rotation.”

“Ma douce fille,” He stroked your back as he looked at you with all of the stars in his eyes. “Think my Paris souvenir just paid for itself.”

You tilted your head to kiss his jaw, letting yourself rest for a moment. “Worth every Euro, I think.”

+++

Your apartment always felt colder without him in it – even if it meant him leaving for the night, or for the next three weeks like this stent would be.

Not literally — the AC was still running, and your throw blanket was draped across your legs as you sat curled in bed, book in hand, but something about the air felt quieter. Like it hadn’t quite recovered from the weight of him leaving yesterday morning, duffle in one hand, kisses pressed to your neck like all of the punctuation except a period to end the time of being together.

You hadn’t picked up the few items he had left on your bedroom floor, and that was intentional. Leaving his t-shirts next to his side—now it was his side of the bed—felt intentional. Leaving the glass of water he left by his side of the bed… it all felt like you were just letting him stay there when he really wasn’t there.

Your phone buzzed beside you on the duvet. You glanced down and smiled before you even picked it up — his name lighting up the screen in that now-familiar burst of warmth.

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You opened it to see a sea of people; it was chaotic and glittering and beautiful all the same, like every show they did. The sun hadn’t quite set, but the lights were already catching in the haze — there were thousands of fans shoulder to shoulder, holding signs and phones and each other. The caption popped up just a second later.

Harry: Tonight in Stockholm. Think any of them know I stopped in a pretty little Swedish boutique last night? xo Miss you pretty girl.

Your lip caught between your teeth. Your fingers hovered over the keyboard for a second, your heart fluttering in that way it always did when he said something just a little filthy through something just a little sweet.

You took a deep breath, cheeks already heating as you took in a deep breath. Then you replied:

You: That depends. Did you leave carrying a discreet little black box again? Or did you stuff it in your guitar case like a rockstar?

Three little dots appeared almost instantly. Then:

Harry: Little black boxes can be rock and roll, too.

Harry: You up for a while, then? xxxxx

You stared at the screen, the ache of missing him blooming into something warmer. Something buzzing, low in your belly.

You set your book aside; you turned off the lamp to a dimming. You reached for the drawer on your nightstand — the one that hummed with electricity now.  And then you typed, slow and deliberate:

You: Only if you ask nicely.

You could practically feel his touch as you let yourself fall into the mattress, letting your hands wander, letting the feeling of the buzz take over your skin in a way that made you gasp out before you read his response.

You’d barely set your phone down when it started ringing. Not FaceTime, just a call.

Harry Styles (Euro). Incoming.

Your heart skipped, thumb swiping across the screen as you pressed the screen against your ear as you felt your voice raspy from not speaking to anyone all evening.

“Hello?”

There was a pause — long enough for you to wonder if he’d butt-dialed you — before his voice came through, soft and low and wrapped in a bit of static.

“Couldn’t wait for a video. Just wanted to hear you.”

You sank back into the pillows, the toy still warm in your hand, your voice already breathier than usual.

“You miss me?” You teased a bit, letting your voice stay low as you stared at the ceiling for a moment.

He hummed, quiet like he was trying not to be overheard. “Thirty-six hours is a long time without you.”

You bit your lip. “Then why are you whispering?”

“Hotel walls are paper thin,” he murmured against the speaker. “Niall and Louis in the room next door. If I wake them up again, they’ll kill me. Everyone’s jetlagged.”

You laughed, breath catching a bit as you try to think about him laying in bed and having to stay quiet rather than letting loose in your apartment. “What happened last time?”

“Heard me saying your name,” Harry muttered to himself; you could tell he was exhausted, but you could tell that he needed you more than sleep. “Thought I was having a nightmare.”

You grinned, flicking your tongue out as you flipped the toy around your fingers. “And were you?”

“Worse,” he said. “I was wide awake.”

You rolled onto your side, phone pressed close, the toy still resting on your bare thigh. “And what about now? You wide awake?”

His voice dipped lower as he was contemplating, a few hums coming through. “Depends.”

“On?”

You could practically hear the smirk that was pressing on his lips; you could see him press his hands through his hair that was freshly washed and showered as he laid on a stark white hotel bed.

“On whether that buzzing I hear is my imagination or not.”

Your breath stilled, then you slowly turned the toy on, just the lowest setting, barely a whisper but you knew he could hear it coming through the receiver.

He groaned under his breath. “Fuck.”

“You started it,” you whispered with a teasing tone that made your cheeks hurt with the smile that you wore.

“I know,” he hissed. “I’m the dumbass who sent a picture of a Swedish crowd with a hard-on.”

You laughed softly, your legs shifting. “What are you picturing right now?”

“Don’t do that to me,” He bit back a bit, almost like he was annoyed that he had started something he couldn’t finish. But your teasing turned him on too bad.

“Harry.”

He exhaled sharply, voice strained. “You, on your side. Legs curled up. That soft look on your face when you’re about to come. Toy tucked right between your thighs. One hand gripping the sheets, the other holding the phone.”

You whimpered at his description — barely audible, but he heard it anyway.

“Christ,” he whispered. “You touching yourself yet?”

You run your tongue over your lip before you shake you head, “Not yet.”

You teased the toy along your lower stomach, the feeling of the soft silicone reminding you of him.

“Why?” He questions, his voice so raspy and worn and you knew it was from the way that he sang tonight, almost like he needed tea to calm him down.

“Waiting for you to tell me.”

He sucked in a breath then. You could practically see him in that too-bright hotel room — shirtless, sprawled on stiff white sheets, one hand gripping his phone, the other already brushing down his stomach.

“Please yourself like you mean it, baby,” he said, voice wrecked then. “Let me hear it, hm?”

You obeyed, only because he asked nicely. The toy pressed firmly to your clit, and you arched with a gasp — quiet but not silent. He heard every second of it; his eyes shutting as he leaned back in the bed. Every stuttered breath, every whimper, every curse whispered into the dark.

He didn’t tell you he was touching himself — didn’t need to. You could hear it in the tight way he spoke, the broken rhythm of his breathing, the faint rustle of the sheets.

“You’re gonna come for me?” he asked, voice shaking then with a fervent need for you to feel the way that he wanted you to. He wanted to be the one touching you, the one making your moan and whimper into the phone.

“Only if you do too,” you breathed back, almost wanting to set the phone down, but it felt like a warmth to you then.

It felt like him.  He groaned low — barely containing it. “Fuck—keep going, sweetheart. Don’t stop.”

The pleasure built quickly, sharp and urgent, but coated in intimacy — the sound of his voice tethering you, pulling you through it as you slipped the toy inside for a quick moment; a break of a gasp made you want the feeling of him.

“I miss you so much,” you gasped.

“I miss you too.”

“I want your hands—your mouth—your—”

“I know,” he said, strained and sweet. “I know, baby. Soon, yeah? I'll bend you backwards and upwards and whatever you like, but for now, let go for me. Come on. You’re so fucking sexy like this all out of breath—”

You came with his name on your lips, soft and shaking with the intensity of a lightning storm, the toy slipping from your hand as your body curled in on itself.

"Oh, fuck, fuck," You cursed as you tilted your head back along the pillow to try and compose yourself from the feeling of euphoria that left you seeing stars.

On the other end of the line, a deep, choked groan — and then there was the silence that fell among you two. You both stayed there in the quiet for a moment. Just the sound of your breathing and the hum of hotel air-conditioning in his background.

Then: “I’m not gonna sleep tonight.”

You smiled, still floating on the moment and the feeling of adrenaline that flew up your veins like a morphine that would level you; that would ground you. “Good.”

“I’m gonna think about that until I see you again.”

You tucked your hand under your cheek, feeling the warmth of your pink cheek. “When’s that?”

“Soon,” he promised, almost like that way the only bit that you needed to reassure you that this wasn’t forever; he still thought of you every moment.

You bit your lip, your eyes already heavy. “I love you.”

His voice softened as you could tell that even though he said he wasn’t tired, you could hear it in him. “I love you too.”

And with that, you let the line stay open just a little longer. No more words, just breath. Just his presence was there. Just love humming between two cities, even when he was far, he never really left.

He was always there.

[aglimpseofharry]

Please yourself like you mean it. 07.25.2025

[aglimpseofharry]

SPECIAL TREATMENT

A/N: this came to me very randomly, but i had fun writing it

WORD COUNT: 4.4k

SUMMARY: Harry doesn't like to socialize with business partners, but when his oldest friend, Niall throws a grill party he shows up, but not for the food or the party, but for Niall's assistant he's been pining after since the day he met her.

MASTERLIST | SUPPORT ME!

Confidence is probably one of the first few words that comes to mind if anyone is asked about Harry Styles. Some others might be smart, straight-forward and intimidating, but he sees these qualities as an advantage, because they helped him become the successful business he is. Some might say he is cold and scary as well, but he would argue those. His coldness comes from keeping distance which is for the sake of his own privacy and the unknown can be scary for some, whether it’s no information about his private life or the lack of emotions displayed on his face most of the time. 

A good poker face is a must when he is surrounded by sharks every day. 

Today however, as he gets out of his car and hands the keys over to the wallet, he feels a tremendous amount of nervousness mixed with anxiety in his chest, eyeing the mansion in front of him. 

An old friend of his, Niall is throwing a grill party, making the best out of the long and warm summer evenings. Many of his business partners and friends got invitations for the occasion, just like every time he uses any excuse to throw a party, but Harry hasn’t attended one in a very long time. He is simply not the type to mingle with those he might end up in a meeting room, negotiating on millions of dollars worth of business. 

But he is making an exception today and there’s a very good reason for that. 

Walking in, he is immediately met with a luxurious set up with welcome drinks, two hostesses instantly jumping to welcome him. Normally he wouldn’t start drinking right away, but he can tell he could use the alcohol to settle his nerves. 

He takes a cocktail that looks like some kind of spritz and ignores the heart eyes the hostess is giving him, then heads over to the back where the party is happening. The ginormous sliding doors are fully open, the gentle breeze is making the curtains dance. There are guests in the spacious living room as well, talking in little groups and Harry recognizes a handful of faces right away. He notes how unusual it is for him to see them outside of work settings and then he wonders if they feel the same about him. He ditched his usual attire of dark suit and crispy, white dress shirt, he is wearing a pair of light slacks he last wore on vacation in Sicily and a loose, white linen shirt, the sleeves rolled up. His cleaning lady, Monica gave him an approving look when he was leaving, but that doesn’t change the fact that he feels out of place. 

“Am I hallucinating? Is that Harry Styles?”

He doesn’t have to see the person to know whose words those are as he steps out onto the terrace. Niall emerges from a group of people on the side, his grin stretching ear to ear as he walks up to Harry and pulls him into a short, one-armed hug. 

“No need to make such a big deal out of it, Horan,” he chuckles lowly.

“But it is a big deal, you haven’t come to any of my parties since high school!”

“That is not true.”

“No, but it feels like it is,” Niall chuckles, patting him on the back, clearly happy to see him despite the teasing. 

Harry doesn’t really make friends with people he works with or might work with in the future, but Niall is the exception, because they’d been friends before either of them entered the business. As high school best friends, they are each other’s oldest and dearest friends, even despite the obvious differences between them, because while Harry is reserved, guarded and level-headed, Niall is the polar opposite of his open, hotheaded and outspoken personality. 

“What brings you out of your cave today?” Niall continues the teasing.

“Just… felt like socializing,” he shrugs, eyes scanning the crowd outside, clearly looking for someone and Niall catches it right away, his grin widening even more.

“Mhm, right. That’s the first time I’m hearing that from you.” Harry gives him a hard look, but it doesn’t even phase him. “Last time I saw her she was by the pool.”

“Who?” Harry asks, but he is not fooling anyone. 

“Great seeing you getting you out of your shell,” Niall chuckles, he clinks his glass to Harry’s and then starts heading back to the group he was talking with before. “I’ll catch you later, mate!”

With a deep breath, Harry downs his drinks and quickly finds another one before he heads down to the pool. The backyard buzzed with life, guests were mingling across a stone patio that wrapped around a shimmering, Olympic-sized pool. Harry saw plush lounge chairs lining the water’s edge, and string lights twinkling overhead like fireflies against the colorful sky that was painted by the setting Sun behind the horizon. On the side, smoke curled from the grill station where Niall had three chefs working on the food, making sure guests could grab a plate anytime they desired. There’s even a firepit a little farther down the path that led across the lawn, but it hasn’t been lit yet, though Harry knows it’s only a matter of time. Soft music is playing, but not through speakers, Niall hired a whole jazz band, playing gentle melodies in the background, because that’s how extra he was even with just a grill party. 

With his friends’ word on his mind, Harry heads down to the pool, eyes relentlessly scanning over the people, looking for one particular face. People recognize him here and there, saying hi, trying to pull him into the conversation, but he kindly excuses himself and continues his mission. 

The pool has floaties all over the surface, some are taken, some are gliding across the gentle waves unbothered. There are a group of men in the water, playing with a ball, women are sitting on the edge, legs soaking in the cool water as they sip on their drinks and ogle the men who have ditched wearing a shirt. 

Harry is almost about to go back to the house when he finally spots her. 

Pacing by one of the oak trees, Y/N is wearing a flowy, long skirt with an unbuttoned shirt on top, a neon pink bikini top underneath, showing more of her skin he has seen before, not that he is complaining. She is on the phone, animatedly talking to someone as she circles around the tree. Even from several feet away, Harry can tell she is not wearing any makeup and he knows her bare face is just as breathtakingly beautiful as the one he has seen many times before with light makeup. 

He stops a few feet away, not wanting to interrupt her phone call, but when she spots him her face brightens in an instant and she waves at him to come closer, so he does. 

“Okay, I gotta go. I will call you tomorrow, alright? We will figure it out… Yeah. Bye!” She is quick to tug her phone into the pocket of her skirt and the look she gives him is one he will probably never forget. “You’re here!”

“I am,” he nods and can’t help, but smile at her as she jumps into his arms with no hesitation, giving him a tight hug.

“You know, Niall said you wouldn’t show up, but I told him you are for sure coming.”

The bright grin she is giving him when they let go of each other is already worth coming here. He doesn’t tell her that she is the only reason he came, let her think she knew better than her boss Harry has known for two decades. 

Y/N has been Niall’s personal assistant for almost a year now. His previous one moved to Lisbon with her fiancé and she recommended Y/N who was looking for a job at the time. Y/N took over the role pretty smoothly and has been a crucial part of Niall’s life ever since, which means she’s been a constant in Harry’s everydays as well. 

Harry wouldn’t admit it, but at first he thought she wouldn’t last. She was only twenty-five when she started working, over a decade younger than Niall (and Harry) and he always imagined Niall needed someone older, someone more mature to regulate his friend, but luckily, he was wrong. She could easily be described as a ray of sunshine but when it comes to business, she is not messing around. She keeps control over everything so easily, as if she did this her whole entire life and can make her voice heard even in a room full of narcissistic, arrogant males, something Harry loves witnessing so much. 

She saw right through his cold demeanour since the moment Niall introduced them to each other. He never saw the nerves or the skittishness on her he is used to from others at this point. She never seemed to care that he is one of the biggest names in business with an empire in his palm worth billions of dollars. The only person she accepts authority from is Niall, her boss. 

And that’s been a breath of fresh air for Harry. But then he slowly got to know her better and before he could even blink, he was falling for her, hard. For her humour, her openness, her ability to make anyone feel connected and her endless warmth. Harry has always seen her as his own personal Sun, because whenever she was close, things took on an orange hue he hadn't experienced before. 

“Have you eaten?” she asks, nodding towards the grill.

“I just got here like ten minutes away.”

“Come on then, I’m starving!” She grabs his wrist, tugging him forward and his breathing halters for a moment at the contact.

Her hand slips off his wrist, fingers brushing his palm and his fingers instantly curl in, tangling with hers just for a split second, but he wishes he could just lace them together and stay like that. 

He is pretty sure he’s losing his mind, acting like a teenager just from one touch, this feeling is new, or at least he hasn’t gone through anything like this probably since he was in high school, but he can’t help it. 

Y/N hands him a plate, grabs one for herself and starts filling both up with practically anything she sees and Harry just lets her. 

“How is the art hunting going?” she asks as they wait for the chefs to finish grilling some corn. 

“You remember?” He can’t hide his surprise, he mentioned wanting to buy some new art for his home weeks ago and he didn’t think she would actually remember it.

“Yeah, of course,” she smiles. “Actually, I have a friend whose brother-in-law works at this nice gallery, they have some interesting pieces. I could ask him if they have something that’s your taste.” Then her face lights up with another idea. “Or we could just go and check out what they have!”

“You’d come with me?” Harry asks, a bit out of breath, but very much loving the idea of going somewhere, anywhere with her. 

She smiles sheepishly, giving him a nod and he mentally notes to take up on that. 

Following her to a table Harry glances down at his plate and notices some artichokes. He’s allergic, but for some reason, he doesn’t want to tell her she just put something on his plate that she shouldn’t have, so when she doesn’t see it, he brushes it off his plate. 

Settling at a table they eat and talk, well, mostly she talks and he listens, drinks up every word. But she also asks him, about his trip he only mentioned once, his mother, his sister, the cat his mother is fostering and he doesn’t even remember telling her about.

But she does, she remembers all of it. 

He follows her around like a puppy, not that she wants to part ways, she keeps making sure he is nearby, involved and enjoying himself, though he is more than alright with just being near her. The Sun slowly settles behind the trees and the lights bring a new, almost magical vibe over the party. People have started dancing, the alcohol clearly working on some guests and the buzz around the pool is also picking up more. 

Harry excuses himself for a quick bathroom break, the quietness of the house allowing his brain to settle for a bit before heading back out. Maybe if he was tipsy he would bear the social setting easier, but he wants to drive home and doesn’t want to be intoxicated near Y/N. 

When he is crossing the living room, heading back out he spots her talking with a guy, a few steps away from the group of people he left her with. He faintly remembers him, maybe he works for Niall or he has had a meeting with him before, he is not sure, but he is certain that he is trying to chat Y/N up. He looks around her age, maybe a few years older, nice, polished appearance, stylish clothes and a bright smile. Exactly the kind of guy Harry thinks Y/N would match with well and it turns his stomach, just seeing them talking. 

He doesn’t deal with jealousy much, he has mastered using it to his advantage and working even harder, until he has what he desires, but it doesn’t work the same when it comes to a person. And right now, there’s nothing he can do to get what he wants, he is mature enough not to just walk over there and act like a douchebag, claiming Y/N when she is not even his to begin with. 

So accepting defeat, he moves to another circle of people, though he can’t even tell what the conversation is about. He fights the urge to stare at her and pray the guy just… disappears. 

He is in the middle of a fantasy where cops show up and arrest him for something nasty, but his thoughts are interrupted by a gentle touch on his shoulder. Glancing to his left he sees her. 

“Hey, you disappeared.”

“Just didn’t want to interrupt your conversation,” he shrugs, hoping to look unbothered. 

“With Jackson?” she glances over her shoulder, then back at Harry. “Ah, he always tries to shoot his shot when we meet.”

“Is that so?” Harry’s jaw clenches.

“Yeah and I always tell him the same thing.”

“And what is that?”

“That I’m not interested in his finance bro style of flirting and I’m looking for something very different.”

His muscles immediately ease up, his shoulders relax and he can feel warmth in his chest. Suddenly, he wishes he walked up to them so he could hear her reject him. 

“Really? What are you exactly looking for?” he asks, ignoring the nerves that try to get a hold of him, anticipated to hear her answer. He can feel that he is dancing on a line he hasn’t reached before with her, but he also had enough of playing it safe. 

“Mm, let’s see,” she thinks, pursing her lips as she crosses her arms over her chest. “Someone older, more mature. A little closed off, but I like peeling the layers off and see what others can’t. Very confident in work, but a bit lost in social settings when there’s no business to talk about.”

Harry’s heart leaps in his chest and at last, dares to peek down at her, finding her already looking at him with a soft smile and that’s the moment he knows he is a goner. 

“Interesting,” is all he murmurs, suddenly unsure how to react while he tries to hold his overflowing joy in. 

“Yeah. Know someone like that?” she asks with a teasing smirk that makes him laugh and he just knows he is blushing.

“Maybe. I’ll keep an eye open.”

“Cool.”

It’s a turning point. They stick to each other just like before, but Harry feels the change. The small touches, the looks exchanged, there’s an invisible string pulling them towards each other. 

Sometime later she grabs some more food and they sit with Niall and a few others, talking about stories from vacations and Niall has quite a few. 

“Do you want something to drink?” Y/N leans closer to Harry and places a hand to his knee that completely throws him off. He can only nod and try not to choke on the food when she gives it a gentle squeeze before standing up and walking over to the coolers. 

Harry knows he is probably turning red, so he pretends to be busy with his food, hoping no one notices the effect she had on him. Then Y/N returns, placing a soda in front of him, brushing a hand over his back before sitting. Harry glances at her, catching her eyes and she is smiling warmly, but there’s a bit of cockiness in them, like she knows exactly what she is doing. 

“Want to take a walk?” Y/N asks, when they both cleared their plates and Harry nods eagerly. 

He stands with his plate in hand and reaches for hers, but freezes mid-air, a sudden dizziness taking over his head that quickly moves down into his stomach.

“Woah,” he breathes out and clears his throat, blinking rapidly to clear his head.

“Everything alright?” Y/N asks, grabbing him by his elbow, but her touch is lost in the nausea this time. 

It grows swiftly, draining the blood out of his face almost in an instant and he realizes what’s happening.

“Uh, there was artichoke on the plate you got me, right?” he asks, though he already knows the answer.

“Yes, do you not like them?”

“Mm. I’m allergic,” he rushes out, putting his plate back on the table before he drops it and with the last string of consciousness, he starts for the house before it gets even worse. 

“Shit, why didn’t you tell me? What can I do?” she is rushing with him, panic settling on her face, unsure what to do.

“Uh, I need Benadryl. Niall probably has some,” he mumbles, focusing hard not to throw up. If he gets the Benadryl fast enough, he might make it without seeing his dinner again in a different form. 

“Okay, I’ll go get it,” she nods. “Will you be alright on your own?”

“Yeah,” he nods shortly and a moment later she is gone and he is barging into the bathroom. 

He plops down onto the cold marble floor, hands grabbing onto the toilet as he wills himself to hold on a little longer and at the same time he is beating himself up for being so distracted that he didn’t check the food. 

But that’s the effect she has on him. He can’t focus on anything when she’s around. 

Barely a minute passes, Harry is sitting next to the toilet, back against the wall, eyes closed when Y/N falls through the door, pills in one hand and a glass of water in the other. She squats down and when Harry opens his eyes all he sees is worry and panic all over her face. 

“Here,” she whispers, gently dropping the pills into his hand and watches him throw one into his mouth, then she hands him the water and practically holds her breath as he washes the pill down. 

She sits on the floor as well and they stay silent for a while as Harry keeps his eyes closed, head against the wall, waiting for the pill to kick in. When the nausea finally eases he opens his eyes and finds Y/N hugging her knees, watching him with a face you see on people by hospital beds. 

“I’m feeling better,” he smiles faintly.

“Why didn’t you tell me you’re allergic to artichokes?” she sighs, slightly relieved, but her eyebrows remain furrowed.

“I uhh… I don’t know.”

“What did you do the first time? I remember putting some on your plate then too!”

“Dropped them on the way,” he admits shamefully, but smiles at her, which finally breaks her. 

“Anything else I should know of? Are you deadly allergic to anything?”

“No. It’s just the artichoke.”

“Okay, I’m banning artichokes forever.”

“For everyone?” he asks with an amused chuckle. 

“Yes,” she nods confidently, but he notices the smirk in the corners of his mouth. “Can you get up or should we stay some more?”

“I’ll try,” he hums and pushes himself away from the wall, but the dizziness hits him again so he is quick to settle back. “Um, let’s just stay a little longer.” “Okay.” Y/N moves over next to him and sits, mirroring his position, back to the wall, legs stretched out in front of her. “How long have you been allergic?”

“Since I was a kid. The first time it happened, it was a shit show,” he chuckles thinking back. 

“Tell me about it.”

And he does. They stay on the bathroom floor and talk about anything and everything, even when the nausea is long gone, they stay in their little bubble. Shoulders touching, she often drops her head on his when she laughs at something he said and he loves the feeling.

When she checks the time, they are surprised to see it’s already past one. 

“Maybe we should go back out. Some fresh air might be good for you too,” she suggests, already getting up from the floor. Unwillingly, but he nods and follows her. 

When they walk out, most of the guests are gone. The chefs have left, the leftover is on a table for those who might munch on something this late. Niall and a handful of others are by the fire, watching the flames dance as they talk and laugh loudly. 

“I didn’t even get into the pool,” Y/N sighs with a pouty look, gazing at the pool that’s not empty, only the floaties swimming lazily on the still surface. 

They walk closer and she dips her toes in the water.

“Jump in then,” Harry shrugs with a smirk.

“No, it’s too late,” she shakes her head, but keeps gazing at the water longingly. 

Then, in a spark of sudden spontaneity, Harry wraps his arms around her and jumps, pulling her right into the water with him. He catches a shriek from her before the water closes over their heads and he lets go of her once they are at the bottom, both of them swimming up for air. 

“Fuck!” she gasps, sweeping her wet hair out of her face and Harry can’t help but laugh. “A warning would have been nice!” She chuckles, splashing some water in his direction. 

“Maybe next time,” he grins. 

His plan was just to get her into the water, nothing else. It’s not like he had time to think further. So when she swims closer and circles her arms around his neck, legs coming around his waist, he can’t mask his shock, but he gladly lets her cling onto him. 

“Didn’t think you have a playful side,” she smiles into the water, gazing at him from under her wet lashes that stick together, droplets falling off them as she blinks. 

“Didn’t know either,” Harry admits. 

“I like it.” Her smile widens and combs her fingers through his hair that makes him thankful they are in the water, because his knees would have surely buckled from it. Her eyes flicker down to his lips just when his hands come to hold her thighs as he keeps them both afloat. When her eyes meet his again, she adds: “I like you.”

Harry is convinced she can feel his heart hammering in his chest and it’s like the water is swirling around them in that moment right before he finally closes the gap between them. 

It’s a slow, wet, but deep kiss at first, exploring each other, tasting what they both had been fantasizing about and when she tightens her arms around his neck, it turns a little more heated. One of his hands slides up to her back, under her shirt that’s floating around her in the water and they keep dipping lower into the pool, because Harry struggles to keep them up while all his attention is how good her lips feel against his. He moves them to the edge so he can press her against the wall and it allows him to press her into him even more. 

She breaks the kiss and dips her head, kissing him under his jaw and now he wishes he shaved before coming here, because his stubble takes away from the sensation of her lips on him. She kisses down the column of his throat and then comes back up, pressing a peck to the corner of his mouth before leaning back, their gaze meeting as he reaches up a swipes his thumb across her lower lip, the same smile taking over their expressions before their lips meet again. 

They are already slowing down, but still very much buried in each other when Niall’s voice snaps from the distance.

“Oy! Take it up to a guest room! I don’t want to have the pool cleaned!”

They hear a few laughs and they join too, Y/N hiding his face in his neck. 

“Thanks Ni! You fucking twat!” Harry shouts back, earning an even bigger laughter with his blunt words. 

“Love you bro!” comes Niall’s answer before he finally leaves them be. 

When Y/N lifts her head she is still smiling and she steals one last quick kiss before untangling herself from him and swimming away. Harry turns around and finds her gazing at him with a cheeky smile. 

“Do you always kiss people who almost killed you like that?” Harry shakes his head laughing. 

“No. Just the ones I really like. And just to be clear, I wouldn’t have died. My body would have just evicted the artichoke in a not too graceful way.”

“Good to know. I’ll try not to poison you next time.” Harry swims closer and grabs her by the waist, pulling her back against him and she locks her arms and legs around him instantly. 

“That’s nice. I feel like I’m getting a special treatment from you,” he jokes.

“Oh that’s not the special treatment.”

“Then what is?”

“This,” she says and pulls him in for another kiss. When they pull back, he can’t hide his smile.

“Yeah, this feels a lot better than being poisoned.”

She chuckles, her head dropping back and then she pulls in for more special treatment. 

Thank you for reading, please like and reblog if you enjoyed and buy me a coffee if you want to support me!

[aglimpseofharry]

ohhhhh i loved every second of thisssss. the flirting is so good. the silent pining. LOVE. OBSESSED.

BULLSEYE ⟢ spencer reid x greenaway!reader

summary: you didn’t plan on staying late at the bar, hustling reid at darts, or flirting with him after trivia. you definitely didn’t plan on the coffee waiting on your desk the next morning, either.

genre: fluff (and a teeny bit of angst bc it’s greenaway!reader after all but yeah mostly fluff)

tags/warnings: reader is elle's sister, BAU team takes bar trivia night, mild flirting (FINALLY), reader ruffles spencer’s hair and pokes his chest asdfghjklbaqsgfj, drunk garcia, morgan being a little shit, alcohol consumption, mentions of spencer’s past dilaudid use + tobias hankel kidnapping, hangovers, coffee as a love language, no use of y/n

a/n: inspired by this anon request | things are HAPPENING you guys. I tried to weave more of elle’s spunkiness into reader’s character this fic to show how she’s still sharp and sassy even when she’s letting her walls down and oooh I love her so bad. | GIF credit to @reidgif !

greenaway!reader masterlist 🥀

It starts with the unmistakable sound of heels.

Which would be unremarkable, except for the fact that they’re clicking with purpose — and the only person you know who makes that kind of entrance is Penelope Garcia, glitter incarnate. You don’t even look up from the incident report you’re writing.

“Absolutely not,” you say flatly before she even opens her mouth.

“Oh come on,” she whines, dragging out the syllables like it might wear you down. “I haven’t even asked yet!”

“You don’t have to. It’s Thursday. You’ve been talking about going out as a team all week. You’re wearing earrings so sparkly I was almost blinded by them earlier. I know what this is.”

Garcia gasps. “You noticed!”

You look up just in time to see her drop a too-colorful flyer on your desk like it’s a court summons. JJ and Emily are hovering just behind her, clearly serving as her accomplices.

You squint down at the flyer.

TRIVIA NIGHT – NYC History & 1990s Music Themed!

O’Keefe’s Bar | 8PM | Buy Two, Get One Free Tequila Shots!

You let out a quiet snort. “No way.”

“Pleeeeease,” Garcia begs, clasping her hands under her chin. “We need you. You’re from New York, and your playlists are full of 90s bands, and plus, it’ll be fun! Everyone’s going. Even Rossi and Hotch promised to make an appearance.”

You narrow your eyes. “I don’t hang out with coworkers outside of work.”

“That’s okay,” Garcia chirps. “You don’t have to act like we’re your BFFs, you just have to contribute your grungy brilliance. We need a ringer.”

“I’m not a ringer,” you say. “I’m a federal agent. And I have plans tonight.”

“Doing what? Staring at your ceiling alone and judging the drywall?” Emily asks. “Conducting a séance in the dark?”

“Yes,” you deadpan.

Before they can mount a second attack, Morgan strolls by with a file under one arm. He gives you a knowing smirk. “Come on, rookie. You afraid we’ll actually be fun?”

“I’m afraid of being forced into karaoke,” you shoot back.

“I’m afraid of your refusal to embrace joy,” Garcia pouts.

That’s when Hotch passes behind them all, not even slowing as he says, “It’s not optional, Greenaway.”

You stare at his retreating back. “Is that a direct order?”

He lifts a hand without turning around. “Interpret it how you want.”

You look over to the far side of the bullpen, where Spencer’s watching the chaos with that vaguely bemused expression he wears like a second skin. He hasn’t said anything to add onto the attack, but he hasn’t come to your defense, either. Traitor.

You exhale like this physically pains you. “Fine. I’ll stay for one drink. One trivia round. I’m not singing karaoke, I’m not taking shots, and I’m not playing any drinking games.”

Morgan grins. “Good enough for me, sugar.”

You flip him off without looking up. Garcia squeals in delight and Emily mentions pre-gaming with Rossi’s office liquor. JJ mutters something about needing to hydrate.

You rub your temples.

—

O’Keefe’s is louder than you’d like. It’s one of those dive bars with Christmas lights pretending to be ambiance and the faint smell of fryer oil clinging to every surface. Someone’s playing Mariah Carey on the jukebox. Someone else is yelling about baseball stats near the dartboards.

You already regret everything.

The team pours in like they own the place. Morgan leads the charge, claiming a long table near the trivia setup. Garcia’s practically vibrating in her retro-print dress, pointing out the score sheets and little buzzers. Emily heads straight for the bar with a mission: tequila. You linger behind them all, half-tempted to fake an urgent phone call and disappear.

Spencer hangs back, too. Not near enough to make it obvious, but close enough that you feel his presence.

He watches as you survey the place with your arms crossed and your expression unreadable. Your boots stick slightly on the laminate tiles near the entrance and you mutter something under your breath about the existential nightmare of sticky floors. He smiles at that.

“You okay?” he asks, gently.

You shrug, still scanning. “Just trying to map out the fastest route to every available exit.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “I think there’s another through the kitchen, though I’m pretty sure using it would be a health code violation.”

“I’m willing to take that risk if needed.”

When you approach the bar, the rest of the team is already ordering — beers and shots and colorful sugary things that make you want to vomit on sight.

“Double rye. Neat.”

Garcia stares as the bartender slides the whiskey in front of you. “You really do hate joy.”

You ignore her. She orders something blue and glittery. Spencer, beside you, clears his throat. “Ginger ale, please.”

You raise an eyebrow. “That your typical bar night go-to?”

He doesn’t flinch, but he doesn’t quite meet your eyes, either. “I don’t, uh, really drink much anymore.”

Something about the anymore pricks at you. You tuck it away for later. He notices.

“It’s… kind of a long story,” he says, and it almost sounds like an offering. Like an I’ll tell you later.

You nod once. “Noted.”

The drinks arrive and you make your way to the table. JJ’s waving you over, pointing to a plastic clipboard where the team name still reads TBD.

“Suggestions?” she asks, tapping the end of the pen.

“Don’t say Penelope’s Angels,” you mutter. “Garcia’s already pitched it three times.”

Garcia pouts. “It’s cute!”

Morgan suggests cheekily, “The Derek Morgan Fan Club.”

Emily throws a pretzel at him.

You lean forward, glance at Spencer. “Any ideas, Doc?”

He blinks, then shrugs. Then, out of nowhere, says, “E Pluribus Nerdum.”

Everyone turns.

“What?” Emily says, one brow raised.

Spencer blinks, the picture of sincerity. “It’s a pun. On E Pluribus Unum — ‘out of many, one.’ It’s the motto on the Great Seal of the United States, adopted by congress in 1782. Only—this is, you know, “Out of many nerds… us.””

Morgan shakes his head. “You’re such a weirdo, man.”

“But it’s better than your idea,” Emily teases. “I like it. Let the nerds have it.”

You snort into your drink. JJ scribbles it down as the too-perky trivia host starts calling for teams to check in.

The first category is New York City history, and you groan as JJ passes you the clipboard. The questions come fast: Who was the mayor of New York during the 2003 blackout? What was Times Square originally called? What band headlined the first concert in Central Park?

You answer two in a row without hesitation. Spencer looks impressed. Morgan hoots. Garcia says you’re officially forgiven for skipping happy hour two weeks ago.

Later, between rounds, Spencer leans a little closer.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” he says, “but you’re a little scary when you’re having fun.”

You glance sideways. “You think this is me having fun?”

His mouth quirks. “Admit it, you are. And it’s terrifying.”

You pop a fry in your mouth. “It should be.”

But the thing is — you kind of are having fun, in your own, quietly hostile way. And Spencer, you realize, has barely taken his eyes off you all night.

You tell yourself it’s just because you’re a curiosity. Elle’s sister. The new girl who doesn’t smile much. The profiler who isn’t a genius yet still answered half the trivia questions before he could. Nothing more. But the way he’s looking at you — like he sees through all your armor — is starting to get under your skin.

A question about NYC subway planning comes up and Spencer answers it so fast you swear he must’ve been alive in 1904. When Garcia gapes, he shrugs. “I wrote a paper on metropolitan infrastructure patterns when I was eleven.”

You stare at him, baffled and slightly charmed and a little disarmed. “Of course you did.”

He shrugs again. But this time, there’s the ghost of a grin.

—

A few hours pass in a blur of secondhand smoke, ambient jukebox static, and rounds of questions you mostly pretend not to care about.

You order your second drink — a dirty gin martini this time, extra extra dirty — and watch as JJ giggles at something Emily said, Garcia arm-wrestles Morgan with frightening sincerity, and Rossi chats with a table of older gentlemen about cigars. Hotch left about an hour ago after muttering something about needing to get home to Jack.

It’s chaos. Friendly, stupid chaos. And somehow, you’re still here, not totally hating it.

“You want to get some air?” Spencer asks, voice low, like he’s afraid of interrupting the way you’ve been staring at the door for the past three and a half minutes.

You glance at him and nod. “Lead the way.”

The patio’s half-abandoned, just two guys smoking at the far end. Spencer leans against the wooden railing, ginger ale in hand, and you realize his hair looks different tonight — combed through, as if he attempted to style it in the Quantico bathroom after the night’s plans were made, but still sticking out messily in the back. The sleeves of his shirt are crookedly rolled and pushed up to his elbows. It’s like he tries so hard to look put-together but has to fight against the gravitational pull of the universe in order to make it halfway there. You tell yourself it’s not completely charming.

“I don’t usually stay this long,” you say after a beat. “At things like this.”

“I know.”

You turn your head. “You do?”

He shrugs. “You’ve kind of made it clear you aren’t into this sort of thing.”

You narrow your eyes, and he smiles into his glass.

“I’m not going to tell you that you need to try harder, you know,” he says.

That catches you off guard.

“I just mean, you don’t need to be more than who you are. If this is all you can give us, then it’s more than enough. You don’t have to try to be someone you’re not to fit in with this team. You already do.”

You scoff softly. “How very optimistic of you.”

He glances over. “It’s not optimism. Everyone wanted you here, and you’re here. You stayed. You didn’t fake a phone call and disappear out the kitchen door like you clearly considered when the night began. You’re even letting yourself have a little fun.”

You blink. “That’s quite the assumption.”

Spencer shrugs again, a shy grin curling at his lips. “I read somewhere once about this thing called “profiling.” Apparently it can be pretty accurate,” he jokes.

The corner of your mouth twitches.

“You ever think maybe I’m just waiting to find the right moment to make a break for it?”

He tips his glass at you. “I think if you were, you’d have found it already.”

You pause, watching him. Then, before you can talk yourself out of it, you reach out and gently ruffle the back of his hair where it sticks out unevenly. “Your grooming habits are a war crime, Reid.”

He startles. Actually startles, like you’d tased him.

“I—what?”

You smirk. “You missed a spot back there, Doctor.”

Spencer is frozen. You watch him try to recalibrate, blinking like a machine that just got fed the wrong code.

Because you don’t usually touch people. And he knows that. You know it, too. And the realization hits a beat too late.

Shit. What was that?

You pull your hand back like it burned you and take a step to the side, putting space between you again, pulling the drawbridge back up.

“It was bothering me,” you say flatly, walking it back. “So I fixed it. Don’t overthink it.”

“I… wasn’t going to,” he lies, and his voice is softer now. Almost confused.

A long silence falls between you.

Then, maybe to fill it, he says, “You asked me earlier about the ginger ale.��

“I did. But you don’t have to tell me,” you reply sincerely.

“I don’t mind.” He shifts slightly, the toe of his shoe dragging across the concrete. “I used to drink socially, but after last year, I mostly stopped.”

You glance over. He’s not fidgeting. Not avoiding your eyes.

“Yeah?” you ask, soft but not tentative.

He nods. “I got kidnapped during a case in Georgia. The unsub had dissociative identity disorder, and part of the kidnapping involved injecting me with a drug — Dilaudid.” He says it plainly, like he’s reciting a report, not his own history. “I was only gone a few days, but afterwards, it was… hard to stop. It’s been over a year now, and I’m clean, but I try to avoid anything that might make it easier to slip. Alcohol included.”

There’s a beat — not awkward, just still. You nod.

“I’ll still let myself have a drink once in a while,” he adds, almost as an afterthought. “But tonight didn’t feel like an occasion that warranted it.”

You look at him again, and something in your chest does that strange, stupid twist you’ve learned not to name. Because he didn’t have to tell you any of that. And he didn’t tell it like a performance, or a bid for sympathy. Just… like it mattered to him that you knew. It’s not lost on you that he told you even though you wouldn’t have asked about it again, or that it’s clear he doesn’t offer up this information to just anyone.

You clear your throat. “I’m really sorry that happened to you, Spencer.”

Spencer. The sound of your own voice echoes in your ears. Have you ever even used his first name before now?

Your unexpected softness seems to jar him, but before he can respond, Emily opens the door to the patio from inside and yells something about ordering loaded tater tots. You both wave her off.

Spencer shifts, then glances at you again.

“I don’t dance,” he says abruptly.

You look up at him quizzically. “O…kay? Thanks for the announcement?”

He chuckles. “I’m just putting that out there before Garcia inevitably tries to drag us inside for a conga line or impromptu salsa lesson. I caught a glimpse of her trying to make something like that happen inside before Emily closed the door.”

You smirk. “Well, I’m not going to dance either, so, strength in numbers.”

“Yeah, I could’ve guessed that.”

You raise a brow. “What gave it away?”

“I don’t know,” he says. “You don’t exactly exude prom queen energy.”

“Not unless the prom ends in arson. Or gallons of pig’s blood dropping from the ceiling.”

That makes him laugh.

You finish your martini and lean a hip against the railing beside him. “So you never dance?”

“Never,” he says with a shake of the head.

You reach out and poke him lightly in the chest with two fingers. “Come on, Reid. You’re telling me no one’s ever dragged you out to the floor for one song?”

He stares at the spot you touched like it was seared into him and blinks a few times before remembering he still needs to answer you.

“No one… who lived to tell the tale,” he mumbles with a quiet grin. Another joke, just for you. You laugh a little too hard before you catch yourself and step back again.

You glance through the window, using it like a mirror to steady yourself. Inside, the team is still going strong. Morgan’s doing impressions. JJ’s trying to win a dare against two losers at the pool tables. Emily’s grabbing another round of shots. Garcia’s dancing on a chair and sipping something bright pink with a paper umbrella hanging off the side.

“We should probably go save Garcia before she sprains something.”

Spencer nods, still blinking like he hasn’t recovered. “Only if you agree not to poke me again.”

You consider for a moment before murmuring, “No promises.”

You duck your head and lead the way inside.

And behind you, Spencer follows — slow, stunned, and still glancing down at the hand you’d touched him with.

—

Back inside, the lights seem a little warmer, the room a little blurrier at the edges. You’re not drunk, not exactly. But the martini fuzzed out some of the static in your head, and now the whiskey in your hand — your final drink, you’ve decided — hums a low current under your skin. You stretch your spine, blink twice, and feel something that almost resembles comfort.

Garcia intercepts you with a plastic tiara and a plea to sing backup on “Like a Virgin.” You stare her down in silence for a full five seconds until she shrugs in defeat and says, “Your loss, babe,” then grabs JJ instead and twirls her toward the mic. Morgan’s trying to scam a free drink from the female bartender using nothing but charm and biceps. Emily is now crushing one of the pool guys in a game of beer pong. Rossi has vanished entirely.

You slide back into your seat and sip the whiskey slowly. Spencer’s beside you again. He nods at your glass. “Second or third?”

“Third. And final,” you say. “Probably.”

He smiles, then observes as you dip a hand into your black leather purse and grab a tube of lipstick, flicking the lid off with practiced ease. You swipe the dark red across your bottom lip, then the top, then smack them together. Your hands are steady. You’ve always been good at precision under pressure.

Spencer watches the whole thing like it’s a card trick.

“That was… impressive,” he says quietly.

You glance at him sideways. “What, my lipstick application?”

“Doing it without a mirror,” he clarifies. “That can’t be something most people are successful at.”

You hum. “I’m not most people.”

“No,” he says quietly. “You’re really not.”

It’s not the words themselves, but the way he says them — like they’re some truth he’s just now understanding. You look away, steadying your glass against your lip before you speak again.

“That sounded dangerously like flirting,” you say, flicking your gaze back to him.

He startles, blinking. “Did it?”

You shrug. “Don’t worry. I’m not gonna report you to HR.”

His laugh is soft and awkward, and the tips of his ears go pink. You wonder how many women have ever flustered him like this, wonder what it would feel like to do it on purpose.

You won’t. But you could.

Because the thing is, he sees you. Not just the scowl and the eyeliner and the strategic disinterest — but the rest. The quieter ache you feel beneath it all. And worse, he doesn’t seem scared off by any of it.

Spencer points toward the dartboards hanging on the wall towards the back of the bar. “You any good?”

“At darts?” you reply, eyes sharp, already getting up and making your way towards the boards. “Are you seriously asking me that? Me, sharp objects, and schooling drunk men in bars?” He blinks at you blankly. “Of course I'm good at darts, Reid.”

The battered wood frame is splintered in one corner, one sad dart dangling by the tip. You pull it loose and twirl it once between your fingers.

“Used to hustle college guys,” you say casually. “They always assumed the girl in fishnets couldn’t aim.”

“Did you… wear fishnets to bars specifically to fluster and hustle men?” Spencer asks, half-scandalized, half-impressed.

You throw the dart — bullseye. “What do you think?”

He laughs again, boyish and quiet and a little breathless, then carefully tosses one of his own. It surprisingly lands just left of center.

You raise a brow. “So you’re pretty good, too.”

“It’s mostly just physics,” he says with a shrug.

You roll your eyes with a quiet laugh and take another sip of your drink. The whiskey burns a little now — a reminder to slow down. You’re dangerously close to enjoying yourself, and that’s always when you make the worst mistakes.

You don’t talk for a while. Just throw. Sip. Throw again, before you and Spencer dive back into conversation about nothing and everything at the same time. The bar’s gone quieter now, the buzz of trivia long since faded into background music and clinking glasses. You throw again, then lean against the wall.

You glance past him, back toward the table — now deserted except for Garcia’s tiara and a few empty glasses. The rest of the team is gone, and you didn’t even notice them leave. You glance up at the clock and realize it’s after 1am.

“Guess we closed the place down,” you murmur.

Spencer nods. “Guess so.”

You exhale slowly, feeling the weight of the night settle in your chest. The comfort of it. The danger of it.

Spencer shifts. “This, um… this was nice.”

You glance at him. “You mean the darts, or the part where I threatened to stab Morgan during trivia?”

He smiles faintly. “Both. All of it.”

You grab your jacket and tip your head toward the door. “Come on. Let’s go before Garcia shows back up with a second wind and tries to make us sing karaoke.”

Spencer nods but doesn’t move — just watches you with that weird, quiet intensity he has, like he’s trying to memorize something without being obvious about it.

And suddenly, you’re hyper-aware of the heat behind your knees. The weight of your hair. The way your pulse seems to catch when he looks at you too long. The fact your eyes just lingered on his perfectly pink bottom lip for half a second too long.

You clear your throat. “You’re kind of a strange guy, Reid.”

“You’re kind of a terrifying girl, Greenaway.”

That makes your mouth twitch into a lopsided smirk. But as you both head for the door, you feel it in your bones: a low, unspoken shift in gravity. Like something’s started, and you’re pretending not to notice. Like maybe he’s pretending, too.

The sidewalk outside is slick with a misting of rain, air thick with the smell of beer and city heat. You step up to the curb and wait for one of the cabs down the block to notice you. Spencer’s beside you, not saying anything. He doesn’t fidget, but he rocks slightly on his heels like he’s working something out in his head. Hands tucked in his pockets. Shoulders a little hunched.

“I’m fine, you know,” you say. “You don’t have to stand there doing your best impression of a security camera.”

That earns a small laugh. “I wasn’t.”

“You were. You’ve got that face.”

He squints. “What face?”

“The one that looks like you’re about to quote a peer-reviewed study on post-midnight cab safety for single women in urban areas.”

He huffs, ducking his head. “There is a study, actually."

“Of course there is.”

A cab pulls up with a low whir and a flash of headlights. You open the door but hesitate before climbing inside, one hand still on the frame.

“Night, Reid.”

You half expect him to fumble a goodbye, or spurt out some awkward fact about the history of taxis. But he just watches you go. You slide into the backseat, and for one strange, fleeting microsecond, you wonder what would’ve happened if you’d asked him to come with you.

The driver merges into the street, and you twist in your seat, just once, to glance back.

Spencer’s still there. Hands in his pockets. Shoulders hunched. Watching the cab pull away like he wasn’t quite ready for the night to end.

—

Your head doesn’t hurt, exactly — more like someone turned the contrast up on the entire world. The overhead lights are too sharp, the elevator ding too shrill, the bullpen voices too loud.

Okay fine, it does hurt. Still, you’ve had worse mornings.

You make it to your desk on time, which is more than you can say for most of the team. Once they do start to filter in, Garcia, clad in sunglasses indoors and clutching a jumbo-sized neon green Gatorade, perches herself dramatically on the arm of Prentiss’s chair, both of them visibly suffering.

You’re just starting to get your files open when you notice it: A to-go coffee cup, neatly placed on the corner of your desk. Not the usual break-room sludge you’ve frown accustomed to. No — this is from that little hipster café three blocks down, the one with indie playlists and criminally overpriced lattes. The logo’s inked in soft black on the side. Your name is scribbled in messy letters across the cardboard sleeve. Underneath it:

Bullseye. –S.R.

You stare at it for a second too long. The coffee’s still hot, and it’s just how you take it on your worst mornings — dark roast, black, with an added shot of espresso. Strong enough to punch you in the chest. You close your eyes on the first sip, and it’s exactly what you need to undo that third drink from last night.

“Well, well, well.”

You don’t have to look up to know where that’s coming from, or why. Morgan’s voice is all grin and zero mercy.

“Looks like someone had a very interesting night.”

You open one eye. “Careful, Morgan. I have a headache and at least one knife in my bag.”

He chuckles. “I’m just saying. Last I checked, you and Reid were still at the bar long after the rest of us called it.”

Garcia gasps from across the room. “You closed the bar down? Without me?!”

You arch a brow and sip your coffee. “We were playing darts in the back. No one told us the party was over.”

Morgan wiggles his eyebrows. “Darts, huh? Is that what we’re calling it now?”

You snort. “Jesus, Morgan. You’re worse than a high school rumor mill.”

He grins, watching you like he’s trying to catch a tell. “You’re not denying it. You two end up in the same cab home?” he asks with a wink.

You lean back in your chair and pause for a beat, queuing up your retort. “Oh please. If I’d gone home with him, I’d look a lot more exhausted than I do right now,” you say matter-of-factly.

Clearly, that’s not the type of euphemized denial anyone expected to hear. It gets a choked laugh out of Garcia and an impressed little “damn” from Emily.

Morgan smirks, then raises his hands in mock defeat and whistles. “Alright, alright. Point taken. Nothing happened. But if you’re talking like that, then pretty boy’s got more game than I expected.”

You return to your coffee and pretend not to notice how Spencer’s been listening from the far corner of the bullpen this entire time, head buried in a file until he lifts his eyes to meet yours. You don’t look away. Not immediately.

You tilt your coffee cup towards him in silent thanks, and he nods.

Something about the way he ducks his head — the way his fingers twitch faintly on the edge of his folder — tells you he’s thinking about last night, too. And about what you just said.

You let yourself imagine it for one second too long.

Bullseye.

If he wants to make another shot, you might just let him.

ᝰ.ᐟ

PSA: likes do very little for promoting posts on tumblr! if you'd like to support a fic, please reblog!

[aglimpseofharry]

read this on patreon when it came out hehe but need to share here because it’s SO GOOD AND EVERYONE NEEDS TO READ IT !!!!!!! i’m obsessed. this whole chapter literally made me scream into my pillow and kick my feet. the flirting was TOO GOOD. smooches to your big beautiful brain. 🥰🥰🥰🥰😭😭😭😭😭

SIX

The one where Y/N and Harry are neighbors in an apartment complex, he's got a bunny called Snuggles, he makes softcore porn spanking people (it's a REALLY LOUD HOBBY), and Y/N has definitely called the police for a domestic disturbance next door.

HII some heat coming on this one! Little flirty little covertly ~dIrtY~ :D Check out the other parts first if you haven't already! Reblogs/feedback always super appreciated. If you like a fic, sharing the work with the reblog button and leaving a comment/sending an anon keeps writers motivated to keep posting on this platform for free! (ꈍ◡ꈍ)

FETISH masterlist : PATREON masterlist (397.2K+ words of content and updating) : MAIN masterlist

CONTENT/WARNINGS: common astrology DISinterest (I am an astrology girlie, don't come for me), shitty drinks in a shitty bar, really poorly crafted cover-stories

WC: 9.7K

When Y/N twists over her shoulder to assess the invasively close body heat— particularly, the way some form of one-liner is currently being directed into her general vicinity, which insinuates that the closeness is purposeful— two things occur. 

The first being that Harry notes the faint smudge of shimmer dusting her eyelids. It’s almost sheer, but glitters under the wash of burnished, moody lights hanging overhead, settling as a thicker milk-glassed hue along the inner corners, where she’d packed the product a touch heavier. The second is that, while her expression was initially flat, recognition spumes her features warmly, lighting her eyes alive. 

“Harry. Hi.”

“Hey,” Harry returns the enthusiasm to her greeting, mirroring the tipsy warmth to her simper before rocking forward on his forearms, where he’s braced his weight. He navigates his attention to the glass ahead of her pointedly and nudges his chin, “Let me guess. Shitty mojito?”

Y/N blinks. Her eyes skate to the discarded beverage, almost as if she’d forgotten it had been there all along. “How’d you know?”

“Mm,” as the man stretches back to his full height, she has no choice but to follow the range of his face and looks up at him from beneath her tinted lashes. Teasingly, he pretends to ruminate, pursing his pillowy mouth and drumming the pad of his forefinger against the counter, “The salad bar runoff?”

At the declaration, her gaze tips to the sunken bundle of crushed mint leaves, where the wilted corners clump like something fished from a neglected terrarium and remain as unsightly as she’d found them to be when the drink was first slid into her direction. She snorts half-heartedly, peeking back up to find him gnawing back a grin. 

“That would explain the… yeah.” 

Y/N hadn’t expected such a direct, cataclysmic annihilation of what she had deemed to be a fairly simple drink order. Her presence in the particular pub was the consequence of a bar crawl (crawl being a concept that’d slowed and settled as the others had taken root at one of the sticky tables in the corner) with a handful of friends. And while Petra had labeled the venue a good time, Y/N was currently having difficulty trusting a place that slaughtered a mojito and simultaneously claimed to have a liquor license. 

Moreover, the bar wouldn’t have been her first choice to settle for the night— though, given that her opinion had been outweighed by the majority, the girl was given no choice but to ride the wave and make the best of it. Although the crowd was relatively tolerable (in comparison to the unbearable shoulder-to-shoulder cesspit their last stop had consisted of), the sticky tabletop and disturbingly uncleanly bathroom did little to ward off her inhibitions. Despite this, for some reason or another, the group Y/N had shown up with had decided to set up camp at a table that looked like it doubled as both a coaster graveyard and a petri dish. The syrup-slicked high top in the corner was one of the last available for their seating arrangement, nested behind a group of standing patrons, who were gesturing emphatically with their hands as they talked amongst one another over the thrumming music. Considering the amount of drinks the cohort had already consumed (courtesy of their various pit stops)— Y/N being no outlier— nobody had quite minded the way the other customers kept knocking their arms against the backs of the chairs. Y/N, however, was still the most sober of the bunch, and while the night had started out as a fun excursion, the progressive gap between her sobriety and the rest of the group’s (or lack thereof) was becoming increasingly apparent. And in turn, killing her buzz. 

Somewhere along their obnoxious drunkenness, the girl had begun retreating into herself, despite the way her own senses were a little fuzzy around the edges. She’d been sipping her water quietly when they had spontaneously erupted into an astrological debate, which was a conversation topic Y/N refused to entertain strictly off of principle. The last time she had heard someone justify their behavior with a planet placement, she was on a blind date gone sideways. Needless to say, the shitty laminate slathered over what’s actually an obvious lack of accountability still makes her eyes roll up into her skull. 

Stuck between the sobering state her mood was shifting into— this being heightened by her alcohol consumption— was what had led her to the bar. Partly, because she couldn’t keep listening to Tate and Janine argue over which sign was the worst for a man to have in venus, and mostly because she needed another drink to be able to pretend to tolerate it. 

That’s why she’s here now— picking at her cuticles absentmindedly, still sloped over the bar with her abandoned drink order (one that she had taken a gulp of and immediately set back down). She’s dodging her table because she’s doesn’t feel like grinding her teeth through another minute of starsign pseudo-science, and although the music causes the sap-slicked floorboards to vibrate under her soles (timber scuffed from timeworn steps and stained from alcohol spillage), the prolonged detour is a much needed moment to herself. Y/N loves her friends, and she’d agreed to the night out not out of necessity, but want— and even still, the somewhat peaceful break from their loud gossip is much needed. Truth be told, given the spontaneous shift to her mood, the sleepiness knocking on her doorstep, and the creeping urge to call it a night altogether, Y/N had little hope the night would pick up. But it seems the stars— Y/N thinks, ironically— have other plans.

The last person Y/N had expected to sidle up beside her was the handsome, curly-haired brunette. A man who, under no circumstances, would she ever disclose the extent of her knowledge on (given his world-wide-web-scale documented… pastimes…), or the complex nature of her feelings regarding. Given the broken seal of their contact and the regularity of his coffee stops, it was safe to say the pair had warmed into a soft acquaintance, almost like the pastries at work when left on the counter, too close to the toaster oven. It was an infectious thing by proxy— they had drifted into a mutually acknowledged familiarity out of sheer proximity. She wouldn’t go as far as to say they were friends, but he was no longer just a neighbor she struggled to tolerate (even if she did still find him slightly unapproachable— although, that was the effect of a shifted perspective). 

And despite the way her chest bubbles and she offers him a wet-eyed, statically flat expression upon first glance, a pleasant warmth does radiate in her chest as she absorbs him. The tipsiness fizzing in her bloodstream causes her smile to stretch a little wider than it usually would, straining her hot cheeks as her tongue twists with sociable affection. Courtesy of her blood alcohol content, she’s also friendlier than usual, and regards him in the same light she would an old companion she’s seeing for the first time in weeks. That skittish nervousness that always seems to thread along her tummy in his presence thrums like little butterfly wings scratching at her insides, but it’s fleetingly insignificant and, frankly, justified. Because no matter how acquainted the young woman becomes with Harry, he has pretty lips that curl nicely around his pretty teeth, and firm arms coated in a patchwork of ink that her gaze just can’t seem to unstick from, and eyes like an overgrown summer. Sun-shot moss with lighter flakes snaking in his irises like pollen suspended in a late June haze. 

And Harry, leant against the counter with his green eyes crinkling warmly and his pillowy mouth grinning, makes her belly flutter. The incandescent glow from the dangling pendants causes them to glint when they shift back onto her from the beverage.  

“The mint here’s,” he bobs his head, mock-pitied as he confesses, “always a little rough.”

A slow simper unfurls over her lips at his playful cringe before he grins back up at her, propped on his ink-skinned forearms. That’s where her eyes stick for a fleeting moment, but she can appreciate every aspect of his appearance. When he straightens out, facing her fully and leaning against the bartop on one forearm instead, Y/N is able to absorb his silhouette in its entirety. A tee hugs his broad chest— it’s plain white, apart from a dainty-lined typeface that’s meant to mimic handwriting, scrawled from his pectorals to his navel. Don’t ruin my fantasy. Y/N thinks it’s cute; he seems to have an affinity for the cartoonish emblems and unapologetic, eye-catching slogans detailing the fabric. His lower half is clad in faintly pin-striped trousers, which offset the casualness of the tee in a stylish manner. His shoes, while initially appearing to be a simple pair of navy Adidas sneakers, shine like they’re lacquered. A closer inspection— somewhat difficult, given the hush of amber glow this bar likes to call lighting— reveals that they’re decorated in what resembles a silky, reptilian pattern. 

His soft, burnt umber curls are tousled enough to suggest he’d hardly put effort into styling them, if any. They slope softly around his ears, and the path her gaze takes highlights the lone pearl stud nestled against his earlobe. The delicate accessory matches the set of milky pearls seated along the base of his throat, and he even dons an echo of it on his hand; another iridescent bead cradled in a nest of gold on his right ring finger. This observation, to no surprise, causes her gaze to drift to his hands. 

Those are a separate topic altogether. One is placed against the shiny bartop, and the other is curled around his own beverage— something honey-colored that she can barely examine, because the glass is nearly empty. As for the glass, it somehow manages to look like a child-sized toy in his grip. His fingers are decorated in the usual collection of rings she’s become accustomed to seeing on him, and his nails are plum-polished (with baby blue on the middle digits). Y/N can’t help the way something stirs in her underbelly at the thought of how those hands would feel on her. 

The worst part might be that she’s a little too tipsy to kick herself over it, which is the typical default. 

Harry looks good. 

And he smells good, too, which is an inescapable fact that Y/N is forced to encounter with what little space exists between them. He usually smells clean, like soap and citrus with his freshly showered curls still dripping onto his collarbones. But now, in this setting, the warm notes of his cologne spill from him like vanilla pipe tobacco curled in the throat of winter. It isn’t sharp like cigarettes, but warm like a velvet heat pressed to a pulse and reminiscent of syrup-thick sin. The scent is headier in the blood-warm room than one he’d usually wear, and the rich fragrance, paired with his delectable aesthetics, makes her woolly brain even hazier. 

When the following words tumble off of her tongue, Y/N means them as a genuine question. But the way her eyes slip to a coy half-lid probably implies more than she means to let on.

“Do you come here often?”

The longer Harry stands with her, the wider that window of object permanence rifts. That shallow attraction of an afterthought wriggles, causing him to subconsciously lean closer, hanging onto every word from her pretty mouth. His own body language implies a loose openness to her interactions and swells with the same cheeky confidence he’s utilized so many times prior in the presence of anyone he’s looking to bed, even if that isn’t the particular end goal at the moment. Really, who could blame him? She smells nice and her dress cinches her waist in the same manner that that vomit-colored relic of minimum wage servitude does. It doesn’t help that the buzz in his veins only amplifies the attraction. 

Harry would like to play angel and say the forefront of his brain isn’t currently a crude, rapid-sequence carousel involving a downright nasty fuck with her, but Harry is also an honest man, so Harry can’t. 

Instead, he plays it as cool as he would in any other circumstance. A beam accentuates his pearly teeth at the unintended one-liner; he knows she’s asking with real curiosity, but given the setting, the inadvertent double-meaning amuses him. 

“Every Friday,” Harry bobs his head once in agreement, dimples imprinting into place. On the tail end of his answer, he nudges his chin knowingly, “Music’s good. Garnishes aren’t. What table are you trying to avoid?” 

Almost as if Y/N had forgotten her whole reasoning for stalling, she blinks up at him blankly, and then she scoffs and her wet irises roll up to the ceiling. A wry half-smile paints her lip-glossed mouth and she waves out with her hand weakly, gesturing into the general direction of her table. 

“The one where everyone is screaming about astrology and pretending it’s not just…” she can’t stop herself from snorting, tracing the tip of her forefinger along the rim of her glass, “vague personality traits that apply to half the planet.” 

The unanticipated topic they seem to share an aversion for causes him to expel a wry scoff of his own, reflexively— it reminds him of the intense disdain he has towards the cultist mentality revolving zodiac signs. 

As far as Harry is concerned, the whole ideology seems to be a deluded hivemind, and he’s never been one to believe his personality or his life is some form of star-constituent. Especially not some naked man pouring a jug of water out onto the ground— what the fuck is an aquarius, anyways? Some of the girls he’s been with, however, don’t seem to share that notion. He can’t even begin to recall the amount of times he’s been asked his birthday and in turn been told that he’s a red flag, and he thinks that if he were to have a nickel for every time he heard that his mannerisms were “textbook,” he’d have a nickel constellation of his own. Harry’s also found that most of those who seriously believe that some retrograde nonsense controls the big dipper, or venus, or the outcome of his haircut (for some reason) seem to share a common resistance towards taking responsibility. Why take accountability of your actions when you can scapegoat Mercury, instead? Every part in the belief is a warning sign if Harry’s ever seen one, and he should know, given the amount of times he’s been referred to as a “walking red flag” based off birth date alone.

His distaste for the cultish star-chart obsession aside, one way or another, the women he tends to go for typically fall under some degree of its nonsense. He thinks mildly broken and artistic (the generalization of his taste) might just be astrologically adjacent by default.

It’s a pleasant surprise that, for once, the person that’s caught his eye matches his thought process.

His jade irises skate to the tall wall of liquor bottles on display behind the bar in exasperation before he concurs, “Finally. Someone brave enough to say it. It’s bullshit, isn’t it?”

Y/N straightens her shoulders in conviction, as if his agreement has broken the dam to whatever pent up disdain was building inside of her, “Such bullshit. I mean, come on. ‘You’re such a scorpio’ is not a valid reason to ghost someone.”

As she gestures out emphatically with her hands, brows climbing and eyes widening fervently, the curly-haired brunette can’t sedate the small simper blooming over his lips. He snorts, motioning out with the glass in his hand, shifting back against the edge of the countertop, “I’d ghost someone if they tried to peddle me that bullshit.”

The slight change in posture— only to absolve the ache that’d settled in his elbow, not to imply any disinterest towards her with his body language— causes something to catch along his periphery. It’s his own abandoned table, where part of the cohort is watching him in shit-eating intrigue. Percy and Seth seem to be respectfully uninvested. His other two companions, however, seem to be on the opposite end of the equation. Niall has twisted around in his chair entirely, as if aiming to provide the most conspicuous audience of all time. When he notices that Harry’s looking, he folds his arms over his chest, closes his eyes, and theatrically puckers his lips. The display is a childish antic to insinuate making out, and it coaxes a snicker out of Art. 

In response, Harry quirks his dark eyebrows and returns a gesture of his own— although his is considerably cruder. He cups a loose fist ahead his groin— as if curling his fingers over the phantom of his prick— and imitates a couple of subtle strokes, only to replace the open-handed cumshot segment with a sharp middle finger below the waistband. He’s aware the vulgar motion is juvenile, but the only way to fight their immaturity is with some of his own. The act happens as Y/N is turned, busying herself by clutching her drink off the counter as she speaks, and it’s discreet enough to evade her attention altogether. Before he can witness his friend’s visual retort— and get roped into what he knows will be a back-and-forth one-up of crass signage— Harry turns back to face his preferred counterpart.

“Right, but that’s rational,” the young woman says, tucking her straw past her lips absentmindedly. The moment she takes a sip, she’s reminded of why she’d discarded the beverage in the first place and her features crinkle in mild disgust. She swallows thickly, though it does little to clear her palate of the flavor. Then, she blinks back up at him, opting to hold the cocktail as decoration, “‘I’m not toxic, I’m just a gemini moon,’ though? Come on.”

Harry clears his throat, a small smile playing on his lips, “I dated someone who once said her rising sign made her bad at accountability.”

Y/N can’t muscle down the laugh that bubbles out of her at the unfortunate admission, and the contagiously pleasant sound only causes his grin to widen. She quirks an eyebrow, “Did it, or was she just bad at accountability?”

“Oh,” Harry takes a playful note of seriousness, “deeply.” He pretends to ruminate for a beat, cocking his head and raising his eyebrows, “But apparently, Mars was in retrograde, so—“

The shrug he grants her (and the subsequent cringe, as if to imply a nothing-could-be-done attitude) tugs another giggle out of her, “Technically not her fault.”

The outer corners of her eyes crinkle, heat speckling color along the crests of her cheekbones as if the sunshine radiates from the curl of her mouth. She twirls her straw between her fingertips and Harry ducks his chin, shaking his head at the amusing memory. 

“Well,” Y/N breathes, gesturing out with her palm, “thank God we’ve got stars and planets to blame for our poor communication skills. Otherwise, we’d have to, like, grow.”

His shoulders tremble in mock-horror and he shakes his head, blinking blankly at the space beside her arm in performative trauma, “…Horrifying.”

As Y/N’s fingers settle back on the straw, the offer slips off his tongue before he can stop it. He makes a small motion out at her with his own empty drink, “Do you want another go?”

The girl pauses for a moment and her digits stall the twirling, almost as if his words don’t register. “What?”

“A different drink,” Harry clarifies, dimples catching shadows in the honeyed cast of light once again. It’s cute— the way her mascaraed lashes bat over her dewy gaze blurrily. “Unless— do you prefer mouthwash?”

Although Y/N has hardly touched her current order, the conversation with the attractive man teems her with another bout of dizzying nervousness and only heightens the effects of her prior drinks, leading to the warm slurry that feels as though it’s glued to the crevices of her skull. In turn, her conversational skills are slightly dulled— at least around the borders, despite the flirtish wit the alcohol awakens within her. It’s all a very contradictory amalgam. As a result of this, the proposal causes her mind to blank for a moment, and she can only stare at the perfect edges of his white teeth as he looks back at her expectantly. The suggestion could simply be a friendly gesture, and she doesn’t want to misconstrue it as anything more than that. Maybe it’s because of that mentioned inebriated haze, but with the way his inkpools occasionally slide to her mouth, Y/N is led to believe there may be inklings of something else there. 

He’s not outright hitting on her, however, so she wills that assumption down (though she wouldn’t complain if it were the case). The muddle of thoughts only lasts for a split second before she recalibrates and gets her heavy tongue to move again. In all honesty, she can’t stomach the idea of suffering through the unfavorable taste of the beverage and had been fully prepared to just return to her table empty-handed. Although, given the invitation…

“No— yeah— I mean,” Y/N’s chest rises and falls as she breathes, mostly to detangle the uncoordinated slur her words have fallen into, “Okay. Sure.” 

The corners of Harry’s mouth tick up. 

“Surprise me,” she tells him, setting the glass back onto the bar, into the same place where a ring of condensation has left a streak of water, “Just nothing with the… shitty garnishes.”

The way her nose crinkles coaxes an airy huff of laughter out of him, a half-breath around the word okay, and he tips his chin in agreement before he motions the bartender over. The man behind the bar nudges his chin in acknowledgement and makes his way over. In the creeping border of his eyesight, Harry can sense that the girl is still facing him— he can practically feel her shiny, rounded gaze boring into his profile. So, in preemptive teasing, Harry side-eyes her back, and then turns his chin.

“I thought you wanted to be surprised,” the curly-haired brunette remarks playfully, although his sensually half-mast lids bring a suggestive note to what’s intended to be mock-unimpressed, “Can’t watch me order it.”

Y/N blinks, chewing into her cheek. It’s unfair and slightly infuriating; his ruinous good looks. They catch her so off guard, without fail, that she should practically start keeping a swear jar as a form of negative reinforcement for every time she goes a little dumb around him. She’d probably be able to save up for that trip to Quebec she’s been putting off in the process. She scoffs in feigned exasperation and her gaze lists to the side as she futilely attempts to hide her twitching lips, while Harry tucks forward over the counter and murmurs his request. 

Ultimately, Harry settles on a malibu sprite for her— it’s a safer alternative in comparison to a complex cocktail given the setting, and he sticks to the same liquor that she’d already ordered, rather than branching out. Although his beverage of choice is undeniably the best option here, he doesn’t want to order any alcohol that’s not clear considering her prior selection. Mixing the two is a painstaking gamble. 

By the time the duo are presented with their glasses, he’s already peeled another string of giggles out of her and as the bartender sets the drinks ahead of them, she gives Harry a soft thank you and eyes her beverage curiously. 

The contents are entirely clear, but bubbles fizz around the ice cubes— the mixer could be anything; club soda, ginger ale. The young woman only hopes (stomach churning uncomfortably at the thought) he hasn’t ordered anything with tonic, and she observes the mysterious liquid as if contemplating the process required to defuse a landmine. Her jejune sense of perplexion, shaping her features flatly apprehensive as she regards it, has Harry swallowing down a snort. 

“What is it?”

“Something normal,” Harry assures, tacking on a cheeky reiteration of her ask, “No herbs and/or discarded garden weeds.”

Slowly, Y/N peels off the paper the bartender had left on the end of the straw. The coolness of the glass chills her skin when she raises it to her mouth, and she casts her gaze into Harry’s direction, watching him from beneath her lashes as she takes an apprehensive sip. As the sweet flavor settles along her taste buds, she finds him watching her back, absorbing any telltales to her reaction. She withdraws the straw from between her lips, smacking the glossed pair together. A pleat worms between her brows at the unanticipated normality. It’s actually quite pleasant, though she’s unsure if the caliber of her enjoyment is just amplified by her already-existent buzz.

“Oh,” Y/N murmurs, taking another swallow. She cradles the end of the straw between her teeth for a moment, blinking up at him. Then, she replaces her mouth with her fingertips, cradling the drink to her chest as she admits, “Okay, yeah. That’s… annoyingly decent.”

“High praise,” the man returns wryly, drawing circles with his fingers ahead of him in the symbol of a half-assed bow, causing Y/N to grin. 

She takes another gulp, this time with far less suspicion, and Harry watches her with a fond sense of mirth. It yanks at the faintly wadded bow of arousal that’d lured him into approaching her in the first place. That sits in the pit of his underbelly, smearing his cheeks with heat and fusing into every one of his interactions, courtesy of his tainted thoughts. He can’t help the tarnished images that buoy when he looks at her— her eyes cast up at him from beneath her lashes inspire lewd visuals; he imagines those eyes as he rocks into her, nose to nose, a pleat between her brows, or batting up at him as he smears the tip of his cock along her lower lip, or all dewy and slick, crystal pebbles sat along her waterline as she looks back at him, her ass stained with the rubescent outline of his hand—

He slides his lowball glass an inch over the sleek countertop, his face directed to it before he meets her eyes once more. He needs to get a handle on the dirty spiral, and his rosy lips crescent lopsidedly. “Wanna try mine?”

As Y/N retracts the straw and swallows, pinching it between her fingers again, the tip of her pink tongue peeks out to wet her lips. That’s another thing— his eyes stick to it like glue, and he thinks about that wet muscle against the bobbing column of his throat as she pastes open-mouthed kisses to his thrumming skin, or dragging along the slit of his cockhead. 

He supposes some of it must be the liquor catching up with him, though he’s got little doubt his mind would be on the same track in a sober setting; she just unwittingly makes his cock stir in the most unignorable manner. In the present moment, his throat bobs as he swallows thickly, and he raises his eyebrows playfully at her. 

Y/N tucks her bottom lip under her top teeth, glancing at the invitation, “What’s yours?” 

“Didn’t you want me to surprise you, darling?” 

The dim light, as if topaz, glints under the thick band of his lashes. It highlights his dimples and coats his features in such a sensual haze that Y/N thinks she might be gawking a bit. The cheeky retort is the same quip he’d given her earlier, but it’s not the way he says it— though Y/N is convinced that needs to be explored, as well— that causes the tips of her ears to heat. Rather, it’s the pet name he tacks on to the tail of the statement. Darling. She knows it’s inconsequential, but the moniker causes warmth to bleed up her throat from her chest, and she enjoys hearing him address her that way. Despite the better, rational part of her brain telling her otherwise, she feels as though the energy between them crackles like a stormcloud puckering with static. It buzzes in the negligible space like something ionized hung in the air. Color coats her cheekbones and simmers over the bridge of her nose, a bow pulling tighter between her rib bones at his seemingly inherent charisma. That’s another thing she’d learned about the man; not only does he possess dangerous symmetry, but he operates on a level of likeableness that makes her head feel all fuzzy. He’s witty in a way that appears effortless, and she truly believes that if he wasn’t already drawing near-airheaded giggles out of her with looks alone, he’d be doing so with sole personality. Once again, she credits it to the liquor and their lowered inhibitions, and she smiles down at the ambiguous beverage. She can feel her pulse in her teeth, and she swallows as if that could dull the throb. 

“Well. It’s not green, that’s already an upgrade.”

“Should’ve opened with that when I moved in,” Harry chimes, “‘Hi, I’m Harry, I order non-green drinks and think astrology is a cult.”

Y/N can’t sedate the laugh that tumbles from her lips at the dumb joke— it’s just cheesy enough for him to pull off, and the silly response only has her heartbeat fluttering harder in her temples. She stretches over the counter to pull one of the skinny cocktail straws from the bin— she’s half-sure she’s not actually supposed to touch— meeting his eye before she dips the end into the liquid. Then, she tucks the plastic between her lips. The flavor isn’t quite one she can place, and she mulls it over for a moment. She hums. It’s not unpleasant by any means— it tastes just about as generic as any mixed drink at a relatively cheap bar, and her eyebrows pinch as she struggles to place the notes on her palate. 

“What is it?”

Now, it’s Harry's turn— while she sets the straw onto the counter, his tongue slinks out over his lips and he nudges his chin at her softly, “What d’you taste?”

Fuck. If he keeps looking at her like that, all chiseled magnetism, puffy, pink mouth decadently sloped in the shape of a half smirk, Y/N decides she’ll have little jurisdiction over the metamorphosis of her thirst. And consequently, whatever thoughtlessly dumb thing spills from her mouth. For a beat, Y/N tries to contemplate the flavor, but the taste had been so small the remnants of the beverage don’t linger. And with the straw laid onto a bartop she knows would miserably fail whatever health-inspecting germ-reader Gordon Ramsay likes to tote on Hotel Hell, she’s not exactly keen to pick it back up. Testingly, she curls her fingers around the lowball glass and wordlessly blinks up at him, as if trying to convey permission. Harry’s eyebrows climb, his mouth still half-curled in that lazy smirk, and he rattles his head invitingly. He says something silly, too, as Y/N seals her lips over the edge of the rim for a sip, and it makes the crests of her cheekbones heat as she struggles not to laugh around the shallow mouthful— “Don’t worry, I’m not scared of your …cooties, or anything.”

Once Y/N has swallowed, she ruminates again, this time slinking her gaze to the side thoughtfully. Although she looks a bit stumped at first, her eyes light up as if a lightbulb flickers over her verbalized hypothesis. 

“That’s whiskey.”

“It is whiskey,” Harry tips forward brightly. When he cocks his head, one of the curls along his temple slips over his forehead, grazing his eyebrow, “And…?”

“Ginger ale,” Y/N declares, setting the drink back onto the counter (which Harry picks up instead, grinning). 

She can’t help the fireworks that burst in her belly when praise stains his voice, “Attagirl.”

The young woman traces her short, nude-lacquered pointer over the polished stone, sweeping wetness from another smeared condensation ring with the pad in the process. She knows the delivery of her next words can be taken numerous ways, but she milks as much coyness as she can muster into it anyways, fanning her lashes up at him, “Do I get a gold star?”

“Gold star. Ribbon,” Harry tells her, velvet-voiced with his lids drooping to half-mast, “Whole ceremony if you want.”

The butterflies have wrenched their way up to her throat, scratching at her esophagus and coaxing her to swallow thickly. To cover up the way her breath hitches in her chest, Y/N takes a sip of her own drink— the one that he had bought for her. She’s certain she’s misreading his intentions, lingering between the lines through her beer goggles, but she’s definitely not mistaken when she notes the way he seems to lean into her, so close her knuckles nearly brush his rings. 

“And what about the trophy?” Y/N raises an eyebrow.

The response, while draped with enough plausible deniability to stay innocent, has just enough insinuation to give him pause. She’s hitting on him— of that, he’s certain. The way she clings to his every word, graces him with her windchime-like laughter to each and every jest, and the way her facial expression is an undeniable mirror of bedroom-eyes— these are all insightful hints (particularly that latter mention) which lead him to this conclusion. On their own, the details are irrelevant; it’s the combination that hammers his assumption home. And really, there’s only so long a man can go before he gives; only so long before he needs to slake the persistent kindling, fueling his seedy imagination. 

Harry bites.

“Dunno,” he lifts his shoulder nonchalantly, unwavering in the eye contact he shares with her, “Are you offering to earn it?”

This time, his answer is so brazen that it causes her inhale to clog her throat in a way that’s nearly impossible to hide. Her heartbeat spikes, lightening her stomach as if it flips on its axis. There is no plausible deniability left with the way his voice dips, the way his smoldering gaze rakes from her own eyes to her shimmering, teeth-swollen lips. She traps the end of her straw between them, smothering the itch in her throat with another drink— which only seems to intensify the heat that’s ignited along her chest— before she bobs her head. The tension, although still unacknowledged directly, sits so heavily it’s begun to feel like molasses poured over a fever dream. 

“Is that what you’re into?” she ponders aloud, the piece of plastic indenting into her lower lip as she cups the body between her fingertips. 

It looks so cushiony that Harry’s left to wonder what it would feel like between his teeth. 

“Sometimes.”

It’s Y/N that severs it, casting her eyes to the side as she turns her chin and laughs. She takes another sip before she opens her mouth.

“What are you?” 

“What am I, what?” Harry grins in slight bemusement, showing off his pretty teeth (which he’d now prefer to gently tug on her bottom lip).

“Your…” the girl waves with her hand and rolls her eyes as if the very inquiry humors her, “zodiac. Star sign.”

The clarification is so ridiculous that Harry can’t help the incredulous chuckle that slips from his open mouth. His brows climb and his voice carries playful shock when he says, “Are you kidding me?”

“No,” Y/N grants him an airy string of giggles, her chin swinging from left to right in clear refusal, “Now I’m so curious.”

Another wry sound falls from his parted mouth and his jaw stays dropped, before he shakes his head in disbelief (and mildly feigned betrayal), “I thought you didn’t believe in all that.”

“I don’t,” she maintains. One of her shoulders climbs offhandedly, and she tilts her head when she shamelessly admits, “But I’m nosy, and I like hearing people justify their worst habits.”

A sigh spills from the man’s nostrils as he turns to face the bar fully, settling his weight against his forearms and rattling his head in mirthy astonishment. It’s surprising that he doesn’t find himself somewhat begrudged by the all too predictable inquiry, despite exasperated displeasure usually prickling through the surface of his emotions by default when faced with it. When he twists his chin over his shoulder, he grants her a flat, half-lidded look of teasing reluctance, like he already expects her to rib him over the answer. As mentioned, there’s been too many times he’s encountered the tinge of hesitancy in a counterpart’s gaze and the unfortunate walking cautionary tale narrative. It’s unfair, irritating, and, if he’s being entirely honest, typically causes him to mentally check out of the conversation. 

“…Aquarius.”

Y/N’s eyes narrow into mirthy slits. With the end of her straw slotted between her teeth (lingering after she’d taken another drink), her irises skate to the side and she sing-songs, “…Red flag.”

He knows she’s teasing, of course— which would be a fair assumption for all the other times he’s heard the same words, and he’s still found himself mistaken on a concerningly large scale— given their prior discourse. It’s a purposeful jab, and in retort, Harry squints in dramatic offense, “Wow—“

Which plucks a laugh out of her, as expected. He takes a swallow from the drink cupped between his ring-clas fingers to school down the simper threatening his mouth, pretending to be insulted (and deliberately, poorly unbothered) as he smacks his lips, “Some people say we’re visionaries, you know. Big thinkers. Especially gifted in the realm of emotional detachment.”

Y/N hums around her mouthful, nodding. It burns her sinuses a touch on the way down and the evidence of her discomfort momentarily buoys among her features, cinching them, “…So I’ve heard.”

“Misunderstood geniuses, really,” Harry affirms, turning back to face her. He drums his lacquered fingers against the stone surface. On the tail-end fragment of the somewhat cocky claim, he rocks forward on his feet, “Cold, but magnetic. Devastatingly charming.”

Y/N’s nose crinkles. She’s well aware he’s joking, but she can’t deny that the playful cockiness— which she’s sure has some legitimate stake— intrigues her (to her detriment, she’s aware). Unfortunately, her usual type involves a particular caliber of cheek— though, not to be confused with genuine arrogance. There’s just something magnetic about a confident man, and this trait tends to come with some degree of vanity (even if thinly veiled by jests). She enjoys a man whose ego doesn’t easily bruise— it allows for her to gently flirt at the seams without undoing him.

“For a man that doesn’t believe in astrology, you know… a lot.”

“Yeah, well,” Harry tilts his head, “One has to be fluent in the language of their accusers.” In response to the girl’s snort, he places his hand over his chest, “We’re simply the best of the zodiacs.”

“God,” Y/N snickers, ignoring the way her pulse rabbits when her knuckles accidentally brush his warm, bare forearm, “you are an aquarius.”  

As her digits accidentally graze him, his gaze tumbles to the touch and he chews the comment over, pillowy lips twitching. “And that’s the part that puts you off.”

The young woman gnaws into the smooth skin along the inside of her lower lip. Her shoulders rise in a nonchalant shrug, and she meets jade from beneath her lashes, admitting, “I didn’t say it put me off.”

Needless to say, the simmer between them lingers. It hums in the spaces they don’t touch with their fingers like a pause before a bite, or a breath held on the edge of indulgence. And there’s a beat in the conversation where it goes unacknowledged altogether. They stay at the bar, laughing, talking, sharing more details than they’ve managed to before. It’s not until Y/N opens her mouth for a bold confession that the quiet spark pops again. 

With most of her drink evaporated, it’s safe to say the girl can feel it. The tingling warmth that’d bled into her face from a simple, hair-twirling swoon has become more complex— with the effects of the alcohol amplified, the edges of the entire room feel lighter, and her intensified attraction laps at the soft pit under her navel. A byproduct of the intoxication, to no surprise, is a wave of courage. It’s this foolish pluck then, that has her opening her mouth, scaffolding the words.

“I have a friend,” Y/N starts, well aware of the slight slur to her speech. It’s not obnoxious by any means, but it’s especially prevalent given that she physically senses the heaviness of her tongue, causing the words to feel more numb in her mouth. She’s also aware that the statement, considering her abrupt lack of expanding, really just sounds like a random, drunk declaration. 

The same thought seems to register with Harry, and his face crinkles with bemusement as he sputters over his laugh, “…Congratulations?”

Claiming that the alcohol has spared Harry altogether wouldn’t be an accurate assessment. A blissful fuzz of his own has softened the edge, diluting his internal filter somewhat— or at least the fragment of his brain that decides whether something’s actually funny (particularly how funny it is)— making it easier to laugh at everything and generally boosting his spirits. It’s the careful tipsiness that precariously exists on the edge of hammered, which he finds the most pleasurable (and still relatively rational). So, he often aims for this threshold when he goes out for drinks. Though, he often finds himself laughing at some stupid video on Instagram when he’s with his friends, rather than whatever unintelligible nonsense they’re spewing (as they seem to enjoy the degree of intoxication just above this one, often rendering them somewhat useless conversational partners). And he usually doesn’t find himself so enthralled by the conversation with whoever is around him, so the alternative is a pleasant change. The second of the night, he’d contemplated, watching her adorably expressive face as she’d shared tidbits of a story from college.

Anyways, it’s the alcohol coursing his veins that causes his loose reaction to her obviously mishandled assertion. 

“No,” Y/N rolls her eyes, flapping her hand sloppily, “I mean— like— sorry. Well, I have this friend that, like, she’s kind of interested in, um. You know.”

And in turn, it’s the same sense of inebriation that causes him to nod at her expectantly, eyebrows climbing his forehead and drawing ruckles in the skin. His lips part, half-cocked to a smile when she doesn’t immediately expand. For the fourth— fifth? Harry’s lost count, he’s only aware that his eyes have followed that tongue like a sexually gratifying, mildly obsessive form of gravity all night long— time, Y/N wets her lips, as if contemplating how to say what she means to. 

“Your… type of… hobby,” the young woman ducks her chin, lowering her voice, “And I know she’s been wondering how to, like, I don’t know… get into that.”

The indirect manner in which her question— because that’s what it is, a question— beats around the bush tangles his train of thought. When the true nature of her inquiry dawns on him, Harry has to physically muscle down his sly smile. The hobby she’s referencing is the same activity that’d really set their acquaintanceship into (tumultuous) motion. 

“There’s— like,” Y/N’s eyebrows cinch, “dating apps and stuff for that, isn’t there?”

Truth be told, Y/N isn’t asking on the basis of introducing a curious friend to kink, or gauging a referral, though her words may be understood as such. In fact, she doesn’t have a single friend that’s even once said the word spanking out loud. The pivot in topic had been an impulsive choice spurred by intoxication, and the longer she spends trying to unravel her words— despite the entire basis of alcohol supposedly having a shameless quality— the more embarrassment prickles from her hindbrain. The uncomfortable emotion had originally felt like a muted afterthought, but the more time she spends under his gaze, the heavier the regret feels as it settles in. Her last question— the one about the dating apps— is a last ditch effort to salvage her indifference on the topic; it makes her sound as though she’s genuinely asking for another party, steers suspicion from her own interests, and it cements the fabrication. It’s an excellent cover story; or so she hopes. 

Ahead of her, Harry’s pink lips purse. Although he’s tipsy himself, the topic at hand invokes a note of seriousness— offering muddled advice and possibly suggesting something stupid at best and dangerous at the worst is still something his filter flickers on for, and he weighs his answer before he gives it to her. 

“There are,” the curly-haired brunette clears his throat, his priorly playful demeanor dampened into something rather thoughtful, “but I’d hardly consider FetLife a reputable source, unless you already know who to talk to. Can get a bit dodgy on there, you know? Too many people with usernames like DarkDom69 and a total disregard for basic grammar.”

“Right,” Y/N blinks, “No, yeah, totally. She’d want someone… literate.” 

“Literate is a good start,” Harry nods, “Respectful, I’d say is a non-negotiable. Actually knows what they’re doing— that’s the ideal.”

The young woman’s heart murmurs so heavily in her throat, she thinks it might be what’s causing her to go a bit lightheaded. That, and the topic at hand. She’d like Harry (literate, as established by the entries on his blog posts, and experienced, as demonstrated in his panoply of semi-graphic videos) to bend her over and show her the ideal, actually. 

But she can’t say that, so she takes a long gulp of her drink to cover the wobble in her tone with a cough, pretending it stems from liquid hitting the wrong pipe, “Definitely, um, experienced.”

“That’s a good instinct,” Harry nods, and then the contemplating-like shadow along his brow bone thaws as he smiles, “Experienced in what, exactly?”

She’s shy about this, he recognizes. He’s intoxicated— not clueless, and the way her eyes apprehensively oscillate from his face to an array of distracted strangers, conversing loudly amongst themselves over the volume of the music, leaves him examining her with a vigilant kind of curiosity. Both of her hands are curled over the body of her glass, which is an interesting posture given that the lack of space requires her to fold the fingers on one hand over the others. It’s almost as if the maneuver is to preemptively sedate a nervous fidget. Her lashes dust over her eyes and they bounce away like she can’t make herself look at him directly for too long. She seems to be receding into herself. Unlike the loosely cheerful body language she’d been displaying earlier, her posture is somewhat rigid now— shoulders set into a line, arms tucked ahead of her. 

That’s when the epiphany hits him in the chest, clotting his lungs, and he can’t fathom how he hadn’t initially realized it with the eggshell march she’d toured him through. 

Y/N isn’t asking for a friend— she’s interested in kink. 

As if to confirm his hypothesis, a laugh gushes out of her like soda shaken under pressure. 

“You know,” her gaze slips to the side, then her drink, then back up to him with her voice slathered with something she hopes doesn’t betray her, “…That whole… thing…”

Against all odds, this is an interesting development. A very interesting development. For a moment, Harry is quiet, and he tries to keep the way the cogs turn in his head from materializing across his facial expression. 

“Kink’s a broad topic,” Harry starts slowly— knowingly, basking in the way she flusters (though it doesn’t register for her), “You’ll have to be more specific.”

He needs to narrow down what she’s implying; if his suspicions are correct, she’s alluding to a very particular area of interest. And if that’s the case, there’s certainly more to be discussed. He props an elbow against the bar, an enviable ease drenching his stance in contrast to her own body language. His lips purse as he seems to ponder.

“People say kink like it’s one cohesive thing,” Harry explains with a touch more seriousness now, a furrow molding over his brows, “but really, it’s a hundred little subcultures bumping elbows in the same room. Think of spanking as… a couple of elbows in this room.”

Y/N considers the metaphor. In the crevices of her foggy mind, she struggles to find the self control required not to glance at his elbows, or his colossal hands. His next words snap the rubber band of her concentration, lulling her from the focused blankness her brain had quietly slipped into. 

“Is she curious about impact play, specifically? Spanking, paddling, that sort of thing—“

Whether she bristles at the topic of kink, the fact that it’s being discussed in a public setting (granted, the crammed bar being the last place anyone would bat an eye or raise a scandalized brow), or at the specific subject matter, he’s unsure. The subtle, almost imperceptible flutter that wracks her features at the mention of the tiny, little word alone is so minute that, were he not paying especially focused attention to her body language, he wouldn’t have noted it at all. But he was, and he does, and there is something so wickedly satisfying in the way she squirms. 

“Yeah, that—“ when the young woman swallows, she discovers that her throat feels like it’s been lined with cotton. The sensation is only heightened by the way view of him downing the last mouthful of his drink. It’s as though he’s siphoned all of the casualness between them, borrowing any of her smoothness for himself and leaving her with scraps. “I think that’s the one. I think she was just asking about that one.”

Well, well, well. The admission causes the simmer in him to overflow to a slyly pleasing boil, satisfaction searing in his veins. His hunch had been right all along— Y/N was interested in impact play, and based on her nervousness, it hints that she’s interested in exploring that with him. The speculation, steadily hardening into a fact as seconds pass between them, is an unanticipated discovery. He’s not sure how many times she’s managed to surprise him tonight— he’s lost count, but the slow unravel of her blooming truth takes the cake, for sure.

“Then she’s in luck,” Harry affirms, keeping his language vague enough to stay open-ended and simultaneously pull her leg if she were to read deeply enough, “That’s a very… manageable gateway.” 

Momentarily, Y/N’s eyes flit to his hand— the one currently planted against the bartop. It’s large and coated in rings that she (desirously, hopelessly) imagines him spinning palm-side. She wonders how much sharpness the added detail would add to the maneuver, whether the imprint of their chunky face would stick to her skin with a harsh smack, whether she’d enjoy it, justifying the feverish, slick heatwave between her thighs, currently—

She doesn’t linger on the inky cross drawn beside his thumb, pinning her gaze back up to his face like she’s afraid looking too long would get her caught. It does.

“Tell her not to overthink it, yeah? If she’s paying attention, she’ll recognize the right person.”

The words— particularly his next statement— are what cause Y/N’s cheeks to burn. So many times tonight, she’s convinced herself she’s been misunderstanding his intentions, peering too deep into the trench, and attempting to fish something from the murky depths that doesn’t quite exist. What he says this time, however— the way he looks at her— feels like it leaves a crack in the shield of uncertainty she may have been convincing herself of all along. It is so easily misinterpretable that she has to believe something is there— for the first time in the conversation, through the misty miswire of her impaired understanding, Y/N can pick out the unspoken semantics with conviction. 

One of his shoulders rises, and his gaze ascends from the drink she’s been cradling in her hands (so tight she’s surprised the glass hasn’t splintered between her fingers) to her face intensely, “Maybe she already has.” 

Y/N would like to say she returns a silk-laced comment; that she purrs back something disarmingly smooth, as if it’d already been sitting half-cocked in the chamber. But the fact of the matter is that she blanks so impressively she can’t even feel embarrassed over it. Her lungs quiver, and she can’t tell if she feels like she’s vibrating from a misguided adrenaline rush or the wailing electric guitar leaking from the speakers. She feels like the whole room is vibrating with unrestrained, drunken chatter, music, and the cartwheels her nervous system is fumbling through. Despite this, there’s a pregnant pause of silence that drapes the air between them, and although it only lasts seconds, time feels like it stretches. She isn’t the one who shatters it, and neither is Harry. Instead, the obnoxious screech of her name from behind snaps her from the daze. When she doesn’t immediately twist around, another slurred beckon of her name (followed by the word shots) finally lures her to turn over her shoulder. 

Her friends (which the background presence of had slipped her mind as she’d become engrossed in the conversation) wave at her from across the room. Tate has dangerously kneed her way onto the barstool for added height, and she sloppily flails her arm in the air. She almost looks as if she’s drowning in the backdrop of the crowd separating them. Even over the throng of strangers between them, Y/N can see her face, and the sight is so ridiculous that it slices the tension that’d built up, altogether. 

“I think you’re being summoned by the cosmos,” Harry murmurs. As the young woman pivots back into his direction, she discovers that the edges of his pink lips have buckled up into a lax grin. 

“Yeah. I think I…” she smiles back flimsily, jabbing her thumb back into the vague direction of her table, “that’s me.” 

“The stars are aligning with…” a crease worms between his brows, “tequila?”

The jesting callback is so lighthearted that the tension lapping at her chest dissipates, ebbing enough for her shoulders to relax. Her tummy is still swirling with the flurry of butterflies he’d conjured, but now the implication of his suggestion sits like a dulled edge, rather than a sharpened thing. 

“Vodka, actually,” Y/N corrects, jutting her chin in determination, “if I have any say.” 

“Vodka,” Harry repeats the choice, pumping his fist in a small motion over his (she knows, defined) abdomen, “Fate bends for that kind of conviction.”

At the goofy gesture and the uneven smile that handsomely unfurls over his lips, the girl rolls her eyes goodnaturedly. Someone shouts her name again, louder, and it makes her eyes roll harder into her skull, nearly slipping behind her fluttering lashes altogether. Want churns in Harry’s underbelly as the act summons the same visual in a different context— one in which his cock is buried between her thighs, to the root. 

A half-amused sputter spills from the back of her tongue before she reasons, “They’re very passionate about shots.”

“I can see that.”

Although the idea of abandoning Harry causes a forlorn seedling to sprout in her chest, and the urge to wave her friends off at the moment gets stronger with each second she spends ignoring their invitation, Y/N knows that she’s already spent too long from the group, as is. She’d come out under the pretense of participating in a girl’s night out— not an opportunity to chat up someone else and slink away, even if said opportunity involves her disastrously alluring neighbor and even if said opportunity fell into her lap by no doing of her own. Her absence has begun teeming into rude territory, and she’s also becoming increasingly aware of it. The longer she spends at the bar with him, the less she wants to leave, and she knows that if she doesn’t acknowledge the way her friends are calling her name soon, she won’t be going back to the high top at all. With this thought, Y/N turns her chin over her shoulder once more, sounding somewhat distracted as the creeping reality begins to nestle and tinge her tone. 

“Yeah— I should probably…”

“Hang on.”

When Y/N twists back to face him, she finds that he’s stolen a napkin from a compartment of the bar and has procured a pen from… somewhere. She’s not sure. His face is ducked down to whatever he’s scribbling onto the tissue, broad, firm shoulders sloped, and she eyes him curiously until he straightens out and offers the folded square out to her. When she takes it, ten little digits scrawled in blue ink decorate the wrinkled surface and stare back up at her. 

“Tell your friend,” he presses his thumb against the hilt of the pen, clicking it shut, “to reach out if she’s looking to get a foot in with the community.”

Harry’s aware it’s a seemingly inconsequential offering; the pair live next door to one another, and if he really needed to get in contact with her, it’s as simple as slamming his fist against the wall they share. The decision to share his phone number, however, has a simple motive— with the ability to text, it opens the window of opportunity even wider. 

“Right,” Y/N smiles weakly, surging as much ease as she can manage into her fraying composure, “Small subculture. Lots of elbows.”

Playfully, one of his eyelids slips into a wink, and he taps his elbow with his fingertips symbolically, “It’s about knowing the right ones.”

Read the next 12.4K here now or > access on tumblr 08/05/25 IMPORTANT(!): sign up with a browser (not the app) to avoid extra apple fees!

[aglimpseofharry]

AHHH OKAY I JUST FINISHED THIS WHOLE SERIES

and omg. i don't even have WORDS. beautiful!! amazing!!!

also the bunny pet name always gets me. its sooooo yummy.

i love THEMMMM <3

the bunny

the swan final part: tonight marked the end of swan lake, but there was still so much more y/n wanted

wordcount: 18k+

—————

(Y/N) bounced on her toes as she stood around her apartment building. Her tote bag, packed with snacks and a change of clothes, hung from her shoulder. From where she stood, she could spot her car in its usual parking spot. 

A smile bloomed on her features when a familiar sleek SUV pulled into the car park. She couldn't see through the glare on the windscreen, but that didn't stop her from picturing the raspberry lips and lily pad eyes of her... Harry. 

Or whatever he was to her. Her best friend maybe? If having a best friend meant wanting to kiss all over his blushed face until there isn't a piece of him she didn't know. 

It'd only been a week since he spilled his secrets to her on her sofa while she sniffled through a runny nose and hid her face in his neck in a way to both comfort him and to hide the blaring light from her sore eyes. He hadn't been able to stay too much longer after that intimate moment on the couch, but Harry had made a point to stay in contact with her everyday since. 

It had started with check-ins to ensure she felt better through her illness, but hearing about her symptoms only lasted for a few messages each day before he was texting her just to hear from her. There was no longer a veil between them, that thin separation that had formed from Harry's cautiousness and (Y/N)'s constant reminder of what she didn't know. Now all of that was gone, leaving only everything easy. 

That quiet affection she'd been holding for him no longer had a roadblock stopping her from getting butterflies in her stomach and a giddy pattering of her heart when she saw him. She no longer forced herself to wait a couple of minutes when a text message came in from him. When she returned to the stage after a couple of days of recovery, she didn't hesitate to look up at his balcony the second she touched the boards. 

When Harry pulled up to the curb in front of her, she barely waited long enough for him to put the car in park before she was bounding towards him. Pulling open the door, she hopped in before he even had a chance to unbuckle his seatbelt in an attempt to be a gentleman and grab the door for her. 

"Hey you," she chirped, her grin scrunching her eyes.

"Hi," he greeted, a shy smile on his lips as a soft pink glow emerged over his cheeks. He made no move to pull away as she settled in, instead lingering his gaze on her. 

"Thanks for picking me up today," she said, dropping her bag at her feet as she shifted to face him as much as she could in the passenger seat. "You're really okay with waiting so long after the show?" 

He didn't hesitate before he was nodding his head, matching her gaze earnestly. "Of course. What else do I have going on?" 

There was a moment as he gazed at her that felt far too intimate for the front seat of his car in the middle of the afternoon, the weight not quite matching the levity of his tone. He mimicked her body language as much as he could with the steering wheel in the way, his eyes stitched to her own before they shattered into a soft blink, lashes fluttering as the grazed his cheekbones. It was the kind of look filmed in a perfume ad with the fragrance meant to be selling something dreamy and alluring. (Y/N)'s skin warmed at the look. 

Breaking eye contact as she reached for her phone out of her bag, restless fingers adjusting her leg warmers as if there weren't supposed to be so many folds in the scrunched fabric. 

"I don't know, but definitely not work," she attempted to tease, hoping her words came off as unbothered as she wished she was. It was an inside joke of their's, something (Y/N) pointed out when they had spent a few nights in a row with Harry shamelessly texting her into the late hours of the night. 

"Definitely not," he played along, grin stretching his raspberry lips as he finally pulled away from the curb. Heading out of her complex, he peeked at her from the corner of his eye. "I meant to text you before I left m'place, but did you want to stop at Coco's on the way?" 

(Y/N) lit up at the mention of her favorite cafe, the warm tension that had squeezed her stomach leaving her in an instant. Her mind was now filled with the cafe's specialty matcha menu—including their year round raspberry cold foam topper. 

"You already know what I'm going to say." 

Harry let out a laugh at her words, already taking the turn to set them in the direction of Coco's. "Jus' thought I'd ask before I started driving you all over town when 'm supposed to be taking y'to work." 

Laying her head against the rest, (Y/N) traced her eyes over the lines of his profile with what she was sure was plain affection swimming in her features. He had such a nice nose. 

"I wouldn't have questioned it," she admitted, settling in as she watched him, "Did your morning get any better?" 

He sighed as his hands flexed around the wheel. Earlier in the day, Harry had told her he was visiting one of his galleries a little further out of town only to walk into one of their featured artists crying as one of their paintings was sold off to a collector. A painting that they had already made money on when selling it to Harry's gallery, and would be earning a portion of commission on from this sale. It was the kind of situation that wasn't written about in business manuals or HR policy books. 

"'M talking to an HR rep to see if there's anything we can do contract-wise about getting involved in any sales, or if they just won't be a features artist anymore. I felt bad, but there's nothing I can do once the paperwork is signed." 

(Y/N) rolled her lips between her teeth. She didn't envy him in the slightest. "Did they say anything after they stopped crying?" 

"They didn't. Stop crying, I mean." 

Picturing a clean, modern art gallery with glamorous canvases hung on the walls, a patron eagerly admiring their new buy while someone stood sobbing was... hard at the least. All while Harry was supposedly looking on, attempting to diffuse a situation he wouldn't have even had to deal with had he stayed within the confines of the city that morning. It wasn't funny exactly—it wasn't funny that someone was crying over a piece of their work—but it felt like something out of a silly movie. The more dramatic she pictured it, the more comical the moment felt. 

Stifling her growing amusement, (Y/N) covered her mouth. "That's so sad. I hope they're okay." 

Another peek at her from the corner of his eye. "Y'can laugh—'m sure 's even more uncomfortable than what you're picturing. 'S alright." 

"I feel so bad, though," (Y/N) insisted though she couldn't quite hold back the airy giggle that escaped her. "That's so sad." 

"Don't feel too bad," Harry countered, pulling up to one of the few street parking spots in front of Coco's, "From what I hear, after I left they went after the collector and tried to get him to give it back. By yelling. In the street." 

"Oh!" she bubbled, allowing a wave of laughter to take her this time. Drama in the art community—who would have seen it coming? "That's not quite right."

"Exactly," he mused, moving to unbuckle his seatbelt while eyeing the short line through the flossy front windows of the cafe. "Jus' want your usual?" 

"That's what I was thinking," she answered, plucking her wallet out of her tote bag, "Hopefully they still have some raspberry—" 

"Y'don't have to go in if y'don't want," he cut her off before she could reach for her own buckle. "It looks a little busy inside."

She followed his line of sight and did see a handful of people waiting for their drinks with a line of three deep waiting to order. It wasn't super busy, but it was definitely a bit more than she'd like to deal with right now in her warm up leotard. 

"Are you sure?" she pressed, slipping her card from her wallet.

Harry decisively nodded his head. "I think I remember your order, so I should be alright." 

(Y/N) tipped her head, hand stalling with her card. "You do?" 

As far as she remembered, she only texted it to him once almost a week ago when she had mentioned this cafe in the first place. And it was really just a one a.m. babble about how more places should offer raspberry cold foam. 

"Iced matcha with oat milk with vanilla and as much raspberry cold foam as they'll let you get away with. Light ice, too, so it doesn't get all caught up on the lid when you're trying to drink." 

He said it without a shred of doubt. He didn't think he remembered her order—he definitely remembered. 

"That's it," she said, a breathy laugh filling the air between them. Blinking herself out of her head and the implications she was spinning, she offered her card out to him. "Just tip whatever you want." 

Harry barely glanced at her offering before a small pinch formed between his brows. "I've got you, don't worry." 

"No, Harry," she insisted, "Just take it, you're already driving me." 

"'M alright," he dismissed, moving towards his door. "Lock everything while 'm gone, I'll keep it running for you." 

"Harry, reall—" 

He was already rounding the bonnet of his car before she could even finish her words. 

She really wanted to be offended. He shouldn't dismiss her offer of paying for herself, especially when she was in the middle of her debate. She was a working woman in a big city who could take care of herself just fine. She didn't need Harry to buy her little drink before she went on stage as the prima ballerina of Swan Lake. 

But it sure felt nice. 

He didn't even entertain the idea, dismissing it wordlessly. He already decided he was taking care of it all when he offered the detour, she figured. All after he had read off her order as if from memory and not a throwaway text sent in the middle of the night. 

She attempted to bite back her smile as she slid her card away. 

—————

"Jeez, since when was this supposed to be happening?" 

Harry's muttered huff carried over the quiet radio as he made a second U-turn to head back towards the theater. The car park outside the stage door was already small enough, but with a section of it being corded off by a slew of construction vehicles—despite the work being performed on a neighboring building. All that was left was street parking for the time being. At least until five p.m.

Nonetheless, Harry parked his car off in one of the slim street parking spots and started calculating what time he would have to come out and move it to avoid getting towed. 

"Sorry," (Y/N) said, a frown on her lips, "If I had known this was going on, I wouldn't have made you drive me." 

"'S not your fault," he waved off, peering out his window with a stern brow to look for any oncoming cars before pushing his door open, "Ready?" 

"Oh yeah, sorry," she scrambled to grab her tote and her slick iced matcha. 

She caught up to him while digging through her bag for her phone, hoping there was some kind of message from any of the others about what to expect with the construction crew outside. From her periphery, she thought she was catching up to Harry and following his cue as he crossed the street.

Until an arm shot out across her chest before she could step onto the asphalt. (Y/N) jumped back, finally looking up from her bag to see Harry looking down the road with his jaw set in a harsh line.

"Hold on," Harry murmured, corralling her closer to him as a car went barreling past. 

"Oh," she sounded, looking up at him and the way he practically scowled at the car even as it grew smaller in the distance. "Thanks." 

It was so silly, so bottom of the barrel, completely bare-minimum, but there was something about him grabbing her like that to keep her from walking into the street like that. He didn't shout or push, just quietly pulled her to his side. 

Very dreamy, Siobhan would say. Very, very dreamy, (Y/N) agreed.

"Yeah," he said, still looking rather irritated as she blinked up at him, "People need to be more careful. He didn't even look at us." 

"Right," (Y/N) nodded, hyperaware of the way his arm slid around her until his hand was wrapped around her wrist. 

There was a moment, standing where they were on the pavement for a beat, where his hand stayed right where it was. She wasn't sure if he could see her from the corner of his eye with the way he was carefully patrolling the street in front of them. But she still moved her hand that much, shaking off his own until she was lacing their fingers together. 

Harry's only noticeable reaction came in the form of a flutter of his lashes and a soft flush touching his cheeks. 

He didn't speak again as he walked with her, their hands laced together between them, towards the stage door. He made a point to keep his eyes ahead, all while (Y/N) happily followed with the straw of her matcha tucked between her lips. She couldn't help her smile, especially not when he squeezed her hand as they passed the construction crew on break. He kept her particularly close after that. 

"Do you want to come in with me?" (Y/N) asked as they approached the stage door, hands still laced together. 

"I've got to track down Ariel," he sighed, already peering around to the front office area, the space she spent most of her time prior to showtime. "I'll see y'after, though, yeah?" 

"Yeah," (Y/N) nodded, already looking forward to whatever bouquet of flowers he would surprise her with. Especially since she didn't spot even a single petal on the way here—how he would get a new bouquet between now and showtime, she wasn't sure but she looked forward to the reveal nonetheless. "See you later, Harry." 

"What was that word?" Harry mused, cutting himself off just as his eyes lit up, "Merde!" 

(Y/N) let out a boisterous laugh at the pronunciation she had vaguely taught him through voice notes a few days prior. How he'd been a part of the arts for this long and hadn't heard of the French slang for good luck, (Y/N) couldn't believe it. She did have a fun time teaching him, though. 

"Thank you," she beamed, "I didn't think you'd remember—we talked about that at like four in the morning on a Wednesday." 

Harry only shrugged, a bashful smile on his lips as he dropped his gaze to their twined hands. "I've got a good memory." 

It was the way he looked at her through his lashes, the squeeze of his hand around hers, that carried with her even after they said goodbye and Harry waited for her to be safely tucked behind the stage door before going off in his own direction. Not even placing the straw to her matcha between her lips was enough to keep a smile from blooming across her features. 

"Hey," Lydia chirped, slowing down her bustling as she caught sight of (Y/N). Her gaze turned suspicious as she took in the light glowing through her expression. "What's got you all happy?" 

"Nothing," (Y/N) shook off, starting towards her dressing room on light feet. "Just excited for the show." 

"That's good," Lydia mused, clearly not believing (Y/N)'s words. "Good matcha at least? From Coco's?" 

"Oh yeah. No where else to get the right cherry foam that doesn't taste like cough syrup." 

Lydia fell into step with (Y/N) as they traipsed through the backstage area. "I thought you weren't going there for a while since you’re broke?" 

(Y/N) laughed at her words, remembering the exact day she had made the declaration after looking at her bank account after a night out. "Well, I didn't pay for this one so it doesn't count." 

"Oh?" Lydia trained her surprised gaze right on (Y/N)'s giddy smile. A slight narrow thinned her eyes. 

There was a part of (Y/N) that knew better than to start blabbing about Harry to each of the dancers. She'd seen first hand just how quickly news traveled amongst the cast—as well as just how long a rumor could linger within the company and be spread as fact.

But, (Y/N) knew she had nothing to be ashamed about. She knew the truth about Harry and the messy past he held. It wasn't so bad if the girls knew, she thought. If anything, maybe if the rest of the company could see there wasn't anything to be scared of when it came to Harry, it would lessen the claws that had hooked into him years ago. 

"Harry got it for me." 

As expected, Lydia's eyes widened, brows shooting halfway up her forehead. "Oh. I didn't know he was here already." 

"He drove me today actually." 

Lydia paused. "Is your car acting up again?" 

"No," (Y/N) chirped, stepping carefully over a set piece. "He just offered to pick me up today since we were going to the same place anyway." 

"Oh," Lydia parroted, the gears beginning to turn in her head as she shot (Y/N) a pointed look once they were outside of the dressing room door. "Are you guys... together? I know he's been around a lot more, but..." 

(Y/N) shrugged, absently taking a sip of her matcha, "I wouldn't say that. We are friends, though. He helped take care of me that weekend when I was sick." 

This seemed to be more than Lydia had hoped for when she started this line of questioning. (Y/N) caught the way she peered around them, spotting the stage hands on the other side of the stage before training her gaze pointedly on (Y/N).

"Is everything... okay? Are you okay?" 

(Y/N) blinked. She had counted on this being one of the questions, though that didn't really ease her any. "I'm fine—really. It's not really my story to tell," she started, lowering her voice, "but you guys do need to know you're wrong about Harry—about all of the rumors. I don't blame anyone for worrying or anything, but I promise you it's not at all like what people were saying. I really am okay." Lydia scanned her eyes down (Y/N)'s form as if to corroborate her story. (Y/N) tried her best not to be offended. "I just want you guys to give him a chance," (Y/N) pressed onward, "He's incredibly kind and very forgiving given the circumstances around here. It's really okay." 

Lydia rolled her lips between her teeth, dropping her gaze to the floor between them. A beat passed before she perked up again. "You understand how I feel too, though, right? How we all feel? Being nervous for you and everything." 

"Of course," (Y/N) chirped, a soft smile on her lips, "You just have to trust that I'm telling you the truth." 

"I do," Lydia immediately answered, nodding her head as if to self assure her words, "He has been really nice when he's hung around. I'll back off a little—sorry." 

"It's okay. That's all I'm asking," (Y/N) smiled, collecting her friend into a short hug before backing towards her dressing room. "Warm ups at four, right?" 

Lydia, eyes finally free of that lingering doubt, nodded her head. "Right." 

Sealing herself away with her matcha and tote bag in her dressing room, (Y/N) could only assume that her words would be spreading through the company soon enough. There would be a few messages from Siobhan and Kingston most likely, but she hoped this would only ease things for Harry. Even if a few less suspicious eyes landed on him, that would be enough, she thought. If only Lydia came out of this believing that (Y/N) knew better about these rumors, she'd take it. 

Anything to make things easier for Harry. Anything she could do for him.

—————

With Kingston holding her hand, (Y/N) was guided offstage as the raucous applause from the audience died down. The curtain had closed, leaving only a gauzy projection of the Swan Lake title card on the velvet. 

Another successful show. A breath of relief deflated (Y/N)'s chest. 

With each step they hustled back stage, stray flower petals fell from the fluff of her skirt, creating a trail that followed her through the set pieces. Kaleb—in full monster Rothbart regalia—followed behind them, decidedly less out of breath since getting to spend the final moments of the show pretending to be dead behind a cliff. With her own breathing finally regulating and the sound of the crowd outside waning, she turned to Kingston. 

"I'm so sorry I kicked you—I didn't think I was that close," she bubbled off, sure he could still feel the weight of her pointe shoe kicking at his shin during a twirl as the black swan. 

"You kicked me?" he questioned, blinking owlishly at her.

(Y/N) laughed, familiar with the game he was playing. "Stop it, I know you felt it. Do you think anyone else noticed?" 

"Maybe the tears in my eyes, but I'm sure they think I was just really into the story." 

"Stop," (Y/N) laughed again, collecting Kingston into a hug. "I really am sorry. I hope it doesn't bruise too bad." 

"It wasn't that bad," Kingston reassured her, dropping his playful act as he pulled away from their hug, "I really didn't feel it, and I doubt anyone noticed." 

"Let me know if it hurt later, though," she pressed, "I have a bunch of that lotion so I can give you some if you need." 

"It's fine, (Y/N). Really." Kingston flitted his gaze over her shoulder, spotting something in the way of her dressing room. "Besides, I think you'd got more exciting things to worry about tonight anyway. Hi Harry!" 

(Y/N) couldn't help the way she perked up, whipping her head around to find Harry standing at her dressing room door. A large bouquet of roses was tucked in his hands, petals a delicate pink with velveteen leaves of lambs ear stuck in between. Though he was still just as reserved as usual as the cast began pouring back in, a grin unfurled on his lips when he caught her eye. Though, he, of course, still politely waved at Kingston, keeping from shouting across the space. 

"Oh," she sounded, glancing back at Kingston though it was hard to take her gaze off of Harry for long. "I should... Do you think he's waiting for me?" 

"No, the pink roses and the ribbon with little swans on it is for me. Duh." 

Another peal of laughter came from (Y/N) as she playfully pushed her Prince Siegfried. "Shut up. I'll see you tomorrow." 

"See you tomorrow, babe." 

Kingston sent her off with a push to her back, flower petals falling from her flowing skirt as she bounced over to her Harry. A few stage hands and members of her wedge of swans stopped her to congratulate her on another successful show or to bid her a goodnight, though she wasn't the only one catching attention by her dressing room.

More than one cast member or production aide stopped to say hello to Harry. One of the swans, hairpiece already slipped off with a makeup wipe clearing away the feathers painted on her skin, even stopped to compliment Harry on the flowers and ask him if he was going to be in house again for tomorrow's show. Even from where (Y/N) was standing, still working her way over expensive set pieces and bundles of cords and ropes and light fixtures, she could tell Harry was taken aback. She could only imagine the stuttering response he gave and the polite thank you that followed, though the flowers were all the florist's work. Because he was a modest guy. Kind to a fault. 

It'd been only a week—only two days in theater with two extra rehearsal days at the studio—since (Y/N) had confided in Lydia. Though, that seemed to be just enough time for everything to be spread around like she hoped. Even time for opinions to be shifted and minds to be opened. 

By the time she made it over, (Y/N) had also discarded her hairpiece and attempted to brush all of the petals from her skirt. 

"Hey," she smiled, reaching for the door to her dressing room, "How did you get back here so fast?" 

"I know the stage manager," he teased, following after her into the quiet of the green room. 

"Right," she laughed, taking a seat at her vanity to start unlacing her pointes. "It looks like you made a few friends out there." 

Harry shrugged though there was a distinct flush touching his cheeks. "I don't know. I think everyone jus' liked the flowers I got for you." 

"Those are for me?" she sang, batting her eyelashes at him in faux-innocence. 

His grin only widened as he passed them along, the parchment paper crinkling under her hands. "I jus' found them on the way in. Didn't know what to do with them, so y'can have them I guess," he teased despite the bright eyes that watched for her reaction.

Touching her nose to one of the buds, (Y/N) pulled in a deep breath. The velveteen floral scent of the roses, backed by the slightly sweet scent of apples from the lamb's ear. The furls were soft under her touch, the fuzz on the lamb's ear feeling like a peach. 

"They're really beautiful, Harry. Thank you." She beamed up at him as she delicately examined the arrangement. A card placed securely amongst the flowers brandished a familiar, rudimentary drawing of a swan. Almost identical to the one she had tucked away at her house. 

While she hadn't ever doubted that those first flowers came from Harry, especially as the show went on for weeks without a single person claiming them. But this, the little sketch with blocky lines, was the confirmation she needed to send her heart soaring out of this theater and up to the stars. 

"'M happy y'like them," he murmured, growing shy with his knuckle coming up to nudge at the tip of his nose. He cleared his throat, a blush on his cheeks even as he steered the conversation elsewhere, "Did Ariel want to meet with you tonight?" 

(Y/N) shook her head, admiring her flowers still. "Not tonight. We're close enough to the end of the run that I think she just wants us to have fun." 

"That's good," Harry insisted, "Y'can have an early night then." 

Right, (Y/N) thought. All she needed to do was get unready and Harry would take her home until she would see him again tomorrow for the next show. Something in that thought dampened (Y/N)'s mood, picturing herself with her bouquet of flowers alone in her apartment. She was on too much of a high to end her night like that. 

While she didn't necessarily have the energy for a night out, having some company for a night in didn't sound so bad. 

Blinking up at him, (Y/N) wished she knew what he saw on her face that had his pupils dilating and mouth puffing into a small gape. 

"Are you doing anything tonight, Harry?" 

—————

Harry gaped, brow furrowed with chopsticks hovering in the air, up at her television screen. (Y/N) couldn't see a scrape of comprehension as he took in the film playing before them. 

"This is the movie that made y'want to be a ballerina?" 

(Y/N) let out a peal of laughter, pausing in her own take down of a spring roll. "Yes! Is that so hard to believe?" 

She followed his gaze to the bright t.v. The lights in her apartment had been dimmed to give the ambiance of a movie theater despite the less-than-movie-theater kind of budgeting that went into the film playing for them. The animation was rudimentary, blocky and singular in the details of the characters. Nonetheless, (Y/N) still admired the colors and the fluidity of the movements. The voices and scenes were a comfort, taking her back to a time when the world was everything and anything she wanted it to be. 

Including a dream to be a ballerina in her own Swan Lake. Just like Barbie. 

"Is this a real movie? In theaters and everything?" Harry pressed, still determined to figure out how a children's movie starring Barbie set (Y/N) off in her dreams to pointe across the boards herself. 

(Y/N) canted her head, rolling his question around. "I don't think it was in theaters, no. I think it was straight to DVD or something. I had the Barbie to match." 

Harry made a small huh as he took in the beginning scenes of Odette's story. It wasn't too different from what she acted out every weekend, though there were definitely a few discrepancies. Especially when it came to some of the child animals. And Rothbart's daughter. And the unicorn. 

Barbie was an original, what could she say? 

Nonetheless, (Y/N) was not immune to the nostalgia she felt watching the story play out and the feeling in her chest when the music played. 

"Will you just watch it, please? I'm letting you in on a secret, you know," (Y/N) playfully chided, bumping her shoulder to Harry's. "It's good, I promise. It has a better ending than our's anyway." 

"We'll see," Harry countered, though (Y/N) was sure she already won with the way he looked at her with a small smile. 

Silence settled between them as the movie went on, only being interrupted by Harry when he laughed at the serious moments with bad animation. Even that couldn't keep (Y/N) from falling into the scenes playing out in front of her. She enjoyed it too much, remembering her days of rewinding Odette's transformation into a swan, the nights she would spend staying up too late to learn the dances before her parents would hear her stomping around and send her to bed. There had been plenty of throw blankets that had been makeshift gowns, the fabric tied around her waist with a voluminous train as she twirled and twirled in her bedroom. (Until her gown would get twisted around her legs and send her off balance anyway). 

This movie was the reason she spent an adolescent birthday at the ballet, where she saw the real story with real Barbies and ballerinas and swans on stage. This was where she began her journey to where she was now. 

On screen, Odette and her Siegfried (aptly named Daniel, as Ken didn't really look like a Siegfried here) danced along the shore of the lake, looked on by the creatures of the forest as they fell in love with every step. This had always been one of (Y/N)'s favorite moments of the movie—the central love story coming together over the most beautiful of soundtracks. 

With his chopsticks picking through the carton of rice in front of him, Harry nudged her gently. "We tell each other secrets now, right?" 

"Of course," she muttered, shooting him a small smile, "I just told you my favorite movie is a Barbie movie from 2003, so we better be sharing secrets. I feel an uneven balance of embarrassment right now." 

Harry dropped his head, a lopsided smile on his lips as he looks to the grains of rice he was pushing around with his chopsticks. "'S—uh—... I know Kingston isn't interested—would never be—and I've gotten better about it since the show started running, but 's hard not to be a little... jealous when you're dancing up there with him."

It took less than a second for (Y/N) to hear his words, a moment to comprehend and register the meaning, but far longer to react. All she could feel was the flutter in her chest, the squeeze of her lungs. Her stomach even hurt with the way it was immediately full with something so warm and floaty and full. 

Jealous. Harry was jealous. Jealous of Kingston, who was not shy about his sexuality and how it very ardently did not include women. All because Kingston had the role of playing her love interest and got to dance with her. 

All because Kingston got to be close to her. 

Attempting to not look as giddy as she felt, (Y/N) absently poked at the last spring roll on her Styrofoam box. "Really?" 

Harry shot her a look from the corner of his eyes, the apples of his cheeks going pink in the limited light from the movie. "Yeah," he mumbled, "'S not serious or anything, but... yeah." 

"You know Kingston would never with me, right?" 

"I know, I know," Harry waved her off, forcing a short laugh out, "'S just—'M sure being up there with you... it's something special. 'S hard not to imagine... Nevermind." Cutting himself off, another short, airy laugh replaced Harry's voice as he shook his head. 

(Y/N) didn't know what she was feeling. How to describe the kind of energy coursing through her. She felt giddy and excited, eager to start an adventure that could last them all night. Though with all of that excitement, she felt knocked off balance. Butterflies bat at the chambers of her heart, but their wings anchored her to the ground instead of floating off into the sky. 

She just hoped, so badly, she wasn't reading this wrong. That Harry was saying what she thought he was. That he was confessing to a feeling she had wrapped up herself and put away for no one else to see. 

Forcing out a small laugh, she attempted to come off not nearly as giddy as she felt. Nudging his side, she dropped her gaze to his hands, too nervous to look at his face. "Ooh," she sang, a teasing sound that hid the tremor in her body, "You wanted to be close to me instead?" 

A single dimple dented Harry's pinked cheek as he looked at her. "You know that." 

She swallowed, mouth dry. "Do I?" 

Harry tipped his head, feigning thought as the movie scenes flashed across his face in strobes of pink and blue. "I guess I do give every dancer bouquets after every show, drive them around town, and text them all night long. I have been giving some mixed signals." 

A bubble of laughter burst out of (Y/N) then. Her skin warmed as he listed out all of these ways he'd been showing he cared for her. Wanted to be at her side. His teasing voice, the way he plays with her only made her that much more antsy sitting next to him. 

These moments—a confession of feelings, if that's what this was becoming—could be over Chinese takeaway and a childhood film. It could be with stray glitters stuck to her skin and fly away hairs that didn't quite have all of the gel brushed out. It could be with a bruised foot from the amount of fouettés she'd performed earlier in the night and Harry's placemat littered with stray grains of rice from the amount of times he lost control of his chopsticks. It could be with dried roses pinned to her walls and Tupperware she'd been meaning to return to the owner. 

"Maybe," she started, speaking through her smile, "you just have to be a little more clear." 

Harry looked at her then, lilypad green flecked with specks of warm gold. The space between their cushions suddenly seemed too big. Too wide for what she wanted. 

It was hard to tell with the way her thoughts tangled and diverged all at once, just who closed the distance first, but that didn't really matter when the end result came with her lips pressed to his. 

It was sweet and careful the way he pressed into her, the ridges of his mouth lining up with hers as if made to fit. Dinner was pushed to the side in favor of reaching for one another, chopsticks rolling to her rug. Harry held her steady with his hand on her cheek as he tipped his head just so, deepening their short kiss into something more languid. The tip of his nose glanced along her cheek, the touch eliciting a small smile on her puckered lips. 

Of course Harry felt it, pulling away just enough for the full of his mouth to still graze hers. His own lips upturned into a smile. "What?" 

"Nothing," (Y/N) giggled, reaching up to take his jaw in her hands, "Your nose just touched me—tickled." 

"Oh," he breathed, dotting a kiss to the corner of her mouth, "Sorry." 

"No, no," she shook off right away, chasing his mouth for another long kiss, "I like your nose." 

"Yeah? That's a new one." Her smile only widened when she watched him cross his eyes, scrunching his nose.

Tipping his head with her hands on his jaw, (Y/N) pressed a kiss to the tip of his scrunched nose. "It's a pretty nose." 

Harry didn't respond with words, only pulling her back to his mouth. Their lips slotted together with her bottom one between his two. It was sweet and new, both of them feeling out what the other liked with tips of their head and presses of their mouths. It'd been a while since she had a first kiss, but she didn't remember the learning phase ever being this thrilling. 

His stubble prickled under her hands as he pressed into her mouth that much more, feeling the give her lips underneath. The way his jaw worked as he kissed at her bottom lip, a slight draw of his tongue running along the pillow. There was nothing urgent about the way he tested the waters, tasting her kiss. Just the want to know her, to feel her, the way she was eager to know him. 

Harry was the first to draw back as the ending credits of the movie started playing. The flashes of white across the black screen shone over their features, glancing over the light in his eyes and the shine covering his mouth. The very tip of his nose now sported a stray fleck of glitter, no doubt caught from grazing her cheek. 

A bright smile bloomed across her lips. 

"What?" Harry asked again, the pad of his thumb running along her soft undereye. 

(Y/N) swiped at the glitter, removing the fleck from his skin. "Nothing. I just like your nose." 

He kissed her again. 

—————

     27 shows done, only 3 to go! Merde everyone! 

(Y/N) smiled at the mass text that was sent to the whole company from Ms. Ariel. This was the last week of the ten week run that their Swan Lake production had done, with only three more shows standing for the weekend. 

While this was now (Y/N)'s fifth production with the company, this final set felt so much more significant. Not only because she was the prima and would be retiring Odette after this Saturday night, but with everything she'd learned these last ten weeks. Not even including the months they spent rehearsing and preparing for the show in the first place.

She had been deemed principal worthy with this role. She had given the performance of a lifetime, enough so that people noticed and wrote articles. The success of the show was something she'd never seen coming. While she was no Misty Copeland, there were people who knew who she was and had come to the theater to see her dance. There were articles written praising the way she embodied her dream. It was a hard thing to let go of.

But, there was always Harry, she thought. Harry who was the reason her apartment was full of bouquets—both dried and fresh. Little cards congratulating her, singing her praises, or boasting an unskilled sketch were filling a drawer in vanity. Evidence of him came in the form of her Netflix history now being an amalgamation of their tastes thrown together. While she knew where her car keys were, there was no reason to look for them half the time when Harry was already waiting for her downstairs, ready to take her wherever she needed to go and make a day out of it. She no longer stuffed the feelings away when she was reviewing a manuscript and the male love interest's features suddenly resembled Harry in every way. 

Even the times at the theater before and after shows had shifted some. The thin ice Harry had been skating on when it came to the dancers and crew had melted away, leaving him on solid ground. While no one had made it as close to him as (Y/N), there were still more than a handful of dancers and crew members that no longer cringed or whispered when Harry came into the room. Instead, (Y/N) was proud to hear the greetings he would get, small talk always being extended to him even if he still grew bashful under the attention. 

Harry wasn't afraid to walk into the theater or studio with his hand wrapped in hers. The grand bouquets were always handed to (Y/N) with dancers coming by to praise the fragrance or the arrangement of colors. He didn't worry about anyone seeing her duck into his car after the night had ended. Things had brightened for him here. 

(Y/N) may be letting go of Odette, but she would always have this Harry. 

A service had been done to her that she had never seen coming. Only three shows left. 

—————

(Y/N)'s hand absently worried the strap of her tote bag hanging from her shoulder. She could feel the thread she was picking at beginning to loosen, and she knew she needed to stop. But if she stopped, she wouldn't have anything to concentrate on to keep her from crying. 

Ms. Ariel was standing in front of the company with the director, orchestra conductor, and the department heads as they gave their final night speeches. Even Harry was up there shadowed in the back, the face for all of the patrons that helped put the show on this season. 

It was something that happened every season as each run came to a close. (Y/N) had cried before their last show on her first production (a rendition of Magic Mirror with distinct Snow White elements. She had been a bunny), but she'd been able to be put together in the productions that followed. 

Until tonight. 

It hadn't felt real until she and the rest of the company were herded into the front of the house and sat in rows the same way they had been during their final meeting right before rehearsals had started for Swan Lake. Now, here they were with their send off for the season. Odette's final night on the boards. 

Siobhan reached over the arm rest and patted (Y/N)'s leg, a sympathetic smile on her face with her own eyes glossed with tears. (Y/N) couldn't look at her if she wanted to keep it together for a moment longer. 

Once the director took his step back, Ms. Ariel took the center stage. 

"I know we all have to start getting ready, so I won't keep any of you too much longer. Just know that this has been a bigger success than any of us had seen coming—all thanks to all of you. Without your help and hard work and love for the show, we wouldn't have made it so flawlessly through these ten weeks. This has been a one to remember and one that will set us up to be remembered. Merde!" 

A round of applause sounded through the theater as the cast and crew stood from their spots. Before long, as expected, a huddle formed in the main aisle. As with the end of every production, there was always a big group hug orchestrated right before everyone would scatter to put on the show for the last time. 

(Y/N) was readily pulled right in by the rest of the swans and Kingston, unable to keep her tears in this time. If anyone noticed as they all huddled in, no one said anything. Words of congratulations and gratitude were shared among the moving pieces that made the show possible, the murmurs roiling into a quiet purr in the middle of the theater. (Y/N), arms around Siobhan and Kingston, squeezed them tight. She could't wait to see who she was at the end of the next production.

Soon enough, Ms. Ariel dismissed everyone with the reminder that there was still work to be done. All of the fonding and celebrating was to be scheduled later tonight. 

—————

Patting a tissue under her eyes, (Y/N) could only halfway concentrate on catching the tear before it had a chance to ruin her makeup. The other half of her concentration was being spent on the next tear that was working its way out of her other eye. 

It'd been like this off and on since she started warm ups, this roller coaster of emotion following her through her hair and makeup, into costuming, and now when she typically flitted about the backstage area and chatted with her colleagues to keep her nerves down before the show. Instead, she was spending her final night as Odette hoping against all odds that no one would be able to spot the tear tracks in her makeup. 

A gentle knock came to the door of her dressing room. 

Swallowing around her dry throat, (Y/N) quickly patted around her eyes once more with a sniffle of her nose before calling out, "Come in!" 

Instead of Ms. Ariel or Kingston being unveiled behind the door, Harry stepped in. He was clad in one of his signature suits, the creamy sage color tailored to the contours of his frame with a black button down stitched underneath. The hue made his eyes impossibly brighter as they landed on her, a look of sympathy landing on his features. 

"Y'alright?" 

That was all it took before she was tearing up once more, voice thin. "Yeah, j-just excited." 

"Oh, love," Harry crooned, passing the room to her vanity in quick strides. Before even her first tear fell, he had her gathered in his arms. "I know," he murmured into her slicked back hair, "I know." 

"I don't know why I'm so emotional," (Y/N) blabbered, doing her best to keep her face angled just right so she didn't blink away her mascara. 

Harry only squeezed her tighter. "This show meant a lot to you, that's okay. You're allowed to be sad 's over." 

"But," she breathed, taking a moment as her voice shook, "But, it's not like I'm not going to be in more shows. I-I just feel silly." 

"I wouldn't," Harry said, pulling away from her to get his eyes on her own, "This was big, and y'did so amazing. I don't think any of our shows have ever been so positively reviewed until you. You're going to have more opportunities like this, but that doesn't mean y'can't be sad that this one is over. 'M going to miss this too, you know." 

"Really?" she sniffled. 

"Oh yeah," Harry smiled, thumbing at a tear under her eye, "Y'made this one of m'all time favorites, love. 'M going to miss seeing y'be the best swan ever up there, but I know this isn't going to be your last time as the prima."

"I hope not," (Y/N) laughed, the sound watery and thin. 

"'M far from the only person so impressed by you. You'll have more moments like this, (Y/N). But 's okay to be sad that this one is over." 

(Y/N)'s bottom lip wobbled, another round of tears collecting in her waterline. "Thank you, H."

A small smile graced his features before he pulled her in for another hug. "I've got you, love. Always." 

She didn't let him go until they heard the first notes of the prologue on stage. 

—————

Lifted over Kingston's head, (Y/N) let her tears freely fall as Odette. A blissful afterlife with her Prince laid before her while all of her cursed swans were left to freely roam in their original forms. 

Tonight, these crystalline tears had little to do with the love bursting from Odette and much more to do with the gratitude in (Y/N). She would never have another night exactly like this again, with these exact people and this exact audience. She couldn't keep her eyes from sweeping across every face every time she twirled out. 

Though it was hard to keep from falling into the pattern of looking right up on the balcony. Right where Harry sat, his own eyes glossy as he gazed down at her so adoringly. 

With her arms raised around her, (Y/N) floated like a swan over the boards, a beaming smile on her lips with her eyes fluttered to a close. 

—————

Still in her bow, the curtains dropped over the entire ensemble gathered on stage. Ms. Ariel and the other department heads still had their bundles of flowers clutched to their chests—all gifted by the cast and crew—even when the only stage light could be seen peering under the hem of the heavy velvet curtain. 

The final set piece for the story—the glade with which a finally human Odette and Siegfried danced together for a blissful eternity—was frozen in time around the. Stray flecks of faux-snow and glitter from the costumes littered the boards, all complimented by stray feathers scattered about. Flowers still littered the stage that had been thrown at their feet. The limited light from under the curtain bounced across the final moments of this set's life. 

Another set of tears touched (Y/N)'s eyes, tears she saw mirrored in Kingston's gaze when he looked down at her. A bright smile took over his features before he pulled her in for a hug. It wasn't long before the rest of the cast and crew were there in the huddle with her. This group huddle felt tighter and warmer than the pre-show snuggle, leaving (Y/N) to feel every bit of the drop now that she was leaving the stage as Odette for the last time. 

(Y/N) could have stood there for hours before Ms. Ariel, her voice coming from somewhere in the crowd, reminded everyone of the group reservations that were made for later in the night. A post production celebration that occurred after every wrapped run, though this one felt particularly special for (Y/N). 

At that, the group scattered, dancers moving to change out of costumes and crew working to break down the sets. (Y/N) and the swans stayed in their costumes as long as they could, flitting about to help take down the glade and stack away the rest of the pieces until a new home could be found. Flower petals and feathers followed their steps, flecks of glitter marking who had helped where until the stage was back to a base of brown boards with bare bones behind the curtains. The audience had long since gone home by the time (Y/N) made her way to her dressing room, deigning herself to shed her Odette costume at last. 

Sitting at her vanity, she spotted Odile's tutu hanging on the rack behind her. The black jewels gleamed. around the onyx feathers, sending shadowy rainbows over the long tulle skirt of the human Odette dress. Her toes went numb just looking at the black pointes strung up next to Odile.

(Y/N) was going to miss her, too.

The last look at swan Odette came in the form of the costume being strung up on the padded satin hanger, laid against the plain wood of the dressing room door. The tutu sparkled even under the low lights, matching the stray shimmer that stuck to (Y/N)'s skin. She hoped she would have a hard time ridding herself of the sheen. 

A knock came on her door, jostling her costume. The tutu flounced at the contact, a small smile drawing on (Y/N)'s features at the sight. Just like when she twirled and jumped. 

"Yes?" she called, pulling Odette off of the small hook embedded on the door.

As expected, Harry was unveiled as he pushed open the door, a shy smile on his lips. "Doing alright?" 

"Yeah," (Y/N) chirped, her own features twisting into a smile. "I'm not crying anymore, if that's what you were wondering." 

Harry cooed at her, his smile turning upside down into a sympathetic frown. "Love, that's making me sad. Don't say that." 

"I'm sorry," she laughed, bagging up the outfits just as the costume department requested, "But it's true. I think I'm all done, though. I'm going to miss it but at least I have all the videos and things to look back on. Maybe in a couple of years I'll try to convince Ms. Ariel to do the show again." 

"I don't think that'll be very hard," Harry mused, holding out his hand as she approached him. "Do we need to take those anywhere?" he asked, jerking his chin towards her costume rack. 

(Y/N) shook her head, looking forlornly towards the covered outfits. "Lea said we could leave them wherever tonight." 

Lacing his fingers with hers, he matched her gaze with his lilypad eyes. "Did y'want to get out of here, or do y'want to take one last look around before?" 

Brightening at the suggestion, (Y/N) peered around him out to the empty backstage. "Are we allowed to do that?" 

He shrugged, "I have a key." 

As if that proved anything, (Y/N) thought. Nonetheless, she eagerly nodded at his idea. 

With their hands twined, Harry carefully guided her over the stray set pieces stacked on top of one another, ropes and cords and light fixtures being avoided as well. Until they were stepping out on stage. 

The house lights were still on, leaving the rows and rows of seats exposed. All empty. Though it appeared someone tried to clean up the stage, there were still lone feathers and flakes of fake snow stuck in the grooves of the wood. 

Without the sets, the stage didn't look all that important. Without her costume and the watchful eyes of her audience, there was the facet of being the prima (Y/N) no longer had. 

But that feeling in her chest hadn't changed. It wasn't hard to call forth those memories in her tutu with admirers watching every lithe move of her body and strong push of her legs. It felt wonderful—full of wonder, to be specific.

"So this is what y'see every night," Harry mused at her side, gaze cast far out to the back of the theater. "How do y'do it?" 

(Y/N) hummed, bright smile on her lips. "I usually just kind of focus up there. It makes it a lot easier." 

Pointing to a specific balcony, (Y/N) waited as Harry followed the line of her hand. It didn't take long before pink was staining his cheeks and the tops of his ears, a bashful smile on his lips. 

"Every night?" 

"Every night." 

She wondered if Harry was realizing just how many faces she saw each evening while spinning and twirling on her toes. How easy it would have been to pick a new one each time to focus on, beam her smile or direct her frown to. Instead, she always came back to him. Even before their time together became something tangible. 

Using her grip on his hand, (Y/N) tugged her towards him, growing antsy under the silence after her small confession. "Come here. Dance with me." Harry blanched at her request, earning a bubbling giggle from her. "You've seen the show enough to know the dance," she pressed, already hooking his hand over her ribs the way Kingston did earlier in the night. 

"I don't know, (Y/N)" he countered though he didn't stop her from moving his hand wherever she wanted, "We don't even have the music. We'll lose count." 

"I'll hum it for you, it's fine." When he didn't look particularly convinced, she fluttered her lashes up at him. "You said you wanted to be Kingston sometimes, right? Here's your chance." 

Unsurprisingly, Harry blushed at her poking, though it did seem to work with the way he solidified his grip on her. "Um, is this before or after y'jump off the cliff?" he murmured once (Y/N) hummed the promised song. 

"After," (Y/N) laughed, dropping her hands to his shoulders, "This is the epilogue." 

Despite the small panic that was brewing in his eyes, Harry did let a small smile slip. "I do like the epilogue." 

"Really?" she asked, leading them in rudimentary steps that had them spinning in a slow circle. Without pointes, some of the moves would be impossible, but hopefully Harry wouldn't mind the difference. 

He nodded. "Y'look the happiest then." 

(Y/N) held that thought with her as she let her features mold into a grin. Harry allowed her to lead them as they moved across the boards in clunky steps. It was far from the scene critics raved about, but it may be (Y/N)'s favorite rendition she'd ever been a part of. 

Harry held her close, keeping her steady as she got ambitious and split her leg up high behind her. The form was wobbly through her sneakers, but he still looked at her in awe as she barely twirled. 

"Ready for a big one?" she asked, twirling back into his chest. 

"What big one?" 

"The lift, remember?" (Y/N) could only laugh when the color seemingly drained from his face. "It'll be fine, just hold me." 

Though he needed a bit of instruction on where exactly to hold her—tight around her waist, high enough that he could feel her ribs under his palms—he did as instructed without a qualm. On a three count, Harry lifted her over his head, leaving her to do as Odette with her legs extended into a split. It lacked a bit of the drama that the fluttering skirt reserved for Odette's afterlife had, but it worked fine enough in her tights. 

She continued to hum the song for Harry, even when she peeked down at him, only to find him looking up at her so adoringly. She hadn't been aloft for very long before Harry was carefully lowering her to him once more. Her body brushed along his with the slow movement, the thin cover of his black button up doing little to hide the ridges of muscles that blocked his abdomen. The strength in his hands, muscles corded up his arms and strapping across his shoulders kept her steady, even as she wrapped her legs around his hips once she was level with him. He didn't stop her as the soft of her thighs closed around his middle, ankles crossed at his back. He only pulsed his hands around her waist, the green of his eyes deep enough to suck her in when she dared to meet them

The song died in (Y/N)'s throat. This was a different number, one not performed on the stage for others to see. One that she didn't perform with Kingston—not with the way her breath grew a bit more shallow. 

Her hands on his shoulder shifted until they were coasting up the sides of his throat, thumbs touching the hinge of his jaw. Harry's own hands moved until he formed a bar with his forearm across her back and another hand rounded under her thighs. She didn't direct him into any other moves despite the both of them knowing this was far from the production's choreography.

Harry's throat bobbed as he swallowed, his gaze dropping from hers only to land on her lips.

Surging forward, (Y/N) had a stray thought hoping that he didn't mind the taste of her stage lipstick. If she had known this was how she was going to spend the prelude to dinner, she may have actually wiped her makeup off. Though she didn't let that stop her from letting Harry suck her bottom lip between his two, getting a taste of her mouth. 

There was something more urgent to this contact that hadn't been there the other times they'd locked lips. Harry pushed that much harder, pressing into her lips as if wishing to leave his indent. He didn't care when the tip of his nose smushed into her cheek or grazed the bridge of his own when he canted his head just right. Puffs of breath fanned between them the few seconds they broke apart. Moving distractedly, (Y/N) ran her fingers through the waves of hair framing his face, pushing back the baby hairs that tickled her skin. 

Without thinking, she curled her fingers in the strands, pieces getting caught in the fray until a light tug was delivered to the roots. A low, rumbling moan escaped Harry, dripping over her mouth. 

(Y/N) sucked in a breath at the sound, thighs pulsing around his middle. Had he always done that when she ran her fingers through his hair? Or was this new? 

Before much more jumbled contemplation could occur, Harry pulled away. His typically pink cheeks were branded a warm red, lips swollen and spit slicked. He loosened his hold on her, signaling her to land safely on the floor. 

"We—um—we should get with the others," he said, the suggestion coming out uncertain. 

She lagged in response. Dinner was quite possibly last in line of her needs at the moment. Though this prioritized need was new—added to the list only within the last handful of minutes as she felt the stretch of his body against her own—it felt terribly important compared to everything else. 

Nonetheless, (Y/N) nodded her head, knowing they both had a responsibility to show face at this dinner. 

"Right," (Y/N) muttered, sounding just as unconvinced as he was, "Right." 

Harry's hand stayed tight in hers as he escorted her out to his car. 

—————

"Ms. Ariel, can we do Midsummer's Night Dream for the summer production?!" 

Kingston's tipsy outburst had come after prodding from many of the swans, who were also on the same level as him if the empty drink glasses were anything to go off of. (Y/N) watched in amusement as Ms. Ariel peered down her nose over to where Kingston was standing up from their table. 

"Maybe." 

(Y/N) was sure that when Kingston groaned and fell back into his chair, laughter from the dancers around him erupting, that this had been just the reaction Ms. Ariel had been going for. As stoic as she could be, she had a had time biting back her smile with her own margarita half drunk in front of her. 

"Is that the third time he's asked for a different show?" Harry murmured into (Y/N)'s ear, too quiet for the rest of the guests at the table to hear. 

"The fourth," she corrected, turning until her lips were level with his ear, "I'm pretty sure we are doing Midsummer's Night Dream though. She has to be messing with him."

Harry let out a soft laugh at her whispers. "'M sure of it." 

Leaning back in her chair, she watched the rest of the show move on around them. She and Harry had been the last to arrive to the dinner reservations, leaving them to catch up to the room that was already buzzing with post-show energy. Gone were the weeping and tear tracks, now was the time for speculating about the future and raving about the time had on and off stage during the Swan Lake  run. 

Once butting into their saved chairs with the rest of the swan wedge and Kingston, (Y/N) had soaked it all in, feeling a sense of deja vu to a night so similar to this ten weeks ago. Though this time, she was much more sober and Harry hadn't had to be dragged to her side. Instead, she had stuck right with her the whole night, keeping a hand on her knee even as he was pulled into different conversations with members of the cast and crew. 

Despite her mind being tugged into the memory of whatever it was that had threaded between them on stage at the theater, this was a welcome distraction. This was all (Y/N) had hoped for when she started sprinkling in her defenses of Harry to the company: for him to be given a chance. Though the taxes of being a social butterfly came with more effort than she was sure he had planned on expending tonight. 

While everyone was fixed on the game being planned between Kingston and Ms. Ariel, (Y/N) leaned across Harry to reach for the glass of wine they had agreed to share for the evening. She pressed her lips to the rim where her lipstick mark—though faint given the fact much of it had been rubbed off not too long ago—taking a sip with the weight of Harry's eyes on her. 

"Hm?" she hummed, bouncing her brows above her head as she caught Harry's gaze. 

With a blink of his dark lashes, Harry shook away the gloss that had formed over his eyes. "Nothing, sorry. How are you feeling?" 

His question came with a squeeze of his hand over her knee, the fabric of her sweats giving against the pad of his thumb. 

"Tired," she admitted, rolling her neck, "I think the last ten weeks are starting to set in a little." 

"Yeah?" he pressed, a furrow in his brow, "Anything hurt?" 

"Not yet, but that'll happen in the morning I'm sure." Nothing quite like finding immaculately colored bruises all over your feet after having the time of your life the night before. She would gladly be taking these next two weeks of break to soothe her limbs.

"Is there anything I can do to make it better?" Harry asked, mouth still in a frown though there was something brighter floating in his eyes as they scanned over her form. 

(Y/N) rolled her lips between her teeth. She had an idea, though it didn't necessarily have much to do with avoiding any aches in the morning. It would make her feel better though—possibly even ready her to see the day tomorrow. 

If he wanted to anyway. 

She had paused long enough that Harry flitted his gaze back up to her own. That brightness she had spotted looked a bit more like a warmth now that he wasn't shying away from her gaze—a smoldering burn behind the moss of his irises. 

"Did you have to go back home tonight?" she started with, a lilt to her voice as if she weren't leading into taking him home with her. 

Surely, he had to have felt the same way on the stage as she did. Right? Otherwise he wouldn't have kissed her the way he did, held her so tight against his body, dent the soft of her waist with his fingertips as if to keep him under her skin forever. 

Harry shrugged. "Not really. Why?" 

A soft smile curled her lips as she gazed at him, her lashes creating a frame around his face. "Did you want to come back to mine instead? We can watch some more movies." 

He let out a laugh at her movie suggestion, the activity growing into an excuse to get him in front of her television before she showed him a movie he'd never heard of from her childhood. 

This time it was him reaching for the wine glass, peering at her from the corner of his eye as he pressed the rim to his lips. Right over the print of her lipstick. He took down the rest of the alcohol, the last two gulps staining the center of his mouth a soft red. 

The sight mimicked the freshly kissed pout she had given him in the theater. 

"I think we could do that," he nodded, glancing at the time on his phone, "Ready to go now, or want to wait a little?" 

Casting her eyes around the room, (Y/N) could see the way everyone was still entrenched in the energy of a newly closed show. So many of the girls were still clad in their swan accessories, some with feathers still drawn in white paint across their cheeks. Even the backstage crew wasn't immune to the fun of the night, specks of glitter and fallen snow having clung to their clothing. The department heads and Ms. Ariel were even in their own eased bubble, different from what the start of the production run did to them. 

It was a perfect night. The right ending to one of the most memorable runs she was sure to ever have. 

And (Y/N) was ready to go home. 

She looked at Harry with a barely stifled grin. "I'm ready." 

—————

(Y/N) sighed as she ran her fingers through her hair. The damp strands were finally free of the layers of gel taming them away during her performance, and the tension headache she was getting had finally ceased. The warm water of her shower had done wonders to loosen her muscles and make her feel real again. 

Finishing with rubbing lotion into her hands, she left her bedroom to find harry just where she left him on her couch. On the television there was a movie playing, though it didn't seem he was paying much attention to any of the scenes. Instead he was wrapped up in a binder clipped bundle of pages splayed open in his lap. 

"Is that one of my manuscripts?" she asked, dumping her used towels and dirty clothes into her hamper. 

Harry, with a furrow in his brow and fist under his chin, nodded his head. "Yeah. This is the one y'were telling me about the other day?" 

"No, that was a different one. I just got that one this morning before I left." 

(Y/N) felt a bit restless as she watched him on her couch. It would be annoying in any other context, but him being sat there with his legs spread wide, his pistachio colored trousers stretched over his thighs. He made himself at home right in the middle of the sofa, taking up space with his broad shoulders. The look on features was tense, concentrating fully on the manuscript in his hands as if it were a thesis paper. She wondered if this was what he was like when he was working, looking over the financials or critiquing art he wanted to buy for the galleries. She wondered if Harry knew that some of the reason people were so intimidated by him was because he was just really hot; it was hard to interact with him normally. 

Not for the first time, she thought about what it would be like to tag along with him to those visits to his properties. She was so used to seeing Harry bashful and letting her make way for him in the world of ballet, she wanted to see what he was like when he was in his chosen environment. When he was the one that held the knowledge and connections and confidence. 

The ghost of his hand on her leg, the way he had held her when taking Kingston's place on stage, the sight of him pressing his lips to the same spot she had sipped from the wine glass—it all lingered over her. There was a pitch in her stomach that tightened and hadn't loosened through the night. It made her skin crawl, every cell seemingly urging her next to him; to convince him to get his hands on her once more, his lips on her own.  

Realizing she had been staring at him for far longer than would be appropriate even if he was her bonafide boyfriend, (Y/N) shook her head, blinking away from him. She took her time heading towards the kitchen and filling her water. She should be too tired to even be thinking like this—to be rubbing her thighs together and spreading her fingers through her hair as if they were as satisfying as Harry's touch. She had just concluded a ten week run in her dream role, she should be exhausted, not verging on needy. 

Clearing her throat, (Y/N) called over her shoulder, feigning nonchalance, "Did you want any water? Or did you already get yourself something to drink?" 

A beat passed with no response. 

"Harry?" she tried again.

"Hm?" he answered, shifting in his spot though a glance in his direction granted only a view of the back of his head. He was still reading. 

"I asked if you wanted something to drink," she repeated through an amused smile. 

"'M alright, love. Thank you, though." 

With her own cool bottle in hand, (Y/N) gave in and crossed her apartment to settle into the cushion beside him. As predicted, the manuscript was laid out in his lap, with a heady amount of pages already turned. 

"Is it any good?" she asked, attempting to peer over his shoulder to see what exactly had taken his attention, "I don't even remember the description of it that the publisher sent over." 

"'S... something," Harry mused, clearing his own throat as he peeked at her from the corner of his eye, "Have y'read it at all, yet?" 

A pinch formed between her brows at the vague review he gave to something he couldn't seem to put down. "No," she started, "Is it weird, or something?" 

Harry rolled his lips between his teeth. "I wouldn't say weird, jus' not what I was expecting from something called"—he flicked to the plain white page acting as the cover—"In The Margains. I thought these people were supposed to be librarians." 

The pinch in (Y/N) expression only deepened at the extra information Harry prattled on about. Sidling up next to him, she got a clearer view of the typed passages open in front of him. 

     Reid hoisted me onto his lap, strong hands holding the swell of my ass tight. He tugged me tight to his chest. The feel of his starched shirt against my breasts was a stark reminder that he was clothed and I was not. I was at his mercy, the twinkling stars I could spot through the skylight were silent observers to my submission. 

     "You like being my whore? Is that why you're so wet, Maggie?" His voice was as rough as his touch as his hips shifted under mine. Goosebumps textured my skin as I clung to him. He took my silence as an answer enough, amusing enough for him to smirk at me. "You think everyone would still think you're nothing but a cute little librarian if they knew you've been letting me in after hours just to fuck you against the shelves?" 

     I moaned. 

(Y/N) stopped reading then, unable to go any further when she could feel the way her cheeks were heating up. This was definitely not what was included in the blurb the publisher had sent over—she would have remembered. 

She felt embarrassed as if she had been the one to write this kind of smut, taking the manuscript from Harry's hands. He let her flick through the pages he'd already passed, spotting much of the same occurring so early in the story. She could only imagine what kind of development was created through the rest of the pages. 

"I am so sorry," she bubbled, frantically taking the pages away with the rest of the manuscripts she was in the process of reviewing and editing. "I had no idea that it was that kind of story. I wouldn't have left it out for you." 

She couldn't help the air of laughter clinging to her words, the sound lacking humor when she felt so awkward. 

Interrupting her rush to reorganize and somehow hide what he had already seen, Harry dropped a hand onto her own. She stilled under his touch, letting him collect her until she was settled once more against the cushions and Harry was carefully holding both of her hands in one of his.

"'S okay," he insisted, a faint smile on his features, "I don't know why you're getting all upset. 'S fine, love; 'm not mad if that's what you're thinking. I don't mind if those are the things y'read, I jus' wasn't expecting it. That's all." 

(Y/N) opened her mouth before closing it before anything could escape. She felt like a guppy, mouth dry and gaped as she tried to speak. 

"They're not all like that," she settled on, mumbling the insistence, "You know that." 

"I know," Harry laughed, clearly not as disturbed by his discovery as she was, "But it would be fine if they were. I don't know why you're all flustered." 

(Y/N) blinked, lashes fluttering as she fixed her gaze on their folded hands. For some reason, being on the boards of the stage, if Harry had picked up on the direction of her thoughts, it didn't feel so bad. She was already so used to performing when she was up there. But here, in her apartment with her full laundry hamper and mismatched—though still pink for the most part—decor, it felt so much more vulnerable. If he knew what was in her head here, it would be real. She wouldn't be making a show of it, using the confidence of a spotlight and predetermined choreography. Every move would be her own doing. 

If he knew that she'd made a bit of a habit of seeing his face as the love interest in her manuscripts, it wouldn't be because of a script or a plot line. It would be because she saw him in everything and wanted those intimate moments with him. 

"I don't know," she got out, a light-hearted laugh accompanying the words though she felt far from light. 

Harry shifted in his spot, his grip on her hands moving until he was using it to tug her into his lap. (Y/N) moved pliantly, eager to be in his arms and hide her face against his throat. He may be able to feel the heat emanating from her cheeks that way, but at least he wouldn't be able to see her face and the open book her expressions were. 

He smoothed his hand over her drying hair, toying with the ends while his other arm created a bar around her back. He held her close to his chest, so similar to the way he had back at the theater. Though this time, the thin bed shirt she wore was little protection as her breasts squeezed against the planes of his chest, the buttons of his suit jacket denting her softened skin. 

"I thought it was nice, you know," Harry prattled, his voice a low mumble the same volume as the quiet movie on screen. "The book." 

(Y/N)'s features twisted up where she was hiding in his neck. She felt him laugh more than she heard it, surely able to feel her reaction. "You think so?" 

"That part was a little intense," he clarified, "But the rest of it wasn't so bad. They seemed very in love at least. He took care of her." 

The rumble of his chest against her was a surprisingly comfort that had her limbs loosening. She could equate it to the roll of a car coasting down a straight shot, leaving her to daydream out the back window and settle into the upholstery. 

She did the same in Harry's lap. Her thighs bracketing his hips curled tighter around him, holding her closely as the knobs of her spine relaxed. She fell against him, her body conforming to his own. 

"You think so?" (Y/N) mumbled into his neck.

His hand on her back ran up the length of her spine, fingers gently denting the flesh. He hummed, another calming feeling that had her burrowing closer. "I do." He paused, throat bobbing next to her face. "She kind of reminded me of you a little." 

"Really?" 

"Mhm. She was sweet," he mused, his hand returning to her hair as he tucked through the strands to graze the back of her neck, "Took care of her friends. Talked a lot,"—that was said with amusement, enough so that had (Y/N) laughing into his neck even as she scolded him with a Heyyy—"I pictured her as you." 

A smile lingered on her lips even as she registered what he was saying. Harry had cutely pictured the main character of the manuscript as her. Did that include the more scandalous pages he perused? 

The idea had that tightening in her stomach returning with all of the force that had waned as they talked. She hoped he didn't notice the way her thighs pulsed around his hips. 

While (Y/N) couldn't quite see Harry as that particularly main character, he was a regular in her casting calls for these books. 

Grateful for her hiding place, she let the words fall out. "I've pictured you before. For my books." 

His hand in her hair stuttered. "Yeah?" 

She nodded against his throat. "Yeah. For most of them, actually." 

A beat passed. Harry's chest rose against hers in a heavy breath. 

"Even for—um—books like that?" 

If his murmured question wasn't enough, the shifting of his hips under hers made it abundantly clear what Harry was going for with his line of questioning. Through the threadbare material of her bottoms, she could clearly feel the outline of something more pressing against her from Harry's lap. More than just the square of his phone or the stiff form of his zipper. 

(Y/N) couldn't find words. Instead, she nodded quietly into his neck. 

His hand coasting through her hair found the back of her neck once more. Instead of a grazing touch, he gently cupped the nape and pulled her away from his own throat. He peeled her off of his chest just far enough to look at her clearly, even if (Y/N) could only manage to make eye contact with his nose. 

"(Y/N)." 

"Hm?" 

His hand on the back of her neck tightened just enough, a pulse on the soft skin. (Y/N) flicked her eyes up to his finally. Blown pupils and a thin ring of forest green met her head on. 

"What were y'thinking when we were back at the theater?" 

Her breath caught. He wouldn't be asking if he didn't already have an idea. That was why he didn't look much surprised when she shared one word: 

"You." 

"I kind of hoped so," he smiled, dipping his head until their foreheads rested against one another, "What about me?" 

The way he looked at her felt akin to an adoring audience member, waiting for the show of a lifetime. The kind of breathtaking moments that would linger with him for much longer than the duration of the show. Just like the way he had up in his balcony. 

"Um," she started, tapping into a small reserve of that spotlight confidence to keep her form completely clamming up, "Just you. The way you were holding me. I could feel a lot of you when you helped me down, and it was... I liked it. Being close to you like that." 

His hand on her back turned steely, pushing her heavily against his chest. His nose bumped hers, something that had her core tightening instead of an affectionate smile blooming on her lips.

"Like this?" he prodded.

While (Y/N) was used to feeling strength and lithe muscles on her fellow dancers, specifically the male ballerinas that were trained to lift her over their heads and to launch themselves over the stage in barreling moves. But this was different. Harry didn't have to worry about his muscle mass limiting his flexibility. He was able to be strong and hard, with cut lines and sharp edges. 

It was nice. Very, very nice. 

"Yeah," she breathed, her eyes hooded as she tipped her head just right. 

The full of her lips had only a moment to graze against Harry's before he was finishing the job. That same urgency that had filled their kisses on stage had returned, filling the indents and ridges of her lips with his own. She could feel the way they swelled some against his kissing, only for his tongue to swipe out and soothe the irritation. 

She didn't hesitate to part her lips for him, feeling his tongue sweep through her mouth. It was far from the first time they had made out like teenagers, but there was something more to every pressing and parting of their mouths. Heavy breaths fanned out between them, too busy tasting and trying each other to pull apart for air. The soft smacks of their lips meeting and departing filled the quiet of her living room. 

(Y/N) wound her arms around Harry's neck, shuffling her that much closer to him. There were only mere inches of her body that weren't feeling some part of him. She could feel the hard lines of his body, the way his muscles moved under his skin with the express purpose of holding her. 

Between her thighs and under the heat collecting at the apex, (Y/N) could feel that hard ridge she had only grazed before. His cock pressed against the flimsy middle of her sleep shorts, the material beginning to soak as she had forgone underwear when readying out of the shower. (Her past self had such good hindsight, Present (Y/N) could have cried had she not been busy). 

Before she was aware of herself, she was rolling her hips against his. His hand on her back and her own arms around his neck had her torso stationary against his, leaving her hips to move as she so pleased against him. The angle of his cock was just so that (Y/N) felt the ridges of his zipper hitting her clit.

The sensation was enough to have a breathy moan falling from her mouth. Harry eagerly consumed it, kissing her that much harder as he let her have her way for a moment. 

His nose knocked into hers as he pulled away, his lips trailing over the apple of her cheek and down the line of her jaw. He couldn't get enough of her, even when his chest was heaving, searching for air. 

"(Y/N)?" he crooned. A wordless nod of her head told him she was listening. "Wh-What do y'want tonight?" 

"You—" 

"I know, love," Harry pressed, drawing away to meet her eyes once more, "I know, but what from me? I-I don't want to do anything y'don't want." 

It took her a breath to tap into her rational brain. What did she want tonight? 

(Y/N) guppied before him, mouth opening without a word before falling closed again. 

A soft smile took Harry's swollen lips. "Can I tell y'what I want?" 

She nodded, fingers curling against his back.

He didn't drift his eyes from her, even when a soft flush covered his neck and worked up his features. "It's been a while since I've done anything... like this. ‘M worried I don't even remember how." 

Despite the breathy laugh he let out, (Y/N) face twisted into a frown. "Don't say that," she whined, "You're doing perfect. I'm having a great time." 

That was enough to have a bright laugh filling his chest—dimples, bunny teeth and all. (Y/N) couldn't help but to match his beaming smile as he tightened his arms around her in a clinging hug. The innocent contact grounded her as he spoke. 

"That's good, love," he said, pecking a kiss to the bridge of her nose, "I jus' want to take care of you, 's all 'm trying to say. If 'm a little lost, forgive me, but I promise 'm trying."

(Y/N)'s lips fell into a pout as she listened to him. That wasn't at all what she was expecting him to say. Almost at the very bottom of the list of options she could think of. 

"Harry," she cooed, craning her neck to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, "Stop." 

"Stop what?" he laughed, chasing after her kiss. 

"You're going to make me cry, and that's not sexy." 

Stealing the kiss he had chased, Harry shrugged around her. "Depends on who y'ask actually," he mumbled just before pulling away, "But I don't want to see y'cry right now. It'll make me sad." 

"You're just cute, that's all," (Y/N) insisted, gentle smile on her lips, "I'm happy with anything you want. I trust you." 

Those seemed to be the exact words Harry wanted, his eyes softening as he gazed down at her. One of his hands slid over her body until it was cupping her cheek, the pad of his thumb running over her cheekbone. 

"I trust you too, love. Thank you." 

He dipped down then and smeared his lips over hers in a drawing kiss. (Y/N) gave into him without a thought, barely registering the way he was careful moving her over his lap until she sat with her legs on either side of one of his. 

Harry shifted underneath her, his thigh coming up to press heavily against her core. (Y/N)'s breath stuttered, her legs tightening around his own. A part of her didn't really understand why he had moved her so; she had been right over his cock before, what was the point of being moved away. Before she could thread together any coherent thought, Harry dropped a hand down to her hip and started egging her on to move against him. 

Her shorts did little to protect her as she was slowly dragged over the firm muscle of his thigh. The seaming of her bottoms pushed directly against her clit, with the heavy material of his trousers dragging against the sensitive inside of her thighs. It was a lot for being so little. 

She clung to Harry, letting him get her started on grinding down on his thigh. It didn't take long for her to start taking over, moving her hips at the pace that felt the best. Harry's hand stayed a perfect anchor on her hip, but she was the one keeping herself so crushingly close to him, that rutted against him without much coordination. If not for the way he captured her mouth in a searing kiss, she would have slumped against him as a whiny mess with nothing to keep her upright. 

"Harry," she murmured against his mouth, her hands gliding over his form until they were skating through his hair. 

"'M here, love," he crooned, buttoning his mouth to hers as a languid moan bubbled from her throat. He bounced his leg under her core, the motion bringing her high against his chest with her clit smushing headily against him. "I've got you, 's okay." 

"B-But," she started, only to have her voice go out when he rocked his leg once more. Rutting against his leg felt dangerously good given they were still in their clothes. True to his word, though, Harry kept his grip on her hip, his hand on her face looping around the back of her neck to keep her face titled against his lips. "But," she tried again, "But, you. Wh-What about you?" 

He shook his head. "I told y'what I wanted," he murmured, decidedly a bit breathless even without his own pleasure being the forefront. "I want to take care of you. This is what I want." 

"But—" 

Using his hand on the back of her neck, he pulled her mouth to his once more. Their noses knocked, (Y/N)'s lips parted with a moan as Harry licked into her mouth. It was a wonderful distraction—the kind that left her with swollen lips and a jumbled head. All while he kept her moving against his thigh, even when her own movements lagged in distraction. 

"This is what I want," he said again, this time the words dripping over her mouth, "Let me see y'feel good. I know you're gonna be so pretty when y'come on me, love. Let me see that." 

She would get him next time, she thought. She'd take care of him tenfold the next time. But right now, if what he wanted was to see her come and feel good all from the few touches of his thigh against her pussy, she was going to give him that. 

Their murmured words devolved into breathy sighs and moans that Harry swallowed, tongue tasting each of her cries of pleasure as if the sweetest wine. His mouth never strayed far from hers, though he didn't hesitate to drip his trail of kisses over her cheeks and jaw, down the curve of her neck. 

"C-Can you—" she panted, cut off by a messy kiss pressed to the center of her lips, "Can you do that thing? Please." 

She didn't have to see him to feel the lopsided curl of his lips. "What thing?" 

(Y/N) shook her head in an attempt to clear her mind. "You know. The thing—when you—against me." 

It was disjointed and breathless the way she talked. Words weren't coming to her as easily as the pacing of her hips. 

Harry drew back from her just enough to gaze up at her, his eyes dark and wide. He pulled his bottom lip between his teeth, the skin already flushed from the time spent pressed against hers. His cheeks were a warm red under his spray of freckles. 

Before she could whine about the space he was putting between them as he laid back against the cushion of her sofa, Harry bounced his leg between her thighs. It was just what she had been looking for, though he didn't stop with just the one. He made a rhythm with it, her clit hitting the corded muscles of his thigh, the material of her shorts completely soaked through and straining the harder she ground against him. 

"This?" he finally spoke, his hand on her hip wiggling its way under the hem of her top.

She frantically nodded her head, hands sliding down until they were braced against his shoulders. "Uh-huh." 

(Y/N) rocked against him with the added wave of his leg under hers in a near-frantic rhythm. She could hardly find her breath as she sat over him, thighs straining around him. From under the sound of her desperate breathing, the softest wet sounds came from between her legs.

"Harry, I—" she blubbered, eyes cinched shut. 

"I know," he crooned, his hand working up the hem of her top until he was touching the bare skin of her midriff. "Keep bouncing on me, love. You're close, huh?" 

"Yeah," she nodded, a moan forced out as a pit in her stomach opened up. It filled her middle, taking her breath away and sinking every coherent thought right into it. It only made her work herself harder against him, her clit surely swollen hidden behind the confines of her shorts. 

"Like a bunny," Harry prattled, words leaning into a slur. His eyes were wide as he looked at her, hands drifting up her side. "That's the first time I saw you, you know that?" 

"Wh-What?" she blubbered, a pinch between her brows. Did he expect her to have all cognitive function right now? When she had her head thrown back as he rocked his leg particularly hard under her. 

"Y'were a bunny last year. In the show," he elaborated, sentences broken and heavy as his hand grazed the swell of her breast. "All sweet with your little tail and ears. Y'were so excited every night. I couldn't stop thinking about y'for months." 

It was then that (Y/N) was able to recall a memory of herself prancing across the stage as Snow White's rabbit in last year's production. A grey tail had been pinned just above her bottom and ears were smoothed into her head. It wasn't an impressive role, leaving her time to join the ensemble and spend some time backstage even. But (Y/N) distinctly remembered how excited she was to be in her first role with the company, happy to be there every night even if she was on stage for less time than it took her to get her hair and make up. 

"Y-you remember that?" she breathed, grip on his shoulders tightening with her nails scratching into the material of his suit jacket.

"Of course, bunny. Y'became m'favorite thing in the world right then." His dark eyes flashed up to hers, entranced with the way she moved over his thigh. "And now I've got y'right here. Bouncing like a bunny right on m'lap. You're m'bunny now, right?" 

At that, he bounced his leg underneath her with his hands on her hips pressing her against him. The contact was enough to take her breath and send her eyes fluttering to a close. The pit in her stomach had finally found a bottom, where every bit of fiery want was being fueled. 

It only needed a bit more kindling, a touch of kerosene before the whole thing was going to blow. 

"I am, I am," she bubbled, using her grip on his shoulders to force him against her once more. She needed to feel him again, the weight of his body and the blocks of his muscles. She needed to know he was here, that this was Harry on her. Harry that she trusted and cared for and, god, was she in love with him? Or was she just so incredibly close that her eyes had changed to the shape of hearts? "Please, H." 

He didn't waste a second to have her wrapped up in his arms once more. He hugged her to his chest as her hips stuttered before dragging heavily over his thigh. That was all it took then. 

The pit in her stomach closed up and expelled every singe of pleasure that had devoured her. It was consuming her, tightening her muscles and squeezing between her legs. Her thighs around his own tightened until she was barely able to rock herself through the fireworks. She could vaguely hear him murmuring something to her as she shook in his arms, but she would have to ask him what he said later. She was too busy feeling every brush of her skin against her clothes, the press of his thigh against her pussy, the stitching of his trousers between her legs. 

Her world began to broaden first with the sound of Harry's voice registering in her ear. 

"You're so pretty, bunny, so so pretty," he murmured, lips pressed to the space before her ear, "I've got you, yeah? You're m'bunny now—I'll take care of you." 

She was slumped into his arm, unable to hold herself up and steady now that everything of her had gone into the fireworks shooting through her veins. "Harry." 

A smile bloomed across his lips then. The curls remained even when he drew away just far enough to match her shuttered gaze. His nose knocked hers as he pressed his lips to hers again. 

The urgency was gone now, leaving behind only sweet affection. (Y/N) happily sank into the kiss, hugging him just as tightly as he did her. 

"Back?" 

She gently nodded against his kiss. "I'm back." 

Another soft kiss was pressed to her lips. "Good. I was starting to miss you." 

A quiet laugh fell from her then, the sound fanning between them. "Sorry." 

"'S alright," he assured her, carefully repositioning himself on the sofa with (Y/N) still in his arms. "'S what I wanted, right?" 

Her breath hitched when he shifted his leg underneath hers, way too sensitive to feel any more, even if only a graze. The way he had her moved, she could feel the lump of his cock pressed to her thigh, the ridges of his zipper still straining. Drawing back, (Y/N) matched his eyes as best she could through her hooded lids. 

"Are you... sure?" she asked, dropping her gaze between their snuggled bodies, "About not—?" 

The smile he gave her was affectionate, soft and swollen with the traces of her kiss written all over it. "'M sure. Today was your big day, wasn't it?" 

"I guess so," she laughed, suddenly remembering that this wasn't the only major event of the night.

What a day she had. She had finished her run as Odette and within hours of the show's close, she had become Harry's bunny too. 

He let her lay against him as he ran his hand over the planes of her back. It was a soothing motion, enough so that she couldn't help the way her eyes fell into a close, her cheek smushed against his shoulder. She would need to get up and clean up soon, she knew. At least change out of her shorts and get something for Harry to wear instead of his sodden trousers. But now wasn't the time, she decided. 

Now was for listening to the pacing of his breathing, feeling the soft touch of his hands over her body. To bask in the feeling of being adored by someone she adored just as much. If not more. 

"Are you staying tonight?" she asked, voice muffled by her squished cheek.

"Y'want me to?" 

She hugged him that much tighter then. "You know I do." 

"Then, I'll stay."

—————

(Y/N) practically crossed her apartment in record time after dropping her phone to her bed. Her tied back hair flopped over her face as she stumbled through unlocking her door. 

"I'm so sorry," she bubbled before she had even pulled it open, "I just saw your text. I didn't think you'd be back so fast, so I put on my headphones and everything." 

"'S alright," Harry laughed, arms laden with take out containers. She could smell their breakfast inside, arms watering. "I was there for only a minute, 's fine." 

"Still," she insisted, locking the door behind her before prancing to the sofa to meet him there. "Thank you for going, though. Was it busy?" 

Harry shook his head, laying out their meals with peeks into the boxes. "Not really. The drive was longer than the wait." 

Snuggled into the corner of her couch, (Y/N) couldn't wipe the smile from her face. With her eyes trained on Harry, she felt the familiar beating of butterflies wings heading through her stomach and pumping of her heart's missed beats. He was always entirely too gorgeous, but this morning he was just so much more. 

Maybe it was the borrowed clothes—a set Kingston had left behind after his weekend long excursion at her apartment when his was getting renovated—leaving him so soft and casual compared to the times she usually saw him. Maybe it was the mess of his hair on the top of his head. Maybe it was the pillow creases still denting his cheek from when they woke up next to one another. Maybe it was because she had spent such a special night with him, lips still swollen from the tastes she couldn't get enough of. 

Maybe it was just because it was Harry and she was ninety-eight percent sure she was in love with him. 

"What?" he asked, cheeks turning a bashful pink as he took her space next to her.

"Nothing," she crooned, snuggling into his side without a second thought. "I'm just happy you're here. Thank you." 

Harry answered simply with a kiss to the top of her head, his arm coming around her to squeeze her to his side. 

"Before we eat," he started, reaching for another bag still packed at his feet, "I want to give y'something before I forget again. I wanted to give this to y'last night, but we got pretty distracted." 

A small smile crossed her features as she watched him dig through his bag. It wasn't before long that she had a silver wrapped present in her lap. A card with a crudely drawn swan was on the front. 

"You're getting better, I see," she teased, bumping her shoulder against his as she carefully tore the taped card from the top. 

"By next year, I think you'll be able to tell what they are without me telling you." 

(Y/N) let out a boisterous laugh, slipping her finger under the edge of the wrapping paper. Harry watched her intently until she had unwrapped a picture frame. The frame itself was painted in hues of watercolor pink and blue, a shimmering white sparkled in the morning sun. 

Inside was a framed ticket to the company's Swan Lake production. The date showed it was from opening night—the show that had launched off the positive reviews and the videos (Y/N) would forever be able to look back on. Next to the ticket was a slice of the playbill, showing off her name next to the role of Odette/Odile.

"For you to remember," Harry murmured next to her. 

The quickly cooling breakfast on the table and glimmering picture frame was forgotten in favor of (Y/N) collapsing into Harry. She hadn't realized there were tears in her eyes until she sniffled against Harry's throat. 

"Don't cry, bunny," he crooned, hand on the back of her head to keep her cozy next to him. 

She shook her head, nose grazing his throat. "I love it. Thank you." 

I love you, I love you, I love you.

"'S the least I could do, (Y/N)," he answered earnestly, "Really. You've done so much more for me than I think you'll ever know." 

I love you, I love you, I love you, "I love you."

Harry's arms around her stiffened for a breath. For a heartbeat, she wondered if he had heard her thoughts. That he hadn't wanted to hear what he did. 

But that was before he was curling around her, holding her tightly to him with gentle hands. His lips landed on her hair, the tip of his nose grazing the crown of her head. 

"I love you, too, (Y/N)." 

The words she had thought she'd been repeating in her head had actually fallen from her lips. Harry knew she loved him. And he loved her back. 

It was in a rush, the way she pulled her head from her neck and pushed her lips against his. It was clumsy and off center, but (Y/N) didn't mind. Not when she could feel him smiling into her kiss. 

"I love you, bunny." 

She drew away enough to catch the light in his eyes. Something so bright and joyous in his gaze that hadn't been there when they met. 

"I love you, too." 

She kissed the tip of his nose. 

—————

the bunny made snow white's companion in the classic ballet, magic mirror.

that's it wooooo bunny h lives! thank u sm for reading, so sorry for any mistakes nad please let me know what you want to see next!

[aglimpseofharry]

okayyyyyyyyy yes PLEASE i'm drooling

Picture blurb! Just a little thing, I'm a sucker for western plots lately

Check out our Patreon for 300+ Exclusive writings and series, 3 uploads a week!

Warnings- cute banter, you may want a cowboy 🤷‍♀️

"You, my Darlin', are trouble." Paused behind her in all his grass stained denim, Stetson wearing, snakeskin boot and pearl snapped button up that let her see a little of his chested glory- was her boyfriend who had come back momentarily to grab something from the barn. Y/N had heard it over the walkie and made sure to meet him there- and walk a little ahead of him so he could see.

Her smug grin was large, perhaps too large considering her cheeks hurt.

"Who, me?" The fluttering of lashes, albeit to be a bit of a shit had Harry's fond smile growing. "Well I’d never... I think m'about as much of an angel as you could find.”

"Mhm. Lies you tell, baby. What's all this then, hm?" Fingers held her pockets as he pulled her into him, a hand flattening over the raised words embroidered on her right ass cheek. "S’that an invitation? Because I'll say fuck it to the fence repair if it is. Let the other guys take over- or the cattle out. Either one works." His hat shaded her face as she looked up at him with a pleased glint in her eye.

Harry rarely let them finish a big job without him, but Y/N knew he would never turn down a chance to be alone with her for a little while. Especially when there was a 'Kiss My Ass, Cowboy' stitched in the same jeans he'd torn off of her last week.

That exact thing had been the inspiration for the crafting. And maybe a little bit of Pinterest.

"It's whatever you want it to be." She hummed, giving him a coy look as she snatched the brown, wide brimmed Stetson from his head and onto hers. It was immediately apparent that it was too big, but she knew it would be. She'd been with him when he got it made. There was a whole process when you got a custom hat, the steaming, measuring for your head- it's why it cost as much as it did.

Cowboys and their toys.

"Naughty." He clicked his tongue, giving her ass a little swat on the words she'd been embroidering for a few days in her craft room. "Your first attempt at embroidery n'this is what y'do with it? Give me a constant reminder that your favorite ride out here is my face?" Shaking his head, he ran his other hand through his messy, slightly sweaty hair. "Your poor horse. Thank God y'saved her by riding me instead."

Y/N let out a pleased giggle, leaning into him as her hand grabbed his belt buckle. It was a little obnoxious, sure, but a constant reminder that what was underneath matched the oversized accessory. "That's exactly what I want it to do. Want you to remember what you've got to hurry home for."

"Trust and believe me, Darlin' girl, that there is no part of me that ever forgets what I've got at home. Especially when y'give such... encouraging send offs." He was purring, almost, giving her ass a squeeze. "But m'not opposed to a reminder. However, think I've got t'keep my hand in that damn pocket any time y'leave home with them on. Don't want any other cowboys t'get any ideas."

[aglimpseofharry]

AHHHHHHHHHHH I CAN'T WAITTTTT.

a harry styles x reader love island series preview.

TOMORROW NIGHT...

{IN A CONFESSIONAL – HARRY}

He’s sitting forward in the seat, fingers laced together tightly as he thinks for a moment before speaking. There’s an unwritten tension that stays on his face longer than a single moment.

“If I’m honest, I thought I’d already ruined it, and maybe I have. But if there’s even half a chance, she feels the same… I have to take it.”

He exhales slowly, nodding to himself like he’s trying to believe it.

“I know who I want to be choosing, and I hope it’s the right decision for me.”

You stand with your hands on the front of your dress that hugs your thighs; the butter yellow is complimentary to your skin in a way that invites wandering eyes. The girls stood side by side in a line that felt more like a firing squad than a ceremony with their heads held high, hopes sitting on their shoulders and lifted like shields.

Everyone is pretending they aren’t holding their breath. You stood next to Tash so close your arms could brush, but the distance between you felt like miles. You stared forward, lips parted just slightly, trying to look calm, composed, untouched by it all. But your chest rose a little too fast, and your eyes flicked to Harry before you could stop them.

Johnny had chosen Ella; Liam had chosen Tiana; Luca had chosen Catie.

He was sitting on the bench with the boys, elbows on knees, gaze fixed low as he tried to keep his thoughts unread and composed. That was, until the text tone chimed again; Luca picked up the phone, read the message aloud with a sharp edge to his voice.

“Harry, please stand up.”

Everything else fell away. Harry stood slowly, like the air had gone heavy around him. His jaw flexed, his eyes finally lifting—first to the girls next to you, then directly towards your eyes to almost make contact but that would have hurt more than it was worth.

He stood at his spot in front of the firepit, there was a small sweep of a breeze through his curls. He wasn’t smiling, he wasn’t trying to be charming—it had finally caught up to his emotions to a point that he

Tash stood tall beside you, chin tilted upward like she already knew how this was going to go, but her arms sat back and you wondered what had been going on behind her eyes. You wondered if she knew, or if she thought she could overcome this.

He stopped just in front of the firepit. The flames licked at the air beside him. His hands were clenched together in front of him—thumb dragging a nervous line across the ridge of his knuckles.

He took a slow breath in as his fingers fidgeted in front of him.

“I’d like to couple up with this girl,” he began with a shaky voice that made his eyes shut just at the idea that he had to choose, “because…”

He looked down for a moment, but when he looked up again, his gaze landed squarely on you, and you wondered if that was what was written in the card or the apology you never received. Either way, your lips parted at the green eyes that laid on you and you already forgave him—regardless.

It’s okay, your eyes pleaded, I promise.

[aglimpseofharry]

I'M OBSESSEDDDDDDDD !!!! i love to see an angsty fic, and i love when harry has to grovel and beg for forgiveness. this is so so so so good. smooches to your big beautiful brain !!! <3

READ PART ONE: CASA AMOR READ PART TWO: CRASH OUT

TONIGHT ON LOVE ISLAND...

PART THREE | TRUTH OR DARE || a harry styles x you fic. word count: 8,866 content warning: tension & arguments & love island antics

summary: the islander's partake in the game 'truth or dare' which elicits some unfinished business between you and harry... and maybe sparks a few other interests.

author’s note: the attention that this story has gotten... thank you for guys for being so excited to read what happens next <3 it's seriously so fun & I hope you have as much fun continuing to read it! this one is about twice the length as the other two! all the notes, all the messages about it have been so fun to read and react with you, so please continue to send me suggestions and what you'd like see <3

hope you guys enjoy <3

A REMINDER OF THE COUPLINGS...

You are Single | Luca is Single | Megan is Single | Tash and Harry | Ella and Johnny | Megan and Ronan | Tiana and Liam | Jess and Mitch

“Rise and shine, Islanders!” You hear from Tiana on her side of the room.

You push your eye mask up just a bit to reveal everyone starting to arise and awaken for the day. The sun had only just begun to slide through the windows of the bedroom.

The girls began to stir slowly, tangled in duvet covers and last night’s whispers. There was a collective murmur of breathy yawns and bodies stretching under thin sheets. You turned onto your side instinctively, expecting warmth; it was a space where someone used to be, and had been for the better part of the last few weeks.

But there was no one next to you now. You were still alone.

Across the room, Tash sat upright in bed, her hair in blonde braided pigtails, her eyes already open but maybe you can see they’re a bit puffy from either lack of sleep or something else. She didn’t say much but just swung her legs off the side and sat there for a moment, contemplating as she started staring at the floor.

The others slowly came to life around her; Ella mumbling something about needing caffeine, Megan humming absently to herself as she padded barefoot across the room. There was no giddy giggling this morning like there had been previously; there was a certain shift around here now. Just the sound of people existing in the strange, weighty quiet that follows a long, emotional few days.

And somewhere, on the other side of the villa, Harry was waking up in the Hideaway. Not with Tash, not with you. Just him and the weight of his choices, staring up at the ceiling fan. He stretched his arms above his head as he laid there for a moment on his own.

He hadn’t slept much. The bed was too soft without conversation and the feeling of a cuddle against him. The walls felt too quiet when they weren’t filled with your laughter. He rubbed a hand across his jaw, knowing he’d earned the isolation — and not knowing what, if anything, he was supposed to do next.

A little while later, the smell of eggs and toasted sourdough drifted through the villa as the boys took over the kitchen with their shirtless bodies and sunglasses resting over tired eyes. Mitch had tied a tea towel around his head like a makeshift bandana, humming while he burned half the bacon which only made Johnny laugh. Luca was more precise — plating avocado slices like he was on Master Chef, and sneaking glances toward the hallway that led to the dressing room.

Harry stood at the espresso machine, pressing buttons with purpose, like maybe he could steam out the tension in his chest with milk froth and timing.

“Double shot, oat milk,” he muttered to himself.

He poured two cups— carefully, quietly and without any acknowledgement from the other boys.

Inside the dressing room, the girls had taken up their usual spots, hairbrushes in hand, bronzer palettes out, eyes still a little puffy from sleep as they started to place sunscreen and lip gloss. You were seated at your vanity, lips slightly parted as you curled your lashes. Tash was two spots down, brushing through her hair in slow, even strokes, as if control over the tangles meant control over something else too.

Ella was halfway through a winged liner when the door opened. Harry stepped in, coffee cups in hand.

The ease of the morning girl conversation faltered when lingering eyes watched as he held two.

“Morning,” he said, voice smooth but cautious. “Figured you might want one.”

He handed you a cup first — oat milk, the way that you always wanted it. Then extended the second to Tash, whose eyes flicked up to him and lingered for just a second longer than necessary before she reached for it.

“Thanks,” you said, placing it on the vanity in front of you.

He nodded, eyes searching yours for something he couldn’t quite name. Harry made his way out of the dressing room quietly, without much more conversation. But before anyone could comment or fill the space with a joke — Luca walked in behind him, grinning, holding another cup.

“Oi, Y/N — told you I’d get yours right,” he said proudly. “One sugar, just how you like it.”

You blinked, surprised, accepting the second cup with a laugh that you didn’t expect to bubble up.

“Two coffees?” Ella whispered beside you with a smile and a giggle to match. “She’s got them fighting in beans and steamed milk.”

You set one coffee down, still unsure which to drink from first. You hadn’t expected that there would be a moment like this where you had two boys fighting for your attention; you knew how one looked. Harry brought coffee for both girls, but now you had coffee from two boys. You took in a breath as you looked at the girls around you and raised your brows.

“Get it, girl,” Tiana giggled across from you, as she painted on a few freckles.

Tash took a sip of her coffee with a quietness, obviously not impressed that she wasn’t the only one who received the cup, but it seemed to hold implications on either side.

“Dammit, Harry,” you mumbled out, shaking your head.

Ella leaned closer with a wide, knowing smirk as she gave you an eye. “So… which one are you drinking first?”

You bit back a smile, eyes flicking between the cups. “One was made with care. The other with guilt.”

“Ohhh!” Jess gasped, spitting out a laugh, “He really is double-dipping.”

Tash let out a quiet huff of amusement but didn’t look over. She was busy applying lip liner — and pretending she didn’t care. But of course, she cared; she didn’t want to be between them, either. She wanted to explore connections with Harry, but not if it was going to be at the cost of her dignity.

“Let me get this straight,” Megan said, leaning on her elbows. “Harry brings you a coffee… and then Luca walks in and does the same? Back-to-back baristas?”

“It’s giving Y/N is the main character,” Tiana added, twirling her brush. “It’s giving she’s got options.”

You shook your head, laughing despite the twist in your stomach. “I didn’t ask for either. They just—did it.”

“Exactly,” Ella said, pointing at you through her brow pencil. “You didn’t ask. Which means they’re chasing. Which means…”

“You’ve got both of them in a milk steamer,” Jess finished, tongue-in-cheek with her Scouse accent that made you smile every time she spoke. “Extra froth going on, girl.”

The girls started laughing at that comment, even Tash cracked a smile at that one. You stared into one of the cups, then glanced at the other. Luca’s had a smiley face drawn on the lid in Sharpie.

You didn’t say much after that. But your silence said enough.

Down in the main villa, the boys were in various states of gym effort: some actually working out, some just lounging in joggers with towels over their shoulders pretending they might start.

Harry was lifting dumbbells like his life depended on it, trying to stay focused, but mostly failing when he let his mind wander. His thoughts kept drifting — to the coffee, to your expression, to the way your fingers curled around the cup when he handed it to you.

Then Mitch wandered in over to him, towel draped over his neck, taking a sip from his water bottle.

“You see Luca this morning?” he asked casually, flopping down on a bench near Harry.

Harry didn’t look up at him, shaking his head when he placed the thirty-pound weights down. “What about him?”

“He was buzzing, mate,” Mitch looked over to see Luca by the pool with Ronan, casually having a conversation, but Mitch tried to keep his quiet, “Said he made Y/N a coffee and brought it up to her.”

Harry paused, looking over at Mitch with a completely confused expression, almost like he hadn’t completely understood what he had said—or thought that it made sense.

Luca and Y/N?

“What?”

Mitch leaned back, unfazed by it. “Yeah, said he got in there. Drew a little smiley face on the lid and everything. Bit cheeky, actually—sounds like he’s moving in on that, then.”

Harry’s jaw shifted, tongue pressing into the inside of his cheek. He didn’t say anything for a long second before he shrugged and placed his sunglasses over his eyes and on the bridge of his nose.

“Fair enough,” he muttered finally, reaching for his towel and tossing it over his shoulder, wiping some of the sweat from the back of his neck. But then the way he grabbed his water bottle with a little more force than necessary didn’t go unnoticed.

Mitch raised a brow, smirking at his annoyance. “You alright?”

“Yeah,” Harry replied quickly. “It’s fair game, innit?”

“Right,” Mitch drawled, licking his tongue over his bottom lip as he stared at Harry for a moment. “Course. All’s fair in love and war or whatever.”

But Harry wasn’t really listening anymore. He was already replaying the image in his head: Luca, smiling, handing you coffee with that stupid Sharpie face that probably made your heart flutter. You laugh, you sip it, you choose it over his.

Maybe choosing him over him. He let out a long, slow breath and stood, making his way back to the bedrooms to get himself dressed and showered for the day.

The midday sun was relentless over the villa, bronzing bare shoulders and soaking into the terracotta tiles that circled the pool. A few of the boys lingered by the make-shift gym, shirtless and smug as they just want the ladies to give them a second look, attempting half-hearted workouts between bursts of banter.

You were stretched out on a beanbag near the lawn, sunglasses perched on your nose, the edge of your thigh sticking to the vinyl under you. Ella sat beside you, her legs swinging gently as she watched Mitch try to pull himself up on the bars — and fail spectacularly.

“Bless him,” she muttered. “That bar’s got more fight in it than he does.”

You huffed a laugh, only half-listening, your attention flicking, despite every reason to not look, across the pool, to where Harry stood. His curls were messily pushed back into a backwards hat, his skin kissed golden, and he was laughing at something Mitch said with his arms crossed, shoulders flexing with the movement.

He looked good—which, of course, only made it worse.

PING, PING.

Tiana nearly dropped her sunglasses scrambling for it, “I got a text!”

She swiped up, squinting at the screen, then read aloud with a grin in her voice, “Islanders, it’s time for a friendly game of Truth or Dare! Gather at the lawn and get ready to spill… or snog. #NoSecretsNoMercy #MakeItHot”

Jess immediately groaned into her palms. “This is going to end with someone crying or kissing the wrong person.”

“Or both,” Ella added brightly, standing and smoothing down her bikini bottoms.

You pushed up to stand, smoothing your own top with steady hands. You could feel it creeping in — that dull twist of dread in your belly that held fear and anticipation. These challenges always rubbed salt into the wounds, so you hoped that you could at least stand through it.

Harry was still across the way. He had been giving you a glance, gaze catching yours. You didn’t look back.

The Islanders gathered on the lawn, sitting cross-legged in a loose circle around a crate filled with rolled-up dares. Everyone was in swimwear, glistening with SPF and tension so high on their shoulders that it felt like the weight of the world. On the surface, it was all grins and sun and bare skin as they prepared for the game to start.

Mitch, of course, stood up to go first while the rest of the Islanders clapped around him. He reached in dramatically and read it out loud with an exaggerated gasp.

“Dare — give a lap dance to the Islander you think is most your type.”

“Oh God,” Jess muttered, already dreading what was coming. She placed a hand over her face to keep the blush off of it.

Mitch grinned, turned to her like it wasn’t obvious. “Well, she already knows it’s her.”

Then he dropped into a squirming, floppy attempt at a lap dance, humping the air while Jess screamed laughing and swatted at him. The circle erupted into chaotic laughter and dramatic sound effects of barking and whooping.

“I swear,” Jess muttered, wiping tears from her eyes, “if I wanted to see trauma in real time, I’d rewatch Movie Night.”

Next was Tiana, standing up to stand in front of everyone. She plucked a scroll and arched a brow as she took in a deep breath.

“Truth — which couple do you think won’t last on the outside?”

The noise simmered as everyone leaned in, Harry’s nose scrunched at the question before he bit the inside of his cheek.

She chewed the inside of her cheek for a second as she thought and hummed. “I’ll say Harry and Tash. No shade, really. Just… not feeling it.”

Jess and you look at one another as the boys give a slight groan; Tash gives a look of defeat, shrugging.

“Can I ask what you’re not feeling?” She asks Tiana quickly before catching her off guard.

Tiana licks over her lips, “Don’t know—guess it just feels more physical, and don’t think that will translate outside the villa.”

There’s a bit of tension before Tiana sits back in her space with a few people clapping at her wrapping up, and Tash turns to Megan, “She doesn’t even know what kind of conversations we’ve had.”

“Girl, it’s just a game, yeah?” Tiana leans over with a bit of defensiveness in her words, “Don’t need to be worried about it.”

Instead of allowing the bit argument to continue, it was Harry’s turn to stand up as he wiped his palms on his swim trunks.

You felt the air change around you, hugging your knees to your chest as you squint in the sun. You didn’t look at him, but your body was suddenly very aware of his presence — of the way the game could turn, any second, into something personal. He reached into the crate and pulled a scroll, unraveling it.

“Dare — kiss the Islander you think you have the most unfinished business with.”

The entire group fell quiet; you could tell there was a bit of animosity. You kept your face neutral — lips slack, shoulders relaxed, as you bit the inside of your lip, but your heartbeat had gone tight and fast under your ribs. Your lungs would be bruised from the pace of it.

His barefoot steps were soft in the grass before he let himself move towards you. You didn’t look up until he stopped in front of you. When you did, he was already leaning down and into you.

The kiss landed gently on you, a warm hand cupping your cheek, his lips brushing against yours in a way that was neither showy nor smug. It wasn’t for the crowd, it wasn’t performative. It held a tenderness that you had forgotten about, but you welcomed it without any protest. He meant it, and that somehow made it feel worse.

You didn’t kiss back, not really, but you didn’t pull away either. And when he stepped back, your lips still tingled with the ghost of it. Around the circle, the other Islanders were quiet for a beat. Then Ella let out a low whistle.

“Well,” she muttered, “did we just finish it?”

Tash looked away, not wanting to see the aftermath with a jaw clenched when she knew how this felt. You didn’t care—you couldn’t care about her when you felt this. You were too busy being furious with yourself for how much you felt it.

Then it was your turn. You reached into the crate, pulled a scroll, and unrolled it slowly.

“Dare — whisper a secret into the ear of the person you trust least in the villa.”

The entire group erupted in shrieks and dramatic gasps; you took in a breath as you knew that this could change the entire game.

“Oh my God,” Jess howled. “That’s insane.”

You took another breath, another beat. You contemplated for a moment before you looked around the circle, seeing the faces of them looking back at you. Especially one that felt necessary.

One long, slow inhale, and then you started walking around the circle to the one person that you knew you wanted to whisper to.  You didn’t even glance around too much, his expression unreadable.

You leaned in — lips near his ear, your voice low enough that no one else could hear as you cupped your hand around to keep it soft.

“I almost came up to the Hideaway last night but I wanted you to miss me, and I respect myself too much.”

He flinched; a knowing smile left on his lips just barely. Your eyes met his as you pulled away, even though the sunglasses kept them separate—thankfully. Then you turned, walked back, and sat down again.

Around the circle, mouths were open. Tiana’s jaw was practically on the lawn. Even the boys were murmuring amongst themselves, whispering about the fact that you chose him, “Did she just—?”

Harry didn’t move, didn’t say anything cheeky like he normally would. Instead, he just nodded and leaned back on his palms with his legs stretched out. You didn’t say anything else, you pulled your knees back to your chest.

The game rolled on — more dares, more chaos ensued with the truth bombs letting the Islanders laugh until their stomachs and cheeks hurt just the same. Ella kissed Johnny when asked to kiss the Islander with the sexiest tattoos, Megan was asked her favorite sex position. The usual mess unfolded in the usual way.

But nothing that followed hit quite like that kiss, or that whisper. It was all that you could think about; you knew from how quiet he had gotten, he had it just on his mind the same.

You shifted slightly, adjusting your bikini top and leaning back on your palms as the game moved on. The wooden crate at the center was filled with rolled-up dares and truths, some scrawled in eyeliner, others in smudged pen. Tiana had joked it looked like a cursed offering to the gods of villa chaos.

Harry sat across the circle, his legs stretched out in front of him, ankle crossed over ankle, his sunglasses low on his nose. Tash was next to him, knees grazing his. You hadn’t said a word to him since the kiss earlier.  You weren’t sure if that was better or worse.

Ella nudged you gently as Megan reached into the box.

“She’s definitely pulling something,” Ella murmured under her breath.

You gave her a small shrug, feigning indifference. “She’s always pulling something.”

Megan read the scroll silently first to herself before her lips curled into a slow, satisfied smile.

“Dare,” she read aloud, voice syrupy. “Kiss the Islander you’d most like to share a bed with tonight.”

There were instant reactions around the circle — gasps, hollers, the obligatory Ooooh! from Mitch, who had clearly been hoping it would land on him. But Megan didn’t laugh like everyone had started to. Being another single girl in the villa, you could see the wheels turning in her head before she contemplated her decision.

For a moment, you thought she might play it safe. Choose Mitch or Ronan or even Luca — something cheeky, something meaningless since none of them were in completely serious couples. Something that would make everyone laugh, that would be a passing joke.

But then she looked at Harry and didn’t look away as she started to approach him.

“Oh, come on,” Tiana whispered beside you.

Megan walked, slow, confident steps in the purple bikini that held tight against her bronzed skin, until she was standing directly in front of him. Harry looked up at her, head tilted, his grin lazy.

“Hope you don’t mind,” she commented softly with a smile on her face.

He chuckled back with his head tilted back for more access. “Not complaining.”

The kiss wasn’t long, but it was intentional. She kissed him like she wanted people to watch — like she wanted you to watch. Her hand on his shoulder, lips lingering just a breath longer than necessary. You turned your head away from watching, because it wasn’t worth seeing the stupid, cocky grin that laid on his face.

When she pulled back, she winked at him, then sauntered back to her place like she’d just won a round. You didn’t move with the reaction that was probably stoking. But the heat behind your ribs spread into something cold.

Ella exhaled with a whisper. “That was messy.”

“She’s desperate,” Tiana said flatly, raising her brows as she brushed some of the grass off the back of her thighs.

Harry, to his credit, didn’t say anything—no cheeky comment, no turning towards the boys to give a stupid, irreverent statement. He rubbed his jaw again and avoided looking directly at you, which only confirmed everything you already knew.

Then, it was Tash’s turn to draw from the crate.

She reached into the crate, cheeks already slightly pink from sun or nerves, hard to tell. She unraveled the scroll with a flick of her nails and read it aloud:

“Dare,” she said. “Kiss the Islander with the most underrated chat.”

There was a gap after she stated that it was a dare; her eyes wandering around the group for a moment. The girls looked at one another, then back to you.

“Well, that’s dangerous,” Luca muttered.

All eyes shifted to Harry.

Even he seemed to expect it, already straightening his posture slightly, his smirk creeping back. You could see the hope flicker behind his expression — the assumption that he was the obvious answer. That even after the kiss, even after everything, she’d come back to him.

But she didn’t.

Tash stood, didn’t look at Harry, and walked across the circle toward Ronan. Your head tilted slightly. Ella sat up straighter beside you.

Ronan blinked with a stupid smirk, like all of his hopes and dreams had suddenly come true. “Wait, what?”

“I think you’re slept on,” Tash said casually, then leaned in and kissed him.

It was quick with no lingering, but it was certainly not meaningless in the slightest, either. When she returned to her spot, still not looking at Harry, the silence that followed was louder than the few gasps and groans.

“How do you feel about that, Harry?” Johnny asked quietly, a smug smile on his face as he leaned to look at his friend.

Harry shrugged, nonchalance lacing over his features before he shook his head. “We’re not real big on chatting, are we. Guess I can get over that.”

Tash let the smirk on her face take over before she shook her head, “At least we have finished business.”

Harry’s expression didn’t change much, but you noticed the tension in his jaw. The flex of his fingers against his thigh. He didn’t like not being chosen.

And when he finally glanced at you, your face was unreadable.

You didn’t smile; you didn’t gloat. You just looked at him like you’d finally stopped expecting anything at all, which hit him harder than anything had before.

{NARRATOR}

Well, the sun might be going down… but Harry’s emotional confusion? That’s just getting warmed up. Nothing like a kiss with your ex to make your current flame feel super secure.

The heat still clung to everything, the railings, the beanbags, the inside of Harry’s chest. He wasn’t really in a rush to process what just happened — not the way his lips had moved against yours in front of everyone, not the way you’d looked at him after, not the way his pulse had lingered there in his throat for minutes after he’d sat back down.

Instead, he wandered through the villa and caught sight of the daybeds.

He found Tash sprawled on the edge of the daybeds, long legs crossed at the ankles, sunglasses perched on top of her head, glinting in the last light. She was leaning back on her elbows, looking almost bored as she talked with Megan quietly; to which, Harry couldn’t understand the seriousness of the conversation — except for the glint in her eye when she saw him approaching.

“Can I pull you for a chat, then?” Harry asked quietly before Megan gave a smirk, and Tash nodded softly before taking Harry’s hand to get yup.

“So…” she said, her voice light and teasing, “unfinished business, yeah?”

Harry scratched at the back of his neck as he grinned, the charm returning like a reflex he couldn’t help but show off. “What can I say? I follow instructions.”

Tash approached the benches under the balcony, laying softly on them before she arched a brow in question. “Didn’t seem like a hard decision.”

“Didn’t say it was.” He dropped down beside her without ceremony, settling into the cushions with an easy familiarity, head tilted toward her. The tension between them had always been this — playful, poking, just a little dangerous.

“But don’t get it twisted,” he added, voice lowering slightly. “You’ve been trouble since the second you walked into Casa.”

Tash laughed softly, her eyes narrowing in amusement. “You liked it, though.”

Harry pursed his lips, shaking his head, “Never said I didn’t.”

She shifted, leaning in just a hair, her voice dipping into something slower. “Still think I’m a bit of a nightmare?”

Harry chuckled, deep and quiet, making eye contact now before he let his dimples protrude with a smirk. “One hundred percent.” Then, after a beat: “But I rate it. Keeps me on my toes.”

That earned a proper smile from her — small, pleased, but not smug. She liked the game just as much as he did; she liked the teasing, and she knew how much it had bothered him that she kissed someone else.

“So, what now?” she asked, flipping her sunglasses onto the top of her head. “You’ve had your dramatic moment. What’s next, Mr. Mixed Signals?”

He exhaled through his nose, letting his gaze drift up to the dusky sky for a moment. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I’m not closed off.”

“Oh, clearly,” Tash said, her voice dry and soft, almost like it was just under her breath.

He turned toward her again, laughing. “Oi.”

“What?” She smirked. “You snog your ex-missus with unfinished business and then come lay with me — what am I supposed to think?”

Harry leaned in slightly, his elbow brushing hers. His eyes flicked to her mouth for a split second — barely long enough to register, but enough that she noticed.

“That I’m exploring my options,” he told her with honesty laced in his voice. He stared up at her, pulling his sunglasses into his curls before he tilted his head.

Tash tilted her head, unimpressed but intrigued. “Exploring… or just being greedy? Can’t buy the cow and get the milk, or whatever the phrase is.”

That slow, half-smirk returned to his face — the one that made it hard to tell whether he was serious or just playing.

“It’s my money, innit?” He joked, “I’m paying my dues.”

She let out a low, breathy laugh and leaned back, giving him space again. “Well. If you’re still exploring…and if you’re paying for the milk.”

She looked at him, all glittering eyes and heat beneath her lashes; she didn’t want to lean in when she knew that others were looking, but Tash felt that her “You know where to find me.”

{CONFESSIONAL - TASH}

Tash shook her head, pulling her lips into her mouth.

“I think that Harry is playing a game with me, but I do think we have undeniable chemistry, so I can see it in his face,” She bites her lip, “I know he was with Y/N, but the whole point of Love Island is to test that connection and I think I’m throwing him for a loop a bit.”

{IN THE VILLA}

Harry watched her for a moment, neither leaning in nor pulling away because they both know what they want but can’t have. Just letting the tension hang there — that charged, magnetic in-between that he never seemed to leave lately.

He didn’t answer; he didn’t have to.

{CONFESSIONAL – HARRY}

He’s sitting on the confessional bench, arms draped on his thighs, sunglasses pushed into his curls. He sighs with a little smirk, shaking his head like he’s completely unaware of the fact that he could potentially be making a huge mistake.

“Look, I don’t regret bringing Tash back.” A single beat passes before he looks up, “But I needed to be more respectful.”

All that he displays is a shrug and a much wider grin, almost like he can’t control himself.

“Did I handle any of this perfectly? Nah. Do I still think Tash is fit? Absolutely. But I’ve got history with her… and now I’ve got chemistry with Tash.”

He leans forward slightly, eyes mischievous.

“The villa’s just got complicated again, hasn’t it?”

{IN THE DRESSING ROOM}

Somewhere outside, a bottle of sunscreen hit the deck with a hollow thud, and someone’s laughter echoed near the pool. Ella tossed her sunglasses onto the marble counter with a casual flick of her wrist, shaking out her hair to prepare to slick it back for the evening cocktail hour.

“Did anyone else clock that little daybed moment?” she said, not looking at either you or Tiana, just raising an eyebrow at her own reflection as she reached for her mascara.

Behind her, Tiana let out a short, incredulous laugh. “Harry and Tash? Yeah, babe. Clocked it, logged it in my journal, highlighted it in bold.”

You sat down on the bench beneath the vanity row, toweling the back of your neck slowly, methodically — like if you focused hard enough on that one motion, it might help you care a little less. It didn’t, obviously.

Ella turned slightly, watching you in the mirror now. “He kissed you today because of ‘unfinished business’. And now he’s laid out all flirty with the girl he brought back?” Her voice was sharp but not cruel; it was the kind of protective edge that only surfaced when someone she cared about was getting mugged off.

“He’s playing it both ways,” Tiana added, applying bronzer without missing a beat. “It’s like he’s not getting properly told off.”

You glanced at your reflection for a moment; you see your hair damp at the ends, face slightly flushed from the heat and all the things you weren’t saying. You weren’t crying. But you looked… tired.

“He said he still wanted to explore,” you murmured, the words tasting thinner out loud than they had in your head.

Ella blinked, putting a hair tie in her mouth to pull her hair back into a pony. “And you think Tash is gonna back off now?”

You shrugged, rubbing the towel between your hands. “She said I could trust her,” you said softly. “I just… feel like I’m the one looking stupid again.”

There was a silence then after you spoke, not a cold one, just the kind that falls when friends are trying to find the right words to say. Then Tiana twisted in her stool to face you properly.

“Babes,” she said, voice firmer now. “He’s the one looking confused.” She gave you a once-over, head to toe. “You? You’re still the girl everyone wants, and you’re going to move on if he’s going to never mind the bollocks.”

You looked up, meeting her eyes — and there it was. That flicker of belief passed between you. You weren’t sure you fully felt it yet, but it was something. Enough to hold onto for the moment, at least until you could talk with him. A slow, reluctant smile curved your mouth.

It wasn’t big or overstated, but it was real. And in this villa, that counted for a lot.

{IN THE VILLA – EVENING}

Glasses clinked on countertops as everyone made their way from the bedroom and dressing rooms down to the main portion of the lawn. Laughter drifted like smoke across the patio as Johnny made a comment about earlier; Harry sat with Tash next to him, having a quick chat. The cocktail hour hum had settled — less chaotic than daytime, more dangerous in its calm.

You walked over to Luca who was standing next to Megan; the light from the string lights overhead was just starting to glow faintly, casting a warm halo on the top of his head.

As you approached, he glanced to the other side of him at the subtle notice of someone next to him. “Well, well,” he said, eyebrows raised. “This feels suspicious.”

You gave him a tired smile. “Mind if I pull you for a quick chat?”

He grinned, tilting his head. “Ooooh. What’s this, then? Bit of unfinished business?”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the smirk tugging at your mouth. “If I have to hear that one more time,” You joked, shaking your head as you started walking towards the seats underneath the terrace, “Just a little something different, then. Come on.”

You led him toward the corner of the garden, where the fairy lights were brighter and the noise faded to murmurs. There was a bench tucked between two planters, shaded by a low-hanging olive tree. The kind of spot you could be overheard in — but only if someone really wanted to.

Luca dropped beside you, his knee knocking lightly against yours as you both melted into the seats.

He looked at you, taking a drink from his cup. “So… what’s going on? How was that challenge for you today?”

You exhaled, giving him a solid smile but knowing how much was beneath it. “I’m trying really hard not to spiral—but I genuinely think I’m going mad.”

He didn’t press. Just nodded once, because he knew exactly what you meant and exactly who you were referring to.

You shrugged, eyes flicking toward the pool where the rest of the villa buzzed around. “It’s like… I know who he is. I’ve known since the start, right? I could tell he was a flirt and he doesn’t hide it. But today — the kiss, then chatting to Tash after like it didn’t even mean anything — I just…” Your voice trailed off when you realized how mad it all sounded—how completely lost in delusion you may have been from it. The knot in your chest cinched a little tighter.

“I need to stop waiting for someone to pick me, and I guess I’m just stuck in wondering if I should continue with the connection or not because I don’t want leave here with the thought of knowing we could patch things up, you know?”

Luca was quiet for a moment. Then he smiled with a soft, tilted, a little cocky but not performative grin.

“Well,” he started, hands in his lap as he held his cup against his knees, “if you’re done waiting… maybe it’s time you start getting picked by someone who actually sees what’s in front of him—like you’re a catch, and I know that Casa kind of rocked the villa, as it does, but I think you may need to have a bit more stability.”

You blinked, caught off guard by how gentle it landed, and how it could be harsh in the softest of ways.

He shrugged, taking in a deep breath as he turned his eyes up to look at you. “I’ve been single two days and I already know you’re better than that mess.”

You gave a laugh — not the tight, forced one you’d been perfecting lately. A little breathy, but yours.

“So what,” you said, bumping your shoulder into his, “Will you be pulling me for more chats then?”

Luca smirked, licking over his lips. “I mean…,” He bit his lip, letting the silence from your private dwelling hang for a beat before finishing: “If the door’s cracked open, I’d be mad not to try. You’re gorgeous and I think you have a lot more connections you could build, but you put all of your eggs in his basket the first day.”

You looked at him, really looked at his brown eyes and his bronzed skin and something in you settled. Maybe not all the way, but enough.

You smiled, leaning back for a moment. “Consider it cracked—ajar, really.”

His grin widened as he gave you a small laugh, confident now. Sure, but not smug like you had known from some of the other boys. He didn’t reach for your hand, didn’t lean in. Just stayed close — close enough for you to feel the shift.

{CONFESSIONAL – LUCA}

Luca sits on the confessional bench, freshly showered, with his hair still damp, and a grin lazily crossing his features.

“Look, I didn’t come in thinking me and her would be a thing, yeah? She’s been locked in with Harry since the first week, so I didn’t even try.”

He pauses, smirks a little and looks into the camera. “But now? Door’s cracked open. She pulled me for a chat, and I’m not stupid — she’s stunning, she’s smart, and she’s not about the games. Which is rare in here.”

He leans forward, eyes glinting with something that resembled hope and a bit of change that felt scarier to initiate than to think about.

“Do I know where it’s going? Not yet. But if there’s a spark — I’ll go for it. Life’s short, the villa’s mad… might as well see what happens.”

{NARRATOR}

As the sun sets on another chaotic day in paradise, Harry’s losing grip, Tash is lying low, and Y/N might just have a new someone cracking on. And if we’ve learned anything by now, it’s that nothing stays quiet for long in this villa.

You sat near the fire pit, your knees pulled up to your chest on one of the cushions, sipping from your water bottle and letting the warmth of the flames kiss your shins. Most of the Islanders had drifted to have more chats with their respective couple, others bantered laughter which still echoed faintly from the hallway.

Footsteps approached behind you, slow and tentative, and you didn’t need to look up to know who it was.

He hovered for a second, then took the empty cushion beside you without a word—he didn’t ask to sit, didn’t ask for a chat. The space between you felt charged—not in an angry way, but a cautious way. Like the next few minutes would matter more than either of you wanted to admit.

He let out a long breath, then looked ahead at the fire.

“You alright?” he asked finally, voice low, barely above the crackle of the flames.

You nodded once, wanting to give an air of confidence that would allow him to shuffle in his own skin for a minute; you just didn’t have it in you. “Yeah.”

The silene was louder than anything else around here, you came to find. Then you turned slightly, your cheek resting on your knee, eyes on him. His curls were a little damp from his post-game shower. The firelight flickered in his eyes.

“That dare,” you commented softly. “Unfinished business, huh?”

His jaw tensed, then relaxed again. He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, like the words he needed were stuck somewhere deep.

“Everyone’s been on me about this, but I just don’t know who else I was supposed to say, like,” he said eventually. “Didn’t do it to stir things. I just—” He looked at you, properly. “It’s true, isn’t it?”

You didn’t answer right away, you just chewed on the inside of your cheek as you stared at the flames in the firepit. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

“I know I messed it up—like I know the Tash thing looks like—well, it looks like exactly what it is. And I’m not gonna sit here and pretend like it was the worst thing that could ever happen to our relationship, because it’s not. I’m here to build a connection.”

You looked at him carefully, watching how his shoulders slumped slightly when he said it — like it cost him something to admit out loud.

“It’s not about that Harry,” you said, not wanting to raise your quiet voice. “It’s—fuck, it’s about the trust, you know? Like I get it, I know where you’re coming from. But you were sharing a bed, you were—”

“I know.” His eyes were pained; he rolled them almost like he couldn’t believe himself at how ridiculous it all sounded. “And you had every right to. I shouldn’t’ve—Christ, I shouldn’t’ve let it get to that point with her. I told myself we were open, that I was just testing stuff like everyone else.”

He trailed off, shaking his head.

“But I wasn’t thinking about the game. I was thinking about you. And I just—I didn’t want to be the guy who came back alone and looked pathetic.”

You gave a slight frown at his word choice. “So you brought someone back to save face?”

“No.” He looked at you sharply. “No, that’s not what I’m saying. I didn’t use her. I just—look, we got on. But I didn’t feel what I feel with you. And that kiss today?” He leaned back slightly, his voice lowering. “That wasn’t to be a dick. That was real—we have unfinished business because I’m attracted to you and it all just keeps coming back to being intimate and having that to hold onto.”

Your heart kicked at the memory — of his hands, his voice, his mouth whispering into your shoulder in the dark of that shared bed. The covers pulled over your heads, the soft breaths and the warmth of his fingertips as they crept over your skin in a way that felt needed.

“Everything about that meant something to me,” he added, his voice wavered a bit, but you still didn’t look him in the eyes. “And I never said it, because I thought we were taking it slow. But I shouldn’t’ve treated what we had like it was replaceable. I see that now.”

You looked down at your hands, fingers twisting in your lap as you let your legs fall from your chest, down to the group.

“I don’t know if I can trust you again,” you murmured, contemplating. “I don’t know if that door’s still open.”

“I’m not asking you to throw it wide, you know,” he said, licking over his lips with a hesitancy, “I’m just asking if it’s still on the hinges.”

That made you laugh, just a little — a tiny exhale through your nose. He took that as permission to go on.

“I want to do it right,” he said, more quietly now. “I don’t want to force it. I just want the chance to show you I can be who you thought I was — before Casa. Before all this.”

You turned your head toward him; his eyes, his expression wasn’t smug, or flirty, or even hopeful. It was sincere. It was a part of Harry that you hadn’t seen before, this sincerity that wasn’t laced in a flirtation or hunger. You bite your lip, unsure of what to say. You weren’t ready to forgive, but not ready to walk away either.

“Actions will speak louder than words,” you whispered, the only words that would come to mind as you nodded.

He nodded, to confirm with you. “I’m not rushing you. I just… needed you to know where I’m at.”

The silence stretched again — but this time, it felt gentler. Less jagged. Eventually, you both leaned back on your cushions, saying nothing more. The fire crackled between you, and the rest of the villa buzzed quietly behind you.

For the first time in days, you weren’t sure what came next. And maybe that gave you unexplained clarity that you were looking for, in an odd sense.

{LATER IN THE VILLA}

It was late enough that the villa had quieted, the sky a rich navy with stars just beginning to peek through the gaps in the night. Most of the Islanders were winding down — some lingering in the kitchen for a final snack, others getting their microphones changed or slipping into their PJs.

Tash sat outside on the large blue beanbag near the edge of the pool, her hair up in a lazy bun, shoulders bare beneath the thin straps of her pajama cami. She looked tired — not in a physical way, but in the way someone did when they were thinking a little too hard about things they weren’t quite ready to say out loud.

Mitch dropped down beside her without asking, swinging a leg up and letting his water bottle rest against his knee.

“You look like your head’s doing circles,” he said, nudging her with his elbow.

Tash gave a weak smile, sniffling in as she took in a breath. “Don’t start.”

“I’m just saying,” Mitch added, more gently this time. “Where’s your head at?”

“Don’t know, really. Guess it’s just a bit confusing because I think he’s telling her something different than what he’s telling me,” She huffed, folding her arms. “I knew something was still there with them. You can just… tell, right?”

Mitch tilted his head. “Yeah. But I don’t think that makes you a mug, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

She hesitated, pushing her glasses up on her nose, removed of the makeup that had been added. “I mean, it kind of does. He brought me back here, kissed me, slept in the same bed. And now he’s acting like she’s the only one who ever mattered, you know what I mean? Like, sure, he didn’t do everything right—but he brought me back because we had a connection, too, and now Y/N has his tail between his legs.”

Mitch raised an eyebrow, knowing those were words that would stir the villa up. “Did he tell you he was done with her?”

“No. Not in those words.” She picked at a loose thread on the beanbag. “But he let me think there was space for something. And now he’s running off whispering by the fire pit with her, acting like I’m invisible.”

There was a beat of silence, as Mitch looks over to see Harry talking with Y/N as they brushed their teeth; it looked more of a passing conversation but understanding where the pain may have come from. She looked at him, something honest flickering across her face.

Mitch nodded slowly, taking a sip of his water. “So what’s the move, then?”

Tash exhaled through her nose, looking out at the still water on the beaches beyond the villa.

“I’m not chasing anyone,” she told him firmly, with confidence and a bit of disbelief that he’d think that of her. “If he wants her, fine. But I’m not gonna be the fallback girl he cuddles up to when she ignores him.”

Mitch grinned. “There she is.”

Tash smirked at that. “I’m still in this villa. I’ve still got options. If Harry’s not gonna take me seriously, someone else might.”

Mitch leaned back on his own beanbag. “Fair play. Just… don’t let his drama dim you, yeah? You’ve got more going on than being a plot point in their love story.”

She nudged him with her foot with a giggle. “Thanks, Dad.”

“Anytime, kiddo.”

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, the sounds of laughter drifting faintly from the dressing room. And for the first time that day—or the entire time since she had shown up, Tash didn’t feel like the villain in someone else’s romance. She felt like a girl who still had something to play for.

{THE NEXT DAY}

The villa had that still, sticky quality that made everyone move slower — sunscreen being slathered on shoulders, sunglasses traded back and forth, bodies sprawled on beanbags in soft, easy conversation. You were lying by the pool, legs dangling in the water, head tilted back toward the sun.

It felt like the calm after the storm. Truth or Dare had left its mess, but the edges were softening, and  conversations were mending or fraying quietly in corners.

Until the voice rang out:

“Islanders!”

Everyone’s heads snapped up in unison.

There, framed perfectly in the entrance, stood Maya Jama — radiant as ever in a red halter-neck sundress and heels that somehow didn’t sink into the grass. Her sunglasses were already pushed up onto her head, dark curls bouncing as she stepped down the path like she owned it.

Chaos always followed Maya, and that made your heart skip a beat as you stood and started to put yourself back together.

Ella let out a gasp, quickly walking next to you. “Oh, she’s here. That means something’s happening.”

You stood up slowly, water dripping from your legs, a jolt of nerves waking in your chest.

Maya gave a little wave, her smile knowing. “Get up, everyone! Come join me by the fire pit!”

The Islanders scrambled, towels dropped, sunglasses adjusted. Harry was the last to move, hanging back slightly, his jaw already tight.

Maya waited until everyone was in place, scanning the group with that perfect host smile — the one that said brace yourselves without needing to say it. Then she turned to the entrance.

“How is everyone doing?” She asked with reverent happiness and calmness that told you all that something was going to happen—something was coming.

Everyone gave a few grunts and nods of acknowledgement before Luca answered for the group, “Think we’ve had our share of some ups and down, but I think overall, we’re doing well.”

Maya smirked slightly before she nodded, “Good—good to hear. Well, we have a recoupling tonight, and to help with that, I thought it may be time for you all to meet two new bombshells!”

“Oh, shit—oh hell.” Gasps rippled through the firepit area instantly as your heart started to beat faster in your chest.

From behind her walked a tall, athletic guy with sandy brown hair and bright blue eyes, his white shirt open enough to show off his chest tattoos. A beat behind him came a dark-haired girl in a cobalt blue bikini top and wrap skirt, her smile confident and eyes already flicking over the group like she was scanning for prey.

“This is William and Catie,” Maya announced to the group when they came to stand next to her. “And they’re ready to make some waves.”

You barely had time to register William’s sharp jawline and the fact that Catie was already eyeing the boys like she was placing bets, before Maya continued, looking over at both of them as they looked back at her.

“William, Catie — you’ll each be taking an Islander of your choice on a date today. You’ve had a sneak peek… so who are you choosing, and who needs to get ready to go?”

William stepped forward, his grin easy, his gaze landing right on you—you’d almost wish he stopped looking at you like that, because your heart fluttered for a moment.

“I’d like to take Y/N,” he said, a bit confident. You hear a strong accent, similar to Harry’s, really. You can tell that his blood boils at that—you just know that he’s buzzing.

The breath caught in your throat — not from shock, exactly, but from the sudden shift in atmosphere. You felt Harry look at you before you even turned your head, but you kept your expression neutral.

Catie went next. Her voice was smooth. “I’d love to take Luca.”

Luca laughed, clapping his hands together. “Let’s go, then, Catie.”

The two of you were whisked away a moment later — escorted out to get ready, the villa already buzzing behind you with whispers, glances, smirks.

Back at the fire pit, Harry stood with his arms crossed, watching the path where you’d disappeared. His mouth was set in a tight line, sunglasses hiding his eyes — but everyone who knew him could see the shift.

Mitch leaned over, nudging him. “Fair play, mate. Bit of your own medicine, that.”

Harry didn’t answer. He just stared after you.

{IN A CONFESSIONAL - HARRY}

 Harry leaned back on the bench, rubbing a hand through his hair.

“She looks fit today in that tiny yellow bikini,” he admitted, lips twitching into something that might’ve been a smile — or a grimace. “The lad’s not blind.”

He paused.

“D’you know what, though? Fair play. I’ve made mistakes. I brought someone else back. So if this tests our connection — maybe it needs testing.”

But his eyes didn’t quite match his voice. Not when he added:

“I just hope she remembers what we had before everything got messy. That it meant something..”

He shook his head with a quiet laugh, looking straight into the camera.

“Let’s see what happens.”

[aglimpseofharry]

love love love!!! this was so different and i enjoyed every second of it!!!

CASA AMOR || a harry styles x you one-shot. word count: 5,085 content warning: tension & arguments

summary: you and harry are the strongest couple on love island. but, when he goes to casa amor, you learn it may not be as good as it seems. movie night ensues.

this is my take on this request so I am VERY sorry if you're not a love island fan, but that's all that's been taking up my brain recently soooo sorry:

The sun had been hot in the sky that day, casting long shadows across the villa lawn where the majority of you had been laying out on sunbeds, giggling and getting to know the new boys who had arrived two days ago. The fire pit hasn’t been lit yet, but the air is buzzing with flirtation and nervous energy from the day that you had all met one another.

You’re lounging on a beanbag in your bikini top and a sarong, sipping a watered-down iced drink. Tiana’s braiding Jess’s hair, and Megan is off to the side kicking a beach ball toward the pool with two of the Casa boys who are trying to impress her with their footie skills. You hear her laugh at something one of them said.

It feels normal, but you miss them—you miss him. You hadn’t forgotten the moment that he left, even though you’re still searching for new connections here. That’s what you had both promised yourselves—and you had, for the most part. There were five new bombshells that were completely winning your approval, one in particular that you had gotten to know; his name was Connor, and he was a marketing coordinator from Galway. He had a crooked smile and dark hair and had been kind in the best way.

No, you weren’t closed off in any way, but you were being respectful in the time that you had with him because you knew that you’d had a stronger connection elsewhere.

You hadn’t had any fear or inconsistency in your thoughts. Well, until Jess’s phone pinged out with a text.

PING, PING.

Everyone freezes at the familiar sound that usually means doom—in some way, shape or form. You sit up straight, biting on the straw of your water bottle.

“I got a text!” Jess shouts out, the boys perking up with all of you as well. Your chest goes tight, what could be happening now?

Jess takes her phone and reads out to the group, “Islanders, please get ready: it’s Movie Night—it’s time to see what the boys have been getting up to in Casa Amor. Seen any scary movies recently?”

The reaction is instantaneous, girls gasping and looking at one another. Tiana drops the hair she was braiding. “Noooo, stop!”

Jess shakes her head as she puts her phone down as she takes a sip from her water bottle. “I’m gonna be ill.”

Megan, deadpan: “I knew it. I knew they were up to something.”

You swallow hard, setting your water bottle down. The Casa boys stop mid-play, grabbing their makeshift soccer ball that they had been using from the blow-up pool ball, and you notice that some try to act nonchalant

Connor reaches you with a smirk on his face and says, “I mean… depends on what you see, innit?”

Ella glares at him, then adjusts the sunglasses on her face. “Exactly what I’m worried about.”

You stand up slowly, heart beating out of rhythm because you know how this is going to go—you can feel it. One of the most interesting parts of Harry in this entire experience was that he was flirt. You’re not sure what to expect, but you’ve stayed loyal—you weren’t closed off, but you were loyal to his connection. You felt like Harry was on the same page.

Now? You don’t know anymore, especially not knowing what you’re about to see.

The girls begin making their way back upstairs to the vanity space to get ready, murmuring under their breath, nerves jangling around the small mirrors and contour sticks. The Casa boys trail behind them — it’s a bit awkward, a bit amused.

Tiana grabs your hand as you walk.

“Whatever we see,” she says, voice low, “just remember who you are, and what you stand for, okay? You’re a badass bitch, and no one is going to take that away from you.”

You squeeze her fingers, walking into the vanity space before you look back at her. “Trying. You too.”

You’re standing in front of the vanity mirror with a makeup brush in hand, swiping bronzer over your cheekbones with automatic precision.

Behind you, Ella’s rifling through the clothes rail, holding up two tops like she’s choosing between them for the Emmys. Tiana lounges on the bench, applying lip gloss and watching you in the mirror.

“So,” Megan says casually, digging through her makeup bag, “what’s the vibe tonight, babe? All eyes still on Harry, yeah? Is he going to fuck it all up?”

You give her a look in the mirror — you have one brow raised as you swipe your lip gloss over your lips, giving a hint of pink but more shine than anything else.

“I mean…,” You laugh a little bit as you trail off, “Yeah, eyes are still set on him. Connor and I had some good chats and all, but I think that’s more slow burning. But you know how it is.”

Ella chimes in, turning around with a sparkly halter in hand. “Connor’s fit, but it’s not the same, is it? I feel the same with Johnny—it’s just not Ian, you know what I mean?”

You sigh, dragging the brush down your neck to even out the bronzer that seemed to have a bit more color in the light, blending everything together.

“No, it’s not. Harry and I—there’s something there, there always has been. Since day one, it’s just… clicked. We are super solid, but I know he can be having a connection over there. Just hope he’s being respectful, that’s all.”

“But you’re open, yeah?” Tiana asks, her tone cautious. “Just in case.”

You nod slowly, eyes falling to the counter.

“Yeah, we both said we’d be open; we’d test connections. But I don’t know… it still feels like he’s mine.” You blink quickly, shaking your head as you bite on your lip. “Stupid, I know.”

“It’s not stupid,” Ella says, tossing a hair clip onto the vanity. “It’s real. You’ve been solid. But we just have to remember it’s Love Island, babe. Nothing’s promised.”

You laugh quietly at that, shaking your head as you place the mascara along your lash line. “Don’t I know it.”

Tiana stands and smooths her skirt down, shaking herself in the mirror for a moment to solidify her look. “You look gorgeous, by the way. If he sees you tonight, it’ll be a good reminder that he’s got a bird here.”

You smile softly, adjusting your hair one last time. “Hope he’s thinking about me and that night in the Hideaway like I’m his only savior.”

The girls go quiet for a beat, focusing on their own looks. Hair is up, clothes are one, heels are being tied around their calves with precision.

Then Ella says gently, tying the strap of her halter, “Let’s just hope we don’t see too much tonight.”

You meet her eyes in the mirror, the air going still as you try and think about what had been happening over at the Casa house. You try to laugh it off, but your chest is tight.

“Boys will be boys, won’t they?”

When you are all finished, you had made your way back to the main living space, the Casa boys following behind you girls as you are all muttering around at what you could be seeing tonight. The cushions are set on the lawn, benches ready for you all to take a seat.

You sit in the front middle row as you have Ella on one side and Tiana on the other of you. Connor is sitting behind you on the benched bleachers behind you. 

Because whatever’s coming next? It could change everything.

The projector screen flickers to life as you all sit down with your drinks in your hand. You’re sitting in a line with the girls, your heart in your throat. You’ve been loyal with him since day one, but you have a feeling in your chest.

You’ve known Harry’s flirtatious, he always has that little glint in his eye, but you trusted him to know where the line was.  

Still, your stomach’s been twisting all day. You barely touched your dinner. And now, your hands are clammy and still as the screen pops up with words written across it in white font, with a plain background.

“The Hideaway Kiss.”

A few of the girl’s murmur, your eyes focused as you lean forward slightly.

The screen cuts to a shot of the Casa Amor garden — the moon is high and reflecting off of the pool, the pool lights glowing soft and blue. Harry is sitting on a sun lounger with a drink in his hand before his eyes flicker up to another girl—Tash, a girl that came in through Casa Amor, a girl that Harry had been attracted too when they had their first kiss on a blindfolded challenge.

Tiana puts her hand on her mouth as she notices where this is going to go.

Then, a voice off screen urges him: “Come on, then. It’s quieter in there.”

Your breath stutters as you can’t even peel your eyes away if you tried.

You recognize that voice now. The screen cuts to the Hideaway door as it opens to the patio; two figures stepping out into the cut off room. The private room.

It’s Harry speaking then, “Taking me somewhere cheeky, are we?”

“Oh, Harry, fucking hell,” Ella states with disappointment as she shakes her head; her hand in in yours.

Tash tucks some hair behind her ears as she looks to make sure that Harry is still behind her as she shrugs, moving to sit on the bench swing, “We’re just up here talking, yeah? Unless you’re a bit scared.”

You try to not make any reaction—a reaction means this is going to hurt you. On the screen, Harry follows her into the smaller, more private rea before he laughs a bit dry with his drink in his hand, “Want me all for yourself, I see.”

They sit on the swing together; he’s wearing a tan button down that enhances his own bronze skin that had been kissed by the sun these past few weeks. The pink of his cheeks means he’s warm, but you aren’t sure if it’s from her or from the day by the pool.

Tash giggles a little as she faces him, pulling her legs up underneath her, “You always this smug when you’re alone with a girl?��

Harry takes a sip of his prosecco before he shrugs, the smirk is almost disgusting you right now, “Only when they’ve got something important to say.”

She nudges him with her knee, they’re close. You can already feel the blood drain from your face before Ella and Jess both break out in their own criticisms.

“That fucking prick!”

“Oh my god, Harry.”

It’s almost like you just can’t rip your eyes from the screen, you just shake your head as you murmur under your breath, “So fucked up.”

You watch as Tash blinks back at him with a flirtatious style that is matching his body language; you almost feel sick at the way that he stares at her when she speaks, “You’re quite trouble.”

He laughs then as he leans against the pillows. The exact laugh you’ve fallen asleep to every night. Easy, warm, low in his throat—almost resembles a giggle, but it’s softer than that. You can see the way that the smile reaches his eyes, and his eyes are piercing into hers like they hadn’t even broken eye contact once.

“Bet you’d like a bit of trouble, though.” She tells him quietly—quiet enough that there are subtitles to decipher them which makes you take in a deep breath.

Harry’s just grinning as he breaks eye contact to stare at his hand, focusing on the tassel on one of the pillows, “Wouldn’t say no to it if it came knocking.”

Tiana swears under her breath beside you. And then—on screen—Tash leans in and kisses him. Of course, it’s not a peck—it’s slow and her hands move to his neck, pulling him closer as they move together.

And he lets her. For a second, maybe two.

“Fucking messy, that is,” Jess comments, biting at her long nail as you hear some of the other girls gasp for a moment, shaking their head.

Then he leans back and says, “You’re naughty.”

But he’s smiling when he says it. The screen fades to black, and the villa all of the sudden has a hush of silence that you hadn’t felt before. There’s no music, no movement, no real closure to this. You sit still with an upright, stoic posture. It feels like your body is floating outside itself.

Tiana is the first to speak, then. “Are you okay?”

You don’t answer right away. The image is still burned into your mind — the shape of his mouth on hers. The way he let it happen like it was nothing—like he just completely forgot what you both had.

Ella puts a hand on your back.

“I—I mean, there’s a way to be respectful, and this completely just crossed all of the boundaries that we’ve had,” you clear your throat, licking over your lips, “It’s just—I guess I’m just shocked, but I shouldn’t be.”

Jess looks down. “He looked into it. The way he smiled—”

Megan shakes her head. “He let her take him into the Hideaway. That’s not just a cheeky chat. That’s a choice.”

You nod once, and then you stand without anything further to say about it. Everyone looks up at you.

“I’m fine,” you lie, shrugging as you go to move around the boys, “Just want some air.”

You walk past the pool, away from the lights to that little corner near the tree with the bench where you and Harry used to sneak away after the recouplings to discuss what had happened. The night he kissed your shoulder. The night he told you that you make things feel easy, even when the villa’s mad and the bombshells come in and he really only wanted to get to know you.

You sit there and wrap your arms around yourself. Because now you know what he really thinks and how he really is. It didn’t take a bed—it didn’t even take a night… or even much time. All it took was just a moment.

And he took it with her.

{NARRATOR}

Somewhere in Casa Amor, the boys are just being boys—chatting in swim shorts, giving bad advice, and mistaking confusion for clarity. And Harry? He’s about to make the kind of choice that follows you all the way back to the villa… if he makes it back in one piece.

The sun is now high in the sky, painting the lounger’s gold. The air smells like sunscreen and regret.

Harry leans back in a chair by the pool, sunglasses low on his nose, fiddling with the condensation on his water bottle. Around him, the boys are buzzing; they’re talking about which girls are “proper fit,” who’s grafting, who’s playing it safe. Who they may want to bring back to the villa, who they are coupled up with now.

He’s trying to listen. But he can’t stop thinking… about you. And now, about Tash. He’s biting the inside of his lip as he takes in a breath, and turns towards Ronan when he speaks.

“Alright,” Ronan says, smirking at him. “So what’s the deal, mate? You and Tash have been getting cozy, huh?”

Harry shrugs, sitting up on the lounger as he rubs some of the sunscreen on his shoulder. “She’s actually real sound. Got that little attitude, y’know? Keeps me on my toes.”

Luca grins, leaning back on his arms as he sips on his water bottle. “And she’s into you, bruv. Like, properly into you—Christina made a comment about you both in the Hideaway?”

The others laugh at that, eyes scrunching when they ask all the questions they can think of.

“Yeah, but I think it’s fun to explore, but,” Ronan says, leaning forward. “But don’t forget what you’ve got back at the villa.”

Harry shifts on the seat, trying to make himself more comfortable against the cushions. “Don’t need reminding on that.”

“Well,” Ronan presses, looking over his shoulder as the girls sit by the kitchen, making breakfast, “you’ve been with her since day one. You really gonna throw that for someone you’ve known two days?”

Harry rubs the back of his neck as he pushes his sunglasses back on the bridge of his nose; they’ve fallen a bit with the sweat of the summer heat. “That’s the thing. It’s not like I want to throw anything. But I came here to test things. You lot were saying the same.”

“Yeah,” Luca says, scrunching his nose in the hot heat. “And Tash isn’t nothing—she’s proper fit. There’s a vibe, innit?”

Harry pauses, shrugging. “…There is. With her, I mean. The sexual chemistry is there for sure,” He licks his lips, “but I think the conversations I’ve had with Y/N is unmatched from any girl I’ve had here.”

The boys nod like they’ve cracked some secret; like they’ve seen everything they’ve needed to see.

“And it’s not the same as what I have with her back at the villa, you know what I mean?” Harry says, voice quieter now. “It’s different.” He breathes in slow, then adds, “But I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t open. And Tash—she’s here. She’s flirting. It’s easy, and I do want to explore if there was more there.”

“And it should be,” Ronan speaks up, almost like a reminder. “You’re not closed off or anything.”

Luca turns towards the girls, before turning back to Harry, “What do you think she’s doing right now?”

Harry laughs once, low as he tries to remain a bit nonchalant with his words. “Hopefully not what I’m doing.”

That gets a few whoops and groans as they all smugly smile; Harry bites on the straw of his water bottle and shakes his head.

“Look,” Ronan says. “You bring Tash back; you’ve still got options. You bring no one? You’re banking on her standing there alone. That’s the risk. Guess it depends on if she’s testing her connection over in the villa.”

Harry nods, knowing the risks—he doesn’t need them laid out to him, but he takes in a deep breath.

“She’s gonna be fuming if she stayed loyal,” he mutters out, breathing out sharply before shaking his head. “Proper fuming.”

“Or she might’ve cracked on with another, mate,” Luca shrugs, throwing his arm above his head as he’s leaned back on one of the lounger seats. “You don’t know.”

Harry leans forward now, elbows on his knees, head down. “I just don’t want to be the prick that doesn’t know what’s he’s had, you know what I mean? But that’s what the experience is for, yeah? Like, it would be a disservice to not test the connection.”

“Too late if you already kissed someone, mate,” Ronan tells him, hoenstly. “Pretty tested, I think.”

Harry doesn’t respond. A beat of silence presses between all of them, Tash and a few of the girls giggling in the corner; the red bikini on her body makes her stand out amongst them. Then, Luca questions him: “You bringing Tash back or what?”

Harry exhales through his nose. Still looking down, as if he doesn’t really want to do what he’s about to do. It doesn’t feel like him to sneak around and to be testing something that’s already good. “I think I have to.”

The boys clap his back. “You’ve done nothing wrong. You’re just exploring, yeah?”

“Right.” Harry says, confidence not lacing his words as he moves to stand up—moving to possibly pull Tash for a chat if he can muster up the courage to do so.

But even as he grins and grabs his bottle, something inside his chest doesn’t feel celebratory or like he is certain with that decision. Something tightens then, because deep down, he knows he’s not just exploring this relationship. He’s crossing a line.

{NARRATOR}

It’s been said that love grows in the villa—but sometimes it burns. Especially after a return from Casa Amor that’ll go down in Love Island history. Someone grab the popcorn.

You sit at the fire pit in a white dress that’s pulled at your hips, hands clenched in your lap, nails digging into your palm so you don’t fall apart. The air is buzzing with tension with the other women around you, the boys who have joined you in your days in the villa, hearts hammering under pretty lashes and fake tan.

This is the moment. Maya Jama glances around at the rest of you, throwing her hair over her shoulder as she stands before you all—the boys coming back to villa from Casa Amor. You already know what’s coming. You’ve seen the clip—there wasn’t any way that he was coming back alone.

And the worst part? The kiss wasn’t the shock. It was the laugh. The stupid, giggling, flirty banter that followed. That spark in his eyes. Like you’d never existed. Like seven weeks of slow burns and secret kisses and staying up whispering in bed had just vanished the second he had new options and a game card.

The clip hadn’t shown more than a minute or two—that was all that was needed to solidify the way that this was so fluid, everything in here could change in an instant. And that was enough for you to know your fate.

“You’ve chosen to remain single, Y/N,” Maya says, her voice kind and professional as always as her hands rest intertwined against her. “Now it’s time to see if Harry remained loyal to you… or if he’s decided to recouple.”

You brace yourself to hear two voices. The doors open; the girls are leaning their heads and whispering as you stand there and await to see them start to come into the villa. Your eyes stay pressed until you hear the clinking of heels.

“Fuck.”

Then, he appears—Harry. But of course, with Tash—hand in hand. She’s wear a smug little half-smile that can only be described as knowing that she won the fight, she made her way back here. He walks in without even looking around for you, but you can see the way that his face stays stoic and possibly a bit terrified of the reaction he would receive. The girls behind you gasp softly, but you don’t move—you barely breathe as you watch them come in. You just watch it unfold like a stranger watching their own life from across the room.

Harry gives a small smile, but it falters only slightly when he sees you standing there alone, still single.

His brows twitch, confused. Tash doesn’t seem to care. Maya’s voice fills the tense silence around you all as you smile back at her and nod with a silence that makes the loudest noise.

“Harry has decided to recouple,” Maya looks at the couple, “Welcome Tash to the villa,” She looks back at you and gives you a sympathetic look, “That means, Y/N, you are single and vulnerable.”

Hearing the words, Harry flinches—almost like he didn’t know that would be coming but knowing that it hurt him more than he thought it would.

They walk toward the bench across from you. Harry finally looks at you properly, as if just then noticing something’s wrong. You can see it hit him:

She didn’t pick anyone. She was waiting for me.

A few boys bring back girls from the villa—nothing was as unexpected as Harry bringing back Tash, but there were a few surprises. You weren’t the only one left single, Tiana found herself single, as well. You bite on your lip when Maya leaves, telling you all that she would see you later.

The group starts to introduce themselves to one another—there are new boys and girls, you smile politely but keep yourself away from him for a moment before you find the sound of his voice behind you.

“Can we go for a chat?” Harry turns up near you, making your head turn quickly before you take in a deep breath.

“Don’t know what there is to say, but sure.” You give him the cold shoulder before you start walking towards the sofas. You walk ahead of him without speaking, heading to the corner of the terrace, past the fairy lights and villa walls that heard you both whisper, “I’m all in” just last week.

He stands in front of you now, the nerves that were rushing through him were obvious by now, but you wanted to make them worse. You wanted him in pain, to feel the humiliation that you felt.

“Hey,” he starts, soft, almost like he isn’t sure where to go with this. “Look, I know how that must’ve looked—”

You cut him off, shaking your head as you feel the anger boiling to a point of scalding. “How what looked, exactly? Please explain because I’d love to hear you bullshit your way through this one.”

He stares at you for a moment before he takes in a breath. He takes a seat on the sofa before he stares at his hands in his lap.

“Look—this wasn’t to hurt you—"

You cut him off, shaking your head as you stare deeply towards him, “You brought back a girl I watched you kiss—I saw all of it, Harry. You kissed her on day one, you couldn’t keep it respectful in the slightest.”

His lips part slightly before he shakes his head, a subtle pathetic laugh escapes him. “You… It looks bad, but we agreed we weren’t closed off, so--”  

“Yeah, fuck you. You knew what was respectful—we’ve been together since day one, Harry. And it took one blonde bitch to ruin this and make me look like an idiot standing there and thinking you’d wait. You think that wouldn’t have hurt my feelings? And if I hadn’t seen it, would I have been told that happened or no?”

He winces at that, almost like that could have hurt him more than he hurt you.

You press forward, sitting upwards as you shake your head at him. “Out of all of the conversations we’ve had, I want you to explore, be respectful. And you said, ‘Course I will, babe, course I will.’ Do you even remember saying that?”

“I do,” he says, tone dropping as he tries to manage in more words, but knows that he’s contradicting everything he’s said. “But it was just a kiss—I just brought her back to explore that connection but that doesn’t dissolve what we have, Y/N.”

“Oh, don’t,” you say, turning almost away as you laugh a solidly angry laugh. “Don’t pull that card. The kiss, I could’ve handled. It was the laugh after, the smug look in your eyes. The way you giggled with her like I was a joke. Like I was nothing. It was just foul play to you, and I’m not here to play that—I think we’re done.”

Harry’s face contorts to more confusion before he shakes his head, almost confused that you would end it like that. “It wasn’t like that—”

“You’re naughty, bit of trouble, aren’t you?” You mock his words and accent to Tash in the Hideaway before you feel yourself starting to feel more and more angry, less and less hurt, but sincerely disappointed.

He exhales like he hasn’t taken a solid breath in weeks. “I didn’t know where we stood—I didn’t know if you would have someone. Am I supposed to think you wouldn’t keep someone here?”

“We stood strong,” you say, voice breaking now. “We were solid. You just didn’t want to admit you cracked—and you’re missing the entire point.”

He swallows hard. “I panicked—I didn’t—”

You laugh at those words — hollow and sharp with almost no feeling anymore. You watch his face, the way that his eyebrows crease, like he’s disappointed in himself, as he should be.

“So instead of trusting what we had, you panicked and kissed someone else? That’s not loyalty. That’s cowardice. You picked her, Harry. You disrespected this relationship, me, yourself—your hers now, and she can have you.” You move to stand with your cup in your hand as your ponytail swishes and you try your best to keep your emotions from turning into tears.

He’s silent; you know that he doesn’t have any excuse.

“I know I messed up,” he mutters, staring down at his hands that house the almost empty cup of wine that he knew he needed. “I didn’t handle it right.”

You shake your head, watching him straight up as you turn on your heels. “No, you didn’t. And what hurts the most is that I stood by you. I chose you every single day in that villa. And you made me look like a moron.”

He goes to stand and starts to walk with you as you want to get away from him as far as possible. “I didn’t mean to make you feel that way.”

“But you did, Harry!” you turn towards him again, quickly with a bit of whiplash, “You let go first. I was holding on with both hands.”

There’s a pause. His throat bobs before he lifts a shoulder, and shakes his head.

“I regret it,” he says quietly. “I shouldn’t have brought her back—you’re right, I screwed up.”

You stare at him, eyes glassy—you can’t cry, not now. Not in front of him, that would admit defeat. You’re standing on the ground, standing on what you believe before you throw away his words.

“You don’t get to regret it now that it’s real because you know that I’m single,” you say. “You don’t get to come crawling back just because you feel guilty all of the sudden. You didn’t think of me, period.”

Your eyes linger on him for a moment before you turn towards the girls, leaving him walking towards the boys, his head down in shame.

{NARRATOR}

Whew. Looks like Harry’s brought more than just Tash back from Casa Amor… he’s brought a storm. If only he could have forecasted bringing another woman back to his couple would have stirred up thunder!

[aglimpseofharry]

i can't handle this. he's SO SOFTTTTT

Harry Styles | Don't Worry Darling (2022)

[aglimpseofharry]

love love love. i can't say enough about this series. its literally my favorite thing at the moment!!!! you're so talented, it makes me want to scream !!! in the best way !!!!

The one where Y/N and Harry are neighbors in an apartment complex, he's got a bunny called Snuggles, he makes softcore porn spanking people (it's a REALLY LOUD HOBBY), and Y/N has definitely called the police for a domestic disturbance next door.

HII HERE IT IS. This one shows H's (slowly) shifting perspective and introduces some semi-important side characters! Definitely read the other parts first if you haven't already. Reblogs/feedback always super appreciated. If you like a fic, sharing the work with the reblog button and leaving a comment/sending an anon keeps writers motivated to keep posting on this platform for free! (ꈍ◡ꈍ)

FETISH masterlist : PATREON masterlist (367.9K+ words of content and updating) : MAIN masterlist

CONTENT/WARNINGS: just boy shenanigans in this one

WC: 5.7K

“No, but I’m saying— there’s a line,” Niall motions out with his hand, “Like, spitting in someone’s mouth? That’s hot. Spitting in your own hand and slapping them with it? Aggressive.”

Tucked into the chair beside him, Seth raises a wry eyebrow pointedly, “You did that last month.”

The other brunette turns his chin over his shoulder towards his friend, his face falling flatly as if the sentiment is common sense, “Yeah, as a bit.”

“Which part was the bit, exactly?” Art chimes from beside Harry, his eyebrows pleating into a sardonic display of curiosity as he pretends to mull, “The apology text you sent her after, or…?”

Harry traces his finger along the curving rim of his glass, absorbing the chill and the slick of condensation with his other palm, which he cups over the body. It’s a whiskey ginger ale— his usual, here— because a drink with more than two or three ingredients at the hole-in-the-wall dive bar he frequents with his friends every Friday night is more likely to be the reason someone projectile vomits onto the out-of-service jukebox than anything worth paying for. 

The roster consists of the usual suspects and their typical venue; its low lighting, peeling faux-leather barstools, and the obnoxiously rumbling guitar riff spilling from a couple of overhead speakers provides a fitting ambience for the chaos their togetherness always seemed to entail. Truth be told, the sticky floorboards and the questionable garnishes aren’t exactly the curly-haired brunette’s ideal bar scene, but the beer-stained, crumbling excuse of a pub had gradually become one of their default weekly spots (mostly on account of the fact that Art had stolen a set of coasters he found to be funny from their last bar, getting them banned in the process, and partly due to that uber-specific IPA Niall prefers always, somehow, being on tap). Then, Percy started playing the long-game through subtle fuck-me eyes with the bartender (a mating ritual that could only be found in a setting that perpetually smelled of tequila), so. That made three. By majority, Harry’s opinion is outnumbered, outvoted, out of excuses, and frankly, means fuckall. Though he will admit, a couple of drinks in, there becomes something oddly comfortable about the regular hum of bad decisions and flickering neon. Besides, the ambience is easier to stomach once the second drink kicks in. Despite the semi-threatening state of the bathrooms, the crowd can never quite be described as thin (at least not on on the days he and his friends show face) and is always interesting enough to warrant a round of people-watching (a quietly entertaining, solo game he finds himself reverting to at some point in the night, without fail). It’s within walking distance of his building, and the park the group will sometimes frequent (if given enough alcohol prior to last call). Occasionally, they’ll march down the sidewalk and cling to one another like an obnoxious brotherhood— all drunk, off-key chorus to whatever eighties rock hit had gotten stuck in their heads that night and limbs locked around shoulders. It’s the kind of insufferable, testosterone-fueled camaraderie that only seems to become unlocked with a finely tuned formula of alcohol and reminiscing. 

And it’s the same affectionate delinquency that drives their good-natured barbs towards one another. With a knowing half-sneer ticking at the corners of his pink mouth, Harry ducks his chin as his eyebrows climb, “I’m still stuck on the way you managed to miss her face from six inches away the first time.” 

The story, which the raunchy, in-depth details of had surfaced as a means to get advice weeks ago, is still just as amusing as it had been when the Irishman had flooded the groupchat with semi-ashamed, apprehensive voice memos. Apparently, he had received a vague request for rough sex from a girl he was seeing, and rather than ironing out the details (perhaps clarifying— which would have been Harry’s personal default— or experimenting by pulling on her hair a bit, or manhandling her across the mattress), Niall had, in entirely literal terms, slobber-slapped her. Because he had decided that this mechanism was obviously what she was asking for. The onslaught of messages that had ensued in the groupchat had made Harry’s stomach ache from sheer laughter.  

And the mention of the awkward detail from the story— arbitrary, given the whole picture, and still perhaps one of the most entertaining for the cohort— coaxes an incremental stream of agreeing hums and chuckles. 

“We’ve been over this,” Niall groans, rolling his eyes, as if his coordination (or lack thereof) is solely dependent on lighting (or lack thereof), “we had the lights off.”

Seth shakes his head, a loose, weary sort of amusement gracing his features, “I think you’re just disgusting.”

“And the pot meets the kettle,” Niall challenges, eyebrows pinching as his eyes narrow at his considerably swarthier counterpart, “You had that weird toe thing with… what’s-her-name. The one with the teeth?”

At the errant dig towards his ex-fling, (admittedly a nice person, as Harry remembers) hooking into the discussion strictly as collateral, Seth blinks blankly, deadpanning, “Her name was Bianca, and she had perfectly normal teeth.”

Art picks up his drink, muzzling a string of snickers at his own quip by tucking his straw between his teeth, “Sure, sure. She also had a canine sharp enough to open packages.”

As Seth rolls his eyes up to the wooden beams detailing overhead, Niall directs his attention onto Harry, who sits across from him. “What’s your take on it, then?”

Halting the soft, steady drum the face of his ring had taken against the body of the glass, Harry gears his gaze onto the other brunette. A half-lidded, nonchalant glaze coats his expression as he clarifies, “Spitting?” He shrugs, pursing his lips to bottle his mirth, “Well, it’s context-dependent, isn’t it? I’ll wait for her ask for it before giving her a fucking hurricane.”

Art, with the straw still slotted between his lips, snorts and nearly chokes on his drink. 

“It was a bit!” Niall defends hotly, exasperation worming into his tone at the ridicule. He lays his palms flat onto the sticky tabletop, then picks one up to motion with it, pinky parallel to the surface, as if chronologically walking the rest of his friends through a particularly uncomfortable series of unfortunate events, “She texted me a link to one of those Bang casting roleplay and said ‘I want this.’ I. Want. This,” Niall repeats, emphasizing each word with another, firm tap against the table, eventually resorting to gesture out with the same palm, “And I was spitballing.”

At the unintended softball, Harry nudges with his chin, feigning understanding, “Right.”

For a moment, Niall bristles. The dewy (courtesy of the shots the cohort had kicked off the night with) noctilucence of his gaze sharpens to a dagger point as it narrows. Finally, he sits back against the chair, correcting himself flatly, “Improvising.”

“Why do all your bits end in trauma?” Seth notes, a crinkle forming between his brows almost pensively.

“It’s almost impressive,” Art tacks in. When the redhead finally sets his drink onto the table, it’s half-nursed. He snorts, luring a scowl from the Irishman diagonal to him, “You’ve got the bedside prowess of a drunk magician.”’

“Pick a card, any card,” Harry drawls dramatically, stretching his arm out in a display of theatrical mystique, only able to stifle the full extent of his dimples with the drink he takes after the deadpan punchline, “Now, open your mouth.” 

Unlike the rest of the table, Niall doesn’t seem to bask in the same mirth. A ruddy smear inches over the bridge of his nose, speckling his cheeks, and dusts the tips of his ears as his friends cackle. 

“Where would you have done it, then?” the Irishman counters irately, once more focusing his inquiry onto the curly-haired brunette across from him, who seems to have taken the lead role in the ribbing. 

Harry muscles down his laughter, schooling his expression into something more sober and casual, “Where would I have done it?”

Niall bobs his head firmly, the edges of his lips downturned in lingering childish offense, “You get a link to an aggressive porno with a text tied to it that says ‘I want this.’ Where are you spitting?”

Although the answer (common sense, in Harry’s opinion) rests on the tip of his tongue like a ready swimmer on a diving board, he bats his lashes at his friend in mocking innocence, “I wouldn’t degrade a woman like that. I’m a good boy.”

“Oh, cut the shit,” Niall scoffs, his face screwing, “You basically degrade women as a hobby and document it. You’re a sick freak.”

“Consensually,” Harry stresses over the breathless wheeze of laughter that surfaces from the stool beside him, pausing for effect, “Which is the key here, young Niall. And I’ve already, basically given you the answer, haven’t I? If she asks for it, as in, she says ‘I’d like you to spit on me,’ well then, …mouth’s nice.” He shrugs nonchalantly, and a slow-seeping, seedy kind of grin trickles over his lips at the thought, “I’ve got a soft spot for the lower back, too, though. Feels a bit like writing your name in the snow.” With all-seriousness, now (interlaced, of course, with pitying concern that’s meant to condescend), he blinks, shaking his head slowly, “But, mate, I think she just wanted you to pull her hair a bit.”

The tail-end jab and its intended patronization milks a boyish peal of laughter from the group (in more exact terms, everyone at the table besides Niall, whose even huff is slowly getting swallowed by the penumbra of his grimace), and Harry smiles slyly.

“Isn’t this the girl that stole your lighter?” Art sits up, knuckling at his wet eyes, “And you venmo’d her to get it back?”

“I think it was justified collateral,” Seth speaks quietly, motioning out with his hands, and the subtle wisecrack coaxes a snort from Harry.

Niall’s visage is sullen when he admits, “It was vintage.”

And, really, he just keeps throwing him softballs, doesn’t he? Under his breath, as Harry raises his glass to his lips, he comments, “So was she.” 

The glum expression that’d laminated over the other man’s features splinters apart to make room for indignancy to rear, coloring his cheeks a deeper tinge of pink and anchoring the edges of his mouth down harshly. His eyes narrow into slits and he spits, “Like you’re any better, with your little emotionally-repressed baristas and your horny little librarians.” 

While the razor-edged remark clocks him, somewhat unanticipated, Harry feigns indifference, folding his fingers together and bracing his chin against the platform his hands create like a deadpan cherub.  

“No, no,” Art pipes in, wiggling his forefinger side-to-side, “The baristas and the librarians aren’t the emotionally repressed ones. They’re the victims of his emotional constipation.” 

“Thank you!” Niall smacks the top of the table passionately, rattling the drinks set onto it. Harry doesn’t unclasp his own, only reacting with wryly amused silence. The Irishman stretches the same hand over the table towards Art, who seamlessly daps him up as Niall declares, “My fucking man. I’m not taking shit from a thinkpiece dom with an avoidant attachment style.”

Slowly, Harry shoots a careful side-eye towards his redheaded friend, who seems to have no loyalties in the petty squabble (which is no true surprise, given that the man usually plays into whichever chaos is readily available), then back to Niall, droll amusement still slightly cresting the corners of his pillowy lips, “At least repression has dignity. I’ve never laid on a girl’s chest and called her mummy.” 

“No,” Art weighs in snidely, twisting his straw between his fingertips, “you let a girl call you daddy and then never called her back with the milk.” 

In response to the blindsiding, scathing quip, Niall chokes on his bark of boisterous laughter, opting to repeatedly high-five the ginger man over the table, as opposed to dapping him up again. In the clumsy process, he nearly backhands Harry across the temple, and the curly-haired brunette subtly leans back in his seat with just enough time to avoid the assault. For a moment, he just watches the two idiots play patty-cake over the table, unimpressed, swirling and scraping the thin cocktail straw along the tops of the ice cubes in the beverage. When the duo finally settles down, wet crystals beading along their waterlines, Harry opts to verbally tackle the offenders clockwise, starting with Arthur. 

“You trauma-bond, you co-depend, and you—” Harry fires off, pausing as his attention settles on the Irishman, “You just get off on being misunderstood in the same way you were misunderstood by your actual mummy.”

Clobbered by the demolishing bite, Niall sits there, mildly stunned. There’s a quiet beat, and then he blindly swipes back with his arm, knocking Seth in the chest with the back of his hand to garner his attention, “Seth. Are you going to stand for this? You’ve caught a stray.” 

The least active counterpart releases a noncommittal hum, his focus settled on the phone cradled in his palm, which had gotten pulled out of his pocket somewhere in the midst of the aggressive hand-flapping. Without raising his tipped chin (or his eyes), he states, “I’m not surprised, with how many Harry’s got on his leash.” 

The effortless, savage retort siphons another peal of braying laughter from Niall, and Art chimes, matter-of-factly, “It’s not a leash. It’s a ten-foot pole, so he can keep them at a distance.”

Before Harry can deliver another cutting series of comments— this time deliberately aimed for the entirety of the table, who have seemed to unanimously turn on him altogether— the fifth (and final) fragment of their group appears at the empty foot of the hightop, presenting a drink in each hand. 

“What’d I miss?” Percy interjects, setting Niall’s beer ahead of him (dubbed something dumb and difficult to remember, like Bitter Than Thou) and his own beverage in the empty slot where he stands. It’s a vivid pink hue, and almost puts whatever the obnoxious name of Niall’s preferred IPA is— Harry just can’t fucking remember, at this moment— to shame, off of visual presentation alone. 

As he reaches for an empty stool at the table beside them, its legs screeching from the friction against the beer-slicked floorboards, Niall chimes, “We’re just talking about how Harry’s an emotionally unavailable freak with a punishment portfolio.”

Wrinkling his nose, Art leans over the table to get a better look at his friend’s beverage of choice. His eyes creep up to its owner’s face, chock-full of judgment, “Why do you have Barbie bathwater?”

“I ordered something called a Bar Hopper,” Percy sighs, in reference to the assessment of his unusual drink, and as he settles into the barstool, he rolls his shoulders under his green leather jacket to get comfortable, “and it’s supposed to be gin.”

A theatrical gag screws the ginger man’s face, his tongue peeking out as his eyes swipe away from the cocktail to further display his revulsion, “I hate gin.”

During the performative exhibition, Niall meanwhile, has sneakily taste-tested the artificially vibrant concoction by plucking the little black stirrer from the glass and swiping it across his taste buds. 

“That is Fabuloso,” he declares, smacking his lips before he discards the straw onto the tabletop. His brows furrow at the (apparently) unfavorable flavor. “Yep. Fabuloso. The watermelon bottle.”

“Didn’t you eat gas station sushi once?” Seth blinks up for his cellphone to chime, eyebrows furrowing. 

“Yes,” Niall and Percy respond in tandem, though Niall’s answer is matter-of-fact in a way that suggests he continues to stand by his decision, and Percy’s lands as if the reminder still exasperates him to this day. 

“You eat,” the little ruckle between Seth’s eyebrows only chisels in deeper, “gas station sushi, but somehow have standards for gin?”

“I am a man of class—“

“He threw up in my bathtub. He has no right to judge my well gin—“

As the focus of conversation shifts to a bicker between Percy and Niall over the Sushi Incident (in which Percy claims to have spent two hours harvesting mashed chunks of a semi-digested, gas station California roll, so no, with the shit you willingly put into your body, you don’t have room to judge my gin), the curly-haired brunette instead lets his gaze roll over the rest of the room.

Harry doesn’t believe in change. 

Which, in the grand scheme of things (as a massive generalization), just kind of makes him sound like a bit of a psychopath. 

Really, what he means to say, is that he doesn’t believe in change in that grand chrysalis-to-butterfly sort of phenomenon. People, for example, don’t change— not really. They pivot, or they flinch. They make small adjustments, as if tweaking their internal thermostats, and then they pretend to become someone new. It’s not that it’s performative, but the foundation, as a blueprint of their character, is perpetual. Consistency is underrated, anyways. It’s easy to romanticize evolution when one’s never watched someone else slowly devolve under the weight of their own reinvention. 

Change exists all around him; occasionally, he’ll see a new face in the hallway, or note the subtle rotation of balcony plants, suggesting someone’s moved out and someone new has unceremoniously filled their empty slot. Now and again, there’s a different smell somewhere— wet paint (in spite of the lease contract’s very specific warnings against “alterations, improvements, or changes,” which, in his opinion, always felt a little theatrical for a building with christmas-tree green hallway carpeting), or the lingering scent of an unfamiliar perfume. But all of these insights ultimately dissolve into background texture, because it’s the kind of incidental reshuffling he can register without participating. A couple of months ago, one of the breakfast cafés on his morning route shut down, and is currently in the process of being torn down altogether. What was once a semi-relevant brunch-nook now resides as an empty construction lot of rubble and debris, only marked by an opaque silt fence. Truth be told, its expiration doesn’t really bother him, considering he’d never actually attended it. 

Most of the mildly disruptive change, as the plates have settled into place, is years behind him. The divorce, the long-haul move across the country, then the move from one hemisphere to the other. Graduation. He doesn’t count the mildly ephemeral girlfriends, because they’re transient enough to practically exist as something see-through, and therefore do not impact his schedule (which sounds cruel, but is purely candid). Perhaps his unfamiliarity with change is what causes him to believe that the majority doesn’t affect him, and in turn leads him to dislike it. 

Harry would argue that the majority of the human population doesn’t prefer the unknown, and he’s no outlier in that department. 

He likes knowing where his keys are, so he always sets them into the same spot. He likes having a drawer specifically dedicated to loose cables, even if some of them are unidentifiable and may belong to devices he no longer owns. He prefers his breakfast to be the same most days: toast, half an avocado, an egg, and lemon if he remembers. There’s a particular brand of olive oil that he restocks beside his stovetop— extra virgin, Terra Delyssa, always— and he always finds himself reaching for the same shampoo at the store. He still uses a face wash a girl had once recommended in 2017, mostly because he’s scared to try anything else and potentially break out. What’s the point of fracturing and restructuring a routine that already works? 

Harry prefers routine. It is the antithesis of chaos, and therefore change (which, as mentioned, he doesn’t particularly enjoy), and that is funny given that his regular coffee rotation has grown from two reputable cafés to three. The third, incidentally, being the one that Y/N works at, and incidentally, his stops there happen to occur when Y/N is on shift. 

Which is to say, in the most polite terms— Harry deems— that he would like to fuck her. 

The realization (the thought, really, because there was nothing especially extraordinary about it) had sprouted like a weed when he’d turned up for the fourth time, braced onto his elbows over the counter, and told her he’d keep things interesting today; “How about a dirty chai. Switch it up.” — “Dirty chai.” — “The filthiest. Slutty chai to match my… what’d you call them? Slutty tits?” (the quip, of course, a reference to the way she’d playfully demanded he put a shirt on to receive service when he’d stopped by without one, courtesy of his jog, days prior). As her pretty irises lolled up under the canopy of her lashes and she turned to mill behind the counter to complete his request, the brief thought of how those eyes would look, were she on her knees, flickered through his mind. It was a fleeting image, and had thawed away as his eyes lingered on her back, but it had draped itself under his skull and curled up along his hindbrain, nonetheless. 

It both made sense, and didn’t— the young woman was attractive enough in a muted way. Incidental (as he’s finding to be his favorite descriptor), in a way that’s not inherently intentional enough to be dangerous. He’s surprised he hadn’t noted it prior to having an in-depth conversation with her (beyond niceties like swapped mail), opting instead to not glance into her direction twice. He supposes, that may be where the mystery resides; it’s not that her personality leaves anything to be desired, per se, but he doesn’t know nearly enough about her to be intrigued. Besides, an interest in her personality would indicate interest in something less surface-level, and the attraction, as he recognizes it, is nothing if not a shallow afterthought. Exposure breeds interest, and interest is not nearly the equivalent of investment. Harry’s fairly sure he’d seen that motto on a dating blog once, or maybe a tax form. Regardless, the sentiment stands.

Harry finds himself visiting her place of work, while she is on shift, for the same reasons he would approach a pretty girl at a bar. It is the most intrinsic, base-level instinct in interactions with the opposite sex. Quite literally, sex.

Don’t get him wrong— while the passing thought had been an alluring one, she didn’t take up any residency in his mind. He didn’t find himself craving her in those off-hours between dusk and midnight, when his palm would inevitably wander to the pulsing need between his thighs. He doesn’t contemplate the kind of underwear she wears, or if she’s the kind of girl to apologize if she takes too long to shed her top. Doesn’t wonder if she’d let him push her knees apart and still have the audacity to blush— all heat and peach-tint smearing up to her temples. He doesn’t think about it deeply enough for it to take root and mushroom. 

He supposes it’s a kind of out of sight, out of mind logic. That is to say, he does not think of her. Not in a clear-minded headspace, not when he’s got his prick sealed in his fist. It’s a clean, clinical absence. She is simply… eye candy, and when she’s not around, she isn’t, like a visual dessert with an incredibly short half-life. And when she is around, on the clock, her cinched waist also manages to look disproportionately pleasant in that garish apron, and his eyes glue to her ass sometimes, so what can he do in those instances, really, besides wonder what she sounds like when she cums. 

It’s not quite want, because want would insinuate substance. Complexity to a one-note hum and gravity to something that doesn’t even have its soles scraping at the ground. It’s collateral his cave-man-brain suggests when fueled with enough of a view, and has as much depth as a wannabe hipster’s Instagram caption. Nothing worth lingering on. 

Unless she’s standing right there. In which case, Harry reasons, he’s only human. And very, very good at rationalizing. 

Of course, all sense of rationality kicks its feet out the window the moment the anticipated setting of his noncommittal visual enrichment program changes. Which is to say: eye candy sighting, wrong terrain. Apron-swaddled temptation, rebranded in a backless black. Harry has a little less finesse with dismembered expectations, and the last place he anticipates to see Y/N is his regularly-scheduled, regularly-utilized pub. 

It’s not in the capacity he’s mentally slotted her into: behind the counter with her hand on the espresso machine, dishing out his drink and a half-hearted retort to whatever stupid joke he’s draped her with. If he’s going to acknowledge semantics, he’s technically seen her in the wild, given that she lives next door. Brief hallway glimpses, however, aren’t encounters he’d mentally fold into the same category of wild that her backless (and mildly disorienting) mini dress suggests. At first, he doesn’t recognize it’s her. It’s only when she twists her chin and graces him with her side profile, that—

Huh. That’s his first thought.

Oh is the second, which is a smidge more primal and useless. Granted, he’s only human, and fairly weak to visual stimuli. 

It’s Niall’s words that snap him from the wordless daze he’d fallen into, and unfortunately, those words indicate that he’s been caught. 

“What’s that look?” the Irishman prods, sticking his hand out and waving it in front of the other brunette’s face, as if to faze him out of a trance. 

Curiously, Art tips forward over the table so as to catch a glance of what his friend is referring to, sitting back and grinning snidely as Harry blinks and rolls his eyes, redirecting his attention onto the friend group. With the pointed observation, a spike of exasperation surges in his chest, knowing he’s unwittingly forced himself as the new topic of interest in terms of conversation.

“That’s his sex recognition software booting up.”

Unable to muscle down his curiosity (granted, he doesn’t really try at all, Harry decides), Niall turns over his shoulder in the chair, casting his gaze towards the bar, where Harry’s focus had become seemingly engrossed. He twists back, his nose wrinkling in disdain, “Oh, God. Don’t tell me it’s one of your bloggies.”

At the obtuse sobriquet— a generalized moniker that had somehow coined itself and stuck in reference to any of the women (visibly apparent on the blog, and not) Harry happened to interact with in a term best deemed romantic— the man rolls his eyes dramatically. 

“It’s not,” he denies flatly.

“Is this the same not that ‘I didn’t sleep with her’ when you found out that one girl was married meant?” Seth counters (though there’s no contempt to his question, just genuine bemusement). 

“Technically,” Harry huffs, rapping his knuckle against his glass, “I never touched her. She just… did a lot of kneeling.”

“You’re deflecting,” Art takes a sip of his drink, raising his eyebrows.  

Slowly, Harry cups the glass in his palm and lifts the rim to his cushiony lips. His inkpools skate off to the side, behind the table, where Y/N is still glued onto the bar, one foot crossed behind the other ankle. He knocks the rest of the beverage back and hisses out a sigh when he sets the glass back down with a dull thud. 

“She’s my neighbor. And no,” he states pointedly, shedding light on the artistic craftsmanship of his pastime, “she doesn’t have anything to do with my tastefully curated blog.”

Beside him, Art slips something under his breath into his own respective alcoholic beverage, something that vaguely sounds like “Does tastefully curated apply to every glorified Only Fans?” just as Seth starts to say, “The one who thought you were strangling someone?”

“Wait,” Niall blinks, “The fire alarm girl?”

His eyes flicker to his freshly empty glass, and the curly-haired brunette purses his mouth and he chews over the answer. “Something like that. We’re…” once more, Harry’s jade gaze travels to that back corner of the room (though, only settling there for a heartbeat’s length of a pause, this time) before returning to his investigative friends, “on good terms now.”

Perhaps the most level-headed of the entire cohort, Percy chimes in, a simper slicking his mouth as he bobs his head, “You’re into her?”

The words— namely, the way they’re interlaced with a knowing sort of curiosity, rather than the leg-yanking antics the rest of the men have chosen to regard him with— gives Harry’s knee-jerk defensiveness a momentary pause. 

Regardless, his jade irises loll up to the beamed-ceiling once more, a sigh swelling and sinking his shoulders this time as he deadpans, “No. I didn’t say that.”

“Oh, come on,” Niall scoffs, taking a swallow of his own beverage, eyebrows climbing up his forehead and creasing three lines as he emphasizes his point, “That’s your interested face. That’s the same face you had when you saw that guy selling antique chastity belts at the flea market.”

“That was fascination, not attraction.”

“Go talk to her,” Percy cuts in to the quiet birth of what’s sure to become another petty back and forth. 

“We’re not—“ without the excuse of the liquor, the man finds he has little to occupy his mouth with beyond excuses his friends will only continue to dissect. He swallows, shrugging the suggestion off with as much disinterest as he can muster, letting the chill of the ice remnants permeate the glass and bite against his skin, “—we’ve hardly spoken.”

“So what?” Percy furrows his brows, “Say hi. Be a normal person.”

“Are you going to introduce her to the group?” Art pipes in, characteristically out of touch. 

The claim is so absurd, in fact, it causes Harry to snort derisively, and the sober directness of his response only further hardens his friends’ suspicions on the exact depth of his interest. “Absolutely not.” 

“Please,” Niall grips onto his hand (the scene is ridiculous, given the way Harry cradles his glass with one hand, and Niall tucks both of his palms over that ensemble), gleeful notes spilling into his tone at the prospect of possible havoc to wreak, “Please. Let us meet her. I want to tell her about the dance circle.”

At the mention, Harry scowls. His pink mouth downturns into a grimace, and his dark eyebrows pinch indignantly, “You are not telling anyone about the dance circle.”

“I am telling her about the dance circle. Or the cockies.”

“God,” Percy starts, the same notes that usually decorate a pleasant memory slowly teeming his cadence. A faint smile teases at the edges of his lips as he stares off, almost as if reminiscing on the first curl of heat against the asphalt in July, “The cockies.”

“Right,” Harry clears his throat pointedly, withdrawing his hand from the Irishman’s, instead opting to direct his baby blue polished middle finger up at them, molding his mouth into a cloyingly sardonic beam and exaggerating the pleasantness of his tone before he forcibly removes himself from these trenches, “You can all suck my cockie. I’m getting another drink.”

As he slides from the bar stool and lands flat on his soles, shouldering his way past Percy (courtesy of the crowded arrangement), Art raises his beverage, indicating his need for inclusion into the second round. He shakes the empty glass, ice cubes clinking against the walls of the cup obnoxiously, calling, “Vodka-cran.”

Folding his arm behind his back, Harry shoots another discrete middle finger into the direction of the table. He’s hardly out of earshot when Art leans forward to claim, “Ten bucks says she’s a bloggie.” 

Harry thinks it might be Seth that deadpans, “I’m not checking.”

As Harry makes it over to the bar against the opposite wall, the floorboards rumbling under the thud of the bass beneath his feet, he tries to ignore the sensation of his friends’ eyes searing into his back, as if tracing his every move. He’s aware that despite whatever turn the conversation back at the table takes, ultimately, they’ll find their gazes wandering over to their usually romantically-closed off counterpart, because despite the knowledge of his flings, he supposes that watching him in action must be a bit like watching a dog walk on its hind legs for an extended period of time. Or perhaps, a very attractive car wreck. The latter metaphor, of course, isn’t in the sense of the actual wreckage, because the fallout of his romantic interludes is inconsequential enough to hardly count as a chipped coat of paint, and frankly, during the test runs, his check engine light has never even flickered. No— it’s the vague, awe-like sense of collision that demands attention. 

There are two purposes coalescing along the forefront of his mind as the sticky floor creaks under his feet: the first, yes, is to replenish his beverage. On the other side of the counter, the bartender is ducked into a waist-height cooler. But the second, as he spots an empty area beside the young woman to slot into—

Harry braces against the countertop on his elbows, at first turned toward the cabinet ceiling-stacked with a variety of labeled liquor bottles. Then, his chin subtly ducks, and he traces the naked edge of her shoulder. Jade traipses the line of her arm. She’s still turned away, the same direction she’d faced when he’d caught a glimpse of her side profile, and her unwitting lack of focus allows him to openly ogle. Ahead of her, there’s a glass brimming with a synthetic green tint, and the proximity of the glass against her bare forearm insinuates the beverage belongs to her. However, she doesn’t take any incentive to touch it, and one look at the contents tells the entirety of the tragic tale. 

At the bottom of the drink, there’s a bundle of mottled mint leaves, whose frayed, browning edges suggest a rough shelf life, and the view alone nearly makes him cringe. Gingerly, he raps the head of his ring against the wood, then ducks a little closer to signify the soft words are directed towards her. 

“Rookie mistake.”

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[aglimpseofharry]

this is quite literally the best series i have EVER read.

“You want verbal praise.” It didn’t necessarily sound like a question, but Y/N still nods anyway, “Why haven’t you said that before?”

 

Y/N is blinking at him again, confused, “Because you’re kind of scary? And I thought you’d. . .I thought you’d be annoyed with me.”

 

He presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth, taking it away with a soft popping sound. Y/N is worried that she accidentally offended him, but he only nods his head, his face twisted up in a way that tells her he’s considering what she said, “Alright,” he finally said, “I’ll do my best to give you verbal praise if you do your best not to lie to me. I don’t like liars,” he motioned toward the foil, “Now eat, I made that for you.” 

or

Y/N wants to be a chef and Harry is her grumpy mentor

(16k+ words)

i. 

Y/N is not going to cry. 

She isn’t, she really isn’t. Tears burn up her cheeks but she has become seasoned enough in the last year and a half to blink them back even when the reprimand is brutal. She chokes them down, straightens the wobble in her voice, and bites the fleshy part of her bottom lip so it doesn’t quiver. Y/N takes all criticism, all admonishments, all the scoffs and disappointed glares in stride. She nods curtly, replies tersely, and fixes the problem. 

Then once all that’s done, she finds a quiet corner and cries. If she can wait longer, she’ll go home, scream into her pillow, take a hot bath, and maybe let a tear or two slip out, but she gets over it quickly. She went into this knowing what it might be like, so she tried her best to let most of it brush off her shoulder, just as she’d been advised to. Take the (harshly put) advice, channel the anger and upset into making not even just the next meal better, but the next plate – and never let them see you cry about it. 

So Y/N isn’t going to cry, she’ll make damn sure of it. Maybe it was harder today because she didn’t sleep well last night, but that was her own fault – the show she was binging was getting too good to stop and it was 1 AM before she realized. This morning she woke up seconds from chattering her teeth from the glacial-like cold the air in her room took on, only to find her furnace wasn’t working. The water from her shower greeted her in icy slaps to her skin so she found her water heater was just about as useful as her furnace currently was. And she was late this morning because she’d missed the subway, and she stepped in something sticky so her shoes kept squeaking with each step, and just before she walked in she checked her phone and saw a message from her ex that she promptly ignored, but in the middle of ignoring that she ran into Niall who spilled his lukewarm latte down the front of her shirt – 

The day had just been pretty shitty already, is the problem. The last thing she needed was a rich prick complaining about the taste of his food when questioned about it. Don’t get her wrong, she typically takes complaints from customers as a learning experience to grow and nurture the outcome of future meals – but this particular dick does this with all the female staff, he’s noticed. Either the waitress was rude (because she didn’t answer his advances), or the hostess was unprofessional (because the flower tattoos on her forearm were somehow offensive to him), or the whole establishment was filthy (because there was a hair laid delicately on top of his beef wellington). 

One look at the hair and Y/N knew for a fucking fact it wasn’t her own. It wasn’t the same color at all, or the same length – actually it looked quite similar to his date sitting across from him, who seemed. . .relatively put off by the show he was putting on. He can’t do things discreetly, thriving off the attention delivered from the spectacle he makes of himself in these situations. That’s why he announces it particularly loudly and demands to speak to the chef who made the meal, and when Y/N isn’t giving him the reaction that he wants (beyond a gentle apology and an offer to remake his plate), he demands to speak to a manager. Better yet, he demands to speak to Harry Styles himself. 

Harry Styles isn’t a manager. Harry Styles, back in his early twenties, joined the group as one of the youngest chefs to receive two Michelin stars. Before his 30th birthday, he’d gained eight more, was on the cover of Time Magazine, had received critical acclaim and praise from some of the most refined chefs in the world, and quickly became the enemy of any restaurant on the same block as one of his seven locations across the globe. He was skilled beyond reason, a true culinary god born from a spark of heat on a carbon steel pan, someone to look up to, study beneath, attempt to emulate, and then fail because his mastery is something untouchable. He was almost perfect in every way. 

Almost. 

Harry didn’t have the best temperament, his personality was scored with bad-tempered moods, and his attitude left much to be desired. He wasn’t personable, rarely smiled, and the inflection in his voice was typically nonexistent if not for him scolding you. Y/N is unsure why he’s so serious – from what she’s read and heard his childhood was pretty decent, and his love life was nonexistent but he seemed relatively content about it, he was rich which – Y/N knows money doesn’t buy happiness but it surely allows you to live comfortably. She’s sure he must have faced hardships at some point, but he doesn’t talk about it.

So studying under him is a privilege just as much as it’s a thorn in the ass. It’s difficult to become his apprentice – he’s had a total of 10 apprenticeships in the past couple of years and only 3 of them made it past the 5-month mark, and only one of them actually finished out the three years. The fact that Harry is such a coveted culinary artist that the waitlist to apprentice under him stretches long before he’s even reached 35 is something to be noted. And every day Y/N is both endlessly confused and grateful that he chose to take her under her wing (she and another aspiring chef, Finley started together but Finley left pretty early on, after the first time Harry tasted a soup he made and told him it was shit and to start over). 

Harry Styles isn’t the manager, but he runs his kitchen so precisely and so strictly that if someone’s asking to speak to the manager, you can bet your ass that he’ll be present at the table as well. Much to Y/N’s chagrin, that is, she stands there while the patron stirs a fuss holding up a hair that was the wrong color to be hers. If Y/N was apprenticing under Adam, the other chef in the kitchen (second in command and much less intense, but still really good) then she would have told him it seemed like the fucker just had his date pull a piece of her hair out and lay on his food. Harry has all of his staff wear their hair slick back, pulled tight into a bun if it is long enough to, with a black headband stretching over part of her scalp. Even those with short hair are expected to have hair nets on, and they’ve not had a problem with hair in the food. The whole thing was just hard to believe, especially with who it was coming from. 

Alas, Adam was not Y/N’s mentor, Harry was and Harry doesn’t like excuses. So instead of defending herself when he nods at her toward a small alcove before they return to the kitchen, he remarks, “I’m not teaching you for you to embarrass me.” She merely dips her head and agrees, “People come here to enjoy their meals without the fear someone’s fucking hair is going to be mixed in. What’s next, huh? Your fingernail? A band-aid?” He clicked his tongue, “Never again. Quality control must be done on every single plate after we plate it and then again before we send it out to the floor. If this happens again, you can kiss the rest of this apprenticeship goodbye. Do you understand?” Y/N nodded again, “Now get out of my sight.” 

In comparison to all the other lashings she’s received in the past, this was relatively light, but it affects her just as poorly. Maybe even worse than some of those times, because Y/N could admit that the times she’d been scolded before, those mistakes were her fault and she knew it was something to learn from. What the fuck could she learn from a prick messing with the food for the sake of being an asshole? It hurts worse because she knows she didn’t do anything wrong, but she’s still getting yelled at, and she’s exhausted, and the day has been long, and she thinks she’s a week off from her period which is when she feels the most emotionally frazzled. 

Still, she waits to find her quiet corner – deeper into the restaurant, in the food supply closet there’s a space between two of the racks that forms a corner. She squeezes in there and lets the tears burn down her face quietly, scrolling through her phone for a second to try and get over it. It would help if she could get the disappointed glare from his face out of her head. His eyes are a light green but they always seem darker when they’re narrowed, and his manicured eyebrows seem more daunting when they’re furrowed. His hair is on the shorter side, neatly gelled and styled, and there’s a mole to the left of his lips that she’s never seen pulled into a smile except for a couple of photos from an interview a few years back. 

Y/N’s there for about five minutes before she thinks she should get back. Niall finds her just as she’s easing her way out of her crying corner with a pitied expression on his face, pouting his lip out at her. “Don’t look at me like that,” she grumbles, knuckling at her eyes, “I’m fine.” 

“You just look like the saddest small animal in the world when you cry. Like a pound puppy or summat,” he reaches into his back pocket and produces a pack of tissues, pressing them into her hands, “Why didn’t you tell Harry that dick planted the hair? That clearly wasn’t yours.” 

She shrugs, taking a tissue from the plastic wrap and wiping her eyes with it, “It doesn’t matter,” she sighs, heavy and dejected, “Like he’ll believe me over a customer. It’s better to just let him fuss at me then get over it.” 

Niall is still frowning as she blows her nose, taking the pack back and slipping it into his pocket, “Still, it’s fucked,” he checks his watch, “Only two more hours to go though, yeah? Do you wanna stop by that one burger place on the way home? We can eat our feelings, and maybe discuss how you’re going to learn how to do laser hair removal so you can zap away some of my pubes.” 

Niall was learning under Adam, who was good enough to gain Harry’s respect but still managed to be lax and pretty easygoing. One time, when they first started (Niall started just a month before Y/N did), Niall had made the wrong dish entirely and sent it out to the table. When it was brought back, Adam shrugged, and told him to make the right one, “But do it quickly so that this one is still warm and you can eat it.” In comparison, if Y/N had done that, Harry might have had her hung, drawn, and quartered. 

“I’m begging you to just learn how to wax,” Y/N straightened out her top and apron, rumpled her lips, and set toward the door, “And I’m begging you to learn how in a way that doesn’t involve me seeing your balls.” 

“What do you have against my balls?” Niall presses the door open and almost mows someone down immediately. The squawk that echoed through the hall (drowned out by the neighboring clank of pots and pans) told them before they saw that it was Adam, who caught himself on the door and held a hand to his chest. 

“I hope you weren’t in the food supply closet trying to show off your balls Ni,” Adam recovered quickly, shaking his head, “That’s bad for business. Hey, Y/N – oh my god, have you been crying?” 

“What? No,” Y/N lies and she’s thankful she did because Harry rounds the corner in hot pursuit – she hopes for the salt inside the storage room and not his lowly apprentice, “I have bad allergies this time of year, sometimes they just act up. Itchy eyes and all that,” she waves him off, “I took some medicine though.” 

Adam looks wary, but smiles goodnaturedly, “Ah, yeah, okay I get that. If you need anything just let me know, yeah?” Because Adam knows that his head chef is kind of a dick, and rough with his apprentices not only because he works with him, but because he learned right beside him, from the same man – Harry’s grandfather. They grew up together, which is why he’s the only person in the kitchen not tiptoeing around Harry. It’s also why Y/N could never let him know that Harry upset her, because he wouldn’t have a problem bringing it up to him.

(Which is what happened to Finley, who – after confiding in Adam that Harry was a big meanie – Harry found him, pulled him to the side, and asked, “Did you think tattling was going to make me go easier on you? Honestly, you just pissed me the hell off.”) 

She smiles, nods her head, and when she inevitably makes eye contact with Harry (whose scowl has relaxed minutely) she gives a curter nod, before ducking away. Niall stays back with Adam and Harry doesn’t yank her back by the collar to yell at her some more, so she hurries off. It’s only a couple of more hours, just like Niall said, and hopefully, in that time, she could redeem herself even remotely. 

It can be hard. Y/N signed up for this sure, but not directly – not really. The culinary school she’d been attending had many chefs come to speak to them, some from smaller establishments and some from bigger chain restaurants, offering them apprenticeships and speaking about life after they graduate. Nobody had expected Harry Styles to show up one of the days, closer to graduation, and nobody expected him to pick anyone to be his apprentice – least of all Y/N – but she remembered the day clearly. How he bit into her shepherd's pie (what Y/N had been embarrassed about making now that one of the most masterclass fine dining chefs was coming to taste their food), and his face pulled into one that Y/N had misinterpreted at the time as disgust. She found out soon after that when Harry enjoys a dish, he looks pissed off about it. 

“Who made this?” He asked and Y/N felt her heart drop to her stomach when she raised her hand, blinking a million times a minute like her eyelids might help her fly away if she tried hard enough, “Come here.” 

The room had been quiet; silent enough that you’d be able to hear a soap bubble pop as Y/N weaved through the tables to where he stood. He was at the space she prepared it at, his hand lying on the counter while his other hand held the fork. Harry sliced into it with the side of the utensil, motioned at the inside of it, how it falls out slowly, “Where’d you learn to make this?” 

“Um – a cookbook, sir.” Y/N was lightheaded, and she kind of thought she might pass out in a second if he didn’t stop staring at her so hard. 

Harry huffed a laugh through his nose, and at the time, it felt like humoring a god, “Yeah?” He must have been in a good mood, “What is your name?” 

“Y/N, sir.” 

“Y/N,” he repeated her name back to her, then brought another forkful to his mouth – it was the only time he’d gone back in for seconds, “This is good.” 

“Oh, really?” Her eyes went wide, “Thank you, I – I mean, yeah. Thank you.” 

It wasn’t some grandiose request for her to study under him. Actually, Y/N thought he’d just been in the mood to give at least one compliment, until her instructor emailed her that he was interested in having her as his apprentice.

Anytime he scolds her, or is mean to her, or kind of rough – she vividly remembers the moment. It brings her some comfort, on the days that she’s certain he hates her and her cooking and thinks she’s useless in the kitchen beside him. That, at the very least, the shepherd’s pie recipe she used to read out of her Nan’s cookbook from decades ago was enough to make him take a second bite. 

“Y/N,” her name is called as soon as she steps foot in the kitchen, one of the waiters smiling at her, “An old bloke from table three legitimately said ‘send my compliments to the chef’ over your seared tuna.” 

That soothes the sear over her heart for now at least. 

                                                                   .                           .                         .

Y/N and Harry do not speak to each other. Or, well – that’s a little dramatic. They do speak to each other, but it’s nothing beyond the matters of the restaurant and cooking. When Y/N sees Harry, bright and early for Mise en place, she is barely spared a ‘good morning’ before he discusses what the specials for today are and what needs to be prepared outside of the norm. Y/N’s there early enough some mornings that she’s helping him unload the trucks and of course, that’s something they’re doing in relative silence. And then he speaks to her to scold her for something, usually, or to tell her that she did well which can be few and far between and is – at most – a small nod when he tastes a sauce that she’s made or cuts into a fillet and checks the tenderness. 

But they don’t talk about life. Harry has no idea what Y/N does when she leaves the restaurant and she has no idea if he even lives outside of this kitchen. He doesn’t know that she’s got a cat named Hazelnut or that her ex messaged her the other day asking for restaurant recommendations and she doesn’t know if he has any pets or if he’s ever dated someone in his life. While Adam and Niall knew the intimate details of one another’s scrotums, Y/N couldn’t even tell you what Harry’s favorite color was – but she guesses that’s okay. They don’t have to be best friends for Harry to teach her properly, and honestly, it’s probably for the best that he’s a dick. There’d be no way she’d be able to focus on anything if he was nice to her – because nice and attractive in the animal side of Y/N’s brain flashes alarm symbols that scream SUITABLE MATE!!!!! and that’d probably be a mess. 

With all of this being noted, Y/N is well and truly shocked when she shows up at 5 AM to sharpen knives and chop vegetables, and Harry speaks to her beyond a perfunctory greeting. 

“How are your allergies today?” 

Y/N blinked at him, stilling where she was pulling off her coat like a bunny who’d just been spotted by a predator in the wild. She’s like, almost halfway certain that he isn’t speaking to her at all, but they’re the only two in here – Adam and Niall don’t turn up for another hour. 

“My what?” 

Harry has a clipboard in his left hand, his fingers around the base of his favorite ballpoint pen – he must’ve been doing inventory checks before she got here, “Your allergies,” he repeated, “Your eyes were red yesterday – you told Adam it was your allergies acting up.” 

This honestly might have been the most words Harry has spoken to her without any food being involved. Y/N’s struggling not to seem like an idiot but she’s certain she’s staring at him like he’d grown a second head, and he might as well have. In the mornings, she gets orders and maybe a grunt of approval now and then if she fulfills them as he intended. She has never been asked how she slept, what her commute was like, if she’d eaten breakfast – none of those routine questions you ask someone to start the flow of social interaction. 

Yet here Harry is, questioning her about allergies she lied about. Y/N does get seasonal allergies sometimes, but typically when one season is beginning to melt into the other. It was too far into winter for her to suddenly have itchy eyes, with all the pollen dormant, waiting to really destroy her come spring. Anyone who had allergies could kind of guess that and Y/N has the horrifying thought that Harry has allergies, and knows that she was lying. Even if he didn’t have allergies, he probably already knew she’d been lying – she was relatively certain that his eyes had a second setting that was programmed to see right through her. 

“Oh, uh – better,” she swallowed thickly, praying that he only thought she was being awkward because they didn’t do casual conversation like. . .ever, “They’re better. I took medicine though.” 

Harry eyed her quietly and Y/N shuffled beneath his gaze, wishing he would look away from her. Y/N had always thought she wanted a relationship akin to the one Niall and Adam had with each other, but she’s finding quickly that she wouldn’t be able to handle it well. At least not now, when they’d already established their dynamic as begrudging mentor and feeble mentee. 

“Brunoise the carrots and celery, and tourné the potatoes. I already have them prepped.” 

That’s. . .different. Not the order to start cutting but the fact that Harry had already washed and prepped the vegetables for her. That’s normally a job he leaves for her while he tends to more important matters like inventory checks, delegating tasks for the others when they come in, or even prepping some of the other ingredients for their plates that day (he prepares his meat very precisely and particularly, and he hasn’t shown her exactly how yet – Y/N knew it was going to be something that took her weeks or maybe months to master in his keen eye and she wasn’t looking forward to it at all).

So Y/N is kind of sketched out but she’s learned to not look a gift horse in the mouth when it comes to Harry. If he was in a good mood, then she would accept it graciously and do everything in her power not to muck it up. 

Being in the kitchen with only him is more peaceful than one might think – at least for her it was. Most of the time Y/N doesn’t even think what she’s done is enough to piss him off, but a collection of small things by multiple people. It’s just a matter of the wrong mistake at the wrong time when Y/N does something little and stupid that grates his nerves and sends him right over the edge, but had she been the first one to make a mistake, he probably wouldn’t have cared as much. Y/N’s only scientific backing for this hypothesis is that Harry seems to be more at ease in the morning. Maybe that’s just because the day had only just started. Y/N likes to pretend it’s because he feels more at ease when it’s only the two of them in the kitchen. 

Niall and Adam arrive after an hour and a half of Y/N silently cutting vegetables, just in time for the meat prep which is admittedly her least favorite part. She likes to pawn off some of that job onto Niall who does it so long as she listens to his escapade and offers meaningful commentary, which she’d be doing anyway but he didn’t need to know that, necessarily. Harry had told her the ingredients he wanted in the marinade and went through the steps rather quickly but Y/N had scribbled it down (he’d slid her a notepad and let her have his pen. . another small grace that he typically didn’t offer). 

“Fuck sake,” Adam shivered as he pulled off his winter coat, “Harry isn’t it a bit rude to have a woman come out in this weather this early? Reckon that’s like – a fuck you to chivalry or something.” 

“You could take her place in prepping then,” Harry replied coolly, not raising his eyes from where they were fixed on his inventory sheet, “Be here by 5 AM.” 

Adam grimaced, then looked at her, “Sorry Babe, I gave it a go. Don’t think he’s willing to budge.” 

“I’d just like to state for the record that Y/N has never requested Adam to get her out of anything,” Niall said loud enough for Harry to hear across the kitchen, “He did this of his own free will without the consultation of my client.” 

“What’re you, her lawyer?” Adam snorted. 

Niall clicked his tongue, “I’ll have to be if you make damning statements like that.” 

Y/N laughs though she does glance over at Harry, who mostly seems to be in his own world. He typically is, when Adam and Niall are going back and forth. However, today – and maybe she’s just hallucinating it – but he has the tiniest of smiles twitching at the corner of his mouth. Like. . .barely there. It was so invisible that nobody could tell he was smiling if she took a picture and held it up side-by-side with his normal face. So maybe he wasn’t smiling at all, but it was a fun thought to have at least. The idea that he might be even remotely interested in kitchen antics apart from business was always kind of fun to pretend now and then. 

“Y/N,” Harry’s voice sliced through the kitchen, “Get back to work.” 

She hadn’t realized she’d been idle with a potato in her hand since Adam and Niall walked in. Her eyes widened as she set it back down on the cutting board, “Oh, oops, sorry I will,” she replied before grabbing the knife again. Adam and Niall were headed to the hand-washing sink before they started their task. Y/N, once again (and she’ll do this several times throughout her shift), wondered what it would be like if she and Harry had that type of relationship. Where they came in together (Y/N thinks they honestly drive each other sometimes), relaxed and laughing. Comfortable in each other's presence whether that be in the kitchen, goofing off in the stock room, drinking after work. One time Y/N messaged Niall and his response was Sorry, Adam and I were bowling what do you need — like, it’s crazy! Y/N can’t imagine Harry doing a recreational activity with her without someone threatening him — and even then, he might still say no. 

What would he be like outside of work? Does he laugh at things? Like – has this man ever had a belly laugh in his life? Does he watch movies? What genre does he like? Has he ever binge-watched a TV show? Does he cuss at the screen during footie games? And what color are his sheets? Does his house look like someone lives in it? Does he think about her outside of work? Does he remember why he chose her to apprentice under him in the first place? 

She has to shake her head free of all the questions – she could ask a billion and go crazy with no real answers. Some days Y/N wishes he’d accidentally dropped a journal or something that she could dig through to get a better understanding of him, but it has yet to happen. And she thinks if she asked him any of these questions he’d glare at her and tell her to mind her fucking business and organize the seasonings on the rack by name and color.

Maybe one day she’d learn more about him. 

                                                                      .                       .                       .

“I’m just wondering like – has he ever made a peanut butter and jelly sandwich?” Niall inquired idly when he and Y/N were hiding in the break room for the 15 blissful minutes of peace they were afforded. They had to take their lunch, not actually around lunchtime – either a little bit before or a little while after since noon was a busy time of day. They’re smack in the middle of the business district, so plenty of workers – mostly the bigwigs who can afford the high prices of their meals without overthinking about it – come around for their 30 to 60 minutes allotted for lunch to have steak flambeed at table side. 

Y/N was, funny enough, warming up a frozen meal to scarf down. For as much as she loves to cook, she rarely has time to do it for herself anymore. She can’t even remember the last time she ate a full meal that she prepared, now only able to take little sips and bites to make sure the sauce was to taste or that the meat was tender. Around holidays she can work her skills for potlucks and family gatherings, but otherwise, she’s eating cheap little meals to stave off hunger pains and keep her bank at least partially appeased. 

There wasn’t a lot of time though – she had ten minutes before needing to go back out there while Niall chewed through his peanut butter and jelly, swiping at the grape jelly that stuck to the corner of his mouth, “S’like, I can’t imagine it. I feel like he was 4 years old eating coq au vin.” 

She snorted, watching the time on the microwave, “Yeah, most likely,” she sighed, “If he made one though it’d somehow taste like it cost a hundred quid to make.” 

“I agree,” Niall nodded curtly, “He could probably piss on the bread and it’d still taste like gold.” 

“God, you’re so gross–” 

“Y/N,” Harry peeks around the door. His voice always startles her, especially when he refers to her by name. He spends so much time catching her attention with a matter of grunts and staring until she makes eye contact, that she’s surprised he even remembers it sometimes. This would mark the second time this week that he’s referred to her by it though, and a part of her is reeling because of it. Even though he’s only saying her name to tell her, “Since we’re short today, I’ll need you to step in and run Freya’s station.” 

Freya is their garnish chef, always plotting out the most perfect plates and adding them intricately. It’s a job that goes unnoticed by many, but Y/N has always been able to appreciate how beautiful she’s able to make even something as simple as a salad appear. Half of the restaurant experience is to appeal to a visual appetite, going hand-in-hand with how it tastes. Something could taste delicious but look like shit, and you’d lose one of these customers in a blink of an eye. Freya makes sure that this isn’t something to worry about. 

Y/N actually spent a couple of weeks following Freya last month, and her plating game had been upped tenfold. She can only imagine this is why Harry wanted her to run her station, but still. . .it feels like a kiss on the cheek from a god. For him to show any amount of trust in her to run a station speaks to the growth in their relationship as apprentice and mentor; when she’d first started, Harry barely even let her hold a knife without him hovering. 

“Oh! Oh my god, yeah, I’ll do that.” She agreed, taking her phone and sliding it into her pocket. 

Harry gave a short nod, “Good. I need you there now,” his eyes flickered to where Niall sat, his hand frozen in a pack of pretzels, “Have you eaten?” 

“Yes,” she lies, and when Harry pointedly looked at the microwave, now beeping, she motioned toward Niall (and made sure to step on Niall’s foot a bit to keep him quiet, though she’s certain he wouldn’t speak out of turn to Harry ever), “That’s his – he’s really hungry today.” 

Harry eyed her for a moment, and she guesses he decided it was not worth investigating before turning on his heel and leaving. Niall looks at her, brows raised, “Holy fuck, he’s letting you run a station? That’s like next level.” 

“Shut up, you’ve run stations before,” she replied, sneaking her hand in his bag of pretzels and grabbing a couple. Y/N probably shouldn’t have lied about eating but she was worried that he would find someone else to run it if she wasn’t quick enough. Plus, what if he thought less of her for trying to feed herself over the general public or something? She could hear him scolding her now, something like They eat then you can eat – your hierarchy of needs matters very little in comparison. 

“Yeah, but that’s because Adam is Adam, but Harry is Harry,” he stressed, “Don’t mess it up, he’ll never trust you again.” 

“Thanks for the upbeat pep talk, Ni.” 

“I mean, you’re gonna do great! I’m proud of you!” He cheered, fist in the air to rally with her, “Um, but do you think he heard me say the thing about him pissing on a sandwich? Because he showed up like 5 seconds after that.” 

Y/N doesn’t bother answering him more than a squeeze to his shoulder then sets off to go run the station. Her stomach growls at her but in her head, she chastises it and tells it to suck it up. She’d gone plenty of days skipping lunch to work, even before she was even a chef, so she was used to it – she wished she’d had a better breakfast in preparation, but she was praying that the two pieces of toast with peanut butter and her fiber infused yogurt would do her well. At least until her next break. 

She’s got this though! She’s going to prove to Harry that he can rely on her, and their relationship will be better because of it. Maybe they could have even a sliver of the camaraderie that Adam and Niall share. Y/N has lofty hopes, she knows, but it’s what pushes her. She’ll do her best – no, she’ll do even better than her best. 

That’s what Harry expects of her. 

                                                               .                         .                      .

What Harry doesn’t expect from her, is for her to nearly pass out two hours into taking on the assigned role. 

How the restaurant is set up is like this: they serve lunch and dinner. Every two weeks she and Niall alternate between working the lunch shift or the dinner shift, though somehow Y/N still gets stuck coming in early a lot of the time to do prep work – but after prepping she’s free to leave. Ideally, if Finley had stayed then he would be working the alternate shift of her and he’d be doing it but that didn’t happen. Y/N doesn’t think Harry flips – she imagines that he’s there all day every day, except Mondays and Tuesdays when they’re closed. Adam, who is a hard worker but not willing to break his back or sacrifice too much of his life, has another chef who works under him, and he garnered Harry’s approval. She is who runs his side of the kitchen during dinner if he’s on the lunch shift, and vice versa. 

So this week, in particular, Niall and Y/N were on the lunch shift. Both shifts have their own complications and their own menus. Both can tend to be busy as well, though usually, lunch is a little slower than dinner, nowhere near as hectic as it gets from 5 PM to 8 PM. That being said, getting dishes out in an appropriately timed manner is imperative, because people need to get back to work after their lunch break is through. This means that if there is an influx of customers, it’s fucking brutal. 

And today, when Y/N was finally trusted enough and given the task to take on Freya’s role, it was fucking brutal. 

She did it though! Y/N was actually so good, if she was able to stroke her ego, she did much better than she thought. Everything looked pretty, it tasted nice, and things were plated and sent out in record time with the help of two other kitchen staff (Max and Gretal). Harry had come over to see how she was doing and didn’t say a word, which – for him – is the same as high praise. If he doesn’t speak sometimes it’s because there’s nothing to correct. He thought it looked good, even if he wasn’t saying it aloud, but Y/N knew he wouldn’t send out a plate that he didn’t approve of. 

It was just – once the rush had settled, Y/N’s vision went spotty and she almost fell right into the stove. 

Not a great look at all, and she’s horrifically embarrassed. She wasn’t sure who saved her from slamming into the boiling pot of soup until her vision righted itself, Adam looking at her with the same wide, panicked eyes he had when he caught her crying, “Jesus Christ!” He cried out, “What happened?” 

“Sorry,” she replied sheepishly, “I just – um. . .I think I need to eat?” 

So she was directed not to the breakroom, but to an abandoned little alcove far down a hallway. Nobody ever comes here, and Y/N needed a minute to lick her now very tender and mortified ego. There was something inherently embarrassing about people seeing her nearly fall and though she knew reasonably nobody was going to point and laugh at her, she still couldn’t shake it. She felt silly and the thought of people remembering this every time they saw her was enough for her to want to smother herself. 

Adam had told her he would bring her something to eat, just to hold tight, and left her with a juice box. They don’t have kids come here often, but if they do, their limited kid menu does include apple juice. She slurps through the tiny straw and feels the threat of a headache tickling around her temples. She’s sure Harry isn’t even going to register how well she did today because there’s no way this wouldn’t completely overshadow it. At the very least, she’s thankful that she didn’t actually tumble into the stove – she probably would’ve ruined the soup boiling on it and Harry would have her head. 

She wasn’t sure how long she was sitting there before the door leading into the hallway opened, the wind it created, and the subsequent clearing of the sounds in the kitchen that it’d been muffling giving it away. Y/N had prepared herself for a doting Adam, worried and fretting, making him promise not to fuss at Harry over this. She was ready to eat, get herself right, then return and finish the rest of her day. 

What she wasn’t ready for, was Harry coming around the corner instead. 

Y/N’s heart drops to her stomach – well, it first speeds up to a thousand beats per minute and then drops to her stomach. Maybe even lower than her stomach? Down to her ass, more like. The threat of sweat building at her nape was true to her fight or flight response because he doesn’t necessarily look pleased with her. Plus he’s holding something in his hand – probably a contract promising to never try and work under him again because even the sight of her name after today might disturb him. 

Upon closer inspection, Y/N realizes instead that he’s holding something wrapped in foil. He comes up to her and surprisingly doesn’t immediately start yelling, instead staring down at her for a second. Y/N blinks at him, and he blinks at her, wordlessly. 

“Um, Sir?” She held the juice box tightly in her hands, “Are you here to scold me?” 

Harry rolled his eyes, lowering down until he was squatting in front of her. This position was way less menacing as he held out the foil-wrapped mystery item, “Why do you talk to me like I’m your headmaster in school?” Y/N took the foiled object tentatively, “And why did you lie?” 

“Huh?” 

“You lied about eating,” he nudged his head toward the kitchen, “And almost took out the chestnut soup.” 

Y/N grimaced, struggling not to shrink in on herself, “I’m sorry,” she frowned, “I’m – I hope that the kitchen doesn’t suffer not having someone run Freya’s station, but the others should be able to take care of it.” 

He sighed, annoyed, “I don’t give a shit about Freya’s station,” Y/N’s mouth fell open, “I care about why you lied.” 

She shuffled, nervous, her heart still racing, “I just thought. . .I thought if I’d told you I hadn’t eaten yet it would annoy you,” she explained, swallowing thickly, “You’ve never offered me to run a station before so I wanted to jump on the opportunity and show you that I can do well.” 

Harry stares at her hard, unrelenting, and Y/N feels like she’d rather have passed out into the soup. Anything to get away from this intense gaze he has, piercing right through her, like he’s trying to peek into her very core. She doesn’t think he’s ever looked at her for this long if he’s not chastising her for a mistake. Even when he’s teaching her something, he’s mostly staring at the food, at her hands, scrutinizing the deftness of her fingers and the techniques she uses. 

“You should never sacrifice your health for the sake of someone else,” he finally replied, pointing his index finger at himself, “Not me,” and then he pointed where the dining area sat behind the walls, “And not them. You should always come first, no matter what the circumstances are.” He rested his hand on his knee, still squatting to her level, “I already know you can do well, you don’t have to prove that to me.” 

Y/N frowns a little, “But I do,” she answered, and she would blame it on being lightheaded and dizzy later, her talking back to him instead of taking the compliment, “The only time you speak to me is to scold me, so how am I supposed to know you think I’m doing well? If I have an opportunity to make you acknowledge me, then I’ll take it.” 

“You won’t survive this career if you’re only working for my acknowledgment.” 

She groans because he’s missing the point, “That’s – not it,” she huffs, “People eating my food and finishing it is enough acknowledgment for me, sure, but you – you’re my mentor! And you’re one of the best chefs there is, if you tell me I’m doing well. . .it just feels good, is all. Sometimes validation is nice and there’s nothing wrong with that.” 

Harry takes some time to stare at her again. The scent of his cologne is slithering around her, something vanilla and warm which is a surprising choice for him but welcomed by her nares. His skin is clear up close, and she thinks the rumors about him getting laser hair removal on his face might be true because there’s not a speck of hair or even the hint of a shadow along his jaw or upper lip. He somehow doesn’t have frown marks for someone who looks pissed all of the time, but she guesses he’s always looked pissed with his lips pulled into a straight line. Their black button-up dress code is the same, but Harry always looks more expensive than everyone else, and he rarely wears the apron anymore, unless he knows he will be completely hands-on with a dish. His trousers were nice too, and she knew the shot of his bum from the back might be glorious, but now wasn’t the time to think about that. 

“You want verbal praise.” It didn’t necessarily sound like a question, but Y/N still nods anyway, “Why haven’t you said that before?” 

Y/N is blinking at him again, confused, “Because you’re kind of scary? And I thought you’d. . .I thought you’d be annoyed with me.” 

He presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth, taking it away with a soft popping sound. Y/N is worried that she accidentally offended him, but he only nods his head, his face twisted up in a way that tells her he’s considering what she said, “Alright,” he finally said, “I’ll do my best to give you verbal praise if you do your best not to lie to me. I don’t like liars,” he motioned toward the foil, “Now eat, I made that for you.” 

Her brows raised, peeling the foil back carefully to reveal a peanut butter and jelly, carefully constructed and sliced into two triangles. Her gaze flickers back to him, then back to the sandwich, “You made this for me?” He nods, and Y/N can’t help the little smile that pulls at her mouth, “Oh wow, thank you. It looks yummy.” 

“I didn’t piss on it, but it should be good.” 

Horror writes itself all over her face, the realization that he’d heard Niall say that. Then she wonders how many other things he’s heard when he just appears out of nowhere, and she gets a little nervous. Before she can say anything, he snorts, pats her knee, and then finally stands (she’s impressed by how long he’d been squatting in front of her), “Eat, and then when you feel less dizzy, head home, I’m giving you the rest of the day.” 

“But –” Y/N tries but Harry clicks his tongue and interrupts her. 

“If you get lightheaded again and actually take out the soup, I will be pissed. But I’m in a good mood right now, so take advantage of it. I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

Y/N lets her shoulders relax, hovering the sandwich over her mouth, “Okay,” she replies, “Thank you, Sir.” 

He sighs, heavily, “Please, enough with that. You’re making me feel like an old man. Just call me Harry for fuck sake.” 

                                                            .                          .                        .

There are several cooking techniques that Y/N has started to get the hang of and several that she has still yet to master. Honestly, there were quite a few that she hadn’t tried yet, because her kitchen and supplies at her flat didn’t provide the best space for experimentation. Like, practicing flambe on her electric stove would set off her fire alarms and probably the sprinkler system, and since the wiring is so dodgy at her complex then her neighbor’s sprinkles would start raining down on them too. So it was just all around safer to keep that for a more open space with a more seasoned chef watching her do it. 

Y/N is unsure if Harry goes by a schedule or if he just decides to teach her new techniques when he feels like it. It always seems a little random; sometimes the skills she’s learning aren’t even put to use until a month or two after she’s learned them. It might just be whatever day Harry wakes up and feels a little more patient than usual, he must decide that’s the best time to do it.

Now, considering that he’s running a business and there’s very little time during the work day for him to sit and train her on different cooking styles and techniques, he usually calls her in on an off day. If Y/N had a more active social life it would probably matter to her that he expects her to drop everything and come at his command when she gets a message on a Monday. Instead of having brunch with some friends, however, Y/N had gotten out of bed to shower and then went to her sofa to continue lying down. 

Productivity on off days is something exclusively reserved for nice weather, or at least Y/N thinks so. As soon as it’s cold outside, she is exempt from having to leave home for anything short of getting food, and she doesn’t have to feel bad or lazy about it. Who wants to be out in the cold? Especially days like this, when the wind slices bone deep and the sky looks thick and heavy with the threat of snow. Y/N thinks she’s better off in here, within the confines of her flat that now has a working heater, and her cat Hazelnut snuggled on her lap. 

When her phone buzzes in her hand, it yanks her attention from the show that she’d been going in between watching carefully and ignoring to scroll through Twitter. Y/N blinks once, twice – three times to make sure she isn’t hallucinating that the Harry Styles she’s seeing from her notification isn’t a hallucination. 

Are you busy? 

Y/N presses herself from where she’d been stretched out on the sofa, disturbing her cat just enough to side-eye her but not enough to get up and move. 

Is everything okay? 

She thinks it’s an appropriate question, actually, even though it isn’t responding to his question. The last time Harry messaged her was eight months ago and it was a simple You’re late – when she woke up after snoozing her alarm for 20 minutes then got caught in an intense morning thunderstorm. He doesn’t contact her often, since he sees her 5 out of the 7 days a week. So this makes her nervous, sweat dots against her palms while her teeth worry her lip between them. 

There’s no response for three minutes, and Y/N is staring anxiously at her phone the entire time. 

Come to the kitchen. 

Y/N can only assume he means the one at his restaurant, and can only assume that he’s about to lay into her about something. She doesn’t know what would permit a house call other than him telling her she was useless and would never make it in the culinary world. That he couldn’t even find something to pretend to find praiseworthy, and that she would need to find another mentor, out of his sight, and nowhere within 100 kilometers of his kitchen. 

There’s a frantic way in her movements as she throws the blanket off of her lap and stands up, Hazelnut grumbling a meow up at her, annoyed, “Sorry,” she murmured but ultimately tripped over herself grabbing for her purse and shoving her feet into her shoes. There was no time to get in different clothes, fear kicking her into gear – it’s not like she’s eager to get scolded and kicked to the curb, but she knew not knowing would drive her insane. It was better to face her fear head-on, which means facing Harry head-on, and praying that it’s something simple to be yelled at for. Like, maybe she didn’t clean a pot well enough? Or did she leave a burner on and burn half the kitchen down? No, no, hopefully, she just left the pantry unlocked and it irritated him. Or she left the freezer open and everything thawed and now they have no meat for the rest of the month. 

From the time it took her to get into her car and drive to the restaurant, Y/N had conjured a thousand different scenarios as to why Harry would be contacting her. None of them were even remotely soothing to her brain and all of them left her in a state of slight panic, which she’s sure is showing all over her face when she stumbles inside. Harry is casually leaning against one of the counters, looking down at a piece of paper with a furrowed brow. It looks like the inventory sheet – had she used too much of the garnishes when she took over Freya’s station last week? She did feel like she was using an insane amount of parsley. 

“Um, Sir?” Harry’s gaze flickered to her, and Y/N felt like she wanted to crawl underneath the counter, into a pot, and hide, “What – why did you – um, did I do something?” She is breathless, and it’s clear no matter how much she tries to control it. Her chest raises dramatically with each inhale and Harry blinks at her, head tilted. 

“What?” His brows relaxed, “Did you run here?” 

She cleared her throat, “I mean, I rushed here, yeah,” she explained, then motioned toward him, “I was worried because – you never contact me on off days.” 

“So you automatically assumed you did something wrong?” 

“You were being cryptic!” 

Harry sighs, shaking his head, “No, you haven’t done anything,” he replies, “Though your immediate reaction screams guilty conscience to me. I wanted to teach you how to cook en papillote – have you heard of that before?” 

Y/N’s shoulders sink, all the tension zipping from her bones at once and she’s just as relieved as she is irritated. He couldn’t have just told her that? She did all that panicking just to find out he wanted to teach her how to cook in parchment paper. God, if they had a closer relationship, she’d be tearing into him right now – if he were Adam, she’d be fussing and grumbling and telling him that he owed her a day off and a drink or maybe a shot of Ativan directly into her bloodstream. 

Instead, she nods,  “I’ve heard of it, but I’ve never tried it.” 

Harry hums, and finally Y/N looks down at the counter before him. There are vegetables prepped, lemons already sliced, and what looks to be a halibut already descaled and deboned. A medium-sized baking tin sits beside his drumming fingers, along with parchment paper, “It’s a blind cooking method,” Harry continued, saying, “The parchment paper traps the moisture and flavor that would otherwise evaporate while you’re baking it. It’s ideal for fish – it’s one of my preferred ways to prepare it.” 

“I – yeah,” she swallows, “I’ve never tried it but I’ve heard good things about it. I think what makes me nervous is not being able to see it.” 

He agrees with another hum, “You don’t cook fish often,” he says it as a statement rather than a question, “It’s a good thing to have in your repertoire; no matter the type of cooking you decide to venture into, from culture to culture, fish are always a big part of it.” 

So, Harry shows her. By no means is he warm and fuzzy about it – when Harry teaches it is with a rigid sort of preciseness that leaves very little room for error. Harry shows her, step-by-step, piece by piece how to slice the vegetables, season them, and arrange them delicately around the fish. He shows her where to slice so the meat cooks thoroughly, how to wrap the parchment around it, what she should feel for, what it should smell like, and how she should know it was done cooking without being able to visualize it. 

The scent is mouthwatering when he pulls it from the oven and as he peels back the folds of parchment, revealed is the cut of fish browned and the vegetables steaming. Harry slides the fork inside and it goes so smoothly that Y/N knows it must be tender, and slices off a small piece with the knife, making sure to soak it momentarily in the juices that had gathered at the bottom of the dish. He pulls it to his mouth and purses his lips to blow over it, the steam disperses from around it. 

In a move that Y/N did not expect, he doesn’t bring the bite between his lips – he holds it out to her. 

There are barricades between synapses as her neurons try to communicate, forcing them to dance and dip around each other. Something is misfiring as she stares between him and the fork, and it takes him raising an eyebrow at her before Y/N’s lips finally parted, her mouth opening for him. She doesn’t lean in to take the bite between her teeth, instead letting Harry guide the fork inside before she curls her lips around it. 

It’s delicious because there’s never been something Harry has cooked that hasn’t been delicious – but she’s caught up in the process of him having her try it. In the past, Harry barely offered her a fork to try what he’d prepared when he was teaching her, but now he’s feeding her. Watching her with keen eyes as she chews, waiting patiently for her throat to bob with a swallow, “It’s good, yes?” He phrases it like a question but it sounds like he knows because of course he does – it’s always good. 

Y/N doesn’t know why her heart is speeding up behind her ribcage, startling it to a rattle. Her insides felt like gossamer-winged butterflies were licking her insides with each flutter, knocking against each other and bouncing off her organs. For the first time since she’s shown up here, she realizes that Harry is dressed for his off day as well. With an off-white, linen long-sleeve, and brown linen slacks, he seems soft and well-rested, like he should have woken up in the French countryside during the early summer months. The gaze he held was still unrelenting and intense but somehow more gentle than she’d ever experienced before. 

“It’s yummy,” she answered, finally, acting like she hadn’t just ogled him before responding. 

Though no smile graces his mouth, he huffs a soft breath through his nose, and it’s as close to a laugh as she usually gets from him. “Yummy,” he repeats, amused, “Let’s see if you can make it yummy as well.” 

So she does as he tells her. Harry watches and guides her through the steps he’d just given her, correcting her technique or adding more seasoning where he deemed fit. At some point when she’s slicing into the fish, he’s plucking at his bottom lip and she almost cuts her finger staring at his mouth before getting a grip. Y/N is a little ashamed of herself – he hasn’t even been that nice, but he’s being a whole lot more amicable than he’s ever been. He hadn’t scoffed or sighed in the face of her messing up, not even once; instead, he gently redirected her mistake. Y/N wonders what her experience would have been like so far if he’d always been like this with her – if she would be a better chef because of it. 

When it’s time for them to try hers, Harry cuts two pieces off this time. One for him and one for her, only he offers her the fork first and once she takes her bite, he uses the same fork to place his bite in his mouth. Y/N is fully aware of the rudimentary nature of her thoughts, but like. . .wow, they used the same fork. That’s like. . .indirectly kissing, is what the 15-year-old in her brain reminds her. 

“How does it taste?” Harry asks like he doesn’t have the same piece in his mouth. Y/N had been too focused on the whole fork-sharing thing to pay much attention to the taste, but he clues her in with just enough time for her to have something to say. It was alright – not as good as his, but she had never once thought she’d be able to imitate the taste of things he’s made. There’s a sneaking suspicion she and Niall share that Harry possesses some special cells on his fingers that make everything taste ten times better than the average person. All he’d have to do is peel and slice an orange and eating it would probably have the same effect that snorting cocaine has on the body. 

Y/N shrugs, “It’s. . okay,” she tells him, maybe selling it a little short so he didn’t feel the need to humble her, “I think it could be better.” 

Harry hums thoughtfully, she thinks to agree with her, but he slices into the halibut again and this time stabs his fork into a cherry tomato, roasted brown around the edges. Then he takes another bite. . .Y/N could have fallen over from the shock of it. Harry is notorious for one bite then dropping the fork and either grunting his approval or grunting his disgust (two different types of grunts that Y/N has grown expert in differentiating). There were silly rumors (started by Niall) that Harry sustains himself from the single bites he takes to test meals. It’s what had made him take a second bite of her shepherd’s pie so important when they first met. 

“I think you sell yourself too short,” he says after swallowing, “Do you know why I chose you last year?” Her head barely moves when she shakes it, staring at him with wide, dumbfounded eyes. Harry had never alluded to a reason – he rips into her day in and day out, enough where Y/N herself couldn’t figure out why he would choose her over everyone in her class. Most days she thought it boiled down to him liking shepherd’s pie, “You are a good cook, that’s why. I wouldn’t have chosen someone bad at cooking to study beneath me,” he explained, “For your first try, this is good. Your next try will be better, and the time after that, I expect you to take your own spin on it. Do you follow?” 

“Yes, Si–” 

“Ah.” He cuts her off. 

“Harry,” she corrects herself, “Yes, Harry.” 

Y/N almost wanted to wipe her eyes to make sure her vision wasn’t blurry when she saw his lips pull into a small smile. She pinched the meat of her palm beneath her thumbnail to make sure she wasn’t dreaming though, and idly wondered if sudden onset hallucinations would warm someone’s permanent state of straight mouth into a smile. But she thinks it’s real – honest to god, a real smile, big enough that she doesn’t have to squint and wonder if a muscle in his cheek spasmed. 

“Good,” he set the fork and knife down on the counter, “Are you busy today? Would you like to try again?” 

                                                                .                            .                             .

There’s a shift so subtle in their dynamic that only two highly delusional people would notice it (her and Niall). 

To the untrained eye, there had been no change at all, but Y/N and Niall, who maybe spent entirely too much time hyper fixating on his every move knew that something had changed. The crease in his brow gets just the slightest bit less crease-y when she does well, and the pitch to his hums and grunts are diminutively higher when he is pleased with what she’s done. Things that would have made him scold her harshly or fuss at her for being careless, his reaction is much milder. Now instead of a disapproving glare, it’s a disapproving glance that doesn’t last very long. He doesn’t pull her off to the side to tell her that she overcooked the pasta and how if she wanted to continue on she better learn how to manage her time better so things like this didn’t happen – he merely clicks his tongue, dials the flame down or maybe even pops it off the stove if she’s preoccupied with something else. 

That’s not all though, because he’s always somewhere looming but his presence seems much lighter to her now. Much less oppressive and scary, where knowing that he was hovering behind her watching her like a hawk felt like being a rabbit stalked by a fox. The change is more like an instructor on standby in case their trainee needs them. . .closer to the way Adam hovers around Niall even when they aren’t discussing who footie teams are trading or comparing pube grooming techniques. Only instead of talking about sports and pubes, she and Harry don’t really speak but still. . .it’s nice not to be so worried around him all of the time. 

At first, Y/N thought this was purely her brain deluding herself into thinking she and Harry were closer after several Mondays when he’d called her into the kitchen for teaching. But during break one day, when she and Niall had escaped the building to fight past blistering winds for this new hazelnut latte at a cafe down the street, Niall brought it up unprovoked. 

“Has Harry been like. . .minutely nicer to you lately?” His cheeks, nose, and ears match the same bright red of someone who’d been trapped in an unforgiving snowstorm for an hour, but he’s hellbent on not seeming dramatic about the weather. Mostly because Y/N and Adam had both chastised him for going out without a scarf and hat but with a coat that barely did anything to shield him from the onslaught of wind (he had a date after work that night, and was convinced that he did not need to lug around all his winter gear because it would damage his “vibes” or whatever the hell excuse he made). 

Y/N had whipped her head around so fast that she thinks it might have spun 360 degrees, “Oh my fuck, yes! Have you noticed?” 

So they discuss at length the changes that both of them noticed, some things that Y/N didn’t know because she couldn’t have her eyes on Harry all of the time. Apparently, he is staring at her with much less discontent when she’s not looking and once, Niall had even seen Harry pluck a piece of fuzz off her shoulder. It must have been so delicate that Y/N didn't feel it because she sure as hell didn’t know this happened. Then Niall shares that Harry had asked Adam what Y/N and Niall get up to outside of work and her body is overrun by giddiness that he’s even remotely interested in her life. 

“He wants to hit it,” Niall said, shoulders sagging with relief when they stepped into the cafe and heat was blaring, “And I think he fucks nasty too, like – I’ve heard some things.” 

“Shut up, no he doesn’t – like, not with me,” she shook her head, “I think he’d rather put his hand in a boiling pot of water. What have you heard though? And why the hell haven’t you told me about it?”

Niall gasped, scandalized, “I just found out about him fucking nasty! I only started doing some investigating after I decided that he wanted to hit it raw with my bestie in mind,” Y/N’s face feels hot but she’ll blame the sudden warmth of the cafe on her previously cold face, “Anyway, you know Juni? So her sister married this girl, Laina, and Laina’s cousin knew a guy who –” 

“Niall, this is a lot to follow.” 

“--well be patient, dick, I’m getting there,” he clicked his tongue, “She knew a guy whose sister dated Harry like a while ago. 5 or 6 years? She showed me the photos and everything.” Niall’s eyes were wide, the gleam in them one he only gets when he’s so stupidly excited about something he can barely contain it, “Apparently his dick is huge and he’s a freak. Like dom shit, I’m pretty sure. They did loads of kinky stuff and played into the dynamics, apparently one time he’d edged her for three whole weeks once.” 

Something curled inside her, stirring interest in her gut, “Holy shit.” 

“Right? It adds up, he seems like the type.” 

“I. . .literally can’t deny that at all, he definitely seems like he would fuck someone until they cried,” she can’t help that she almost said it wistfully, absently wondering if they were being too loud but the pop song bumping through the speakers and the typical sounds of a cafe drowns them out for the most part, “I don’t think with me though. I mean, I’m delusional, but not enough to think that him finally being relatively kind to me, means he wants to sleep with me.” They paused briefly to order their drinks, and Niall added on a scone for them to split at the last minute, but continued as they walked down toward the pick-up counter, “Whenever I almost passed out in the soup, remember how me and him had that conversation? I think he just feels bad.” 

Niall pulled his sleeves down to cover his palms, “Do you have those hand warmers you’re always lugging around?” Y/N shook her head, “Ah shit – anyway, you know I can’t get over Adam going to make the sandwich for you before Harry demanding that he be the one to make it.” 

“I think it’s because he wanted to corner me.” 

“God, you talk about him like he’s hunting you down sometimes,” he retorted, then seemed to consider it for a moment, “Which. . .maybe he would want to, but in a bedroom instead of a restaurant and with less clothes.” 

Face scrunched, Y/N slapped his shoulder, “Stop it! I’m like – don’t put that image in my head, I’ll go crazy.” 

“I know we were pretending like you didn’t think he was hot for the sake of workplace humility, but I for one saw this coming from a mile away,” Niall stepped over to the side, letting an older woman shuffle by them for the straws at the end cap, “Your taste in men seems to be hot bullies.” 

“You’re not wrong, but we can’t entertain this for longer than this break and then we have to squash it. It’s nonsensical and he’s definitely not looking at me in that way,” their drinks are set on the counter, along with the scone, “Besides, I think he sees me as an annoying kid he has to deal with.” 

“Babe, he’s not that much older than us,” Niall reminded her, then flinched when the latte burns his tongue, “Ah, fuck – he does act like a grumpy old man though. I’d kill to see him at a club or something.” 

Y/N would probably offer herself up as the one to kill if she saw Harry in whatever his version of going-out clothes is. If he wore pants that stretched over his thighs tight or a shirt that stretched across his chest and showed just how built he was underneath all of his clothes. How would he wear his hair? Would he slick it back or wear it unruly? And what kind of jewelry would he wear? In a few interviews she saw him sport rings, and she’s seen a necklace around his throat a couple of times. He doesn’t seem like the flashy type thought – god, she doesn’t know. She shouldn’t even be entertaining the thought. 

The thing is – of course Y/N has had a big, fat, stupid crush on Harry. He’s her mentor, and he’s amazing at something that she loves, he always smells like vanilla and amber, plus he’s nice to look at. Y/N would have had to possess the mental fortitude of a monk to be able to completely deny it. Instead, she shoved the feelings down deep into the recesses of her mind to only be dabbled in every so often when she had a couple of drinks before she locked them back away. 

Was it sad that all it took was for him to be even a minuscule amount nicer and she was ready to kiss him on the mouth? Yeah, it was, but it’s not like anything was going to come of it. She’d squeal about it in her bed later pretending that he was actually obsessed with her and thought about her nonstop and then she’d go to work the next day and pretend to be normal. This is light work – easy shit because she’s been living in slight delusion since secondary school and she finds it makes life ten times more bearable. 

“Let’s make this walk count,” Niall looped his arm around her elbow, and to an onlooker, it might seem like a sweet gesture to be close as friends, but Y/N knew it was because he was so cold his bones were probably shivering, “How big do you think his dick is?” 

“Like six inches soft, and eight when he’s hard.” 

                                                          .                              .                             .

Whenever Niall and Adam go out for Korean barbecue, they always let Y/N tag along, especially if there were drinks to follow. Y/N personally loves going with them because Adam, without fail, always ends up doing all the grilling while Y/N and Niall get to pluck pieces of meat from the tongs and gorge on the sides. It’s fun because Y/N never gets the princess seat at any food establishments among her other friends and her family. Culinary school and then working in a restaurant have always equated to kitchen lackey at any events where food has to be prepared or served. It turns out that when you’re with other chefs, the older one typically takes responsibility for the cooking for some reason and Y/N is not about to question the dynamic (at least not until the day she is the older chef, then she’ll spout something about respecting your elders). 

Tonight it was a Friday, and they had a rare weekend off thanks to one of the kitchen's boilers acting up. Harry has never been a “get it repaired and hope it lasts until next winter” kind of guy, he’s just going to replace the whole boiler, but last minute and over a weekend meant it would take some time. While it put their star chef in a sour mood, everyone else was quite happy about 4-5 days off paid, because it wasn’t their fault. So Niall invited her along for a celebratory dinner and drink and Y/N, of course, was going to oblige. 

It was just them at dinner, but a couple of the other workers from the kitchen would show up for drinks. For now, Y/N is sitting beside Niall in the booth while Adam starts cracking his knuckles, prepared to slave away over the grill for his two subordinates. “Thank you boiler,” Niall says into the air, hands clasped together, “Proud of you for refusing to stick it out for a second longer, I appreciate you.” 

“Is the boiler here with us?” Adam inquires, engaged. 

“He's speaking to its spirit,” Niall reaches over for the dish holding the cucumbers, making an annoyed sound when Y/N stabs into one while the plate is midair on its way to him because he’d already eaten like six of them at that point.

He yanks it closer to himself,  “Shit, relax, they’ll bring more!” 

Adam clicked his tongue, “Then you ought to give her the whole plate of those, and make sure she’s fed.” 

Ever since Y/N’s slight passing-out mishap, Adam has been very concerned about her eating habits. If she even looks like she might have dissociated for even a second too long, he’s at her side with a granola bar or a bowl of sliced fruit. He makes sure she’s out of the kitchen for lunch and doesn’t let her return even a minute before the allotted 30 minutes, no matter what the state of the kitchen is in at the moment. She would suspect that it was something that Harry might get pissed off about, but every time she comes back in, he levels her with a slight, scrutinizing gaze – like he’s trying to see through her when he asks, “What did you eat for lunch today?” To make sure she isn’t lying. 

It’s sweet – Adam’s concern feels like a big brother’s caring love, while Harry’s concern kind of feels like a witch plumping up her protein for soup, but the sentiment is still kind. Plus, it has Niall rolling his eyes but pressing the braised potatoes over to her in exchange for the cucumbers. Y/N accepts it, “Your hand will remain forkless for another day.” 

Adam’s phone buzzes on the table just as he’s laid the first strips of beef down on the grill, sizzling loudly, and he picks it up with the hand not gripping the tongs. A smile breaks out over his lips, “Perfect timing! Harry’s here,” he tells them gleefully, “He’ll take over the cooking, and for once I get to just eat.” 

Y/N’s heart nearly stutters to a stop, “Harry’s here?” She repeated and Adam was still smiling. 

“Yeah! You’re shocked, right? I didn’t think he’d want to come either, but when I mentioned going out with you two he said he’d try to stop by,” Y/N might pass out, “So fun, I’m excited for you two to see him outside of his restaurant-boss mode he’s always in.” 

Before they could discuss it further, and before Niall could do anything other than pinch his nails into Y/N’s thigh, the bells hanging on the door chime over the music and the chatter of other patrons. Y/N looks over to see Harry scanning the area, finding them once he locks his eyes with her own. He’s casual in a very Harry way – he’s in maroon pleated trousers with a white t-shirt tucked in neatly, everything still looking particularly pressed and put together in a way Y/N could only hope to strive for. His hair isn’t gelled back like usual, but loose and soft, his curls threatening to sprout in little wisps around his head though the length of his hair doesn’t allow it to be too unruly. 

“Hello,” he greets them, scooting in beside Adam, right across from her, “Sorry I’m a bit late, traffic was shit.” 

“That’s fine, man,” Adam claps a hand on his shoulder, and holds out the tongs, “You can repay us by cooking some of this meat! Get some of the chicken bulgogi on there, that’s what Y/N’s most excited for.” 

Y/N expected some pushback, a bit of grumbling, maybe a glare that shut the whole place into silence – but none of that happened.  Instead, Harry takes the tongs and gets to work, laying the chicken around the edges of the grill and then flipping the strips of beef Adam initially laid down. Y/N is staring; she doesn’t mean to be, but it kind of feels like seeing a tiger walk along the side of a highway. Even if it’s still a food-related area, seeing Harry outside of his restaurant, participating in something that’s not technically the same realm of dishes he prepares – is crazy. Enough that Niall nudges her knee and holds out the cucumbers with raised brows as his nonverbal cue to stop staring before she starts drooling or something stupid. 

“What’s the estimate on the boiler?” Adam asks, and because his hands are unable to stay idle for long, she finds him using the second set of tongs to pick up the beef and start cutting it with the scissors into smaller pieces, “And how long?” 

Harry flips the chicken with one hand and eats some of the rice with his other – Y/N knew he could multitask, but not this well, “Enough that I wanted to scream over it,” he replied coolly, despite the context, “It should be here and installed by Wednesday, but we won’t be able to open up until Thursday or Friday.” He looked up between them, “By no means act disappointed on my account. It’ll be a nice little break.” 

Niall sighs, plucking a piece of brisket from the grill and dropping it into the little dish of ssamjang, “Okay, thanks, I was not going to be able to act sad about it – a break will be pretty nice. I might like – read a book or something.” 

“You’ll have to learn to read first Ni,” Y/N found her voice just for that remark, hoping to not seem too weird and off-putting by just eyeballing her boss and being awkward. Adam snorts, Niall steals a cucumber from in front of her, and Harry’s gaze shifts to her, smiling a little. 

“So Niall will learn to read,” he reiterates, adding vegetables to the grill, “What will you do, hm?” 

Y/N feels hot because they’re in front of a steaming grill, in an already warm establishment – for no reason would any of the warmth flooding her body have anything to do with Harry, and how nervous she was to be speaking casually with him, about her plans. 

With a swallow, she answers, “I – uh – probably hang out with my cat?” Could she sound like more of a loser? “I’ll catch up on shows too, maybe – um, clean?” 

“You have a cat?” Harry starts to tong the chicken onto her plate, “I didn’t know that.” 

I didn’t think you even knew my name like seven months into working with you, so of course you didn’t know I had a cat. 

Y/N doesn’t say that – she does nod instead, “Yeah, her name is Hazelnut. She’s really sweet.” 

“Her name suits her then.” Harry replied, “Try the chicken.” 

She scrambles for her utensils before realizing they are already in her hand and takes the piece into her mouth. Of course it’s cooked perfectly – the marinade she couldn’t credit Harry for, but how well it was cooked she could. Then he plucks a lettuce leaf from the plate and places some of the beef, a few of the vegetables, and the pieces of kimchi on top of it. Y/N thinks he’s constructing this for himself, while Adam is adding more to the grill (simultaneously feeding a whining Niall) but then he curls it up and stretches his arm across the table, “Now try this.” 

During the duration of their meal, everyone chatters idly. Harry does eat, or at least Y/N thinks he does, but she’s so distracted by the fact he somehow took over as the one grilling for her. He’d choose the pieces of meat to give her, always the best-looking ones, and he’d construct little lettuce wraps and flagged down the waiter for more cucumbers saying that he wanted to try them (since she and Niall hoarded them all), but doesn’t eat but one of them and pushes the rest of the bowl over to her side of the table. 

Harry is not a warm and fuzzy kind of guy, but he is making sure she’s well-fed. Up until Y/N is full and feeling entirely too sleepy to go out and get drinks. The rest of the night seemed much more suited for a bath and crawling into her bed, but she knew Niall was not letting her flake on drinks. Especially since, as Niall alleges, “Adam is a horrible wingman, and everyone just thinks we’re dating so they aren’t hitting on me.” 

“Are you coming for drinks?” Niall asks Harry after they’ve finished and to Y/N’s absolute shock, he doesn’t roll his eyes and say shit like clubs and drinking until late are beneath him (which, if he had said that, he wouldn’t have been lying).

Harry’s eyes slide to her, and Y/N always feels so pinned to the spot under his gaze, that she doesn’t know what to do, “I suppose I could come for a little while,” he answers, “If you don’t mind drinking with one of your bosses.”

Adam scoffs, “Please, as if that’s ever been a problem for these two. They damn near drink me under the table each time.”

                                                                   .                         .                         .

The drinks help but also make whatever turmoil trapezing through Y/N a little worse too. 

After the bouncer hit on her while they were coming in – something that usually made her feel giddy and primed her for the night, felt slightly embarrassing with Harry there – she took two shots almost instantly. It helped to soothe her nerves just a bit, enough that when they find a table she doesn’t feel rigid and tense. One more shot after that and she’s loosey-goosey and knows that she’s in a sweet spot where only one more would get her tipsy, but right then she just had a nice buzz. Floaty and warm, tickling her veins with the promise of something sweet. 

Another shot and she’s ready for Niall to take her to the dance floor. He and Adam are in a relatively heated debate over some footie league drama when a song off the BRAT album comes bumping through the speakers. If she and Harry were closer then maybe she would have dragged him out there and been silly, but she’d rather place both of her hands on a burner than drag Harry to the dance floor. Niall comes easily anyway, telling Adam that it isn’t his fault he’s so fucking wrong but his shoulders and hips are already moving to the music. Y/N briefly makes eye contact with Harry as she leads them off, but darts away just as fast. 

“Adam is such a dumb dick, he knows they shouldn’t have traded Alfie,” he all but yells over the thumping bass, “By the way, Harry’s been looking at you like he’s starving all night. And why does it seem like he’s trying to fatten you up for a soup, Hansel and Gretel style?” 

It’s easy enough to ignore him a little bit by grabbing his hands and making him move with her, especially when the song switches from bumping, cocaine, bass tones to something they can roll their bodies together to. They always do this when they’re out, usually with Adam nearby standing watch like a bodyguard ready to push any unwanted attention elsewhere. Or to encourage welcome attention – whichever the coin fell. Now Adam is with Harry, so they just vibe with each other – Y/N has no plans to go home with someone tonight, and Niall always says he does but puts forth 10% effort at the beginning and then abandons the idea for the rest of the duration. 

All things considered, Y/N’s having fun. She feels loose and happy, she ate enough that she doesn’t feel like she needs to stuff her mouth with bread so she isn’t just surviving off vodka shots and vibes. Niall’s hands are all over her, smoothing up and down her sides, grabbing her hips, laughing when he accidentally hits her boob trying to fix her hair when it got mussed from an intense headbanging to a Rihanna song that probably didn’t warrant headbanging. 

They did one more shot and Y/N knew she was good for the night. Her bones buzz and her vessels feel warm and they make their way back to Harry and Adam. Y/N can look Harry in the eye now, which is more than she can say for herself earlier, and she smiles at him, “Hi again,” it doesn’t feel as awkward as it would have been before, and Harry seems to take pity on her tipsy state. He returns the smile, his fingers wrapped around his glass – she doesn’t know what he’s drinking but it looks brown and more sophisticated than whatever she was drinking. 

“Hi,” he replied, then nodded toward Niall, “You two are closer than I suspected.” 

“The liquor drives them to be menaces,” Adam tells him like a warning, “One time they full-on made out, I’d never been more shocked.” 

Y/N pouted, her face hot, “Hey, Niall kissed me to get some guy’s attention, that time wasn’t my fault!” 

“The time before that?” 

She huffs, rolling her eyes, “I wanted to kiss someone! Sue me,” then she looks at Harry again, and maybe she is a little bit tipsier than she thought, “They’ll make me sound like a whore, but it’s not me, it’s Niall. He’s the whore.” 

“I mean I won’t deny it.” 

At some point she and Niall are dancing again, and so is Adam this time but it’s just at the table and it’s all wild limbs and no coordination, barely any rhythm or beat. Harry has an amused glint in his eye the entire time which is better than an annoyed glare. Even when Adam almost knocked into Y/N, and to avoid getting elbowed in the face and ending up in the ER with a broken nose, she ducks out of the way. 

Then hits Harry’s drink and sends it all over his nice shirt. 

For a second, Y/N considers making a run for it. She has no idea where, or why even – it was an accident – but in her head, she imagines the night being ruined. Imagines any traces of amusement or joy leaving his face in one, drastic swoop before he stalks off into the night and vows to never give her a chance again. This was her one chance to make him like her, and maybe expand their relationship and dynamic to something even a centimeter closer to what Adam and Niall have. 

But now he has brown liquor staining his nice white shirt and some of it drips down to his pants. Y/N wants to cry – honestly, she might, she thinks she could feel the tears burn in her eyes. 

“Oh my god –” she starts but Harry raises his hand. 

“It’s ok–” 

“I’m so sorry!” She is so stressed, her face pulled into a deep frown, “Oh my god, I’m so sorry, I’m the – I’m the worst, I’m so clumsy, I can't believe I – was it expensive? I’ll pay for another one. I’ll – where’d you get it? I’ll buy one, or you can just take it right out of my pay! Or –” 

Harry is pinching the fabric away from his torso, “Y/N, stop talking,” he finally cuts her off, raising his voice only to be heard over her panicked rambling, “It’s okay. It’s just a white shirt, I have a dozen others.” 

Still, Y/N is frowning, and in a rare moment of courage purely from the mango-flavored shots (that didn’t taste like mango at all) and intense, immense guilt, she grabs the shirt too, keeping it peeled away from his skin, “I’ll get the stain out? I can get it out for you, I’m great at getting stains out.” 

“Don’t worry about –” 

“Mate, just let her,” Adam sighed, “For the sake of her psyche and enjoying this little break we have, let her get the stain out.” 

Harry seems at a loss, for the first time she’s met him. He’s looking between all of them, Adam, Y/N, and Niall who is nodding in agreement that Y/N, even sober, would let this distress her the duration of their time off. And she guesses Harry isn’t an evil person, because he doesn’t mutter that he doesn’t give a fuck about how she feels over break when she screwed up his shirt. Instead, he seems to be debating something but something in Y/N’s heart that it isn’t just whether or not he should let her get the stain out. Theoretically, all he’d have to do is give Y/N his shirt and wear Adam’s jacket out of the club. 

But a different idea is what struck him. 

“How did you get here?” Harry inquired. 

“Ni and I took the subway.” She explained, still holding his shirt from his body, and when she was this close to him she could see how the lights danced off his eyes. 

“I’ll drive you home,” he decided, with a sharp nod of his head, “I’ll leave my shirt with you, and you can return it to me on a different day. Will this ease your psyche?” 

Y/N agrees adamantly, “Yes, yes, yes, at least for now – when I wake up I’m g’na be a mess.” 

“And I’ll be hearing about it for sure,” Niall agreed, then gave a wary sigh, “Adam, I guess you’ll have to take me home too since nobody is trying to see my shaving routine up close. I’m not riding the subway alone.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Adam patted him in the middle of the back, “I figured that.” 

                                                            .                          .                              .

Y/N is very self-conscious about her flat right now. 

Normally she isn’t. It’s definitely not the prettiest on the outside, and if not for her superior interior decorating skills, the inside would look just as bad but she does her best to keep it looking cute and whimsical. That’s fine for someone normal to see, of course, any of her friends she doesn’t mind coming over, and she’s never felt like they would judge her things. 

But Harry is not someone normal. She’s pretty sure he lives in a high-rise flat with a view of the whole city from his living room, and the kind of windows that you click a button to close. Something modern chic and expensive, while she had to caulk her windows to keep bugs from getting inside and had to rent an industrial carpet cleaner to get the carpet in her bedroom a normal color. Plus her kitchen is small, and for some reason that is the thing she is most worried about him seeing – her itty bitty counters, and her cabinets that can fit maybe two pans each. 

Though Harry seems to regard her place respectively, or at least he had so far from where he stood by the door. There’s no noticeable disgust or judgment when she watches his eyes dance along with what he can see, and he seems pleasantly surprised when Hazelnut greets him at the door. “Ooh,” he coos, “She’s friendly.” 

“Maybe a little too friendly for her own good,” Y/N replies, “I think she’d leave with any stranger that had treats.” 

Harry crouches to get closer to her and Y/N is feeling a little overwhelmed by the sight of her big, scary boss puckering his lips and clicking his tongue at a cat, so she heads to her bedroom. That was the plan – to get Harry one of her shirts so that he could switch out with the stained one he’s wearing. Then Y/N could start the process of de-staining it tonight because if there’s one thing that a heavy, irregular period taught her in her early teens, was that she could get a stain out of anything. 

It takes her a couple of minutes to dig through her drawers, searching for something that he could wear comfortably but pickings are slim. Tonight was when she’d been planning on tackling the laundry in her hamper but since she went out instead, she didn’t have many options. She settles on a shirt she often sleeps in with a hedgehog on the front of it and decides it will have to do. 

By the time she comes back out, Harry is fully sitting on the floor with a lap full of Hazelnut. It’s cute and does something weird to her chest that she decidedly ignores in favor of clearing her throat, grabbing his attention, and holding out the shirt for him to take. “Thank you,” he murmured politely, and Y/N was suddenly so happy that she left her telly on so there’s at least some noise in the background – especially when Harry politely removed Hazelnut from his lap, stood, then pulled his shirt over his head. 

The gasp that leaves her isn’t really covered up by the telly, but it lessens the severity of it a little (she hopes). Y/N had just recently started witnessing Harry in casual-ish clothes, so to suddenly get an eyeful of his bare torso was a lot to swallow. He is covered in tattoos – she knew about the ones on his arms, but she knew nothing of what decorated his chest, his belly, his hips – she might scream. She might have to scream, or squeal, or both – preferably in her pillow after he’s left but the shots have made her lips loose. 

“Holy fuck,” she marvels at him – his physique is nice too, and his pecs are like. . .mouthwatering. Y/N wonders how much she can fit into her mouth and bite down on – “That’s – you have loads!” 

Harry looked down at himself like he was also surprised that there were so many. He huffed a laugh, opening up the shirt she gave him and finding the neck hole, “Yeah, I guess I do,” he stuffed his head inside of it, pulling the shirt over his body and covering all of the milky skin that he’d been hiding. Y/N wishes she could have taken a picture of it to stare at later or something – she doesn’t think she had nearly enough time to ogle him, “After my 22nd birthday, I think I might have been getting one each month at some point.” 

“I – whoa –” she says lamely, “They look so cool.” 

“Thank you,” he still has a glint in his eyes, all too amused, standing in his trainee’s flat, in a hedgehog shirt, watching her flounder for words, “You’re very easy to fluster, Y/N, did you know that?” 

Her throat feels dry, suddenly, like no amount of water would be able to soothe it. 

“I –” 

“It’s cute,” he adds, and Y/N thinks she might explode or something, “The side of you I saw tonight was cute.” 

Y/N is at a loss for words, her voice barely scratches out a, “Really?” 

And then she sees something that makes her positive that she actually passed out in the club after the last shot, and Niall was dragging her halfway-conscious body through a subway while she actively hallucinated. 

Harry Styles. . .her scary boss. . .the chef that has made people older than himself and in the industry for longer than him cry. . .the very man that she nearly chews through her lip waiting for his opinion on something she’s made out of pure worry and a state of panic. . .

. . .has a dimple. 

He has fucking dimples! 

“Rest well, Y/N,” he advises her, “Drink lots of water and enjoy your time off.” 

With one more pat on Hazelnut’s bum, Harry opens the door and steps out of her flat. 

[aglimpseofharry]

“Out of Your League”

badboy!harry x reader

Word Count: 5.5k

Plot: Y/N and Harry are from completely different backgrounds. Everyone views her as the rich, spoiled girl, whereas Harry is the bad boy who can never be bothered. The only problem is that Y/N and Harry feel an attraction between one another - regardless of them getting under each other’s skin every chance they can get.

Warnings: Harry’s an asshole (he’ll make up for it), talks of infidelity, talks of harassment, fingering, choking, tiny instance of spitting, a small mention of exhibitionism and protected sex

A/N: I’ve made a post regarding the anonymous messages that have been sent out about myself, and my friends, over the last few months. If you choose to read it, you can find it here. ❤️

(This song keeps popping up on my Spotify, and it’s inspired me for a while, so I decided to write a little blurb about it. Also, pictures are for aesthetic purposes only! I hope you all enjoy ❤️)

• • • • •

Y/N could feel his eyes on hers as soon as she walked into the party. Her arm was hooked around her best friend’s, Shan, and the two of them had dressed to impress. It had surprised Y/N to feel the familiar tingle that spread over her body when she knew Harry was watching her. This party wasn’t his type of scene. Not in the slightest. There was no way he had come here tonight for her?

Right?

It wouldn’t be the first time that her friends had seen her and Harry interacting with each other, however, Shan was the only one that knew the extent of how far Y/N and Harry would go when no one else was around. To everyone else, Y/N and Harry pissed each other off, clearly some weird type of foreplay, but they never thought it had actually gotten beyond any of that.

But how wrong they all were.

Harry and Y/N had been hooking up with each other for the past five months. The first time it happened now seemed like a blur to the both of them. Not because of alcohol or any other substance, but because of how hungry and fantastic it was. For so long they had picked at each other. Insulted each other, and even started a terrible rumor or two, but they always knew that deep down they were feeding off of it. It turned them on to try and tear the other one down.

Once Shan and Y/N made their way over to the drinks in the kitchen, they started to make their rounds at the party - socializing with almost everyone they came across considering they’d known all of these people for years.

It wasn’t until they were passing by the open living room that Y/N finally heard that voice she knew so well calling her name.

“Y/N!” Harry yelled out, and she peered over her shoulder at him for a second before looking back to Shan.

“We can go over there, but only for a little bit,” Shan stated. “You know how I feel about him. He’s no good for you.”

Y/N rolled her eyes. “You act like it’s so serious,” she groaned as they started to head over to where Harry, and the friends he had clearly brought with him, were. “We’re just having fun. Fucking and fooling around. It’ll never be like that.”

“Trust me, I get it. I just don’t want something to happen, and you end up getting hurt, whether that be emotionally or physically. Sue me for caring about my best friend.”

Y/N stopped and held Shan’s face in her hands before placing a kiss to her cheek. “I appreciate you caring. You know I do, but I know what I’m doing. Harry would never cause me any harm regardless of how much of an asshole he can be.”

Shan just nodded in response, knowing she wasn’t going to get anywhere with Y/N tonight, and they continued on their way over to Harry.

“What are you even doing here, Harry?” Y/N arched an eyebrow as she stood in front of him before taking a sip of her drink. “This definitely isn’t your kind of vibe.”

Y/N wasn’t even sure who could’ve given Harry the invitation for tonight. She hadn’t the last time they spoke.

More often than not, the two of them just saw each other out at the clubs that it seems both of their friend groups enjoyed frequenting. A club setting was where they had met, after all.

“For your information, I just so happened to be invited.” Harry’s smirk grew as his eyes flitted over the girl in front of him. “Just because you don’t care for me doesn’t mean all of your friends feel that way, Princess.”

Y/N’s jaw twitched as the nickname that she hated so much tumbled from Harry’s mouth. “I have people to talk to, so if you could hurry up and tell me why you called me over here, that would be great. You’re lucky I’m even entertaining you.”

A couple of Harry’s friends snickered at that, and Harry just shook his head. “Always trying to act like you don’t like what you see.” He clicked the back of his tongue against his teeth. “I just wanted to get a better look at what you were wearing tonight. That’s all.”

Scoffing, Y/N grabbed Shan’s hand so they could walk away, but Harry continued.

“You’ve got nothing on the way Raven looks tonight though. Have you seen her outfit? Maybe you could learn a thing or two.”

Harry watched as Y/N’s face fell, and he instantly felt his tongue grow heavy in his mouth. He didn’t know why he had said that. He knew the terrible things Raven had done to Y/N. He was well aware that he was the only person, other than Shan, that knew of said things. 

He had never questioned why Y/N had shared that vulnerable part of herself with him. It happened one night when he had taken her back to his place with the intention of hooking up, as usual, but he could tell something was off from the moment he had helped her into the passenger seat of his car. When he asked her, she had paused for a few good seconds before spilling to him what Raven had been putting her through for the past several months.

Y/N’s ex, Nate, had cheated on her with Raven, but something that someone like Raven would definitely see as a ‘victory’ wasn’t enough. Raven continued to harass Y/N by creating account after account on certain social media platforms so she could keep sending pictures of her and Nate, although Y/N had asked her to stop several times.

The only reason why Raven eventually did stop was because Y/N threatened to take legal action for online stalking and harassment, and since then, Raven had been silent. Even when seeing each other in public.

“You’re a fucking dick,” Shan hissed as she cut her eyes at Harry, and she quickly pulled Y/N away from the group.

“Who the hell is Raven?” One of Harry’s friends spoke up. “I need to see this chick if you say she’s looking better than Y/N tonight.”

Harry didn’t respond. He just brought his beer bottle up to his mouth as he watched Shan tug Y/N through the crowd of people. Never once had he felt bad about the jabs he would take at her, considering she could throw them right back, but tonight he knew he had taken it way too far.

Maybe it was the fact she had been ignoring his texts over the past couple of weeks? He wasn’t sure why it bothered him. This wasn’t anything serious. It was just sex. He was sure she wasn’t sleeping with other people because they had both expressed that they wouldn’t if they continued to hook up the way they were. That way they were more than safe.

Bottom line - Harry didn’t have a right to be mean over discarded messages. He knew he didn’t. 

So why the fuck had he compared her to Raven the way he did when he knew that would actually hurt her?

• • • • •

Shan drank enough for both herself and Y/N throughout the night. After Harry’s comment earlier, Y/N had no longer been in the party mood, but she wasn’t going to make her best friend leave over it. She was a big girl. She could hold her head high, ignore the looks Harry kept throwing her way, and continue to act like she was unbothered.

However, she couldn’t help the sinking in her stomach when her eyes eventually did land on Raven - hanging all over Nate. Her long black hair was in loose waves as it hung down her bare back. The dress she had on tonight cut so low that Y/N was sure she couldn’t have been wearing underwear. It hugged to her body just right, and her long, tan legs were attached to her petite feet that were in some strappy, heeled sandals.

Of course Raven looked better than her tonight. She always did. That’s how Y/N had lost her boyfriend to begin with. She wasn’t stupid when it came to that fact. 

It just shocked her that Harry had decided to rub it in her face.

As Y/N stood against the wall, sipping from a water bottle as she watched Shan indulge in what had to be her eighth game of ‘flip cup’ of the night, she felt a presence beside her. She knew it wasn’t Harry from the lack of electricity, considering the person’s arm was so close to her own.

Looking over, she saw Grady. Grady was always kind to Y/N, and she knew he had a bit of a crush on her, but she never fed into it. He was kind enough, and attractive, however, he wasn’t her type.

“You alright? You’ve been frowning for the last hour,” Grady commented as he brought his solo cup up to his lips.

“Yeah, just not feeling it tonight.” Y/N shrugged. “Sticking it out for Shan though. She was really excited for the party.”

“I’m sure she appreciates it.” Grady smiled over at her for a minute before raising his free hand to rub the back of his neck. “Look, I know it happened a bit ago, and I hope I’m not overstepping by saying this, but I’m really sorry for what happened between you and Nate.”

As much as Y/N knew that Grady was trying to be nice, the fact he brought Nate and Raven up made her want to leave that much more. Everyone knew that Nate had cheated on Y/N with Raven, but it was only Shan and Harry that knew the extent of the aftermath.

“Did everyone want to fucking talk about this tonight?” Y/N thought to herself before speaking. “Thank you, Grady, I appreciate that. It’s just not something I really want to talk about.”

“Of course, of course.” He nodded before walking forward to lay a delicate hand on Y/N’s hip. “But I hope you know he’s an idiot for ever letting someone like you go.”

The moment Grady’s palm connected with Y/N’s smooth skin, she felt that familiar tingle, and she thought for a second that maybe she was starting to see something more in him. However, when she looked past Grady’s shoulder, she could see Harry’s eyes were right on her.

How silly was she to think that anyone else here could make her have that sensation except for Harry?

Biting down on her bottom lip, Y/N laid her hand on Grady’s forearm while looking up at him sweetly. “That’s a very nice thing to say. You’re too kind, you know that?”

She could catch the soft blush that dusted over Grady’s cheeks, and he let out a small laugh. “I’m just being honest. You deserve to be told how wonderful you are.”

For the next few minutes, Grady and Y/N were caught in conversation all while Harry kept his gaze right on them. He watched as Y/N flipped her hair and tilted her head back occasionally with a loud laugh. She was flirting, and he hated that it was driving him borderline insane.

When Harry caught sight of Y/N slipping away from Grady and pointing to the hallway that had the bathroom, Harry set his beer bottle down and started behind her. His friends were calling behind him, asking where he was going, but he had no problem ignoring them. His focus was elsewhere.

Just as Y/N was going to slip into the restroom, Harry’s arm wrapped around her waist from behind to pull her back against his chest. He walked them both into the bathroom before shutting the door with his foot - reaching behind with his free hand to lock it.

“Let go of me!” Y/N squealed while slapping her hands against the forearm still around her, and that’s when she looked down and noticed the tattoos. Glancing over her shoulder, her eyes met Harry’s before she swallowed harshly. “Get off me.”

Her tone wasn’t harsh. It was void of emotion altogether. They kept their eyes on each other’s before Harry dropped his arm, and she quickly turned around to face him properly while taking a few steps back

“I have to actually use the bathroom, you know?” She crossed her arms over her chest. “So whatever you want, can it wait?”

“No.” Harry’s hands curled into fists as he tried to find the right words to say. This wasn’t him. He didn’t do feelings. “I don’t know why I brought her up.”

Y/N sucked in a deep breath as she dropped her arms and looked up at the ceiling. “It doesn’t fucking matter, Harry. I just really want to use the restroom, and then I’m probably going to leave. Please, just get-”

“It does matter,” Harry interrupted and he walked forward. When he noticed Y/N didn’t try to move back, he kept going. “I shouldn’t have said what I did. I know we pick at each other all the time. Say a lot of shit we don’t actually mean, but I took it too far, and for that, I’m sorry.”

A laugh of disbelief left Y/N’s mouth before she could stop it, and her eyebrows raised on her forehead. “I’m sorry, but is Harry Styles apologizing? And to me of all people?”

“Yes, alright?” He responded with his teeth slightly clenched. “I don’t like to admit to my mistakes often, but I need to with this one. I was out of line. You didn’t deserve that. I think I’m just…frustrated.”

“Frustrated? Over what?”

“You’ve been ignoring me.”

“We hook up,” Y/N stated firmly. “If I don’t feel like doing it, then I’m not going to respond, okay? I just haven’t been in the mood lately.”

The truth was, Y/N had started to get a little too attached to Harry, and it scared her. She was convinced that she didn’t want a relationship with him. She didn’t want their back and forth dynamic to change. If he caught on that she was starting to feel something a bit more, Y/N was scared that Harry would stop wanting to see her.

“You could at least reply back and tell me that instead of making me think you’re through with me.” Harry’s brows narrowed as he stared down at her.

“You know what? If you were apologizing to me just so you could get your dick wet, I’m sure Raven would have no problem doing that. Now, could you please get out so I can-”

Y/N’s words ceased as one of Harry’s large hands collared throat. He leaned down so his cheek was lightly pressed against hers - lips brushing against her ear. “My apology was actually sincere, Princess. And you know damn well I don’t want Raven. The only cunt I want wrapped around me is yours.”

Goosebumps erupted all over the girl’s skin as Harry’s mouth smeared against her cheekbone while he lifted up to look down into her eyes.

“I’m gonna sit your pretty little ass up on that counter, and I’m gonna take what I’ve been missing for the past couple weeks. Understand?”

“Y-Yes,” Y/N stammered as she already felt her knees going weak at Harry’s tone.

He always managed to get her a bit quiet when he was so forward like this, and something about that turned him on even more. Sure, he liked the bickering a lot. It caused his cock to plump right up in his tight jeans every single time, but being able to leave Y/N speechless was like an accomplishment. 

Harry’s arms quickly picked Y/N up and he walked the few steps to plop her down on top of the marbled surface - being careful not to have her back press into the faucet of the sink.

“This tiny fucking top,” he muttered as he reached up to undo the tie around her neck that was holding up her shimmery halter top. 

Once undone, the top fell down to reveal her breasts - nipples hard and ready to be tended to. A growl rattled in Harry’s throat while he reached out to knead the soft flesh in his palms. He leaned his hip against the inside of one of her knees so that her legs spread more, and he could get as close to her as possible.

“Don’t like that it could’ve been so easy for anyone to do what I just did,” Harry stated with a shake of his head. “Any fuckboy could’ve walked by you and pulled that tie. Seen these perky tits that are mine.”

Y/N could only moan at Harry’s possessiveness. This was a side of him she really hadn’t seen before, but she wasn’t disappointed by it. If anything, it had a weird feeling brewing in her stomach that she wanted to explore more.

Tugging at her nipples, Harry leaned down to ghost his lips along Y/N’s. She tilted her chin up to try and connect them completely, but Harry moved his head back with a smirk. 

“If you’re going to act like you’re gonna kiss me, then just kiss me, dammit,” Y/N huffed while tugging at the front of Harry’s shirt to try and bring him closer again.

“There's that mouth,” he chuckled before smearing their lips together.

Y/N mewled as she continued to grip to Harry’s shirt while rocking her hips up and against the bulge that was steadily growing in his jeans. Harry groaned at the sensation, but mildly winced when he felt his prick pressing along his zipper.

“Hold on, baby,” he mumbled before reaching down to undo the buttons of his jeans - pulling down the zipper as well.

Using the opportunity to her advantage, Y/N slipped her hand down to cup him through his briefs. She gave a small squeeze which caused Harry’s lips to part - a breathy moan escaping him as he looked down at her actions. His signature smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth again as he raised his index and middle fingers to Y/N’s lips.

“Get these nice and wet for me, yeah?” He asked while tilting his head to the side.

Y/N complied immediately as she took Harry’s fingers into her mouth. She held his eyes as she swirled her tongue around his digits - getting them so wet that drool started to pool underneath her bottom lip. When Harry pulled them out, he lifted his other hand to smear his thumb along her lips to clean up the mess.

“What would they all say if they saw you like this, hm? Hand wedged into my jeans, stroking my cock over my boxers all while you suck on my fingers.” He shook his head while running his tongue along the inside of his cheek. “You dirty fucking girl.”

Dropping his hands, Harry bunched her mini skirt up and pulled her silk thong to the side with one - using the other with the slicked up fingers to start rubbing circles against her clit.

“Harry,” Y/N whined while working her hand faster against him. “That feels so good.”

“I know it does.” Harry dropped his forehead to hers. “I know exactly how you like it, don’t I? And no one else does. Only me.”

Y/N hummed as Harry spread her apart and slipped his wet fingers into her cunt - immediately curling them to find her spot while applying pressure to her sensitive bud with his thumb. He could feel her thighs threatening to close down around his hand, and he quickly moved his hand holding her underwear to push against the inside of one of her knees.

“You know how I hate that,” he sneered as Y/N’s eyes slipped shut.

“Can’t help it.” Her fingers wrapped around the edges of the counter - her knuckles turning white. “It’s too much.”

“Is it?” Harry teased before slipping in a third finger which emitted a gasp from Y/N as her eyes flew open. “Is that too much, Princess?”

Her jaw dropped, but she couldn’t find any words to say. The pleasure was already too overwhelming considering she hadn’t been touched like this in weeks. Harry always knew exactly how to handle her, which was something she wasn’t used to before. He didn’t handle her gently most of the time, but it’s because he knew she enjoyed that. 

Y/N liked it rough, and Harry liked to give it rough.

The sounds of Harry’s digits pumping in and out of Y/N’s cunt started to fill the small bathroom, and he watched as her chest started to heave.

“Already right there, aren’t you?” He chuckled darkly. “Now tell me why you decided to ignore me like you did, hm? Decided to ignore this. You can have it like this every night, Y/N. All you have to do is say the word.”

Y/N started to writhe on the counter. Her orgasm was right around the corner, and she knew it was going to hit her hard.

“The second you come, I’m gonna roll a rubber onto my cock, and I’m gonna take you how I’ve wanted since you decided to blow me off. Deep. Hard. Rough. You’re gonna feel me everywhere tonight, Y/N. I’ll make sure you’ll feel me everywhere tomorrow too. Maybe even the day after.”

Harry’s words pushed Y/N over the edge, and he couldn’t help the audible moan that left him when he felt her walls clamping down around his fingers over and over. He continued to move them fluidly to ride her through her climax while planting a kiss to the corner of her mouth.

“That’s it.” His lips grazed over her cheekbone. “Such a good girl for me, Princess.”

Y/N shuddered as she finally started to come down, and she turned her head to connect her lips with Harry’s. He removed his fingers from her while reaching into his back pocket - quickly disconnecting from the kiss to lick his fingers that had been inside of her clean. 

Pulling the condom from his wallet, he ripped it open with his teeth and rolled it down his shaft before capturing Y/N in another kiss. His tongue forced its way past the seam of her lips as he rolled his hips to have his tip slip inside her slippery cunt. He swallowed the mewl that flooded from Y/N’s throat as he rocked back and forth slowly - letting her adjust to his size.

Y/N whimpered at the stretch, and Harry pulled back again to look down at her while shushing her softly. “None of that,” he said while massaging the plush skin of her thighs. “You know I’m going to ease you into it. Just sit there for me, alright? Let me do the work.”

He stared into Y/N’s eyes as he continued to work his length into her - going a little further with each stroke. Once he was finally in to the hilt, they both let out noises of pleasure as she clung to his shoulders. Her nails dug through the material of his shirt and into his skin, but he didn’t care. She liked to mark him up, and he liked having the marks on full display. It was fun letting her friends and his friends see them, however, they would never have any idea that Y/N was the one responsible for them.

“There we go.” Harry cupped the front of Y/N’s neck once again - giving it a soft squeeze. “Told you I’d get you there, didn’t I?”

Nodding aimlessly, Y/N squirmed as she tried to get him to start moving again. “Please,” she pouted.

“So impatient,” he scolded as he kept one hand on her throat, and the other went to the bend of her knee so he could hold her leg up against his hip. “I’ll give it to you. You better hold on.”

Pulling back, Harry let himself exit until just the tip was seated inside her, and as he quickly thrusted back inside, he tightened his grip on her neck. Y/N let out a short scream, but it was quickly cut off as Harry started up at a relentless pace.

“Look at those tits,” he said in a dazed tone as he stared at Y/N’s chest. “Bouncing everytime I get back inside you all the way. Got me growing harder inside of you seeing this.”

“You’re so deep,” Y/N breathed as she placed her hand on top of Harry’s - the one still on her throat.

“Yeah?” He sunk his teeth into his bottom lip. “And I’m the only one who’s ever been in there like that, hm? It’s my spot?”

“Yes,” the girl moaned.

“Say it.” Harry sunk his fingers into her pulse points, and he could feel them pounding against the tips. “Say it’s my spot.”

“It’s yours!” Y/N wailed as tears pricked at the corner of her eyes with just how good he was giving her his cock. “Your spot. Only yours!”

“That’s right.” Harry pressed a bruising kiss against her lips, and he released her throat so he could angle his palm against the small of her back - having Y/N arch into him more. “Fuck, baby, you feel so fucking good.”

Her hard nipples brushed along his clothed chest as he continued to pound into her, all while Y/N now scraped her nails along his biceps. 

A knocking on the door startled both of them, and Y/N’s look of lust soon turned into one of fear.

“Stop fucking in there! Some of us have to take a piss!”

Harry couldn’t help the grin that spread across his mouth when he recognized the voice as Nate’s, and he nipped at Y/N’s bottom lip with his teeth.

“Ignore him, and you be as loud as you want. Let him hear you. Let him know what he couldn’t give you,” Harry instructed.

There was a split second where Y/N thought of asking Harry to stop, but when she heard what he wanted her to do, she couldn’t help but want to obey. Nate deserved to know he never fucked Y/N to the point she was moaning his name over and over again. He deserved to know Y/N was capable of screaming in the heights of her orgasm, but Nate wouldn’t know that because he never got her there.

Y/N nodded and Harry couldn’t help but laugh in disbelief. “Let’s go, Y/N. Let them all hear.”

Using the strength she had left, Y/N rocked her hips forward to match each of Harry’s thrusts, and she knew by the groan he let out that she was getting him close.

“Look at you,” Harry praised. “Should I open the door? Let him watch? Let all of them watch? You know when we walk out of here, they’re going to know anyway. Why not give them a bit of a show?”

That caused Y/N’s walls to pulse around Harry’s length, and he lost a bit of his rhythm before recovering it.

“Oh, you’d like that, huh? Always surprising me, you know that? You’d definitely surprise the hell out of them. Who knew spoiled, little Y/N liked to be roughed up a bit. But not just by anyone, right? By Harry. Someone so beneath you and your friends. But no one can make you come like I can, can they?”

“No!” Y/N gripped harder to Harry’s arms. “Keep fucking me. Don’t stop. Please don’t stop!”

They both knew anyone waiting outside could hear them through the door, but Y/N really didn’t care anymore. Harry didn’t even care at all. He didn’t care from the beginning if anyone knew he was fucking Y/N, but he knew the backlash she could get from it, which is why he let her keep it under wraps for so long. But now…now everyone would know. And honestly? That had Harry trying to keep from shooting his load into his condom so that he could get Y/N there first.

“Not gonna stop.” Harry tilted his head down to spit on her clit to slick it up, and he angled his pelvis just the right way to have her rubbing against it every time he was fully inside. “Not gonna stop until you come all over my cock.”

“I’m close,” Y/N confessed while staring into his eyes. “No one gets me there like you do. No one has ever fucked me the way you have, and I don’t want them to.”

“Is that right? You only want me to fill this tight, little cunt? Only need me?”

“Yes, yes. Only you, Harry. Just you.”

“Sounded like you kind of wanted to be my girl there for a second, Princess.” Harry sponged his lips against the hinge of her jaw. “Say please, and maybe I’ll consider it.”

“Please.” Y/N didn’t know why this was all coming out tonight, but she wasn’t going to take it back. This had been building up for a while, and if getting drunk off Harry’s cock is what was going to get her to confess this is how she felt, then so be it. “Let me be your girl. I want to be yours.”

“Shit.” Harry let his hand slip from Y/N’s back so he could rub against her clit instead. That was the second time he had to keep himself from coming, and there was no way he was going to be the first one to do so. “Come for me, baby. Need to feel you.”

Staring into Harry’s eyes, Y/N focused in on the way she felt, as well as the way Harry was looking at her, and she could feel herself topple over the edge once again.

“Harry!” She mewled. “Harry, Harry, Harry…”

Y/N repeating his name in such a breathy moan is what had Harry finally succumbing to his orgasm, and he dropped his face into her neck as he finished inside the condom. His hips continued to rock for a few more seconds, and when they both stilled, he could feel Y/N’s fingers threading through his long curls.

He lifted his head to look down at her, and when he saw the smile that perched on her lips, he couldn’t help but return it.

“Did you mean that? You want to be my girl?” He asked, and it was the first time Y/N had ever seen any sort of insecurity from him.

“Yeah.” She cupped his cheek while tracing over his top lip with the pad of her thumb. “I do.”

They both exchanged a few small kisses before Harry reluctantly slipped from her heat. He grabbed some tissues off the counter next to Y/N to clean them both and dispose of the condom, and he washed his hands before helping Y/N tie her halter top back into its proper place.

“I still have to pee, you know? So…” Y/N fiddled with her fingers behind her back.

“Oh, I’m not walking out of here unless you’re right beside me, Princess. You’re just going to have to pee in front of me.”

“Harry!” She exclaimed before he raised his eyebrows at her - an indication that he was serious. Groaning, she stomped her foot on the floor before lifting a hand in the air with her finger pointed towards the ground, and she began to move it in a circular motion. “Then turn around and plug your fucking ears.”

Harry chuckled, but he did as he was told. He faced the door and pressed his hands against his ears while Y/N sat down to relieve herself. Once she finished, she stood up and washed her hands in the sink, and she took in a deep breath as she stood beside Harry.

“You sure you’re ready? Everyone’s about to figure out that you’ve been slumming it.”

“Not slumming it.” Y/N shook her head adamantly. “I’m not scared.”

Smirking, Harry opened the door to reveal Raven and Nate standing there, and Y/N couldn’t help but match Harry’s expression when she saw their eyes widen.

“Sorry,” she said while wiping around her mouth with her thumb and index, as if she and Harry had just finished instead of properly cleaning up. “It’s all yours.”

Harry shot the couple a wink as he wrapped his arm around Y/N’s waist - pulling her into his side. The two of them walked back out to the party, and they could feel eyes on them, but they ignored it.

“Drink?” Harry asked as he started to steer them towards the kitchen.

“Drink.” Y/N nodded with a large smile on her face.

• • • • •

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[aglimpseofharry]

i’m obsessed with this. this was EVERYTHING. i love the dynamic. i love everything about this!!!

“It’s maniacal,” Harry corrected, “Villainous. She’s a danger to society.” 

With a roll of his eyes, Adam pushes up from the floor, holding out a hand for Harry to take. “I don’t know, whenever I’ve seen pictures on your company Facebook, she doesn’t give off evil villain vibes.” 

“Yeah, well, neither does a feral cat. Deceptively cute until you get too close.” 

Adam’s brows raise, “So you think she’s cute?” 

The burn Harry feels in his ears is immediate, but he tries not to stutter and give Adam more ammunition than necessary, “I think she’s deceptive,” he emphasizes, “And rabid.” 

or

Harry's personal assistant is a thorn in his side and Y/N has a secret

(16.4k+ words)

i.

Harry has had a headache all day. 

At first it’d just been a niggle around his periphery; this morning, as he walked into work, he could tell it was forming but it wasn’t anything pressing yet. Just enough to be slightly annoying, especially because it’s Harry’s fault. Late nights that somehow turn into early mornings, not enough water intake, a critical caffeine addiction, taking work home, letting the weight of this company sit heavy on his shoulders, the general, lingering stress that comes with being a human in a capitalistic environment that he’s forced to take part in – like, he could try to narrow it down. Still, he knew it was an amalgamation of all of it. But it hadn’t been bad enough for him to do anything about it, and he figured he could get away with ignoring it for the rest of the day, or at the very least, the morning. 

“Why is your face all screwy?” Is what sets it from just a little scratch against his skull, to something more twisted, “Do you have a headache or something?” 

Y/N was his assistant. Whenever his father handed this company down to him a year ago, he’d found out that apparently, every person in a leadership position needed to have an assistant to keep things straight. And luckily for Harry, his father’s assistant was training someone quick on the uptake, proficient in all of her tasks, had a killer resume with a ton of accolades that really mean nothing to her job title here but still looked great, and was “an absolute sweetheart, really, maybe the most softhearted, kindest person you’ll ever meet”. 

Maybe the Y/N that Harry’s father had met was different from the one he’d been privy to. Perhaps a demon popped up, knocked her out, ate her soul, and is now posing as her to lure more unsuspecting souls into her circle. Consume, devour, swallow down nice and pretty into her belly. 

Though he’d say if she intended to lure, she’s doing a bad job of it, because Y/N may be the most rotten brat he’s ever met. 

She was snarky, complained about every task Harry gave her, whined about her pay, stared at him like she had no idea what he was asking her for when it was a task she’d done a thousand times, and at least five times a day, scolded him on an aspect of his life she deems “abysmal as the face of a company”. At least she waited to do it when they were alone, so he wasn’t being undermined in front of his other employees, but then he just feels crazy. To everyone else, she’s just the sweetest thing – enough to make you salivate at the scent and give you cavities – they wouldn’t believe a word of what he’d say. 

The only other person who is even remotely aware of her gremlin-like ways is Niall – his role in the building, Harry has no clue, but he knows that he’s friends with her, and whatever his job is permits him to spend an unusual amount of time at Y/N’s desk. Still, it’s not like Harry can go up to Niall and talk shit about his employee, to another employee, especially when they were friends no less. So he suffers in silence, with his gremlin of an assistant, who thinks it’s funny to put one less sugar in his coffee because she knows he’ll notice. 

“A little,” he’d answered her, and then made a concentrated effort to relax his brow – he hadn’t realized at that point that it was making him scowl, “Would you grab me a coffee from the vending machine?” 

Y/N blinked at him from where she stood across his desk, her hand clutching his daily planner in one hand and a pen in the other, “Did your legs hurt too?” 

“What?” 

“I mean, they must if you’re asking me to walk to the vending machine that you could definitely walk to,” she shrugged, and Harry recognized that glint in her eye, mischievous and devious. “Plus, you should be drinking water. Your intake in the last week has been severely lacking.” 

Harry sighed, then rubbed at his temples. “Are you tracking my water intake?” 

“It’s my job,” she replied easily, “You have a meeting at 10 AM with the head of –” 

If he’d told someone all of his worry and strife with his assistant, they might ask why he doesn’t fire her. Replace her with someone a little meek and skittish, who asked Harry how high, before he even told them to jump. Who would fumble over themselves to get him the coffee that he’d requested and not chastise him for his weekly water intake. . .

But Y/N was good at her job. Or, rather, good didn’t do her enough justice – she was excellent. Harry’s life had never been so neatly in order before she had stepped into it. He hadn’t realized it until she took a week's vacation to some island, and even though she had set up some of the major things, he still floundered around, forgetting deadlines, dinner reservations, or, more importantly, an incredibly crucial phone call with an important client. When she came back, he’d relayed everything to her, reluctantly, only because he knew she was the only person who could rectify any of what happened. 

(“Wow, you’re more hopeless than I thought.” Is what she’d answered with, before promptly fixing everything.) 

So, no – there was no getting rid of her. He literally needed her to function, enough that sometimes he wonders if she would have been a better candidate for his position. Not that she’d applied for it, or that it was going to anyone else besides his father’s only son. Harry went to school, he tried his best, he got his good marks and passed with honors and extra bands and medals around his neck, but this position had been waiting for him since the moment he was born. He sort of despises the fact that he’s a nepo baby, but the very knowledge of it makes him try 10 times harder. He’s got something to prove, after all. 

Still, you can be great at every other aspect of your job and still be shit at keeping track of other details. Details that seem minor until they come together and form something major. Which is why he deals with the rotten brat, her fussiness, and general recently tamed feral cat-like tendencies. 

Besides, she isn’t the worst all of the time. Like, after a lecture on how hydration is essential for proper brain function and then Harry making the excuse that he needs to piss to get away from it – he returns to his desk to find a bottle of water and a couple of pain pills. So she does care, in her way – not enough to get him the coffee, the dick, but this was still sweet and considerate. It’s moments like these that he believes that maybe Y/N was as sweet as people say, or the original Y/N is clawing her way desperately out of the demon's belly and enacting small graces of kindness. Harry isn’t sure what it says about them or their dynamic that he believes the latter half more than the former. 

The headache had felt a little better after taking the water and the pain pills, but not entirely eradicated. Y/N has some useless information about the barometric pressure and the storms rolling in, but as soon as Harry suggests that they weren’t supposed to start until later today, she countered, “What are you, a meteorologist?” Like she hadn’t just used the word ‘cumulonimbus’ casually.  Before he could have said anything, she all but shoved him into the door of a presentation. They’d have a long day of them today, and neither of them was particularly excited about it. 

The measly four hours of sleep had caught up to him just a little after lunchtime, and after one final teasing remark asking Harry if he wanted some warm milk and a blanket to take a nap, Y/N made her presence light. The other good thing about Y/N is that she knew when enough was enough. It was a line she treaded very, very dangerously, but somehow never fell onto the wrong side of. She knew just how much to annoy him without him actually getting outraged, which he thinks is an incredible talent – especially for someone who only seems to practice this with two people (to Harry’s knowledge). 

Harry didn’t hear from her for a couple of hours, and when he did, she had shown up with his favorite sandwich from the bistro down the street. Because she could never just be nice, however, she also printed him out a 10-page article from a medical journal about a study on dehydration and its effects on the body. Harry huffed through his nose, thanked her for making sure he ate, then promptly downed a whole water bottle in front of her so she’d get off his ass about it. Y/N looked pleased with herself — truly an unruly cat – before slinking away, letting the door slide shut behind her. 

The rest of the day went decently enough. Harry gets out at a semi-regular time because one of the last meetings of the day had been cancelled and rescheduled for the following morning, somehow, someway, and Harry wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. He made his way home, stood under the hot spray on the rain setting in his shower, got dressed in his pajamas, and tried to ignore the two different punches in his gut. One of which was the reminder that he was coming home to an empty flat, with nobody to greet him, not even a cute little cat to thread between his ankles and be happy to see him. It was a tough pill to swallow on most days, but even harder when he just wanted to cuddle with someone. Have them run their fingers through his hair, click their tongue at him for not drinking enough water, make sure that he sleeps well all night, and then eats a good breakfast in the morning. If he’d had the energy to fuck, he’d invite one of his usual one night stands over – she loves shit like that. 

The other punch to his gut was that he was horny. Just enough that it was difficult to ignore, yet again, he was too tired to do anything about it, really. He doesn’t like to jerk off, normally, because the orgasm is nowhere near as fulfilling as when he has a guest. It seemed like that would be his best course of action tonight, though; otherwise, he’s not going to get a lick of sleep. And maybe that had been his problem to begin with – it’d been so long since Harry had gotten off, he likely needed the stress relief from it. There was a tension in his body that needed to be dealt with, that strung him taut as a bow, and a hairpin trigger from snapping. And he fears that if he snapped in front of his assistant, she’d pour boiling water in his lap, or something equally as demon-ly devious. 

So he pulls up his phone. In an ideal world, he’d just use the memories of a past one-night stand, but it’d been a while, and he doesn’t want to have to sit and try and think of something. He just needs to fuck his hand, clean himself off, then drift to sleep. Maybe he’d finally sleep through the night too, without his brain waking him up for fuck all in like 3 hours just because it could. 

The problem was, none of the porn he typically watches was hitting like it usually did. And while it’d been a while since Harry had done something like looking up a cam site that he used to privy often in UNI, he knew that was always a surefire way to get him there. He didn’t even know if it was still up and running, let alone if some of his favorites were still on there. It was worth a shot, though, so when the link brought him to the website that had been revamped since the last he’d seen it, Harry breathed a gentle sigh of relief. But when he searches for his favorite little duo pair that used to cam together all of the time, he finds that their last video was posted two years ago. 

We broke up :// said the bio, And it was mutual but didn’t feel right to keep this going without each other. Check out some of these users that we think you’ll like and deserve lots of love and support! 

Harry frowned at his screen – he wasn’t expecting that to be so depressing for him, actually. Their chemistry had always been off the charts, and he knew a lot of stuff you could fake for the cameras, but a lot of it you couldn’t. Harry had always kind of assumed they had “mated for life” like grey wolves or something. Harry could have just watched their old stuff, but they took all the videos down, so he had no choice but to click one of the links that they provided. 

He started from the top of the list and made his way down. The first one, the guy was fit but there was no build up – it was straight to his cock out and the camera hiding his face, which Harry understood for anonymity reasons but he liked to see reactions. Liked to look at the mouth that was making all of the pretty sounds. So he moved to the second link, only this particular woman was completely silent – also very gorgeous, but quiet like she was in a library trying to keep it down in public (which he then finds that’s what she’s roleplaying, he just hadn’t read deeper into it). The next is a duo pair, but they’re fucking in public and that always stresses Harry out more than it turns him on so he skips that one as well. 

Harry’s starting to lose hope as he clicks on the fourth link. It brings him to the page, only instead of the baseline, white theme that the website provides – it’s a custom one. All different shades of pink – or rather, the same shade but different tints and tones, decorate the screen in front of him – enough that he knew it was highlighting on his face from his phone screen. The icons were all followed by a heart or a cat emoticon. The same cat emoticon that his evil personal assistant uses in her emails and messages to him, like she’s taunting him. 

If you forget to log on to the virtual meeting, he’ll definitely want to quit working with us ₊˚⊹♡ ᓚ₍ ^. .^₎ 

He shuddered, shaking his head like it would scrub his brain clean of Y/N right now. He doesn’t want to think about her while he’s trying to jerk off, that’s for sure. 

The videos don’t have a thumbnail that shows the person, and Harry’s a little curious about what is behind each pink, sparkly screen capture that reads what that stream had. He’s a little confused, because there are things like painting/chatting/overstimulation on one video, or clothing haul/favorite candle scents/new pretty dildo I got today :)! He’d never seen a streamer do more than just fuck themselves, so he wasn’t expecting anything else. 

Harry ends up clicking on doodles/weekly life updates/cumming after two weeks of edging! 

The video loads, and the screen has a little circle on it running in loops before it pops up. He knew it wouldn’t start from the beginning – there’s usually a paywall to watch the full rerun, but there will be a clip that they choose from the center to make you want to buy the rest. So Harry waited patiently for it to load, his eyes darted toward his window – a little too big for his liking, but he enjoyed seeing the city lights cast through the glass. The moon was high in the sky, and he could see it from where he was lying down. 

Then his gaze flickered back to his phone, and there his personal assistant was on the screen. 

Harry’s eyes widened instantly, for a brief moment, wondering if he’d accidentally called her somehow before he realized that he was very much still on the website. The camming website. . .that people get naked and touch themselves on. . .that he’d been planning on cumming to. 

She isn’t naked or anything. Actually, she’s just in a normal t-shirt, showing off a drawing that she’d made – Harry hadn’t known she could draw, but that’s besides the point, as his eyes darted around the screen. At the sketched bunny and cat snuggled together on her paper, her face looking proud and triumphant, the way she had LED lights strung up around her room in a pink-ish purple hue, and how Harry could see the very same perfume bottle that she pulls out of her purse in the mornings, sat on the table beside her. 

“I would shade more, but I don’t want the pencil marks all over the side of my hand,” she explained, “I read somewhere that graphite is bad for your hands. Something like it introduces the spirit of a demon in you, which would make sense why my last ex was such a prick.” Y/N’s fingers, pretty in the polish that he’d just seen not even 5 hours ago, tap against the paper pad. “Should I be the bunny, and you be the cat? I’m soft and sweet like one, so it’d only be fair,” then there’s pinging, and dinging, and Harry can’t see the chat or what they’re saying, but he saw Y/N furrow her brows and pout, “Aw, what the hell? I am too sweet! It’s not my fault you’re all perverts who like me mean.” 

Harry swallows hard – he should click out. He really, really needs to click out of the screen and turn this off and pretend that he’d never seen this. 

But he’s stuck, his eyes are glued, and he feels his heart thrumming all over his body. This is crazy, this is so crazy. 

Especially when she sighs, brings her legs up to her chest, and reveals that they’re bare. Nothing but soft, smooth-looking skin as she leans back and presses her sock-covered foot on the edge of the table, making her twist back and forth idly, “Yeah, it has been a while,” she hums, “I’ve been so keyed up at work lately – everything is turning me on. I was like, drooling, staring at people today,” she scratches her cheek with her finger, then pushes a piece of hair behind her ear, “Will you let me cum tonight? I promise I’ll be a little less bratty.” 

Y/N’s eyes are pretty as they linger on the screen, “Hey, my promises do to mean something,” she pouts again, and her lip is wet, plush – it looks so soft that Harry could reach out and feel it through the screen, “I bought that fleshlight to grind on the other day during my lunch break since you reached the coin goal! I can show you the receipt right now –” she reached for her phone, unlocking it, the same phone case he always sees when she whips it out to schedule something, “God I thought you guys wanted to see my pussy tonight, but instead you’re bullying me! What if I never show it again?” There is rapid-fire dinging, the chat responding, Y/N smiling a little, “Okay, you’re right, I like the bullying. Still!” 

Harry keeps watching. He watches as she shows the receipt, which has the date and time, indicating that after she told Harry she was taking her HSE-mandated right to have an uninterrupted lunch break, she went, warmed up her pasta, and bought a Fleshlight. He feels lightheaded, like he might pass out. Especially when he hears, “Fine, fine, fine,” before Y/N swipes the phone closed and sets it on the desk. Her fingers curl around the hem of her shirt before she peels it up and off her body, revealing a mesh bralette beneath it. It does nothing to cover anything – honestly, it looks more like chain links than actual fabric, and it twinkles every time the light hits it. Harry can see her nipples through it, pert and pebbled, and she cups her right breast and jiggles it once. 

“You want it in your mouth, right? I’d let you suck it all you want.” 

He clicks out finally. Exits the tab and nearly throws his phone off the side of the bed. His heart is still racing, his breath is uneven and wonky, and worst of all. . .he’s still hard. Honestly, harder than he was when he started, which he can’t even begin to process right now, because what the fuck! 

And then a thought, unprovoked, bleeps into his head of Harry with his lips pulled around her nipple, tonguing at it through the bra, listening to her whine, and – ugh, he covers his face with his hands. 

God, his headache was never going to go away. 

                                                                  .                         .                        .

Harry is going crazy. 

For multiple reasons, work is busier than usual, but it’s the beginning of summer, so he should have come to expect it. Still, each summer that comes around they manage to increase production, find more buyers, make more money – all good things that come with a lot of data analysis, report reading, meetings, after meetings, after mindnumbingly long meetings. Harry could be busy all day, yet somehow the seconds tick by on the clock as slowly as they possibly could. On Tuesday he had been in three meetings, came out of the third thinking it was lunch time, yet somehow it was only 10 AM – his sense of time gets completely fucked. 

And the summer heat was getting to him. Typically, in their area, summer weather started relatively mild and gradually warmed through June. July was toasty, August was the hottest – that’d always been the program. Instead, they’d started the season this year with a heatwave that was pushing everyone’s air conditioning to the limit. His car was baking hot when he got into it, and the ride there was always full of him hissing and trying not to keep his palms on the burning leather of the steering wheel cover for too long. He desperately wanted fresh air to clear his head and take a moment to breathe in and exist, yet every time he stepped outside, he wanted to go back in immediately. The air is hot, sticky; he yearns for a beach and the ocean, dipping in at his shoulders and letting the waves lap at his skin, listening to the seagulls squawk loudly. There’s nothing he could do about it, with how busy they were – Harry could barely find time to take a piss, let alone a whole fucking day trip to the beach. 

Plus, there’s the whole finding out his assistant is actually a cam sex worker on the side, so. . .that was kind of preoccupying his mind. 

It was the one thing that didn’t fail to yank him straight out of his work mindframe every time it crossed his mind. Which, it would make it easy not to think about it if he didn’t see her every single work day, every hour of the day, at least a couple of times. Whether she was coming by in the morning with his schedule for the day, dropping off reports on his desk, scolding him for skipping his lunch before threatening to shut his computer off – even if what he was working on had been saved or not. Harry saw her all the way up until she was about to clock out, never working a second more than she was required, no matter if Harry would be there for a few more hours. 

And it used to be a different tension that worked in his shoulders, like when you could tell your professor was in a shit mood the day of a test she’d be grading. Now it feels like seeing the very same professor, but you accidentally saw a video of her on a cam site holding her tit and jiggling it around. 

The morning after had been the worst. Harry had barely slept two hours, the bags under his eyes were prevalent, he thinks he’s getting a fucking pimple on his forehead from the stress alone. Every time he had tried to sleep, he just kept seeing the profile, Y/N looking all soft and warm, the glow of the LEDs against her skin, and her grabbing her breast. Squeezing it, teasing the camera. 

“You want it in your mouth, right? I’d let you suck it all you want.” 

It played in an endless loop in his head, so of course he couldn’t fucking sleep a wink. Even when he did feel slightly unconscious, every breeze that wiggled his windows woke him right up. How could he get any rest when the bane of his existence was camming? When he’d seen her like that, and he definitely wasn’t supposed to? His face had been flaming red that entire morning, walking into work, enough that he knew people were looking at him. Enough that when the subject of his panic and stress saw him (dressed in a blouse and tight-fitted pants, and he knew what her nipples looked like underneath the fabric) – her head tilted, “Did you run up here? Why are you all red?” 

“No reason.” His voice was tight, he was trying to maintain eye contact not to be suspicious, but too much eye contact was almost too suspicious, and then he was overthinking it, so he started blinking a lot and – wow, it was just too much right away. He thought maybe he’d have like at least 3 minutes to compose himself, but she had walked into his office immediately, so he had zero time to settle. 

Y/N eyeballed him, suspicious, holding her clipboard to her chest, “Uh, alright,” she looked down at her sheet, “You know, flushed skin could be a sign of dehydration, so you should drink two of your 32 oz water bottles before noon.” 

Every time she was standing with him or in front of him, Harry’s brain was misfiring. He didn’t even know what to think about all of this. 

The thing was, it wasn’t like he was judging her for it. What Y/N does in her free time is none of his business, at the end of the day, and since it’s not something that she goes around promoting so clearly, she didn’t want everyone to know. Showing her face on the camera was kind of crazy, he thought, and he didn’t know if it was bold and brave or stupid, but she didn’t seem to be nervous at all. Of course, Harry would never fire someone for what they do outside of company hours – he’d never believed in people who carried out business practices like that. So maybe she knew that she didn’t need to be worried about someone seeing. 

But. . .wow. 

Harry had always known Y/N was attractive. She was constantly well put together, stood with a poise that exuded confidence, her outfits matched, and her hair was always done without a strand out of place. The makeup was very light, if she wore any at all, and the gloss on her mouth that always drew people to look at her lips as they moved. He didn’t think anything of it – Harry works with plenty of attractive people, and it rarely ever fazes him.  And Y/N was such a brat that he couldn’t even focus on her appearance as much as he was trying to ignore her personality. 

He’d never been like. . .attracted to her, before, really. Y/N was more like a nagging wife over a sexy secretary, so he’d never let his brain go there. And now, that’s all his brain was trying to do was propose these different ideas and scenarios. He’d felt it, that night, when he’d seen her like that his dick had twitched in his briefs and he was so hard that he probably could have twisted his hand around his shaft twice and cum instantly. But he’d ignored it, turned his phone off, begged his cock to soften. 

It didn’t get any easier; Harry had sworn that he wouldn’t utter this to anyone, not even his closest friends, because it’s not just his thing – he would be exposing a part of Y/N’s life. So he keeps it to himself, which means searching on the internet and finding a Reddit post titled, just saw my friend’s brother on a camsite and now i’m attracted to him. what do i do????? 

The replies vary, from continuing as normal to imploring them not to tell anyone in his family that he does it because it was none of the original poster's business (he agreed). What catches Harry’s eye is a reply from duckhole982: 

I mean, in the original post, you said you didn’t watch the video, but now you can’t stop thinking about it. Why don’t you just satiate your curiosity, watch it, jerk one out, and then move on? 

It isn’t like Harry hadn’t considered that as an option, but he’d decided that, based on principle, he just couldn’t. She was his personal assistant, there was a conflict in his position of power (though he’d never swing that over her head), and also the biggest brat he’s ever met in his life. Something in Harry’s moral compass told him that night that touching himself to her was not the move he should take, even though he’d not been that hard in a long time. Even though all it took was for her to tease the camera, clutch her chest, see her nipples, and he felt like he could have cum in a couple seconds. He’d like to blame that on his dry spell, though, rather than giving Y/N any credit. 

Because another part of him just couldn’t give Y/N the satisfaction, even if she didn’t know. If he touched himself to Y/N, then he feels like, by some weird astral projection into his brain, she would sense it. Like a shark sniffing out blood in the water – she has a keen nose, that one. He thinks she would be able to smell it on him from the moment he’d stepped through his office, and she would never let him live it down. Honestly, he thinks she’d somehow use it to blackmail him into giving her a raise. 

It’s not my fault that my boss is a creepy pervert. I bet HR would hate to hear about this unless you buy my silence. 

A full week had passed before Y/N seemed like she noticed something. Honestly, Harry kind of wishes for a less attentive assistant sometimes – she notices when a hair is out of place, when a new freckle has appeared, if he got even an hour less sleep than he normally does. Things that he would think meant that she cared about him, rather than what she actually utilizes it for – ammunition. There’s no gentle fixing of his tie if it’s askew; she tugs on him like he’s made of dough she needs to stretch out. If he doesn’t look presentable enough for what she deems suitable for an appearance, she is no stranger to telling the hired MUA to go heavy on the concealer. One time, she’d come into his office when he’d come in with a cold and said, “You look horrible today.” Just like that, period point blank, but then she placed a warm tea on his desk and two cold medicine tablets so. . it’s complicated, their dynamic. 

Her astute observations mean that she is greeting him after her HSE-mandated uninterrupted lunch break by throwing an orange at him that he just barely catches, “What is your deal lately?” She inquired, “You seem out of it. During the meeting today, Bruce had to call your name three times before you responded. You know he hates that – he’ll never let me hear the end of it,” then she pointed a finger at him, made a circle around his face, “And you’ve been flushed lately. Are you getting sick?” 

Harry swallows thickly, “What? No, I –”

“I don’t know why I’m asking you, you never realize when you are anyway,” she took a step further, around his desk, closer than Harry thinks he’d like her. Especially because she’s reaching toward his face, and how the fabric of her shirt stretches over her chest – well, her bra might not have that much padding today. He can see the outline of her nipple, and he thinks he’s going to pass out, probably. Her hand flips around, her knuckles pressed against his forehead first – it feels cool against his skin, especially when she moves it down to his cheek. Her brows are drawn inward, and of course, when he’s going through mental turmoil, this is the gentlest she’s ever touched him. Like maybe he was porcelain instead of moldable clay, “You don’t have a fever,” she muttered, “So why are you being weird? Do you need attention? Because I’m not paid enough to do that.” 

There she is. He ducks away from her hand and rolls his eyes, “I’m fine,” he grumbles, “I just haven’t been sleeping well, is all.” 

“Have you tried the meditation guide I emailed to you?” 

Harry sighs, “Many times, Y/N, but it doesn’t work.” 

“That’s because you aren’t doing it right.” She countered, “Or because meditation isn’t what you need. When is the last time you had sex?” 

His blood rushes from his face then – he’s sure the flush has all but abandoned his cheeks, leaving him cold and pale, “Wha – what?” Did she know? Oh my god, she knew, didn’t she? Was she able to see the emails of people who clicked on her profile? It was a burner email, sure, but what if she reverse-searched it somehow and linked it to his phone number? She probably did – she knows how to do so much weird shit, he swears she should have been a private investigator or something instead of this, “Why would you – what the hell?” 

Y/N shrugged, like this was normal to bring up with your boss, “You haven’t contacted Kai in a little while. Would you like me to send her an email? Or maybe Rafayel? You always seemed very relaxed after your nights spent with him.” 

The blood that had rushed from his cheeks returned with about 4 other liters to follow. God, she knew way too much about his personal life – more than he’d actually imagined, “I – why – no!”  He shook his head, “Fuck, no, you are not about to send an email trying to orchestrate that. That’s none of your business!” 

“It is my business if you’re letting it affect your work,” she replied easily, taking a step back around the desk, where she’s usually standing. “You have a track record, and it is that you make my life more difficult when you haven’t been laid. Please consider scheduling a bootycall with either Kai or Rafayel or both so that your lowly assissant is spared an upbraiding because  you can’t get yourself together.” 

With that, she turns on her heel, “You have a phone call with the Cloud Media ambassador in thirty minutes. Try to answer promptly.” 

Harry gets on the phone call with the ambassador, more flustered than he would have liked. How else was he supposed to act after a conversation like that? He didn’t even know Y/N had noticed his two semi-regular friends-with-benefits, let alone could tell when he’d had a “good night”. How many times has Harry thought he snuck out without any eyes on him from parties and events, just for Y/N to have noticed him right away? How many other things has she noticed about him that she’s kept her lips shut about? Just waiting for the moment to throw it in his face when he least expected it? When his head was already scrambled from finding out that she was a camgirl? 

The rest of the day went by fairly quickly. Harry does end up eating the orange that she threw at him, and upon seeing the peel in the wastebin (because, of course, she would check), Y/N seemed much more pleased with him than when she’d initially left his office this morning, “Remember that you have a charity event scheduled for the end of the month. The chairman of Glasgow Wears wants you there for the taste testing next Tuesday afternoon, so I cleared your schedule to attend.” 

Harry nodded, “Thank you.” 

“I added it to your calendar, so don’t forget.” She lowered her clipboard so it hovered down by her thighs, so he now knew what the back of them looked like. “I’ve also set 4 reminders on your work phone.” 

“Fucking hell, isn’t that overkill? I’m not going to forget.” 

Y/N stood even straighter, somehow, “It’s not overkill when your boss forgets to add periods at the end of emails,” she replied smoothly, “I would avoid cursing in front of the chairman, he’s rather conservative. Bye now, remember to have sex or something later.” 

With that, she pivoted on her heel and walked out the door. Just as soon as the soft click of its closing echoed through his office, Harry’s work phone vibrated on the table, a loud, abrupt sound that made him jump. When he picks it up, it’s a reminder notification. 

₊˚⊹♡ ᓚ₍ ^. .^₎ Taste testing chairman ₊˚⊹♡ ᓚ₍ ^. .^₎

He sighs, pressing a thumb to his temples. 

                                                                           .                      .                  .

“Wait, so when was the last time you had sex?” 

“Is that really all you’ve gathered from this conversation?” 

Harry and Adam have been friends for a very long time, since they were playing with pill bugs and worms that they found in the backyard in the mud after rainy days. When Harry was getting scolded for his wellies being filthy as he walked through the door before he and Adam shared sliced fruit and juice at the kitchen table, drawing pictures of spaceships and monsters (monsters on spaceships with princesses, in Harry’s case). So Adam has been with Harry through a lot of firsts: kisses, sex, job interviews, pets, etc. Now he’s going through his first time finding out that his annoying assistant was a cam girl on the side. 

Harry wanted to tell Adam desperately, not necessarily because Adam gives the best advice, but so that Harry could spill the information from his head. It’d been about two weeks now since he found out, and the link to her profile burns a hole in his internet history. Every night, he hovers over it, stuck between deleting it and clicking on it. Every night, he wonders if she’s streaming or not. If she’s showing more skin than he’s ever seen on her. If she’s being as bratty as she was to her viewers as she was to him. If she were making a lot of money from her attitude, her cat emoticons. If she showed her bum, if she was stuffed, if she was – 

– like, it’s seriously driving him crazy. 

So if he could tell Adam about it, maybe it would help him feel a little crazy. But then he has that twist at the back of his head that remembers all of the posts pleading with the original poster not to say anything about it to anyone. And he remembers that he doesn’t have any right to share her business, no matter how it’s affecting him. 

Still, that doesn’t mean he can’t complain about his bratty PA for what she is – a massive thorn in his side. 

That’s what he discusses with Adam today, after a ruthless leg workout that Harry thinks was meant only for Greek gods and goddesses to participate in. The only reason Harry shares his grievances about Y/N with Adam is that he is so far removed from the world of business that their paths should never cross. Adam is the second in command at a cafe on the other side of the city from Harry’s building, closer to where the university students are ambling around, finding a place to pretend to study while they catch up with their friends instead. Harry likes that Adam doesn’t have a single brain cell devoted to caring about stocks, creative contracting, property development, and the like. He does, however, have many brain cells dedicated to making coffee that’s on the right side of both bitter and sweet, and knows precisely what the popular music is, that doesn’t necessarily have any radio time but manages to hit millions of listens on streaming services (he tells him there’s a fine line between overplayed cringe, and intellectual trendy – whatever the hell that means). 

Adam may not understand what Harry does for work, but he does understand having someone making his life more difficult when he’s clocked in. Though the circumstances are a bit different, and Adam is annoyed by a 21-year-old university student who thinks half-and-half and heavy cream are basically the same thing, the base of it is the same. Adam can follow him to that degree. However, he can always see the way his lips twitch or he’s holding back a laugh at some of the things Y/N says and does. Harry has always known somewhere deep down that Adam and Y/N would probably get along swimmingly, because he’s always been a fan of people with a blunt, relatively dry sense of humor. This is precisely why he feels comfort in their paths never crossing, because surely then his life would know zero peace. 

He’d just gotten through Y/N suggesting she email two of his fuck buddies, and while Adam did seem shocked at first, his follow up question did little to make Harry feel like he was on his side at all. 

“Well, I mean,” Adam had his legs spread out on a mat that was meant for pre- and post-workout stretching, but they’d just been sitting on it, recovering from the insane settings on the elliptical and trying to rehydrate. Harry’s hair is matted to his neck, as long as it has been in years. Honestly, he’s been waiting for Y/N to mention him looking scraggly and needing a haircut, so that he doesn’t tarnish the face of the company, but she hasn’t yet. “You’ve always been super irritable and kind of air-headed whenever it’s been a while since you’ve gotten off, right? Remember when we had that contest back in UNI?” 

Harry remembers all too well getting caught up in a fraternity nightmare of a party and having a rather large sum of money on the line so long as he didn’t cum for a month and a half. What’s crazy is that, now that Harry thinks about it, they were going completely based on the honor system. If he wanted to, he could have just wrung one out then lied about it, but he had a sense of pride back then that wouldn’t allow him to. He could barely clean himself without getting hard in the shower, but he’d merely twist the water to something icy cold until it went away, and go about his day. 

Harry also recalls feeling the most tense he has ever been and noticing a shift in his work ethic and studying habits. Hell, even in his clubs, and the sports he participated in. It was much harder for him to focus because all the blood that should have been feeding his brain was lingering around his prick, waiting to stiffen him up at a moment's notice, when someone walked by and smelled a little too good. There wasn’t such a huge decline in his marks that it was a problem, but enough that Harry realized he may need regular orgasms to maintain a healthy balance in his life. 

He also remembers snapping at Adam for eating the last slice of chocolate cake and then not speaking to him for a week over it, which is the only part Adam hangs onto. 

“It has been a while,” he replied, running his thumb back and forth on the ridges of his water bottle, “Since I’ve even gotten off in general, so maybe I am a bit on edge, but still –” he stresses, “That’s none of her business. I think she just says shit to get under my skin.” 

Adam tilted his head, “Wait, why haven’t you gotten off?” 

Because I’m worried I’ll think about my PA if I do, and then I’ll really be fucked. 

Harry shrugs, “I’ve been busy, I guess.” 

“Maybe she should send the email,” Adam leans back on his palms, pointing his toes like a ballerina, stretching out the collection of muscles around his ankles, “Or maybe you should start letting her schedule your masturbating sessions. She seems organized.” 

He’d feel a bit more shame about talking about this in public if not for the gym being relatively abandoned, save for someone on a treadmill across the room with their headphones over their ears. They were here early enough this morning that not many people had drawn themselves from bed – it was a Saturday, after all. What Harry was more focused on was the fact that Adam had sort of taken her side, which only made him narrow his eyes – for all his support in Harry sharing his stressors, he does favor Y/N’s side quite often. Another reason why they can never meet. 

“I’m not giving her that kind of power over me. She’d enjoy it too much.” The mental image of something like Masturbation Monday ᓚ₍⑅^..^₎♡ popping up in his reminders was just too much to bear: “If she wasn’t so good at her job, I’d send her to a different department.” 

Adam snorted, “Nah, I don’t think so,” he disagreed, “I think you’d be too bored without her. You’d be begging for her to come back. I won’t say she didn’t intentionally make you heavily reliant on her so that getting rid of her wasn’t an option, no matter how she speaks to you. It’s ingenious.” 

“It’s maniacal,” Harry corrected, “Villainous. She’s a danger to society.” 

With a roll of his eyes, Adam pushes up from the floor, holding out a hand for Harry to take. “I don’t know, whenever I’ve seen pictures on your company Facebook, she doesn’t give off evil villain vibes.” 

“Yeah, well, neither does a feral cat. Deceptively cute until you get too close.” 

Adam’s brows raise, “So you think she’s cute?” 

The burn Harry feels in his ears is immediate, but he tries not to stutter and give Adam more ammunition than necessary, “I think she’s deceptive,” he emphasizes, “And rabid.” 

There’s a knowing look in Adam’s gaze that Harry promptly ignores in favor of leading their way to their gym bags, so they could shower and leave for breakfast. 

“Sure, man,” Adam agreed, “Should we get pancakes this morning?” 

                                                        .                          .                 ��       .

Posted by user: tapiocaenthusiast93 

I saw someone I work with on a camming site, and I think I’m going to go crazy. What do I do????? 

It takes Harry three weeks to crack and post about it online, under a username that he knows can’t be traced to him because he hates tapioca and he was born in 94, not 93. If he couldn’t talk about it in real life, he’d take his old, teenage route of bringing it to the internet and having people either actually help him, or kind of bully him, whichever came first. Maybe it’s a little too reminiscent of the times he’d posted things like How to get your crush to like you? and what’s the best way to hide an erection in public – but those had been questions that he’d needed answers to as well, and felt too embarrassed to ask Adam at the time.

But Harry doesn’t think there’s a cut-off in age on when it’s appropriate to ask the internet for advice – he’s 30, but sometimes still feels like he’s just turned 20 and is trying to sort out the world, in the same way he felt when he was 15 and things started making sense but also didn’t make sense at all. He’d only just recently realized that no adult actually understands everything, or has to answer to every question – they all just collectively share experiences and words of wisdom that hopefully help, but there’s rarely the perfect answer. 

It would have been more helpful if he could have been more specific, but he tries to keep it vague on purpose and just hopes that someone happens to have a comparable experience. Yeah, he could have gone based on the replies to the other thread posts he’d seen with similar topics, but for some reason, he feels like he’ll follow what someone says on his particular post more. Because it’s a coworker, after all, not a friend's brother or a classmate. So it’s just a little different, in its own way. 

Harry only has to wait a couple of hours for a response. He’d posted it early Tuesday morning, right after his morning run, his shoes still slick from morning dew and rain puddles he’d run through. His lips are puckered from the protein shake he’d been drinking, displeased by the “sour punch” flavor Adam had been swearing by recently. The fabric of his clothes had been sticking to his skin in the worst, sweaty way, but before he took his shower, he just had to make this post because the whole time he was running, he was imagining the way Y/N had probably already grinded against that Fleshlight and posted it. He was thinking about how coy she acted, how her tits looked in that bra (if he could even call it that), the way her voice sounded when she said, “I’d let you suck on them all you want,” because that is still playing like an endless loop in his head. 

Plus, every time he saw her, his body kept mistaking the situation as something like seeing a bear with its cub on an unpopulated trail rather than his personal assistant. His blood starts racing, his heart thudding, a bead of panic always drips icy cold down his spine and leaves him covered in goosebumps and completely rigid. At least that’s at first sight, and then she opens her mouth and says something like, “If you don’t do well in this discussion, I’m contacting your father and telling him to hand the company over to a small mouse in a suit.” Then the panic is replaced by displeasure, so it relaxes him a bit (who would have thought that her general, bratty demeanor would help him by any stretch? Surely not Harry). 

His phone buzzed on his counter, and he plucked it up to see two comments. The first one was a question, an obvious one: what’s her user? Is she popular? Which Harry was definitely not going to answer. The second response is similar to that of duckhole982, but with the username bugeye003: 

Have you thought about maybe watching one of the vids to get it out of your system? Avoiding it is clearly making you think about it more – if you indulge once, maybe that would be enough. And the whole like, guilt of it – I feel like if she didn’t want people to see her and get off to her, then she wouldn’t upload or put her face in it???? But idk that’s just me.

Harry reads and re-reads it four times before putting his phone down and heading to the shower. As he scrubs the shampoo into his scalp, Harry is reminded that if he does watch one, and maybe he does cum to it, Y/N’s “annoy-Harry-to-irrational-levels” senses would start buzzing and tingling.  She’d probably appear in his room, only for him to find out that she was a demon who took over her body, waiting for the best, most precise moment to strike. And when she did, it was a maw dripping in glee and blood to tell him that she would lord this over his head for the next millennia. 

Then, there’s the option that she doesn’t do that at all. The option that she is just a normal, human woman who cams, who wants people to see her in various states of undress – who likes it – and Harry could get off to it, just to see, get it out of his system, and come out on the other side of it no longer fazed by the thought of potentially seeing her naked body. But who knows if he’d get so lucky; knowing Harry, it might just make him think about triple the amount that he already is. 

Periodically, he’ll get another response to the post throughout his work day, which he waits to open until he’s alone in his office. There’s not a lot of time for that, though, considering how jam-packed his schedule is in the first half, so he ignores all the vibrating notifications making moves in his back pocket. Whether they’re reminders, answers to his post, or Adam sending him a picture of the best coffee foam design he made that morning, they go unnoticed. He has half a mind to ask Y/N what he’d done that she was punishing him with such a busy first half of the day, but the answer comes in the form of her showing up at his desk at 11:30 AM, staring. 

Like, an unnerving stare. It’s impassive, yet somehow filled with immense disappointment as she peers across his desk. Harry doesn’t know what to make of it – he stares back, blinking, his eyes darting behind her for a second to see if there’s some hint in the air behind her as to why she is doing this. “Uhhh, hello?” He finally cut through the stale air. “Can I help you?” 

“I should have set 5 reminders.” 

“. . .May I ask for what?” This had not been the right thing to say, because her impassive stare turned into a full-on glare. 

“Sometimes I think you’re more hopeless than I even realized. It’s honestly disheartening.” Y/N sighed, lowering her clipboard so that she had it pinched between one hand, dangling at her side instead of clutched against her chest as she’d started, “What day is it?” 

Harry looked at the paper calendar on his desk, “Tuesday?” 

“And last week you told me it was overkill to do what?” Y/N prompted, because she would never just tell him what the mistake he’d made was. She guided him toward the answer, in a humiliation ritual that she put him through to make him change. To her credit, it does work – it’s why he double and triple checks what the dress code for most events is now, after forgetting when Y/N told him business casual and he showed up to the event in a 3-piece suit. The look she gave him that night at the entryway of the building, and subsequently, the number of people who told him he really “dressed up” for the occasion, was enough humiliation as is. However, Y/N drove the knife deeper by making him repeat back to her what the dress code was for every event following the next six months, every day leading up to it, starting two weeks in advance. 

And then it hits him. When he reaches into his pocket to pull out his phone, surrounded by several notifications, one that glares at him: 

₊˚⊹♡ ᓚ₍ ^. .^₎ Taste testing chairman ₊˚⊹♡ ᓚ₍ ^. .^₎

His eyes widened as he shoved himself up from his desk, the chair shooting out and knocking into the wall behind him, “Shit!” 

“I knew you’d forget,” she shook her head to herself, “It’s hard being right all of the time. That’s okay, though, I came in 15 minutes earlier than when we actually needed to leave because I’m used to you being scatterbrained. What a lovely assistant you’ve found yourself.” She pulls her phone out of her pocket, swipes the screen to unlock it, and clears her throat. “The owner is Callum Craig; his name means 'dove' in Gaelic, and he leans into that for most of his collections, which is why most of his suits have a dove embroidered into the pocket. Do not mistake it for a pigeon, even though it’s basically the same thing – he says dove, so it’s dove.” A small, slim box that Harry hadn’t noticed before is in Y/N’s hand now, “He sent us these dove brooches as a gift. We’ll wear them today and then again on the day of the actual fundraiser. Do you remember why he’s holding it?” 

Harry rubs his temples, “To celebrate the release of his men’s summer collection and his spot in Paris Fashion Week,” he knew that much at least, “It’s the anniversary of when he started the company – the date that he chose for the event.” 

Y/N’s brows raised, “Wow, you really do read the articles I send you,” her tone indicates her pleasant surprise, “And here I thought I’d accidentally Pavlov’d you into learned helplessness.”

He huffed a laugh through his nose because that’s all he can do right now. In moments like these, Y/N could get away with much more because Harry is feeling stupid and kind of deserves her endless slander. It’s another reason he knew he couldn’t survive without her – doesn’t know if any other personal assistant would be able to manage him this well. It’s also times like these where Harry questions his father’s decision in handing this company down to him, but that’s a spiral he saves for his baths at home. 

She set down the clipboard onto his desk, opened the box, and revealed two bright brooches. It’s unlike any dove he’d seen before, with intricate beading and colors, but he supposes that’s what makes it special. Y/N’s fingers are delicate when they handle the brooch, carefully pinning it to the left side lapel of his suit. Harry, because he can’t be normal, recognizes just how close they are to each other like this – he tries his best not to stare at her, but ends up making brief eye contact with her multiple times. Y/N spares him of any comments that she’d typically make.

When she’s finished, Y/N plucks the other dove brooch up and holds it out to him. Harry’s confused for a second, staring at her, and Y/N looks more than mildly unimpressed, “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize that I had signed up for indentured servitude. I need to change my LinkedIn if that’s the case,” she takes his wrist and places it into his hand, “I don’t offer my help for free. I did it for you, now you have to do it for me.” 

“Oh,” he nodded, “I-you’re right, my bad.” 

Harry is much more careful pinning this than he’s ever been in his whole life, he thinks. The brooch already feels rather delicate, and his fingers feel huge in comparison. Not only that, he’s coming at Y/N with the pointed end of what looked like a needle, and he knew if he pricked her, she’d threaten a lawsuit for employee endangerment. Then he realizes that he doesn’t think he’s ever touched Y/N before – not like this. Beyond accidentally touching her when he is moving past her, or when she touches him, he’s never been the one to initiate it by any stretch. So it feels weird – different. 

“It’s like you’re handling a bomb.” She said as he finally clipped the pin in place, “Let’s head out. The testing is at Royal Garden, which is around 20 minutes south. I’ll have Cordelia bring the car to the front of the building. By the way, he just had a divorce, so don’t bring up his ex-wife.” 

The drive there isn’t horrible. Y/N is always relatively tolerable in the car, people watching, car watching, “sightseeing,” she’ll say, like she hasn’t lived here for three years already. So long as the music playing is to her liking, she has nothing to say, and Harry’s a pretty good driver, so there’s no room for complaints there either. If he gets her in a particular mood, she’ll bother him about stopping for food, but since they’re about to taste test, he doesn’t see that in the cards either. 

They get there quickly, despite lunch traffic getting heavy around the time they left. Callum is waiting patiently for them inside, near the hostess, with whom Harry imagines is his assistant. Maybe – he can’t tell. The guy isn’t giving off assistant vibes, but then again, neither does Y/N. They’re greeted by a kind, yet booming voice, “Harry! I’m so glad you could make it,” he meets him with a handshake, but pulls him into a hug anyway, with the kind of strength that could rival a bear, probably. Harry feels like if Callum squeezes just a little, he’ll pop, “It’s good to see you! Are you holding your own?” 

Callum has more of a business relationship with Harry’s father, more than Harry himself, which is what most of these situations are. That’s why Y/N always gives him a small anecdote or bio about the person he’s meeting before they meet. Once his father passed him the company to run while he played golf in Tibet or whatever he was doing in retirement, all of these partnerships passed to Harry as well. Another reason in a long list that makes Harry feel like he’s done nothing to earn his position, and is an impostor playing dress up in dad’s clothes – but that’s neither here nor there. They treat him like he’s their son, for the most part, and it works for him, so he lets the dynamic fly like that. 

“I’m trying,” Harry grins, showing a dimple and Callum squeezes his shoulder. “Thank you for having us here. I’m honored that you want us to be a part of it.” 

“Your father has one of the most refined palates I’ve ever known,” he tells him, “I can only imagine his son is the same. I had Des help me with so many menus, I’d need a couple more hands to count them.” Then, because Callum isn’t one of those hotshots who think they’re too good to greet assistants, he turns toward Y/N, “And of course, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you in person, Miss. Y/N. You’re so well-spoken over the phone.” 

Y/N smiled a dazzling smile that Harry himself is never privy to, opens her arms for the hug that Callum is giving her, “Thank you, I learned how to talk when I was a baby,” and Callum gives her a laugh that maybe isn’t deserving of the joke but is still grand all of the same – even in his spite, Harry could admit it was kind of funny, “The pleasure is all mine, Sir. I hope you don’t mind if I taste test as well?” 

Sir? Since when does Y/N call people Sir? And since when does she care what a man in his 50s "minds"? He can’t help but side-eye her a little bit, but it goes unnoticed by Callum, who just seems so chuffed to have them both there. 

“Not at all! It’s good to have a couple of opinions on what should be served. If it were up to me, I’d have about 10 different variations of meat.” 

Still smiling, Y/N laughs lightly, “Well, hopefully we can cut it down to at least 9.” 

Harry has seen Y/N interact with other CEOs and CFOs a handful of other times, but each time he’s still completely shocked by this new version of her. The version that his father must have met, who is sweet and kind, laughs at jokes that aren’t funny, smiles pretty, and stares so intently at you while you speak, with the most active listening skills a person could ever have. Harry’s demon version of her cuts him off when she thinks he’s spent too long talking about something, and barely even cracks a smile if she doesn’t find an offhanded joke funny. He thinks he’s made her genuinely laugh like maybe five times, and only one of them wasn’t because of something stupid he’d done. 

They tried a variety of different foods, both meat, fish, a few different variations of chicken, and a handful of pasta dishes. Harry really enjoyed a rice dish that he made a mental note of, hoping to serve it to himself later tonight or something. There are a bunch of hors d'oeuvres that they try as well. From his limited knowledge of Y/N’s likes and dislikes, Harry does know that she loves a finger food. Canapes, miniature quiches, fruit tarts, little spring rolls – if it was being walked around and offered on a tray, Y/N was grabbing two for herself and pretending she was grabbing one for Harry to try. The number of times someone has asked Harry if he enjoyed a tart that he never got his hands on is too many to count. 

Callum seems easy to fall into both Y/N and Harry’s whims. If one of them says they like something, then it’s going on the menu and that’s that. Conversation with him is easy, because his fondness for Harry’s father automatically transfers to fondness for Harry. Y/N gained his fond demeanor on her own merit (no matter how fake that may have been), which he’s kind of jealous of but swallows down the bitter taste of it with the glass of champagne they’d been offered.  

“So, you have to tell me, Harry – any relationships? Des told me you might be seeing someone, uh. . .what was the name? Millie?” 

Harry shook his head, “Oh, Lily? No, we – that never quite passed a couple of dates. We decided we were better off as friends.”

Callum nods, “I can respect that. It’s better to call it off early than get too deep into it, and waste all that time.” Then he motions toward Y/N, who had stepped away to use the restroom (she’d had three glasses of water in the time Harry finished his one, so he can only imagine she’d been close to pissing herself), “Reckon it would be hard to find someone like her, huh? She’s delightful. I can only imagine how much joy she must bring to your work environment. Trustworthy, smart, funny. . .she’s ideal, isn’t she?” 

Did Y/N slip a love potion into Callum’s drink or what? If only he knew what Y/N was actually bringing to Harry’s work environment, he’d know why he hasn’t joined in on gushing over her immediately. If only Callum knew about what Harry found out recently and the inner turmoil that it’s put him through, then maybe he might sing a slightly different tune. Or. . .actually, with how much he likes her, he might be into that, so Harry scrubs that thought right from his head. 

Callum didn’t give creepy vibes, like he might try something with her. He just seems wistful, like he wishes he had met someone like that when he was her age. Harry remembers he has a wife, Merida – they’d been together for quite some time now. Maybe things weren’t good between them? 

So Harry inquires about her, without thinking, “How is Merida?” And the look that twists Callum’s otherwise pleasant features, plus the way Y/N slightly slows in her ascent up to the table, blinking at him like you’re fucking joking – serves as a reminder. The quick little tidbit she’d told him as they were walking out the door. Harry’s eyes go wide when the silence stretches just a little too long. 

“Ahh, she’s fine. Seems a bit happier now that the divorce has been finalized.”  

“Oh my god,” Harry swallowed, shaking his head, “I’m so sorry, I –” 

Callum waves his hand, “Don’t worry about it, seriously. Why would you remember an old man’s relationship status?” He jokes good-naturedly, and Harry wants to crawl underneath a rock like a pillbug then stay there forever. He’s embarrassed, he knows Y/N is going to light his ass on fire for what he did because she literally told him, point blank, not to mention his ex wife and Harry just let that fly right out the window, “It was for the best, anyway. We weren’t making each other happy anymore.” 

“Mr. Craig, Sir, if I could ask a question that’s slightly off topic?” Y/N began, thumbing idly at the dove brooch, “These beautiful pins – I was wondering if it was one of your designers who made it or if you outsourced?” 

Callum smiles, whether it was because he was grateful for the change in topic or because he actually liked speaking about the pin. No matter what it is, he launches into a full explanation about how they were going to outsource, but one of his designers saw the mock-up and believed she could make it better. It gets things going again, smooth as they were, and for once, instead of little horns sticking from Y/N’s head, he sees a halo that glows brightly, and glitters around an aura he normally thinks is dripping blood. Harry is so thankful for her in that moment, he almost doesn’t care about the mental anguish she puts him through, or even the upbraiding that will come after this. 

Another thing, to a list of many, as to why he wasn’t suited for this job. 

But again, he can’t think about it. 

After they finish and say their goodbyes, Harry crawls into the front seat and takes in a deep breath, exhaling a soft sigh. Y/N comes in after him, looks at him once, and opens her mouth – he braces himself for the impact of her words. 

“I hope he chooses the sea-themed ice sculpture.” 

Harry stares at her. 

“What?” 

“The sea themed – I think a whale ice sculpture would be really cool to look at. A stingray, too – oh! And if they could make the tentacles for an octopus look realistic, like. . .I don’t know, I feel like he can afford a pretty good sculptor.” 

Harry nods, slowly, “Ice sculptor,” he repeated, “So you aren’t. . .aren’t you mad?” 

Y/N tilted her head, “Mad? For what?” She feigns confusion, “You completely disregarded what I said and brought up his ex-wife, whom he just recently had a divorce? I kind of expected that, to be honest. Sometimes you have the memory of a goldfish, especially if you just found something out so – what can you do? He took it better than I thought he would.” She shrugged. 

“Yeah, thank fuck,” he brushed the hair from his face, “I’ve been scatterbrained lately so, I’m sorry you had to dig us out of that one.” 

“S’fine, it’s easy to get him on a tangent. He’s told me the story about the design behind the pin like 3 separate times over the phone.’ She leans the seat back, getting comfortable, “It’s a busy time of year, so it makes sense your head is all over the place. Remembering that his wife is now his ex was probably on the lower list of important things to worry about.” 

Harry can’t believe Y/N’s actually being kind of nice to him. The fact that this is what he considers nice now is even crazier. Still, he feels like in some way he needs to recognize how well she does, “You remember just fine, though,” he tells her, “Your memory is impeccable.” 

“S’because I sold my soul a couple of years back,” she retorted quickly, and Harry gritted his teeth to avoid saying I knew it!, “I was made a promise by a demon – if I drink enough water and get plenty of sleep, then my memory will stay impeccable.”

He huffed a laugh through his nose, “Is that so?” 

“Yeah,” she answered, “It was kind of a rip off though, I could’ve gotten that response from Google.” 

                                                               .                            .                         .

Harry finally gives in. 

It happens after a night out. Suspiciously, Harry was contacted by both Kai and Rafayel this weekend after around four to five weeks of no contact, asking to see when he was free. In two separate threads, he has two separate fuck buddies wondering where he’s been, what times they could come see him, if they could utilize their “stress-relief” friend which sounds a whole lot better than fuck buddy. Harry wonders if Y/N had actually emailed them and set this up, or if it had been just an insane coincidence. Whatever the reasoning may be, he sets up Friday with Rafayel and Saturday with Kai. 

Back-to-back could be tiring, but Harry needed it. He needed something to tire him out, quiet his mind, give him reprieve from the busy weeks he’s had and the busy weeks to come. Y/N had outlined his entire schedule for him before he went home that weekend, and it sounded abysmal as far as having a life outside of work went. He’s reminded of how much time his father spent away from home finding his footing, missing t-ball games, proms, homecomings, swim meets, band competitions, ballet recitals – for both him and his sister. He was always there in the form of a check, but rarely there in his physical being. Harry has always kind of resented him for it until now. And. . .well, he still does, but a little less. 

Rafayel likes to go out, so Harry puts on a brave face after having to be a person all week, to continue being a person on the weekend as well. He wiggles in some of his tightest black pants, which hug his thighs tightly around the biggest part of the muscle. He wears a silk shirt, buttoned up with only a couple of buttons, so his bare chest is on display. One time, Harry had worn this to a more casual event for work, when these silk shirts were first being introduced, and Harry’s company was distributing them. Y/N had seen him in it, given a short nod, and uttered, “Good.” Which was as much of a compliment as he was ever going to get from her. So if he wanted to impress someone, he might pull this out. 

They go to a ritzy club downtown. Harry has never been sure of what Rafayel’s job was – he’s explained it a couple of times, but they usually only have like an hour or so of talking before they get down to it. Knowing the nitty gritty of each other’s lives was never important to the dynamic that they had. But they drank, danced a little, chatted idly about things that didn’t matter, and then, eventually, Harry kept getting distracted by Rafayel’s wet bottom lip, and they finally went back to Rafayel’s flat. When they fuck, it’s hot and dirty, the words that slip from their mouths are filthy, Harry cums twice and then almost passes out. He does regain himself enough to get in the shower, thanks, Rafayel, for a good night, and makes his way back home with a slightly sore bum and bruises bitten and sucked into his skin. 

The next day, Saturday, he and Kai met up for brunch. It was a French cafe in the city, the food was good, the fruit was fresh, and the big slices were so refreshing that he thinks he’ll be dreaming about it tonight, wanting it for breakfast the next day. He and Kai also chat idly about not a whole lot, honestly, just this and that – she talks about celebrity drama because she’s something of a socialite and knows about everybody’s everything. At least that’s her night job – her day job, Harry knows, is that she works in the business district as an executive in one of the jobs that Harry doesn’t necessarily know how they do it or how they get their money, but they somehow do. 

Their time together is a little different because it’s in the light of day, and Harry goes to her flat, where it’s all pinks and purples and sage greens. The rug she has in her living room is like a sensory daydream beneath his feet, and he waits for Kai to beckon him into her room. Once she does, they fuck for a couple of hours, Harry feels pleasant and buzzing, he forces himself to stay awake despite how desperately he wants to nap in her bed where it smells like vanilla, just how he wanted to nap in Rafayel’s bed that smelled like cinnamon. But Harry never allows that when he’s at someone’s house, so he waits until she gets out of the shower, thanks her for such a good afternoon, and then goes home. 

But still, after two days and multiple orgasms, Harry is on edge. He takes a nap when he gets home, wakes up with tension still stiffening his muscles, and a mind racing. Harry just couldn’t relax in the way he usually did when he’s cum as much as he has. Saturday night, he’s in his robe, his hair dripping from his shower, and his house slippers tucked around his feet. He’s gnawing on his lip so much that he’s surprised that he hasn’t chewed right through it yet. Whatever Y/N had thought she’d been doing setting this up, it hadn’t worked. If anything, he’s more keyed up than when he got out of work Friday evening. 

Then his phone vibrates, a notification, and Harry checks it. He’d not checked the post he’d made in a couple of days, so he finally scrolls through some more of the responses. 

Your curiosity probably won’t be satiated until you watch it honestly 

Just don’t think about it lol 

do u guys talk? bring it up to her. 

You’re stronger than me I probably would have already given it  a watch 

It’d be different if it weren’t something she was doing live, but it seems like she’s more than comfortable with getting off on cam for someone. Why don’t you just tip her well? Won’t that make up for it? 

if you end up watching, make sure not to skimp out on the tips – it’s too pricey to exist with just one job nowadays

Harry plops down on his bed, and the mattress bounces from the force of it. He goes back to the couple’s profile where he found Y/N’s account originally, clicking through the links until he sees the pink webpage, the cat emoticons, and he finds out that the cursor has sparkles that fall out from the tip as it moves around the screen. His laptop is propped precariously on his knee, but it almost wobbles right off when he sees a play button on the middle right screen, a red flashing that displays LIVE NOW. 

He swallows thickly, then clicks on it before he can think about anything more regarding it. The loading bar buffers for about 10 seconds before the screen starts to load, and Harry is instantly greeted with the sight of Y/N’s body. His mouth is instantly dry, his tongue is heavy in his mouth when he sees all of the skin, she’s in a bra, with intricate flower embellishments decorating the lining of the cup. The skin of her belly looks so soft and smooth, and her belly button glitters with a jewel that Harry didn’t know existed. She was sitting on the floor, Harry thinks, blankets all laid down with pillows, and it looked soft and cozy, and Harry wondered if it felt nice or if her knees hurt. She’s sitting on them, sort of, her bum pressed to the sheets below her, knees bent but her legs flattened out, tucked at the sides. It does not seem like a comfortable position, but she’s always been a bit more flexible than he was. 

Her lips were glossy; he didn’t know if it was spit or if it was the same gloss that she swipes over her mouth in her free moments. Whatever it is, he’s drawn to them instantly, the way she smiles at the camera, and the sound of her voice through his speakers. Her eyes are big as they always are (except when they’re narrowed in his direction), and she looks pleased with something that someone said. Something that she had read. 

“Thank you,” she says, her voice sweet, nearly a purr as she slides her hand down her stomach, her fingers fiddling with the jewel on her belly, “I got it my last year of college. I don’t get to show it off much, though.” She doesn’t, because the Y/N that he knows is always dressed prim and proper. Not a hair out of place, not a blouse untucked, her jewelry always matched. He’d never seen her belly – he doesn’t recall a time he’s ever even seen her shoulders, he thinks, so this is a lot for his eyes to feast on. Her most intimate part is still covered in lacy fabric, the waistband in intricate, weaving designs around her hips. There are flower appliques along them too – it’s pretty, and it looks expensive, and when she readjusts, he sees the glitter of rhinestones catching on her LED lights. 

Then she leans forward, closer to the screen, her breasts pooling forward as she rests her chin on her palm, “There’s someone newwwww,” she sing-songs, her voice pleasant and light, inviting and warm, “Hi tapiocaenthuiast. Do you like boba?” 

Harry is startled by the sound of his user. He’d made an account quickly to be able to login and properly watch, and that was the only one he could come up with in five minutes with all his blood centralizing toward his dick. Honestly, Harry had expected there to be so many people in this stream that she wouldn’t notice – and there was! Around 500 people were watching, including him, and the chat was moving so fast he didn’t think there would be any chance she’d notice a new user. 

Maybe she got an alert on her end? He isn’t sure, but he feels caught red-handed, like she knows it’s him. His heart is racing in his chest, and he has half the mind to click off immediately. . .but he doesn’t. Partly because he thinks that would look suspicious as hell, and because he thinks it might hurt her feelings. She’s showing herself, vulnerable like this, addressing him directly, and even though she is the bane of his existence in day-to-day life. . this Y/N isn’t yet. Honestly. . this Y/N might be a little nicer to him. 

“Awww, are you shy?” She tilted her head, pouting her bottom lip, “That’s okay! Freckle used to ghost watch all of the time, now they talk the most out of anyone. Maybe you’ll open up soon?” She blinks, “Or maybe not, that’s alright too. It's hard to talk if your hands are busy, isn’t it?” 

Harry feels his heart beating in his stomach. His hands hover over the keyboard, unsure of what to say, if he should say anything at all. It feels wrong not to say something, but. . .he isn’t sure. His mind is kind of mushy, especially when she’s talking in that soft tone that has never been directed toward him before. 

if you end up watching, make sure not to skimp out on the tips – it’s too pricey to exist with just one job nowadays

That post is what flashes behind his eyelids before he goes to the donation box. He’s unsure what the conversion rate for the coins is, but he ends up buying 3000 of them, which seems to be on the higher end, and he spends around 150 pounds on them. Harry sends it all at once, and when prompted with a message, he replies to her. 

tapiocaenthuiast93 tipped 3000 coins! 

Hiiiiii. I do like boba! 

That’s a lie – Harry doesn’t like it at all. He’ll drink a fruit tea, but the pearls at the bottom are a choking hazard that he’s just not willing to take with every sip. He thinks this may set apart that the person behind the screen is Harry himself, because Y/N is well aware of Harry’s boba dislike, and still manages to get him a drink with extra boba if the floor pools together money for a treat (later there is always a fruit tea on his desk as well, but when he inquires about it, Y/N shrugs and says she didn’t put it there). 

Her eyes go wide when it flashes on the screen, “Oh!” She sounds surprised, “Thank you! That was. . .holy shit, that was kind of generous for your first time, don’t you think?” The chat is moving quickly again, Harry can barely keep up with it, and he doesn’t really want to. He’s focusing on Y/N, how she sucks her lips into her mouth then pushes them back out again, not in a seductive way but in the way she does when she’s startled and trying to think. She sits back up, just a little way from the camera, “Do you want to make a request tapioca? Tips like that always get something in return.” 

His mind flickers to what she said earlier this week, after she pinned the dove on his lapel. She does something for him, he does something in return, and vice versa. Their dynamic is transactional, all parts of it, the very meat and bone of it. Harry pays Y/N, and she makes sure his life is orderly in all aspects of his job. Y/N pins a dove to his lapel, Harry pins the save dove to her blouse. Harry tips Y/N 3000 coins and. . .well, he goes ahead and tips 1000 more. It’s not like he doesn’t have money to spend, and she works hard. Another thing that stuck with him from the forum post was that someone said it’s too hard to exist with only having one job. Harry doesn’t necessarily deal with Y/N’s finances, or any of his employees for that matter. They have a small department of people delegated to take care of that. The most Harry does is sign off on paperwork to make sure everyone gets their deposit on time, and that’s about it. 

For all she does for him, she probably should be getting paid more, but he isn’t sure how to go about that. So if this is how he pads out what she deserves, even just for tonight, then so be it. 

tapiocaenthuiast93 tipped 1000 coins! 

Just make yourself feel good 𐔌՞꜆.  ̫.꜀՞𐦯 

He adds the weird little face because it comes up as an option for the amount he’d tipped. 

“And you’re sweet? How lucky am I that you stumbled on my live, hm?” She giggled, and it almost sounded like twinkling bells as she reached off to the side, revealing a wand, the head bulbous and thick and intense – Harry knows from experience, “Well, tonight I’d been planning on using this. It’s kind of intense though, so I get a little nervous,” she sighs a little, “But all my pervy friends on here want to see me use it. Do you think I should Tapioca?” 

Harry swallows hard – he kind of thought his answer would have gotten him out of the hot seat, but he guesses it makes sense that it doesn’t. He’d tipped a lot, she wanted him to feel special and included, so he’d come back again. At least, that’s what he thinks her business model is. She’s waiting patiently, staring at the screen, and it’s familiar in the way she waits, how she stares when he’s taking too long to respond. Harry scrambles a little. 

tapiocaenthuiast93 tipped 500! 

Do you want to? 

Y/N pouted, running her thumb along the power button, “I want you to decide for me.” She tells him.

Oh. 

Oh. There’s a burning twist that curls through his lower belly, his cock twitching. He’d never heard that voice from Y/N before – whiny and bratty, but it’s different this way. Softer, needier – she wants him to decide. No, needs him to decide, is kind of how she makes it sound. He sucks in a deeper breath, swallows hard, types out his response. 

tapiocaenthuiast93 tipped 500! 

Use it. Lowest speed to start. 

The grin that spreads across her cheeks, nice and pretty, “To start, huh? Are you g’na control me the whole time?” She clicks it on, raises up so she can fit it between her legs, “I like you a lot already. Don’t you guys?” 

The chat once again is moving fast, but Harry catches glimpses of their replies here and there. A lot of encouragement for her to do it, a lot of people saying Harry must be rich, a lot of them begging Harry to edge her. This is very new, excitement tickles through his cells. Especially when he hears the vibrations, a low murmur as she lowers to rest her pussy against it. She still has the underwear on, but she jumps when it touches her, all the same. “Oh, wow,” her eyelids flutter a little, “I always forget how strong this is – ah,” her hips buck against it, but then she jumps up, giggling, before lowering back on it again. 

She must be sensitive, Harry thinks, and it only makes him harder. His cock goes ignored beneath his robe, but it twitches and kicks like it’s trying to remind him it’s there. How could Harry forget that it was though? For the amount he’s cum in the last couple of days, there’s no way he should be getting this hard, this quick again. If Adam knew, he’d probably accuse Harry of ovulating or something. Especially the way he can feel precum already bead at the tip. Harry’s always been leaky, but this was even a new record for him, and he wonders what it is exactly that is working him up so much. The fact that it’s Y/N doing it, someone he’s only ever seen all tidied and put together? The fact that it’s someone usually telling him what to do, asking him to order her around, and following what he says? That it feels like she’s talking straight to him, even though it’s through a screen? That it’s his old try and true method of cumming, but with a little extra spice? 

It feels more explicit like this. More naughty – the humiliating thought of her knowing that it’s him on the other side of the screen, sending in coins, with his cock hard and leaking, does things to him. The idea that if he sent more coins, she might take his suggestions was even better. 

Because she does – in the time Harry has spent gaping, people have sent in more tips, telling her how she should press it against herself, how she should roll her hips, how she should keep it in place for 10 seconds without relieving the pressure. Y/N listens, lets them boss her around, and teases them for getting so worked up even though they haven’t seen her pussy yet. 

tapiocaenthuiast93 tipped 2000! 

Pull the underwear to the side, please? 

Y/N reads it and shudders, the muscles in her thighs tensing, “F-fuck, okay,” she nods, “I’ll be honest, I might not last long when I’m – when I’m not covered so if you were planning on edging me tonight, s’not happening.” 

tapiocaenthuiast93 tipped 500!

That’s okay! 

Just do what feels best

She huffs out a breath, a small laugh as she hooks her fingers into the crotch of her panties. When she pulls them over to the side, Harry can see the thin, sticky threads of her arousal as they drip from her, gravity making it more apparent. “Fucking hell,” he murmurs to himself, in his room, absolutely breathless. His cock leaks again – he’s sure if he peeled his robe back, it’d be clinging messy to the fabric. 

From what he could see of Y/N’s pussy, it’s pretty. Mouthwateringly so – he can’t believe his personal assistant from hell had such a gorgeous thing between her legs. If things were different – if their relationship was different, and the order in which he saw her like this for him was different, he doesn’t think he’d ever want to come up for air. Maybe it’s his horny hindbrain talking right then, but he could imagine pressing his lips against her, stroking his tongue both soft and firm against her clit, sucking it into his mouth, parting her petals with tender licks that make her buck against him. He’d want her to sit on his face, just how she’s sitting now, curl her fingers in his hair, make him stick his tongue out, and rock against it. Or maybe he wants to hold her down, make her cum so many times with his mouth that she can’t stand it, she’s shoving his head away, begging for a break. Her moans would be so good – she sound so fucking pretty now he almost can’t stand it. How is this the same person he works with every day?

God, this is insane. Especially when he’s reading the chat, everyone comments on how she keeps flinching away from it, jumping and jolting, twitching hard. She’s extra sensitive tonight, is what people are saying, and Harry must have lost his mind because he’s typing again. 

tapiocaenthuiast93 tipped 2000!

Don’t run away from it, Sweetheart. Go up to the highest setting.

Y/N laughs again, breathless, nodding, “Yeah, yeah, yeah, I won’t anymore, s’just – easier when I have someone here with me, to – to make me do it. To hold my hand and hold me down,” he can see her toes curling in the socks she wore, when she braces herself and presses into it. She’s swollen and puffy, and looks extra soft when she smushes against the head of the vibe. He can hear how wet she is through the speakers, the vibrations making it extra loud, even heard over the long moan that leaves her throat. Her whole body locks up but she keeps herself pressed into it, “S’too much, it’s too much,” she whines, but her hips buck against it, and she keeps herself down, “Ah – f-fuck, I’m g’na cum. I don’t want to this soon,” she complains, pouting, “But it feels too good, feels so, so good.” 

Harry finally rips open his robe, his cock pops free, bobbing and leaking, the tip flushed red and his balls drawn up tight. He isn’t going to last at all – he knows as much when his fingers wrap around his already slick shaft, and he instantly throbs against his palm. His head tips back, and he stretches his thighs out – they fall open as soon as he strokes himself once. He doesn’t bother with a slow build, as he usually likes, he just goes for what feels best. Every caress feels good, and while he isn’t usually that loud when he’s alone, he can’t seem to shut up, moaning and mewling from deep in his chest. 

“I’m cumming, I’m cumming, I’m cumming,” she repeats, bucking against the head of it, her shoulders pull inward, her legs try to close around it, she’s shivering and shuddering and moaning – the sounds around the vibrations are even wetter than before. Harry rubs his fingers around the head of his cock twice before he starts to cum with her, the orgasm sending lightning through his body as he works himself through it, his hips bucking into his hand, fucking the tight hole he’d made. How far he shot is kind of ridiculous, again, for how much he’s cum in the last 48 hours. The first spurt is hot and white, strips up toward his chest, and the second, even closer to his neck. The rest spools out around his fingers, every so often another shot with enough force to make a mess over his belly. 

As it finally calmed, it felt like fizzling and sizzling around his body. Like she’d reached into his very being and lit up sparklers, then set them loose through his vessels. He melts into the mattress below him, before he finally tunes into what Y/N’s saying, and when he finally looks over, she’s shifted the camera up to just her face. “That was. . .that was really nice,” she murmured, voice softened, breathless, “It’s been a busy couple weeks at work, so I needed that. Thank you, Tappy.” 

Harry doesn’t have even half the mind to get worked up about the work mentioned, or even about the fact that she’d experienced tapiocaenthuiast for all of 20 minutes before giving him a cute nickname. 

Actually, all Harry can think about now is that he hasn’t felt this relaxed in months. Like his bones were made of jelly, like he had warm clouds filling his head, like he could have a very restful sleep that didn’t feel like he was ripping himself out of bed the next morning. 

All because he’d gotten off to his personal assistant's camming account. 

Fuck. 

[aglimpseofharry]

the swan

y/n is the new prima for the season, but the real tragedy unfolded in the rumors surrounding the company's patron, harry.

wordcount: 12.4k+

—————

The sunlight streaming in behind Ms. Ariel glanced off of glossy strands of the slick chignon tied on the back of her head; natural backlight, as if she were still on stage, dancing under the spotlight. Even if directing and choreographing, spending more time reviewing than doing any dancing herself, had softened the tight lines of her muscles and relieved the callouses on her body, she still had all of the hallmarks of a dancer. Even her posture alone—straight spine, jutting chin, barred shoulders—gave away the prima position she held for years in the Turkish State Opera. 

The usual serene smile she held on her face now had a giddy purse to her lips. She was holding something back, (Y/N)'s nerves stacking as she realized as much. 

It wasn't in a ballerina to be restless with fidgety hands and shuffling feet, but she felt the urge rise. In her year with Ms. Ariel and the company, there was very, very few times dancers were brought into her office with a closed door. 

"Thank you for staying back a little bit today," Ms. Ariel started, bringing her folded hands to rest on top of the glossy cherry desk. "I know you have some work you need to get to at home, so I'll be quick." 

She paused, theatrics growing in the silence. 

"You are going to be our Odette in the spring production." 

(Y/N)'s breath fell short. 

Not even a month ago had the spring production been announced to be Swan Lake. Auditions had been so long and tedious—especially for the leads. Truthfully, she had only thrown her name in the ring just for the opportunity to try, there was no real expectation that she was going to beat out the more established dancers she was up against. 

But, here she was. Odette in the company's spring production of Swan Lake. 

"I—" she breathed, shifting in her seat as if her posture was anything but perfect, "I didn't think announcements were being made until tomorrow." 

Ms. Ariel shrugged. "Yes, the rest of the cast will be officially notified tomorrow along with the call sheet, but I wanted to talk with you myself beforehand." 

"Wow," she murmured to herself, "Thank you." 

"You're welcome," Ms. Ariel smiled, "I'm sure you understand the kind of work that goes into being Odette—and Odile, to that fact. It is a daunting task, but I want you to know that I have seen you working and excelling in the short time you've been with us. You've been a gift given to our company and I want to see what you can do with the role." 

A warmth bloomed behind her eyes. "Thank you. I will take care of her, I promise." 

"I know you will. Please, if you need guidance, don't hesitate to reach out. Everyone is a resource here." 

(Y/N) didn't know what to say. "Thank you," she muttered, though it felt far from enough for the kind words shared from her mentor. "Really—this is... a dream." 

Ms. Ariel nodded, her smile spreading into a true grin. She stood from behind her desk, reaching a manicured hand out. "Celebrate tonight; the hard work will begin next week." 

Grateful for the amount of grace drilled into her body, (Y/N) scrambled to match the motion. She took Ms. Ariel's hand in a light shake. "Of course. Thank you." 

A huff of laughter fell from Ms. Ariel. "You're welcome, (Y/N)." 

Hiking her bag up her shoulder, (Y/N) make quick strides towards the door of the office. In the hallway, Siobhan was where (Y/N) had left her waiting. She pocketed her phone, perking up once (Y/N) clicked the door shut behind her. 

Whatever Siobhan found on her friend's face was enough to have her jaw dropping, eyes down turning into concern. "What happened?" 

Realizing the sheen coating her eyes, (Y/N) fluttered her eyes in a blink to wipe away the moisture. She kept her voice low as she said, "I got the part." 

Siobhan's expression went from concerned to confused in a breath, brows furrowing as the news processed. 

"Wait. For the production?" 

(Y/N) nodded. 

"For Odette?"

(Y/N) nodded once more. 

It was with that silent response that Siobhan let out a giddy squeal. She brought her fists to her chest with her feet quietly marching against the floor, a beaming grin on her lips. 

"You're joking! Are you serious right now?!" 

"Shhh, be quiet," (Y/N) laughed, reaching for Siobhan's wrist to start leading her away from Ms. Ariel's door. Once she brought them far enough away from the door and the studio hosting the after school ballet lessons, (Y/N) allowed herself to let out a laugh—the sound almost delirious. 

"I got the part—Odette." 

She joined in on a quiet celebration with Siobhan then, right in the entryway of the studio. (Y/N) could only imagine what a sight they were, hair falling out of their buns from the previous lesson, leg warmers scrunched at their ankles, Siobhan's backpack bouncing against her back and (Y/N)'s tote bag dropped to her elbow. 

"I'm so happy for you," Siobhan shared, pulling her friend into a warming hug. "I'm so proud of you." 

"Thank you," (Y/N) whispered back, hugging her back just as tight before pulling away just enough to face her. "Really—I wouldn't have even come to this city without you, so thank you." 

Siobhan waved off her gratitude with a small smile and a shrug of her shoulders. "I'm just happy you're here, too." 

"Well," (Y/N) started, leading Siobhan out into the city with their flats padding gently against the pavement, "Ms. Ariel said we should celebrate tonight while we can. Everything starts next week." 

"Tonight?" 

A small smile bloomed on (Y/N)'s features. "Are you busy or something?" 

She knew good and well the plan for the evening was for the both of them to pick up takeaway on the way home before rotting away in bed. 

"I can clear my plans," Siobhan laughed.

(Y/N) felt herself just short of skipping along the concrete. She hadn't realized just how much something like this role could mean to her. 

She had been a professional ballerina for five years now, settling here only a year or so prior, though she had never been a principal before. She was content doing those side roles and learning ensemble dances, as long as she was on stage. There were so many more established and experienced dancers in the industry, but here she was. The spring's prima. Odette and Odile. 

Maybe it was the fact that the sun no longer set at four in the afternoon, or the pending plans with her friend, but (Y/N) had never felt lighter. 

She was a swan, now. The swan. 

—————

(Y/N)'s skin felt flushed as she wiggled on her bar seat. It was hard to stay still at the moment, so different from the dancer's poise that was drilled into her. The atmosphere of the upscale, too-expensive bar was perfect—the exact kind of place she pictured herself grabbing a lavender scented drink when she first moved to the city. The girls—other dancers from the company she'd grown close enough to—had joined her and Siobhan for the night, leaving the table filled with bubbly chatter and restless feet. 

"Do you know what ending Ms. Ariel wants to go with?" Sasha, one of the others, asked. The red of her second Negroni was beginning to stain the center of her lips to match the flush on her pale cheeks. 

(Y/N) shrugged, the straw of her own drink tucked between her lips. "We only really talked about my part—I don't think we talked for more than, like, ten minutes. I do hope it's one of the good endings, though, like the original one or something." 

"Yeah, I think I would cry if we had to watch you die or something," Siobhan said, an exaggerated frown on her lips as (Y/N) laughed.

"I don't know if I could make that jump off the cliff, anyway." 

"I'm sure we'll find out soon with everything starting next week," Lydia, the fourth of their little girls' night group, suggested. She paused to take a long drink of her margarita before training her gaze to flick between Siobhan and Sasha. "Do you think Harry’s going to be a part of the production?" 

A furrow pinched (Y/N)'s brow. That name brought up a twinge of familiarity, though the context eluded her. 

Siobhan's eyes widened, spitting her straw out from between her lips. "Oh my god, probably! It's the spring show that he's always all over, right?" 

Sasha and Lydia both nodded conspiratorially while (Y/N) looked on bemused. 

Siobhan turned her attention to (Y/N). "Did she say anything about him during your meeting?" 

(Y/N) shook her head. "We didn't talk about anyone, though." 

Sasha made a face, looking to both Lydia and Siobhan with raised brows. "Do you think he finally let it go?" 

"Maybe," Lydia shrugged, pursing her lips around her small straw. "Doubt it, though."

 Leaning over the table, (Y/N) flicked her confused gaze across each of the ballerinas at the table. "What are you guys talking about?" 

Siobhan looked at her with her brows knitted. "Did you never meet him?" 

"I don't think so?" 

"I guess you started in the middle of the spring season, so you probably never actually met him," Siobhan mused, taking one more sip of her drink until her straw bubbled against the ice on the bottom. Her skin was especially flushed, eyes a bit glassy when she turned to face (Y/N) with a story on her mind. "He's a... patron, I guess. For the company. He donates year round but is usually really hands off. Until the spring production." 

"Oh," (Y/N) sounded. Hearing some details, she remembered hearing chatters about a patron of the company. In those overheard conversations, there was never anything specific she could glean, only small chitters and jokes she didn't understand. "Why only the spring shows?" 

There was a short silence between the three, eyes flicking to one another as if waiting to see who would be the one to share the next lines of the story. (Y/N) only waited, straw tucked between her lips though she only bit at the tube instead of taking down any more of her drink. 

"Um," Lydia started, tipping her head as if rolling her next words around her brain, "I mean, no one really knows for sure, but there's... rumors. Most of the company who was around when everything was happening have left, so no one's really completely sure anymore." 

"Okay," (Y/N) said, drawing out the word with furrowed brows. They were starting to scare her, honestly. "Rumors about what?" 

"Okay," Siobhan piped up suddenly, taking in a deep breath, "I joined right after she left, so I never actually knew her, but people talked a lot. From what I know, he—Harry—used to be engaged to one of the dancers at the company after they met during one of the shows. Like, he was always a minor patron, but when they started dating, he was just always around and everything. But, something happened, and they broke up, like, months before they were supposed to get married. No one really knows why for sure, but I remember hearing from some of the girls back then, that it was pretty bad." 

"Things got intense, apparently," Lydia interjected, eyes wide as they met (Y/N)’s, "Like, really intense." 

(Y/N) blinked. "Like... Did someone get hurt?" she pressed, dancing around the implication of her question. 

Siobhan shrugged, her mouth making an uncertain line. "I don't know, honestly. From what I remember hearing, she left him. Some of the girls said that he was, like, crazy or something—like, there was something really big that happened. I don't think she even dances anymore, from what I've heard. And she was really talented if you ever look her up." 

"Oh, wow," (Y/N) murmured, biting at her bottom lip, "But no one knows what the big thing was that made them break up?" 

"Not as far as I know," Siobhan shook her head, blonde hair spilling over her shoulder, "I remember one of the girls just saying that she had been super erratic before they officially broke up. She did not want to be around him, like she made a scene every time he came to pick her up from rehearsal and things. Like she was worried, or scared, or something, I guess. And, then she just left. One day she told everyone they had broken up and then, like, a week after, she was gone. No one even knew where she went until almost a month later. And, I don't know if this is real or just something people started saying when everything came out with the break up, but there were people who said he was really scary during the whole thing—to be careful around him, really." 

(Y/N) didn't know what to say as the story seemingly came to a close. This was far from the kind of insight she thought she would gain tonight. 

"So... he only does the spring show now?" 

"As far as I've been here, yeah. I think because he donates so much this time of year, he ends up being more involved." 

"Um," (Y/N) started, shifting in her spot with her eyes dropping to the salted rim of her friend's glass. "Does he... Does he have a say in casting?" 

"Oh no!" It was Sasha that spoke up this time, saying her first words since listening like a captivated audience to the same story. "He's not involved like that—Ms. Ariel makes all of those choices. He just gets a little more say in what show is put on, I know that for sure. Otherwise, I think he just does more with the business side of everything—it's like he's a producer almost." 

"Oh, okay," (Y/N) murmured, nodding her head as she took a small sip from her drink, "Do you guys think I need to be... worried?" 

Siobhan let out a loud laugh. "God, no! It's all just rumors. You probably won't even see him that much, honestly." 

(Y/N) got a quiet "Oh" out before the topic was drifting away with Sasha's help, something about her girlfriend's family being brought up instead. (Y/N) listened on as closely as she could, though she was far from being involved. Much of her mind was still stuck on these so-called "rumors" about this season's producer. 

While the idea that the implications of the rumors could be true was something that worried her, she had to trust that Ms. Ariel wouldn't have someone involved with the show that could be a threat to the dancers. 

Even though a very skeptical part of her found it hard to believe that rumors so intense, funneled through a group as close knit as one of ballerina's, didn't hold at least a grain of truth. 

—————

(Y/N) huffed as her tote slipped down her shoulder again. Even the ribbed texture of her knitted cardigan couldn't keep it from slipping down to her elbow. Hiking it up once more, she pushed the front door to the studio open, a gust of warm air blowing the early morning chill off of her form. 

Her wrap skirt fluttered around her hips as she closed the door behind her, ensuring she heard the click of the door shutting before she started deeper into the studio. Production rehearsals didn't officially commence for another few days, but she wanted to stop by one more time before then to get her own time in before everything would be committed to being a swan princess. The next months of her life were going to be consumed by the same handful of dances, the same moves, the same techniques—she needed a chance to do something as herself before then, doubting any other opportunities would arise between now and the rest of the production.

Trailing down the halls, she got a peek into each of the different rooms through the large windows spanning the corridor. Some parents were waiting before the windows, watching as the children's lessons were conducted. Their own spring production—a rendition of Margot Robbie’s Barbie—was set to take the stage in less than two weeks, leaving the costume room in varying shades of pink with glitter and stars all over the place. The amount of times (Y/N) had seen these dances through the windows, heard these songs through the walls, she figured she could join the stage at any time without incident. 

Meandering down to the very last open room, (Y/N) signed herself in. The room was much smaller than the others for the lessons, with only a small window available for viewing. The floor was a warm hardwood, reflected back in the mirror lining the wall opposite the door. A golden barre bisected the mirror, gleaming in the light. Her footsteps echoed in the quiet room as she crossed towards the sound system tucked in the corner. 

She took her time setting up all of her things, glancing up at the mirror. The reflection used to scare her when she was a child. It used to be so nerve wracking seeing each of her movements, especially when she couldn't be sure if she was doing it right until she saw the rest of her class at that same moment. (She was a child with anxiety as she later learned in her adult life—big surprise). Though it took time, she learned to appreciate having that mirror on her when she danced. 

There was something exciting about seeing the lines made by her body. The kind of lines she had only seen in films or on stages. It was those movements and shapes that had inspired her to become a ballerina instead of just dreaming of dancing. The mirror let her see herself as the ballerina in those dreams. 

Just as she began shedding her cardigan and sitting down to get her pointe shoes on, she realized there was something missing. She had her phone connected to the sound system, an instrumental song queued up, and her bag with extra hair ties, a couple of snacks for later, and her water bottle—

That's what she was missing. No water bottle. 

Throwing her head back with a heavy sigh, (Y/N) rolled her eyes at herself. Of course she left it in her car. 

At least she hadn't been able to lace up her pointes yet. Pulling on her regular shoes, (Y/N) resigned herself to trek all the way back to her car one more time. She could take it as a warm up, maybe, instead of a time waster. 

She left her cardigan on the floor as she started back through the studio. The same parents and instructors she had just passed were just where she left them, some barely even glancing up as she brushed shoulders while scooting past. 

As soon as she retrieved her water bottle from the cup holder of her car, she immediately doubled back. Without her cardigan, everything was much colder outside than she remembered. At least she still had her leg warmers and skirt on. 

Speeding up to a jogging pace, (Y/N) just began pulling open the door when the weight of the pull drastically changed. Someone on the other side was pushing, she gathered, just a hair too late. The strength she had put into opening the heavy door was now overpowered, throwing her off balance as she stumbled back. A gasp left her mouth as her arms fluttered out beside her, eyes flicking behind her shoulder. 

In the same moment, a strong hand sharply took her arm. The grip steadied her back on her feet before her skirt and thighs could be marred by a fall on the pavement. Once flat on her feet—and feeling much less graceful than any ballerina should—(Y/N) looked up at the owner of the saving hand. 

A man she didn't recognize as a fellow dancer, a parent she had passed in the hallway, or a production member for the upcoming show stood before her. A warm brown suit was tailored to his form, tie knotted tight around his neck in a matching hue. The warmth traveled up to the dappled chocolate shades on his hair, everything pushed out of his face though the curling texture could still be seen framing his temples. All of the brown framing him left the green of his eyes to pop against his creamy skin, varying shades flecking his irises. A handful of freckles were spread across the bridge of his nose, faint even under the lowering golden sun. Shadows were cast across his face, emphasizing the straight lines of his features.

Regaining her breath, she felt her skin warm as his hand slipped off from her arm. "Sorry, I didn't—I wasn't paying attention. Thanks for... stopping me." 

A slight smile touched the man's raspberry lips. Faint dimples thumbed into his cheeks for a fleeting moment. (Y/N) swore, if even for a second, his eyes glazed over the planes of her face. 

"No worries," he assured, voice accented and warm as he took steps to hedge around her, "Jus' be careful." 

"Right," (Y/N) breathed out with a laugh. 

She took lingering steps back towards the building. Only for one second did she allow herself to look over her shoulder, following his retreating form towards a sparkling car in the lot.

His shoulders...

Blinking herself back to real life, (Y/N) reminded herself there was a whole rehearsal room waiting for her. 

—————

(Y/N) curled up in her seat, extensively grateful to have been able to stop home before coming to the evening's meeting. If she had been forced to sit through this in her jeans, she worried she would have lost her mind. 

"I know we do these later so everyone has a chance to make it after work and all, but I really don't want to be here past nine," Siobhan muttered at her side, voice joining the quiet chitter that was filling the theater. 

(Y/N) hummed in agreement. As nice as it was to see the theater again—especially now that she was able to picture herself twirling in the spotlight right in the center—she would much rather have attended through video. At least this gave her an excuse to pick up dinner on her way home instead of cooking anything. 

Ms. Ariel is heard before she is seen, the click of her shoes echoing across the stage. In a line, she was followed by her assisting choreographers, the orchestra conductor, alongside the musical and production directors. She didn't hesitate as she took center stage over the directors, hands clasped at her middle with a beaming smile on her lips. 

"Thank you all for coming tonight—I know it's late so we'll make this quick for everyone," Ms. Ariel started, sweeping her gaze across the rows of filled seats. "We'll all be working very closely together these next months, so I want to make sure we are all on the same page going forward." 

The theater fell silent save for Ms. Ariel at center stage as she listed off her cohorts for the production, the timeline coming after. The show's opening weekend would come at the end of April, celebrating the peak of spring. Rehearsals, both individual for the principals and ensembles, would be starting on Monday; the schedule should already be in everyone's inbox. 

(Y/N) listened intently, feeling the pressure of being this season's lead. She didn't want to miss a single word. This spring was going to be her moment—her chance at hopefully making a real name for herself in this city. Opportunities like this didn't come to many dancers, especially not after she moved companies mid-way through her career. If she were to be lucky enough, she wouldn't even need to hold a day job, ballerina becoming her sole title. 

The anticipation built a fire in her chest, the kind that urged her to get started right now. She didn't need to sleep, she needed to get into a rehearsal space and practice her thirty-two fouettés. She wanted to try on her tutus and practice slicking her hair back. Tchaikovsky was about to be her top artist for the next few months. 

"I would also like to introduce this season's patron. We don't usually do this, but our spring patron has a special role. I realize a few of you have already met him, but for everyone who has not,"—she looked to stage right just as heavy steps began to descend upon the stage—"this is Harry Styles. He will be very present through this season, and has already helped a lot, so if you have any questions, you can always ask him as well." 

(Y/N) blinked as she took in the man now standing at Ms. Ariel's side. Clad in a navy blue suit, matching tie wrapped around his neck, was the man that had kept her from stumbling back onto her rear just the other day. The man with the green eyes and the warm brown hair, the one with the sprinkled freckles on his nose. His shoulders were just as broad as she remembered. 

His eyes swept over the rows of dancers; (Y/N) swore he snagged on her for an extra second. A small smile touched her lips. "Hello," he quietly muttered at Ms. Ariel's side, his voice graveled from disuse. 

He was quiet then as Ms. Ariel continued speaking, clarifying his role and the role of the others on stage. He had his hand clasped behind him, entirely reserved as if he didn't realize he was as tall and broad as he was. 

This was not at all the kind of man she pictured when the girls had talked about Scary Harry. he was so reserved, so put together. He almost seemed shy with the way he kept twisting and untwisting his fingers at his back, the view only given when he swiveled enough for her to see his back. 

She had pictured leering eyes, gnarled hands that had grabbed and pushed and reached over the heads of others. While she couldn't say that this man wasn't intimidating, it just wasn't in the way she had thought. He was almost too pretty to look at, she thought; long lashes, flushed cheeks, freckled nose. The lines of his face had softened in her memory, leaving her to be struck again by the straight set of his nose and cut of his jaw. 

While looks could be deceiving, she hoped she wasn't wrong about the soft set of his eyes.

"Was there anything anyone wanted to add before we adjourned for the night?" Ms. Ariel asked, taking a step back as she looked at her colleagues. A pause of silence sounded among the stage. 

"Um," Harry finally piped up, cheeks gaining a flush (Y/N) couldn't be sure was there just moments before, "I wanted to say thank you to Ms. Ariel and the rest of the directing team for allowing me to be a part of another production. I realize I haven't had a chance to meet many of you,"—he looked at the dancers now, eyes dancing to each face—"but I look forward to working with each of you. I can't wait to see how this show comes together." 

He ended with a thin smile on his face, lips pressed together with a nod of his head. Ms. Ariel led the team in a round of applause before calling for the end of the meeting. As the dancers around (Y/N) stood to collect their things, she lingered for just a moment. Eyes on the stage, she saw as Harry watched the flood of dancers, almost looking just as relieved as everyone else set free from this meeting. Even from here, she could see that color that had painted his cheeks draining back to the peaches and cream of his regular complexion. 

"Are you coming or did your legs fall asleep?" Siobhan asked beside her, stretching with her arms above her head. 

"Oh yeah," (Y/N) sighed, falling back to herself as she took her eyes from Harry. "Sorry, I think I'm more tired than I thought." 

"Same," Siobhan laughed, "I'm already exhausted from the rehearsal schedule and it hasn't even started." 

"Exactly," (Y/N) agreed with a small smile, collecting her things before starting to follow the rest of the company out of the theater. 

Even when she heard the low rumble of Harry's voice meld with the rest of the executive team, she made a point to keep her eyes forward. Siobhan didn't need to notice this sparking curiosity just yet. 

—————

(Y/N) idly twirled as the Swan Theme played through her rehearsal space, mesh skirt flaring out around her hips. She could imagine the scene playing out like a film in her head: the first moment she is introduced as Odette, as she hides from Prince Siegfried aiming a crossbow in her direction. Though they were far out from donning costumes, she couldn't help but to imagine herself in that traditional pristine white, feathered tutu with a gleaming bodice.

Ms. Ariel entered the studio, fanning her hands out. "Sorry, sorry—Rima wanted help with the ensemble blocking. Did you see the video I left up on the iPad?" 

(Y/N) smiled, "It’s alright. I did watch it, yeah. Is that the version we're going with?" 

"A little," Ms. Ariel shrugged, lips pursed, "I wanted to do a prologue like that, but I wanted to see if you had any thoughts on doing the epilogue instead." 

The solid toes of her pointe shoes tapped across the floor as she blocked herself out through the swelling music. "Is there a way we can do both?" (Y/N) asked, a bit sheepish at her request. More stage time meant more money, more production, more time. 

Ms. Ariel paused, head tilted as she scrolled through on the tablet. "A prerecorded epilogue? We could project it into the curtain right before." 

"That might be fun," (Y/N) offered, unable to help herself as she twirled along to the music. The crescendos and dips had her pirouetting and sweeping through the room. The sound of her pointe shoes tapping against the hardwood was especially satisfying alongside Tchaikovsky. "We could make the transformation to the swan look extra special if we can edit it right." 

The choreographer brightened at the thought. "And for Rothbart." 

(Y/N) smiled at the light in Ms. Ariel's tone. She doubted there was any more convincing needed. 

The sound of Ms. Ariel's mind working practically joined the soundtrack, all of the gears and cogs spinning like a sewing machine as the production began to thread together. While (Y/N) was sure this first rehearsal between them was supposed to help her get into the character of Odette, and the counterpart of Odile, she wasn't going to interrupt Ms. Ariel after getting her say in for the progression of the story. 

Instead, (Y/N) twirled and jumped, playing along with the music filtering through the space. From her periphery, she could see some of the ensemble dancers coasting past the peekaboo window into the studio. Some of the girls stopped, lingering in front of the window as they watched the impromptu moves (Y/N) performed. She smiled when she caught their gazes, offering a small wave as she twirled through the room. 

"(Y/N), come look at this," Ms. Ariel called over the orchestra, gesturing her over to the sound system. 

Giving one last beaming smile to her fellow dancers, (Y/N) whirled around to make her way across the room. She picked up her water bottle on the way.

With the way the media cart stood and Ms. Ariel had positioned herself, the mirror before them showed off everything at (Y/N)'s back. Including the large open window for spectators. 

Though she gave her attention to the examples Ms. Ariel was going over for the prologue, deciding just how extensive they wanted to get with the prerecording, it was hard to ignore the flutter of movement showcased in the mirror. She glanced up to find some of the girls—Sasha and Lydia included—flitting past during their own break from ensemble work. A small smile touched (Y/N)'s lips as she made eye contact with the group that will be making up her wedge of swans. 

That curl stilled when she spotted the quiet figure standing behind the shifting crowd, arms crossed with lips in a thin line. 

Harry Styles was there. Watching her rehearse for who knows how long. 

There was a definitive space between the window and where he stood against the other side of the hallway. The rest of the dancers made their way through the gap, minding his personal space specifically. (Y/N) wondered how many of them had also just heard the plethora of rumors about their spring patron. 

(Y/N) met the intensity of his gaze for no longer than a split second before she flicked away, her skin growing warm. Her brain glitched, throwing the last few words from Ms. Ariel right out of her head. 

She had heard him say that he was going to be more involved. Siobhan had even warned her that he typically was seen much more through the studio during the spring. And yet, (Y/N) hadn't been expecting to see him. Not on her first day as the swan. 

Especially not looking at her the way he was. Furrowed brows and green gaze intense enough to make her blood simmer under her skin. 

"I think we could do something with that, right?" 

(Y/N) blinked. "Yeah, definitely. It looks fun." 

She spared one more glance to the mirror only to find that corner no longer occupied. A familiar back was now retreating down the hall. 

—————

"That was good, (Y/N). You did good. How do you feel?" 

Out of breath, she nodded her head, "Good—Really good." Despite the sweat beading down the back of her neck and the sore muscles in her stomach, she held a beaming smile on her face.

This week had been all about strength training in between rehearsing the numbers, working up her core in preparation for the thirty-two fouettés for Odile. They were far from done in that department, but everyday (Y/N) grew more and more steady. After this weekend, she would begin rehearsing with Kingston as Prince Siegfried, and start working with the ensemble of swans. 

Ms. Ariel matched her smile, her own skin shining with a sheen of sweat from working alongside (Y/N). "You'll sleep hard tonight, that's for sure," she laughed, settling her hands on her arms, "Rest up this weekend, but keep up with your stretching. If you need anything just text me." 

"I will," (Y/N) heaved, catching her breath, "Thank you." 

With a squeeze of her arms, Ms. Ariel bid her a goodnight before leaving for her office for the remainder of the evening. (Y/N) took her time collecting her things, chugging down the final dredges of her water before reaching for her phone. It didn't take long before she was scrolling through a food delivery app, eager to pick out her dinner for the night. She deserved something greasy and salty after the workout this practice was. 

The spectator's window was empty tonight, the ensemble heard next door as they practiced their own numbers. (Y/N) was growing so used to the audience, that it felt weird to not have any watching eyes tracking her moves. 

Though there was still a specific pair of eyes that still threw her off balance whenever she caught sight of them. 

Harry hadn't bumped into her again or shared any more words past a good morning or good night depending on when they happened to pass in the hallway. Their interactions now lived mainly on opposite sides of the glass, (Y/N) dancing and breaking in her pointe shoes with Harry watching the moves like a television judge. 

Though it didn't appear he even stopped by her studio this evening. 

Exiting the space with her tote on her shoulder, (Y/N) double checked the pick up time for her dinner. Another twenty minutes of waiting before the three minute drive she'd make to the restaurant. 

Now it was her turn to be a spectator, she thought. Taking a seat on the love seat offered before the glass, she was going to watch the swans dance. 

The ensemble tonight consisted of Siobhan, Lydia, Sasha, and two other dancers. Their backs were to her as they faced the mirror. Through the pane, (Y/N) could hear the Dance of the Cygnets playing, the baseline becoming the thumps of the pointe shoes hitting the ground.

As hard as she knew she was working, she couldn't imagine being tasked with this number. The techniques were famously hard to get down. But here the girls were, more in sync than she would imagine a group of dancers who had only been practicing together for a week. 

From her view, she could see the small smile on her as she watched the move.

She could also see the shadow of another person edging into the space next to her. 

From the corner of her eye, she saw a familiar broad form, clad in a traditional black suit, watching the dancers with her. (Y/N) rolled her lips between her teeth. 

Was she supposed to say hi? It wasn't much of a secret that Harry wasn't particularly talkative when it came to interacting with the dancers. The only person he was regularly conversing with tended to be Ms. Ariel or the rest of the department heads. For the ballerinas, he reserved subdued smiles and quiet greetings. 

It felt... rude, though. To not say anything to him. They were all dancing on his dime this season, anyway. 

Besides, (Y/N) had to wonder if his reserved persona came from the fact that there was a rumor mill churning out stories in his name. She doubted anyone had come to him personally with any of these stories, but it was hard to believe that in the last few years of production that he hadn't heard something. 

Before she could think too hard about it, she tipped her head towards him, face angled upwards to where he was standing at the other end of the loveseat. His brows were set in that signature furrow, intense gaze just short of burning a hole through the glass. 

"What do you think?" she asked quietly, just audible over the orchestral music and thumping pointe shoes. 

From where she sat, she could see the way his hands, hidden under his folded arms, curled into fists, his lashes fluttering as he blinked. His throat bobbed as he turned to match her gaze, the pinch in his brows smoothing out. 

"Um," he started, flitting his gaze to the window for a lingering moment, "They're really good already. Everyone's doing really well. Very talented." 

A warm smile molded (Y/N)'s features. That was a high honor coming from him, someone who had to have seen countless ballets by this point in his life. 

"It's crazy how they can only get better from here," (Y/N) said, an airy laugh threaded through the words. 

"It is," he answered simply, a barely there twitch touching the corner of his mouth. 

A silence settled between them, the music inside the studio starting up again as the ladies reblocked themselves to start the number over. Glancing at the time, (Y/N) was two minutes past when she should have left to pick up her dinner.

Standing up from where she had made her home on the loveseat, she hiked her bag up her shoulder before turning to face Harry. 

"Thank you for everything you're doing for this production, by the way. I don't think I really understand what a patron is able to do, but I'm sure it's hard work," (Y/N) laughed at her attempt at a joke. Hopefully, he thought it was funny and not that she was some kind of silly ballerina with ribbons for brains. 

When he finally turned to look at her, that initial twitch of his lips she'd seen before hard turned into a slight curl. A ghost of a dimple touched his cheek. 

"Of course. It's worth it." 

(Y/N) matched his smile with her own beaming one. "I'll see you around, Harry. Have a nice night." 

The last she saw of him was the small nod he gave in her direction, with his hands hidden under his folded arms flexing into fists.

"You as well, (Y/N)." 

—————

(Y/N) rolled her neck as she turned the page on the lengthy manuscript in her hands. This author definitely loved a long, descriptive, adverb heavy sentences. 

As grateful as she was to be a real life ballerina—the prima for the season, even—as a little girl, (Y/N) didn't picture her life consisting of playing in tutus and pointe shoes in the evening with a day job. But, the money for her apartment has to come from somewhere until she could be a real principal dancer for more than a passing production. 

All she needed to do was get through this chapter, make her suggested edits, and then she'll let herself take a break. 

Harshly blinking, (Y/N) directed her attention solely on the typed pages in her hands. 

His palms flexed around nothing, tattoos dancing over the golden skin, leading her eye to the hem of his sleeve. Rebekah eyed him as he hesitated, tongue thick in the back of his throat. The Adam's apple adorning the front of his throat bobbed like the apple of eden, forbidden for anything more than her eyes. 

Archer was never this nervous, she realized. Never tongue tied, never hesitant. his entire life—career, bedroom persona, spot as the captain of his hatchet-throwing league—was built on him being certain of every move. 

This couldn't be good, she decided. Not when he looked at her with his glittering eyes, long lashes, the corners pinching just enough to show creases that weren't typically there. He was going to tell her something she wasn't ready to hear. Something she didn't want to hear from his rosy lips.

"Bek, I... I can't keep doing this," he choked out, his voice a rumbly mix of gravel and gemstones, "We have to stop." 

Rebekah blinked, tipping her head with pouty mouth agape. "What do you mean?" 

Those hands flexed once more, hardening into immoveable fists. 

"Because I love you," he stumbled out, "I love you, and I wasn't ever supposed to.I love you too much to keep doing this when I know you don't feel the same. Not when you—

(Y/N) blinked back to real life then, startled by the film playing out in conjunction with the written words in front of her. 

This man, the character Archer, had evolved into a version of Harry. The long lashes and pinched corners turned into golden flecks dancing through green irises and a furrowed brow. That golden skin went creamy with freckles on the bridge of his nose. The tattoo on his skin was now an inked cross between his pointer and thumb. (Y/N) recalled the timber of his voice and lilt of his accent when it came to the dialogue. 

That wasn't right. There was no reason to be thinking of Harry Styles—the patron of her ballet company—at the moment. Not when she was reading a manuscript about a couple engaged in a BDSM arrangement that went too far in the feelings department. 

(With the main male character also being a hatchet throwing captain? That was a detail (Y/N) couldn't remember hearing, but she hoped she marked that as needing a revision).

Her break was going to have to start now, she decided. Having a two minute conversation with him almost a week ago was not supposed to linger in her mind like this. 

(Y/N) folded the manuscript closed, determined to take that vision with it. 

—————

"You're alright locking up?" 

Ms. Ariel looked at (Y/N) with her handbag in the crook of her elbow, bottom lip caught between her teeth. Though she tried to be discreet about it, (Y/N) still caught the nervous glance she shot at the clock above the window. 8:34pm. 

"Yes, I'll be fine," (Y/N) insisted. For the third time. "I'll be right behind you, anyway. Don't worry." 

"Okay, okay," Ms. Ariel finally relented, shooting off a text as she edged out of the door. "If you need anything, just call and I'll turn around." 

(Y/N) nodded her head, knowing that no matter what she isn't going to call Ms. Ariel for anything. Not after she had already arranged a rehearsal time to work around (Y/N)'s editing deadline.

(She had a hard time getting back into the headspace to finish that manuscript. Every time she opened it up, Harry's face somehow made its way onto the male love interest's body. Very confusing).

Just as (Y/N) began collecting her things, silence filling the darkened building, a set of pounding footsteps clicked through the space once more. She jumped at the sound, her spine stiffening to go ramrod straight with her eyes on the door. 

Was there another late lesson going on? Another group rehearsing that she's missed? 

Ms. Ariel popped her head in once more, phone pressed to her ear. "I gave you a key, right? Or did I give it to Harry?" 

Her brow pinched to a furrow at her choreographer's question. "I have a key," she offered, hoping her unasked question received an answer anyway. 

She watched as Ms. Ariel deflated in relief. "Okay, great. I'll see you Monday—Keep stretching! If you want extra time, just call me!" 

This time, (Y/N) waited until she heard Ms. Ariel's footsteps retreat through the building, bookended by the resounding click of the front door closing. Then she felt clear to pack up and clean up the space. Trading out her shoes, she held onto her discarded pointes by the ribbons. The shoes dangled at her side as she cruised through the building, glancing through the window of each rehearsal space to ensure all lights were off with doors pulled shut. 

Making it to the front door, she pulled out the key passed on by Ms. Ariel. According to the directions given, the door needed to be locked up before she stepped outside; when (Y/N) asked why she couldn't lock everything from the outside as normal, Ms. Ariel just gave a flapped hand and a promise of "it's a long story!". 

Sticking the weathered key into the lock, she twisted her wrist only for the lock itself to halt the motion. Her brows knitted together, eyes on her hand as she attempted once more to break whatever blocked the twist.

She wasn't sure how long she stood there attempting to push through the block. She pulled out the key and reslotted it, attempted to brute force her way against the block, twisted the knob along with the key. At some point she even took a breath and checked her phone, pretending as if she didn't desperately need this key to do its job. She couldn't call Ms. Ariel, not when she was already almost late to her stepdaughter's graduation dinner. 

But, she also can't just leave the studio unlocked. 

Her palm grew slick with panic sweat. Okay, if she doesn't get it in the next three tries, she has no choice but to call Ms. Ariel. She will grovel and beg for forgiveness later, but the door needed to be locked now. 

"Is it sticking, again?" 

At the sound of another voice, (Y/N) almost jumped out of her skin. Whirling around, hand to her throat, she saw Harry standing just beside her. His clothing was much the same as usual, though he was missing the tie and the first buttons of his shirt were let loose. He looked to her with raised brows, apology on his lips. 

"Oh my god, you scared me." 

"Sorry," he breathed, a bit sheepish in the way he dropped his gaze to her hand, "I thought y'heard me. Sorry." 

With her heart rate settling, (Y/N) calmed enough to give a small smile at the sound of the apologies just flooding from Harry. How those rumors could hold up against everything that she saw in front of her, she couldn't understand. 

Her imagination did not compare to the real thing, that was for sure.

"It's okay," she offered, "I didn't know anyone else was here." 

Harry gave a half-hearted shrug. "Yeah. Ariel gave me some plans for set pieces to look over and approve before Monday, so 'm jus' finishing that up. I didn't know y'practiced this late?" 

"Sometimes," (Y/N) chirped, "It depends on my work schedule. But I don't think I'll ever leave before Ms. Ariel ever again—especially since I apparently broke the lock." 

Harry let out an airy laugh at her words. "'S tricky," he murmured, "It sticks all the time. I don't know why Ariel wants everything to be locked from the inside when it barely works." 

"Oh," (Y/N) sounded, taking the key out of the lock with suddenly tired limbs. Now, without panic fueling her, she felt particularly fatigued. "Okay." 

"Sorry I didn't catch y'earlier." 

"It's okay," she shook her head, "You're still working?" 

Harry nodded, matching her gaze tentatively. "I can lock up if y'want." 

"That would be really nice, I think," she said on a breathy peel of laughter, "Do you need the key?" 

"I've got one," he said, a slight curl to his lips. There was that ghost of a dimple denting his cheek, gone before she had a real chance to admire it. 

"Cool, thank you," she responded lamely, feeling a bit silly now that she realized just how much that panic had caused her to stress sweat. She didn't particularly feel like a pretty ballerina when this heady sheen of sweat and sticky underarms. "I'll see you next week?" 

"At some point, I'm sure," Harry smiled, this time showing two barely there dips in his cheeks. "Get home safe, (Y/N)." 

Edging out the door, a small smile bloomed over her lips. "You too, Harry." 

With that, (Y/N) was out the door before she had any more material to replace characters with in her manuscripts. 

Though, as she pulled away, she couldn't help the look into the rearview mirror. Right at the glass door of the studio, where she swore she could see Harry turning back into the building. 

He waited for her.

—————

(Y/N) twisted in the mirror, pristine white tutu fluffing around her hips. Feathers were carefully laid along much of the bodice and layered over the very top of the tutu. The thin straps of her top were pinned with down feathers, more being pinned across the back to give the look of feathered wings sprouting between her shoulder blades. On the top layer of the tutu the collection of feathers thinned until they were nothing but small puffs over the tulle. Throughout, there were crystals beaded on the costume, gilding the feathers and looking like dew drops as they rained down to set along the fluffy layers of her tutu. Everything was made costume to her measurements, acting like a second skin as she moved and stretched. On a hanger behind her was the black version of the same outfit, reserved for her numbers as Odile. 

"(Y/N), that is so pretty!" Siobhan's excited squeal broke over the noise in the studio. She, also clad in her swan's costume, bounced up to where (Y/N) was standing on an apple box while the head of the costume department did her own analysis of the outfit. "Do you love it?" 

"I do," (Y/N) smiled, shooting a look to the costumer through the mirror. "It's perfect." 

Lea, the costume head, reciprocated her smile in quiet thanks, though her critical eye continued looking over the tutu. With only a month until opening weekend, any last minute changes to these outfits were going to have to happen as quickly as possible. 

The other principals—Prince Siegfried and Rothbart—were being sized alongside her, though their own garments weren’t quite as elaborate as her own. Other dancers—swans—were fluttered through the space, followed by others in the costume department to mark alterations. There was a level of chaos filling the room, but there was something special seeing all of the flickering crystals. The rainbows of light danced over the walls, trails of glitter falling in the wake of the rotating swans, the specks now forever a part of the flooring. 

Even without everyone cast in their makeup, their hair pasted and gelled to perfection, there was still a magic to this cast. This was the Swan Lake.

She was Odette. 

"Ready to try on Odile?" 

(Y/N) blinked back to her own body, meeting Lea's eyes in the mirror. "Sure, yeah!" 

"I can grab it!" Siobhan bubbled, trundling away towards the rack holding the Swan Princess collection of costumes. 

Beginning to untie the back of her bodice with the help of Lea, (Y/N)'s eyes followed Siobhan's journey to the rack. The black crystals caught her eye, the light glancing off of the facets like starlight. She admired the points of light dotted along the walls.

Her breath caught when she looked through the window. 

Through the glass was Ms. Ariel, huddled with another. Her eyes skimmed across the whole space, while the others' were trained in one spot: right on (Y/N).

Harry gave her a lingering look. His gaze touched on the details of her costume, following the flow of the feathers and the dripping crystals. He wasn't aware he had been caught, that much was clear. 

Especially when his lingering eyes finally worked their way back up to her face. Even though the glass, (Y/N) could see the flush that painted his cheeks, his eyes quickly flitting away. 

A small smile curled (Y/N)'s lips, her own skin warming just as Siobhan returned with the black swan regalia. 

"What?" Siobhan prodded, huddling closer to her friend in conspiracy. "Did I miss something?" 

(Y/N) was quick to shake her head, "No—just watching the swans run around. I think Lea's team is going to lose their minds." 

At that, Siobhan and Lea both blurt out in laughter.

Through the mirror, (Y/N) could see Ms. Ariel and Harry departing from the viewing window. Her smile fell the smallest bit. 

—————

"Has anyone said where the dinner next week is booked?" 

A shiver ran down (Y/N)'s spine as she gulped down the shot that Kingston—her counterpart as Prince Siegfried—had already muscled through. She couldn't even process his question for another three seconds, eyes shut closed as she attempted to look tougher than she actually was when it came to shots. They were supposed to be grabbing drinks and snacks for the entire table of other dancers—post rehearsal bonding—before Kingston had egged her into taking a shot with him while they waited on the chips and guac.

"No," she finally coughed out. "I haven't heard anything. I don't think anyone's actually decided yet." 

"Well, we only have, like, less than a week before opening night, and I won't go on without a family dinner the night before." Kingston looked at her with a raised brow in defiance. 

"As if we'd put on the show without you," (Y/N) smiled, bumping her hip against her friend's. 

"I don't know," he drawled, tipping his head in her direction. Kingston looked at her through his lashes, his dreads falling over his shoulder as he leaned in conspiratorially towards her. "I think you'd replace me if you could." 

(Y/N) blanched at the accusation. That wasn't the kind of thing she thought he had in mind when he leaned into her like they were sharing an inside joke. 

"Why would you say that? I would never replace you!" 

Kingston let out a boisterous laugh. He threw his head back, unperturbed by (Y/N)'s blatant shock. 

"You didn't think I would notice?" he pressed, huddling close to her once more. "You know I always know what's going on around the company." 

When (Y/N) only looked at him with her furrowed brows, nothing leaving her lips, he let out another laugh. This one coming out airy and a bit more private. 

The volume of his voice dropped to match as he inclined his head in her direction. "How's Harry?" 

Her knee-jerk reaction came in the dropping of her jaw and a mumbled Um. This question shouldn't elicit any kind of reaction from her, that was something she knew. If he was asking her seriously, how Harry was, she wouldn't even have an answer. They've exchanged maybe twenty words, at most. 

Yet, there was still a warmth simmering under her skin. She felt like she'd been caught. 

"What do you mean?" she finally settled on. Hopefully, the least conspicuous of responses. 

Kingston was not at all fooled. "You think he came to watch Kaleb be fitted into the monster costume? Especially when there was the Swan right there? The same one that always looks all giggly every time he's around?" 

(Y/N) dropped her eyes to the bar top. How long could a bowl of guacamole take?  

"It's okay, you know," Kingston relented, bumping (Y/N)'s hip. "I'm just playing around. He's cute—I don't blame you." 

Maybe it was the shot working its magic in her system, maybe it was the fact that no one else had seemed to share this kind of fascination with him. But, (Y/N) nodded, rolling her lips between her teeth. 

"Really cute." 

"See, I knew it," Kingston declared, looking triumphant before casting his eyes down the bar. "You know, though, right?" 

She paused. "About the... rumors, or?" 

"Mhm," he hummed, "Or am I going to have to be the one to burst your bubble?" 

(Y/N) felt her bubble burst anyway then. She thought Kingston was on the same page as her. He hadn't been around the company much longer than she had, neither of them being present when the whole ordeal had gone down. He was supposed to be as naively open as she was. 

"No. I know." 

"Good," he said, looking at her with a serious set in his gaze, "The only reason I bring it up is because I want you to be careful. I know you can take care of yourself, but if any of what people have said is true, that's a situation none of us need to get into. If it does go further than the studio, just let someone know—just in case." 

"I—Wait—" (Y/N) floundered, unsure of what front to attack first. "It's—No, it's not like that. We've barely ever talked, there's nothing to go further with." 

Kingston lifted his hands as if in surrender, only missing the white flag. "I had to say it, just in case." 

(Y/N) shook her head. "It's not like that at all," she swallowed, "And... I don't think any of that stuff is true anyway. What people have said. Ms. Ariel wouldn't let him work with us if she thought he was... bad." 

He gave her a half shrug. "You never know, babe. Just be safe and aware, that's all." 

Before much more could be offered in her defense, the bartender returned with a tray of chips and guacamole, fresh from the tiny kitchen in the back. 

"I'm so sorry about that wait!" she chattered, "We're training back there. Thank you for being so patient!" 

Kingston offered assurances that there was nothing to be sorry for before collecting all of their drinks and snacks upon the newly gifted tray. (Y/N) kept her mouth shut, helping to carry all of the drinks and everything else they ordered.

"It's okay, (Y/N)," Kingston murmured, a kind smile on his face, "Let me know if you ever need anything, that's all I'm saying. Your secret is safe with me." 

(Y/N) gave a small smile in response. She understood where Kingston was coming from; if one of her friends told her they were interested in someone who had even a whiff of a possibility of being harmful to an ex in the past, she would be staking out the house at all times. Just because she didn't believe Harry fell into that category didn’t mean no one else could worry about her.

And it wasn't like she was interested in him anyway. Not when she'd barely spoken to him. 

—————

(Y/N), arms extended at her sides, thighs tight as she held her legs in straight pointed lines, soared above the stage. Kingston, dressed as Prince Siegfried, lifted her over the boards in time with the swelling music. She hoped the light caught her tears just right, letting them sparkle just like the crystals on her costume. 

Odette and Siegfried were in the afterlife, free from the wrath of Rothbart and the swan curse. The goal was to be as ethereally blissful as she could achieve, overjoyed with the eternity that stretched before her with the love of her life. The one who sacrificed himself to be with her, no matter that the sacrifice was his life. 

If she would be able to achieve these same tears, the same clutching fingers that clung to Kingston, the recentering of her gravity as she revolved around him—all while she performed as the prima she had been named, perfect in technique and timing—(Y/N) wasn't sure. Especially when a theater full of eyes would be trained right on her. 

She supposed that was what practice was for, anyway. Now was the time to find herself in these moments, in the halves of the swan, so she wouldn't have a problem giving the performance of a lifetime when it came to opening night. 

Besides, if her feet and legs hurt then as much as they did now, she doubted it would be very hard to summon tears to her eyes. 

(No one had warned her the fouettes were going to make her toes go numb, especially being performed over and over again every week. Any pedicures were going to have to wait until they wrapped, it appeared). 

The song came to an end, the finale upon her as Kingston lowered her to the ground, twirling her into him. Pressing his forehead to hers, they shared a moment in the dreamscape that would be projected over them during the show. Her eyes fluttered closed as they caught their breaths together, skin slick with sweat. 

As soon as the music flourished to a feathery end, (Y/N) pulled him in for a real hug. 

"We did it!" she bubbled, jumping up and down on the flat of her pointe shoes. Their first full run of the show was complete, costumes and all. 

"I think I'm going to fall over," Kingston laughed, holding her just as hard. Though it wasn't his first time as a principal, he still glowed like never before. Perfect evidence as to why he was cast as the Prince Charming of Odette's story. 

"Let's go sit before Ms. Ariel makes us go again," (Y/N) laughed, still greatly out of breath. 

Though she took Kingston's hand, ready to lead him to the edge of the stage to take a breather, where he could easily access his inhaler should he not regain his breath, they both stilled, awaiting their proper dismissal. Out in the aisle of the theater, standing a few rows from the front was Ms. Ariel and the director of the production.

And Harry. 

They had all watched the tail end of the run, staying silent. Looking out to the trio of faces, (Y/N) couldn't help but to snag on Harry's.

Gone was the pinched brow, the crossed arms, the intense eyes. The lines of his face were left to soften in the shadows of the theater. His eyes gleamed in the low light as he gazed up at her. If she didn't know any better, she would have liked to think of his gaze as admiring with the way he looked at her. 

Like she was something to revere, complete with overheated skin, a sheen of sweat, and trembling limbs. 

It was Ms. Ariel's voice that threw her back into the rest of the world. 

"That was beautiful, you two. Almost perfect," she smiled, this time taking on Harry's previously critical stance with crossed arms and squinted eyes. "There's a couple of blocking changes we need to make, and I want you two to rehearse as much as you can together for the next week, even if I'm not there. But, you have it. I believe it." 

That was the biggest relief (Y/N) could have been given. She could perfect her technique, she could learn the steps and refine her shapes, but if no one believed the story she was selling, it would all become a moot point.

"Thank you," she murmured, Kingston doing the same with his hand held in hers. 

"Take a break, okay? I'll call you when I'm ready to block." 

They didn't need to be told twice before both Kingston and (Y/N) were rushing from the stage, Kingston being dragged behind the swan. 

Before exiting into the backstage and disappearing from the front of the theater, (Y/N) stole a glance in the direction she knew she shouldn't. 

Nonetheless, she felt a heat bubble behind her cheeks when she met a pair of green, gleaming eyes. 

Kingston had to tear her away, leading them backstage. 

—————

Adjusting her leg warmers, (Y/N) curled into her theater seat, eyes fixed on the stage. 

Just days from now, she was going to be up there, these seats filled to the brim with spectators. Opening night was officially sold out as of yesterday morning. 

Tonight was the tech run of the show. This was (Y/N)'s first look at the set up of the show, complete with set pieces and the proper lighting. The orchestra had already had their own run earlier in the evening, though (Y/N) could still peek at the pit before the stage filled with seats and sheet music. For now, a track was faintly playing through the speakers of the theater to make up for the lack of band, letting the notes be the cue for the lighting and the different effects set forth from the tech booth. 

The director, Ms. Ariel, and majority of the production team was present for the run. (Y/N) was the only person sitting in one of the plush red theater seats, having come here right after leaving the studio. 

Tomorrow was the final rehearsal, set with the entire cast and ensemble , even the understudies and alternates. After that, a day of rest would be given, including a night out for a family dinner amongst the cast before they would be swinging for the fences, multiple shows every week for the next eight weeks. 

Tonight was her last moment of peace here in the theater, she thought. Before she would be slotted in as Odette every night, feeling the weight of the story and the pressure of the technique until each movement came as easy as breathing. 

The spotlight glided over the stage, following an invisible dancer. The production lead shouted corrections from the wings, ensuring everything would be perfectly in line with the stage directions Ms. Ariel gave at the beginning of the night. 

For a moment, just seeing the spotlight, something in (Y/N) shimmered, warming her chest. 

In days, it would be her shining under the light. The beads on her costume would cast rainbows over the audience. She was going to be clad in feathers, moving just like one over the stage.  She would be captivating the theater as she told a story she'd held so close to her heart since she was a girl. Seeing that spotlight, she was only reminded of the gravity of what she had signed up for.

(Y/N) was a ballerina. A prima for the first time in her life. She was Odette and Odile, two of the most famous characters in ballet history. 

This was her dream. 

Absorbed in the phantom show going on in front of her, (Y/N) didn't notice she was no longer alone until the static prick of the air shifting her took her attention. At the end of the aisle, she saw Harry. 

He stood with the grays of his suit blending into the shadows of the theater, his hands folded behind him. He looked taken aback when she spotted him, his mouth opened like a guppy, the barely there light pointing out the quiet flush on his cheeks. She couldn't help the small smile that molded her features at his expression.

"Harry?" she asked, voice just over the sound of Tchaikovsky

"I—Sorry," he said, dropping his gaze to land on one of the seats surrounding her, "Do y'mind if I sit with you?" 

"Of course not," she beamed, making room for him as she removed her jacket and tote bag off the seat next to her. 

Harry side steps his way into the aisle, taking the plush seat at her side. He carried a warmth with him as he sunk into the spot, wafting around her. She felt his presence like a static at her side, taking up weighty space. The stagnant scent of the theater now replaced with something warm and charred, flicks of something sweet threaded through. He definitely smelled much better than she did after dating through the entire morning. 

Moments passed as they both looked ahead, watching as the show came together. Projections danced around the stage, showing a wintery blue sky while snowflakes fell in puffs down to the boards. Somewhere off stage, a gentle breeze blew through to sweep the flakes askew, the effect meant to coincide with the swans that would decorate the stage in two days' time. 

"It's so pretty," (Y/N) murmured, "seeing everything come together like this." 

From the corner of her eye, she spotted a small smile touching Harry's lips. "'S amazing," he said, voice melodic and low like the baseline of the music. 

Tipping her head, she chanced a small look in his fraction. "Does it ever get old? Seeing this all the time?" 

A look passed over his features, fleeting and quick, as if he were surprised that she was acknowledging that there was ever a production before this. Like he couldn't believe she was broaching any form of the past. 

She could imagine he was much more used to others tiptoeing around him. Especially when it came to this place. 

Recovered, he shook his head, eyes still forward on the stage. "Never. Some shows aren't always my favorite," he smiled, "but 's never takes away from this." 

"Yeah?" she perked up, forgoing her sight of the stage to give her attention to him with her chin propped up on her folded knee, "What is your favorite?" 

Harry cocked his head, turning to look at her with pursed lips. "I've always liked The Rite of Spring and La Sylphide, or anything that fits the springtime." He paused, hesitating some as their eyes met. "This year's is really growing on me, though." 

A bright smile bloomed on (Y/N)'s face. Though she was more than sure that it was nothing else but the light shining from the stage, the faux snowflakes reflected in his eyes, but she swore there was a twinkle in his irises. Something almost glowing as he gazed at her. 

"Swan Lake is my favorite," she shared, unconsciously moving closer to him within the plush of her seat, "You've probably never seen it but there was this, like, animated kind of movie I watched when I was younger that was a version of Swan Lake and it's been my favorite ever since. It's become a lot more special to me now, though." 

(Y/N) blinked, her lashes fluttering as she realized just how close she now was to Harry. Through the interaction, she had slightly shuffled until her legs were flush to the armrest, Harry's body turned straight towards her with his eyes fixed on the planes of her face. 

Something pricking like static passed in the air between them.

From here, she was able to see the way his lashes tangled at the corners of his eyes. His freckles had warmed around the center of his face, the sun adding more color to the spots. The raspberry color of his lips were deepened in the shadows of the theater, berry rich. 

"You're... You're an incredible dancer. I hope you know that." His voice wavered, unsure as the words slipped out. 

 "Thank you," she smiled, partially aware of the scene change on stage with the music lifting and the light filling through the theater. Off stage, Ms. Ariel's voice could be heard with the muffled director's. None of it was enough to steal her attention away from Harry. "I don't really understand what a patron does yet, but it seems like you do a lot for everyone—Ms. Ariel especially. Thank you for being kind and... wanting to be a part of all of this." 

Harry dropped his head, breaking the intensity. "Um," he sounded, something low in the drawl of his voice, "of course. Thank you." 

Mouth open, ready to ask what happened, (Y/N) was cut off by the sound of Ms. Ariel's booming voice. 

"(Y/N), are you still here? Can you come up here for a second?" 

That prickling static was severed at the sound of her voice. She snapped away from Harry, feeling caught red-handed. Harry watched with attentive eyes. 

"Yeah, I'm here," she shouted back, giving him an apologetic smile as she rose from her spot, "Sorry. It was nice talking with you, Harry." 

"'S alright. Thank you, (Y/N)." 

He stayed there as she collected her things and went towards the stage. The warmth that had radiated from his presence was left behind, a flash of goosebumps erupting over her skin. 

The only bit of warmth that lingered fell on her back, right where she hoped he was watching her. 

—————

the swan is a central figure in the classic ballet, swan lake

ahhhhhhh thank you sm for reading! its been a long time since ive posted anything so im super excited to get something out there! so sorry for any mistakes ! I would love to hear everyone's thoughts or predictions so feel free to send them in!